The Campus Murders (9 page)

“Hard to say, Mr. McCall. Might have been a piece of two-by-four.”

“You want me to stick around?” McCall asked Long.

“For a while,” Long said. “You can sit in your car.”

McCall started for his Ford. The black student fell into step with him. “Do you think I ought to stick around, too, Mr. McCall?”

“Judging from Lieutenant Long's attitude, I think it might be wise. If he gives you a hard time, get word to me. Either through Dean Gunther or at the Red Harbor Inn, where I'm staying. I know it's hard, but don't hand him any lip, Graham. There's no percentage in giving him an excuse to clap you in a cell.”

“Don't worry, Mr. McCall,” young Starret said, grinning. “We're experts at handling the man when we set our minds to it.” Then he said soberly, “I sure hope she lives.”

They had paused in the path, and McCall said, “Graham, do you have any notion who might have done this?”

“No, I don't. I don't understand it at all. I mean why anybody would want to beat up a girl like that. It's way out, man.”

“Did you know Laura Thornton well?”

Starret shrugged. “I knew her, that's about it. I wish I hadn't found her. I wouldn't put it past Long to try to mix me up in this.”

“I don't think he'd try any raw stuff with the governor's personal representative on the scene, Graham. If you had nothing to do with it, you've got nothing to worry about.”

The student turned back, shrugging again, and McCall went on to his car. He slid under the wheel and sat there, hungering for a cigarette. Maybe if he took up pipe smoking …

The ambulance arrived and two white coats ran down the path with a stretcher. A police officer walked over to McCall and handed him his jacket. It was wet and muddy and he did not put it on.

Lieutenant Long was talking to Sergeant Oliver. Oliver seemed startled. Then he moved quickly over to where the Negro student was standing. They spoke for a moment and went toward one of the police cars.

And there was Long, at the Ford, sneering. “I'll want a full statement from you, McCall, at headquarters. Meanwhile, we're taking Starret in.”

“For what?”

Long winked. “For questioning. Wouldn't surprise me if it turns out he's our boy. So then you'll be able to go on home, McCall, and tell the governor he can stop worrying about Tisquanto.”

“You think Starret did it?” McCall said incredulously. “You haven't really questioned him! On what grounds, lieutenant?”

“My nose,” Long said. “I can smell 'em out a mile away.”

“You can't be serious!”

“He knows too much. Found the girl too easy. We'll break him down soon enough.”

“But he's the one reported the discovery. Would he have done that if he'd had anything to do with this?”

“Who'd he report it to, tell me that? The police, like he ought to? No, he goes running to his pal Dean Gunther. If you hadn't happened to be there we'd probably not know about it yet.”

“You're a racist,” McCall said. “I'm not going to let you coldcock that student, Long.”

“Sure, Mr. McCall,” Long said with a smile. “I sure will remember. Racist, am I? Look, I know the facts of life, you're one of those do-gooder liberals like our dear mushy gov who's responsible for what's going on these days. Give 'em a finger and they want everything.”

“I'm not going to argue with you, lieutenant. Just remember what I said.”

“He was after her,” Long snarled. “Niggers go for white meat, any hep white man knows that. She repulsed him and he lost his head—went after her with everything he had. I'm betting we find she's been raped.”

“Maybe she was,” McCall said. “That's a long way from proving that Graham Starret did the raping. You know what I think, lieutenant? I think that after you've questioned Starret and Chief Pearson gets a full report, you're going to decide to let the kid go.” He started his engine; the ambulance was moving off. “One other thing. If I find out that so much as a finger's been laid on Starret, you'll wish you'd never become a cop.”

McCall shot across the clearing after the ambulance. He heard Long call out something in a vicious tone but he could not make out the words.

Tailing the ambulance into town, McCall considered the case of young Starret. The thought of the student's possible guilt had crossed his mind at once. His argument to Lieutenant Long that Starret's announcing his discovery of the girl's body took him off the hook hardly held water. He could have panicked and abandoned her originally, expecting her to be found quickly, and when she was not found quickly, his fear that she might die could well have caused him to “find” her, with his date (who on investigation would no doubt back his story up) as a witness. But there was nothing—so far—to tie Starret in with Laura Thornton's increasingly mysterious life. No, it was more complicated than Long wanted it to be. The lieutenant was looking for a quick and simple—racist—solution.

The Tisquanto Memorial Hospital was an old-fashioned-looking yellow brick structure built in the Twenties, four stories high. It sprawled over a considerable area. McCall parked his car near the emergency entrance and hurried over to the drawn-up ambulance.

They had already removed the girl. He went in. At the admitting desk he said, “Laura Thornton. The emergency case they just brought in. Where did they take her?”

“I'm afraid I can't give you that information,” the pretty girl in white said.

McCall dug out his credentials case. The girl's eyes widened.

“The police said not to give out any information, Mr. McCall—”

“I'm working with the police.”

“Well, she's in Emergency Room C. Dr. Edgewit is attending her.”

He found the girl under an oxygen tent, with two nurses busy over her. Dr. Edgewit, in a green surgical gown, looked absurdly young. He was examining Laura Thornton intently. Dr. Littleton stood by, watching his every move.

McCall introduced himself.

“No time,” the young doctor said without looking up.

“Will she pull through?”

“She's in coma. Concussion, shock, you name it. She's taken an unholy beating.”

“I'll get out of your hair, doctor. Dr. Littleton?” He took the medical examiner aside. “Is Dr. Edgewit competent?”

“He's the chief resident. Fine doctor.”

“Do you happen to know if the girl's had a personal physician in town here? It would be better for all concerned if she were seen as quickly as possible by her own doctor.” He was thinking of Brett Thornton.

“I'll find out, Mr. McCall.”

McCall hunted up a pay telephone and dialed the governor's private number in the capital. Holland himself answered, as he often did.

“All right, Mike,” the governor said with open relief at McCall's news. “You stick with it and report developments. I'll notify Thornton right away. He'll no doubt fly down there tonight—he has his own private plane. Dig into this hard, Mike. Find out who beat Laura. Whoever it was, I want him! And not just because Thornton'll have my hide if we don't turn him up. You understand?”

“I'm way ahead of you, Governor.”

“I wish I could get down there myself, but it's just not possible. I'm tied up here. But I'll be down as soon as I can, especially if an emergency develops. By the way, don't tangle with Thornton. He'll land down there loaded for bear.”

“I understand, Governor.”

“And Mike? I can't trust the local police on this student rebellion. That's why I wanted you there in the first place. The truth is, I don't know whom to trust in good old 'Squanto. So I'm relying on you and your judgment.” The line went dead.

The governor's tone had been light. McCall was not fooled. The old man's really worried, he thought, Thornton must be applying a lot of pressure. He knew how much Sam Holland wanted a renomination; he felt that his work for the people of the state, faced as he was with an unpredictable legislature, needed at least another term for completion of his program of social legislation.

McCall turned away from the telephone to see Dr. Littleton hurrying up the corridor toward him.

“The girls at her sorority use a Dr. Williams,” the M.E. said, “but there seems to be doubt that she's ever seen him for anything. Personally I wouldn't recommend him. He's more interested in his golf handicap than in what's going on in medicine.”

“Then we'd better let Dr. Edgewit handle it till Mr. Thornton gets here and makes his own decision. Thanks, doctor.”

8

A light shone in an upstairs window. McCall stepped onto the porch. The front door was open, the hall in a dim light.

“Dean Gunther?” McCall hesitated. “Floyd?”

A tiny breeze scudded across the porch and a few winter leaves eddied about his feet. Some blew into the front hall as he held the door open. He called again.

McCall stepped in and shut the front door. He stood listening.

After a moment he checked the living room and dining room. The dining table was set, a tall candle burning. He looked into the kitchen. Food was on the range, warming. He returned through a back passage to the entrance hall, hesitated again, and glanced into Gunther's study. The desk lamp was on, but the room was empty. He stepped inside and made for the desk.

He heard a light step behind him and turned sharply.

It was little Rose Gunther. She had changed into a blue flowered dressing gown. Her heavily made-up eyes were worried.

“Where's Floyd, Mr. McCall?”

“I thought he was in here,” McCall said. “The front door was open, Mrs. Gunther, so I came in. I called but nobody answered.”

“I was upstairs lying down. Where can Floyd be?” A tiny hand was plucking at the neck of her gown. “He hasn't been himself lately, Mr. McCall. But I told you that, didn't I? Where can he have gone? He was here when I went upstairs. Oh, dear, I haven't even asked you about Laura Thornton. Is she dead?”

“No, she's alive, although she's unconscious. She's suffered a bad beating.”

The dean's little wife shuddered. “What a world we're living in. We never know what's going to happen to our children, do we, Mr. McCall? Even the best-brought-up ones. You'll have to tell me all about it.” She kept fluttering like a hummingbird. “What am I thinking of!” she exclaimed. “You haven't had any dinner, your coat is soaked—would you like a cup of coffee while we're waiting for Floyd? Not that dinner is going to be any good, it's absolutely ruined …”

“Coffee?” McCall had moved over to the desk, on the side away from Mrs. Gunther. There was an envelope lying on the Navajo Indian rug, unsealed; a bit of wrinkly paper stuck out of the flap. “You took the word out of my mouth, Mrs. Gunther. I'd love a cup of hot coffee. No cream or sugar, though if you have some saccharine I'd appreciate it. Two tablets, please.”

She left the study. McCall pounced on the envelope.

The envelope was smooth. The note was wrinkled. Evidently the notepaper had been angrily crumpled after the recipient read the note, and jammed back into the envelope.

The message was typewritten:

“
Dear F.G
.—
I am leaving this at the front door because naturally I don't want to be seen. You wouldn't like that either, would you, darling? I'll just knock discreetly on the door and flee. I know you're alone downstairs, your wife in her room. You must meet me immediately behind the Bell Tower, by the big oak. You'd better show up this instant, my dear, or you'll regret it like mad. No joke, m'lord. I'll be waiting. Your Lady G
”

Lady G?

McCall rammed note and envelope into his pocket just as Rose Gunther appeared again in the study doorway.

“It'll be ready in a minute, Mr. McCall.”

“I'm afraid I can't stay after all,” McCall said ruefully. “Just remembered something I forgot to take care of.”

“What a shame.”

“I'll make it as fast as I can, Mrs. Gunther. You keep the coffee hot. Bargain?”

She smiled more openly now.

“If Floyd gets back before I do, ask him to wait for me.”

“I do hope everything's all right …”

“Now don't worry, Mrs. Gunther.”

He drove fast toward the campus, blessing Kathryn Cohan for having pointed the Bell Tower out to him earlier in the day.

Blackmail? He blanked his mind. No point in speculating. He'd know in a few minutes. Past the Student Union McCall made a quick turn. Moments later he saw the towering trees, then the music building. The Bell Tower thrust against the night sky like a wind-testing thumb.

He killed his engine and jumped out. The campus was ridiculously peaceful after the turbulent events of the evening. There was no one about at all.

He walked across the lawn toward the silent building. In the semidarkness close to the building, he checked the trees. A small oak stood beside the tower. That couldn't be the one. He moved carefully around to the rear of the building and saw a giant oak looming in the dark. He paused to listen.

Nothing.

At the same instant he spotted the figure on the ground, a blacker blackness against the lawn, and sprang forward.

Dean Gunther's yellow-ivory face glowed in the moonlight. Something about the frosted-over sheen of his wide-open eyes told McCall that Gunther was dead.

McCall got out his pencil flash and flicked it on. He made a face. The Dean's chest and throat were something out of an abattoir. He had been stabbed with a knife over and over, all over the neck and chest and well down into the abdomen. The right leg hooked under the body in an unnatural position. The mouth gaped bloodily. The back was arched, the chest thrown out in an almost comical military posture.

McCall deliberately put Rose Gunther out of his mind. That would come later.

There was a twinkle of light near the body. He sought its source, squatting on his heels. It was a bone-handled hunting knife. The blade was stained, all but the steel near the hilt. He did not touch it.