Free The Black Door by Collin Wilcox Page A

reason. She was observed crossing the campus to the students’ parking lot, and driving off in her car—fast. From this, the campus gossips concluded that there’d been an argument, and that she’d left angry. Probably, then, she’d gone to the Quiet Place, where she’d met Pastor, either by accident or design. They’d gone to Pastor’s apartment, where the killer had found them.
    As we walked across the broad quadrangle toward the conference room designated for the dean’s news briefing, I asked Campion, “Did you try to get hold of John Randall?”
    He shook his head. “There wasn’t time. Besides, I understand the college authorities are practically incarcerating the kids involved in the party until they’re liberated.”
    “Liberated?”
    “Bailed out by either a member of the family or the family’s lawyer or duly appointed local representative. It’ll be interesting to see what Johnson says about it.”
    “If you ask the question, though, you tip your hand. The TV guys might not know about the party. And Dan Kanter didn’t make it out here, apparently.” As I spoke, I eyed four TV men converging from another tangent.
    Campion shrugged. “It wouldn’t be printable in any case, I don’t think. And by the time it is printable, the story’ll be all over. I just thought I’d mention it to shake Johnson up if things get too academic.”
    “Yes, I see what you—” I paused, then pointed to a police cruiser pulling up ahead of us. Leisurely, Lieutenant Ramsey and Carruthers got out of the car, nodded to us as we drew closer, and then entered the administration building.
    “I’ll bet you anything,” Campion said, “that those three students are somewhere inside there, and Ramsey and Carruthers are going to interview them right now. What’ll you bet?”
    I shrugged. We were now entering the building, filing down the hallway to the nearby conference room. The detectives were already out of sight. Wherever they’d gone, it wasn’t far from the main entrance hallway.
    We entered the conference room and arranged ourselves around a huge golden oak table. I was surprised to see only a handful of reporters present. Perhaps, I speculated, I’d made a mistake leaving headquarters. And it bothered me that Kanter wasn’t with us. Because, invariably, Dan was in the right place at the right time.
    “I wonder where Bobby Grinnel’s hiding out? No one seems to’ve seen him,” Campion said.
    “I don’t know. Maybe he’s still downtown.”
    “I wonder if we can smoke?” He looked around.
    “I don’t see any ash trays. Do you?”
    I also looked, saying, “Uh, uh.”
    We sat idly for several moments, in a cigaretteless silence. Finally, after eying me obliquely, Campion asked, “Are you planning on getting any, ah, extraterrestrial assistance on this story?”
    I appreciated the way he put it. For Campion, the question was tentative and polite.
    I shrugged. Then, seeing another reporter light a cigarette, I promptly took out my own pack, offering a cigarette to Campion and taking one for myself.
    “Well?” he said through thick smoke. “Are you?”
    I thought involuntarily of the haunted look in Bobby Grinnel’s eyes as he’d gone down the passageway toward the black door.
    “It’s not the kind of thing you can plan on,” I answered. “You either get it or you don’t.”
    “My impression was that you had to work at it, like any other job.”
    “I guess that’s true. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know that much about it. For all I know, it’ll never happen again.”
    “Your publicity department will never permit it.”
    I smiled ruefully. “You may be right.” I glanced at my watch. It was ten minutes after two. “What’s keeping Dean Johnson, I wonder?”
    “Undoubtedly, he’s talking to Ramsey and Carruthers.”
    “Probably.” I drew at my cigarette.
    “God,” Campion said, “wouldn’t it be something if this John Randall kid turned out to be it? His father is