The Campus Murders by Ellery Queen

interminable night in Korea holding the hand of a Marine buddy who was dying of a stomach wound inflicted by a mortar round, and he could still feel the loosening clutch and hear the fading moans in his dreams. The company was pinned down in the barrage, the medic had been killed, and there was nothing to do for the Marine but watch him die.
    McCall looked up at the star-salted sky, felt the chill spring breeze on his cheek, and shivered again.
    Faced with the body of the girl, he felt an urgency. He wished he had been able to talk with Damon Wilde. Now it would have to wait. And there was Perry Eastman, in Dean Gunther’s office: cocky, contemptuous. And Dennis Sullivan, the other student mentioned in connection with Laura Thornton. McCall ached to get at them. There was something to go on now.
    He would have to contact Governor Holland, too, hand the governor the dirty job of reporting this to Laura’s father …
    Two police cars, preceded by Graham Starret’s yellow Mustang, shot in under the trees. A patrolman got out and stood by his car, looking back. And there were Lieutenant Long, the sneerer, and Sergeant Oliver. They hurried toward him. Another officer focused a spotlight on the girl’s body at his feet.
    Long covered ground in a peculiar long-striding, knee-bending way. McCall almost laughed; the lieutenant’s stride made him think of Groucho Marx. When he came up to McCall he threw his head back and stared accusingly.
    â€œWho found her?” he demanded.
    â€œStarret did. Didn’t he tell you? Didn’t you bring a doctor? And where’s the ambulance?” With a character like Long you threw five questions to every one of his.
    â€œSure I told him,” young Starret said. “Is she still alive?”
    Long stooped over the girl, sneering. Sergeant Oliver said, “She’s still breathing. This is a break, a real break.”
    â€œDoc!” Lieutenant Long called.
    An old skin-and-bones got out of one of the police cars and trudged toward them. He was carrying a medical bag. He paid no attention to McCall or the police officers.
    â€œThis is our M.E.,” Oliver said, “Doc Littleton. Mr. McCall.”
    Dr. Littleton grunted. “Don’t involve me in your lousy politics. Stand back, will you?” He squatted beside the girl’s body.
    â€œWhere’s that ambulance?” McCall said.
    The medical examiner flicked an eyelid, dug sharp fingers into the girl’s neck, nodded, snapped his bag open, snatched a stethoscope, placed it under her left breast. His bony fingers went here and there.
    â€œHow is she, doc?” Oliver asked.
    â€œCall that ambulance again and tell them to make time. This girl’s barely vital.” He began to massage her wrists. Then he plunged into his bag, came up with a disposable hypodermic and a vial. He filled the syringe, squirted some liquid into the air, and stroked the needle into the girl’s arm. “No telling,” he said abruptly. “Miracles have been known to happen, though not by me.”
    â€œWill she live?” Long asked.
    â€œYou tell me, lieutenant. You’re the wonder boy of the ’Squanto police department.”
    â€œWhat’s eating you?” Long asked angrily.
    â€œFirst get that goddam ambulance here,” Dr. Littleton growled. “I’ll be glad to fill you in on my personal feelings afterwards.”
    Long loped away, glaring. McCall said to Littleton, “No prognosis yet, doctor?”
    â€œNot without a thorough examination. At that she must have the constitution of a racehorse.” The M.E.’s eyes in the spotlight glittered like ice at Sergeant Oliver. “And you wonder boys still haven’t come up with any lead to this thing?”
    â€œNo,” the sergeant said stiffly. “How about you, Mr. McCall?”
    McCall resisted the temptation to point out that he had been on the case less than nine hours. He said,