The Black Door by Collin Wilcox Page B

completely honest, I’d have to characterize Bobby as a considerably less stable individual than his sister. Much less.”
    “Have you been in contact with the girl’s family?” Campion asked.
    “Yes. I finally got through to Mr. Grinnel about ten o’clock this morning. He’s flying up to San Francisco this afternoon, as I understand it.”
    “Is Bobby Grinnel available for interviews?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. He’s in seclusion. He’ll be—”
    “I understand he’s out at the airport,” the belligerent TV man broke in. “I understand he’s meeting his father’s plane.”
    Johnson shrugged. “That may be. As I told you, our policy is governed by the police and by the parents involved. If those were Mr. Grinnel’s instructions concerning his son, then I’m sure they’re being carried out. I accompanied Bobby to the, ah—” He paused, for the first time at a loss. “To the, ah, apartment this morning, when he insisted on going. We both talked to the police for perhaps an hour, and then we came back here. Since then, Bobby’s been with his counselor. And,” he added, “with the college doctor, for observation and sedation. As you can imagine, he’s very upset by this tragedy.”
    “What’s your theory on the reason for this crime, Mr. Johnson?” It was a radio newsman asking the question.
    Sadly, the dean smiled. “I’m afraid I have no theory. I’m just very, very sorry it had to happen. I’m—” He shook his head and sighed, for the first time hinting at his age.
    Obviously, the questions were coming more slowly now. And, in fact, two radio men had already left. It was a little after three. The trip downtown would take perhaps thirty minutes, not including parking. I nudged Campion and tapped at my watch. He nodded, whispering that he just wanted to ask one more question. “How did Mr. Grinnel take the news of his daughter’s death, Mr. Johnson? Did you talk to him yourself?”
    He nodded. “Yes, I talked to Mr. Grinnel. He was—well, in control of himself, I’d say. Upset, naturally, but not devastated. He’s a man of powerful personality, as I expect you know.” Johnson looked around the table. No one had any questions. He placed his hands flat on the table, rising slowly to his feet.
    “I imagine you want to be on your way, gentlemen. I understand Captain Larsen will have a news conference soon, and I’m sure it’ll be much more informative than this.”
    He smiled and nodded as we hastily prepared to leave. I took the trouble to thank Mr. Johnson and shake his hand.

6
    T HE ATMOSPHERE OF LARSEN’S news conference was more compatible to the members of the press than Johnson’s. Smoke hung thick and blue in the stuffy lineup room, deep in the dampish recesses of downtown police headquarters. Reporters sat with their feet propped on the chairs in front of them, relaxed and quietly talking, or joking. I looked around the room, tabulating the faces and the media they represented. Everyone was there: the papers, radio, TV, the wire services and the national news magazines. Even Graphic Detective had sent someone. And, by this time, at least one additional reporter was present from each of the San Francisco dailies. Dan Kanter had a leg man. Campion had reluctantly taken a “color” man in tow, and I was saddled with a feature man with his own by-line. However, perhaps to underline our contempt for the human interest aspect of crime reporting, Campion, Kanter and I sat together, allowing our colleagues to shift for themselves.
    Kanter was pumping us for our impressions of Johnson’s news conference. “Do you think Johnson’s holding back something that might be real meat?” he asked.
    Campion shook his head. “I don’t think he knows anything to hold back. Obviously, he wants to know as little as possible about the whole thing. And he’s right. I think, really, the whole college would like to just sink out of sight and sound for a week or