The Campus Murders

17

“Show me where,” McCall said, taking the old man’s arm.

Burell jerked away. “I can’t. I got to call the cops.”

“I’m a cop,” McCall said.

“I don’t know—”

“Let’s go.”

He took the man’s arm again, firmly. Burell seemed to recognize the touch of authority. He stopped balking and hurried along, muttering.

“Where did you find her?”

“Jesus Christ, wait till you see her.”

“Where?”

“She’s dead as a doornail. Wait till you see.”

It was an old, old building smelling of creosote, damp, and floor polish. McCall thought he detected the mortuary odor of dead flowers, too. Old Burell trotted down a hall to a flight of dark oiled stairs, and up to the top floor.

“In here,” he said.

He led the way across a very large room lined with chairs; there was an ancient grand piano on a dais at one end. Sun struggled through windows that looked as if the dust had been fused to the glass.

“Here,” the man said. He pointed a trembling finger.

McCall looked through an open doorway into the Bell Tower itself. A bellrope hung from an opening in the circular ceiling. From the lower part of the rope hung a girl. Her feet dangled a foot above the floor. She was revolving in a dreamy-slow dance.

It was Patricia Reed, black enamel hair poured over her shoulders, black leather garments reflecting the saffron sunshine coming through a slitted tower window. The palms were turned outward in a helpless way. One black boot was half off. Her face and throat were purple. Her eyes were large and staring. Her tongue hung from her mouth. The head was tilted at a sickening angle.

McCall dashed back into the large room and grabbed a chair. At the same time he clawed a pocket knife from his trousers.

Burell shrank out of his way.

McCall set the chair beside the girl, jumped on the seat, and began to work on the rope with his knife. The rope gave under his pressure and the bell in the tower began to toll. The bonging hurt his ears.

With his face almost touching hers, McCall knew that she was beyond reviving. But he kept sawing at the rope. It was thick and tough. He could see on the floor of the tower room, where it had fallen or been thrown, the black binder of music he had last seen in Patricia Reed’s room; sheet music was strewn about.

“Get hold of her,” he said to old Burell. “I’ve got the rope almost cut.”

“Do I have to?” the old man quavered.

“Please!”

The custodian embraced the girl’s legs, shutting his eyes. McCall sliced through the last strand and caught the body under the arms. They lowered Patricia Reed to the floor. McCall worked on the rope around her throat. It was deep in her flesh. He finally managed to loosen it. He felt the carotid artery, put his ear to her breast.

She was dead, all right. Already cooling.

The bell stopped.

“Is there a phone in this building, Mr. Burell?”

“Downstairs in the office. Wait! I ain’t staying here alone!”

Downstairs, McCall phoned police headquarters and got Lieutenant Long.

“You again!” Long said. McCall heard him groan. “It’s those goddam students! Trouble is all they want. Brother, if I had my way—”

“What would you do, lieutenant, machine-gun them? Why do you assume some student did it? It could have been anybody.”

“I don’t have to account to you, McCall,” Long bellowed. “Oliver’ll be right out there. You stick there, see? I don’t like the way you’re always around when a body’s found!”

“I’m almost willing to settle for your arresting me,” McCall said wearily, “just so this thing can be cleared up.”

Long banged off.

McCall said, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to go back upstairs and wait, Mr. Burell.”

On the way upstairs McCall said, “Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No. You was the first I saw after I found her.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“I’ve seen her around the building. She’s one of the students. I don’t know her name.”

A few minutes later McCall heard the sirens, and wondered why they were being used. It had always struck him as a sort of warning: here come de judge.

Sergeant Oliver and his harness bull team stamped into the tower room, followed by the ubiquitous Dr. Littleton.

“It happened within the past hour or so,” the M.E. said from the floor. “Did you take this rope off her neck, Mr. McCall?”

“Yes. I thought she might still be alive.”

The M.E. was peering at the marks on the dead girl’s throat. “Well, I’m pretty sure she was choked before she was strung up here. There seem to be fingermarks under the rope marks. My guess is she was at least unconscious at the time she was hanged, maybe already dead. I’ll be able to tell better on autopsy.”

“Some bloody bastard is sure on the loose,” Oliver muttered. He walked over to the body and stared. Then he dry-washed his hands and turned back to McCall. “Any ideas, Mr. McCall?”

“No.”

“You say you talked to this girl in the place where she lives?”

“Not much more than an hour ago, sergeant.”

“How’d she seem? Nervous? Something on her mind? Anything, for chrissake?”

“I can’t honestly tell you,” McCall said with a shrug. “I thought there was something queer about her, but I’d never talked to her before so I can’t say if it was her usual manner or not. She did cut our talk short, saying she had to dash over here to a singing lesson. You might find out if she ever took it.”

It turned out that she had not. Her teacher’s record noted Patricia Reed as absent for her lesson.

“Then she lied to you,” Oliver said.

“Or something sidetracked her when she got to the building.”

“Don’t you have any notion what’s going on, Mr. McCall?”

McCall shook his head. That elusive something was still gnawing away...

“And all in the middle of these nutty kids and their battle plans! They’re gathering their forces like an army. I think they’re set on taking over the administration building. The lieutenant’s about fit to foam at the mouth. So’s Chief Pearson. I can’t say I blame ’em, what with what’s going on.”

“Have you ever questioned Patricia Reed officially, sergeant? In connection with anything at all?”

“No. This is the first I’ve heard of her.”

“If you want me I’ll be around here somewhere.”

“The lieutenant might want you. He bites his lip half through every time your name’s mentioned.”

“Tell him I’m on his side, will you?”

The photographer and fingerprint man were hurrying up the stairs as McCall went down. Outside, the morgue wagon was just pulling up. A crowd was beginning to gather before the music building. The tussle before the administration building was dying down as the word spread; students were streaming across campus, banners discarded.

Well, McCall thought, whatever else your murder accomplished, Pat, not the least is that it broke up an attempted invasion and vandalism of state property.

That might well have led to the callup of the National Guard.

In her office Kathryn Cohan immediately said, “Something’s happened! What is it, Mike? You look awful.”

He told her.

She moaned, “That poor girl. I heard sirens, but they’re so common on campus nowadays... This is unbelievable. It must be some maniac.”

“All murder is off the beam, Katie, but that doesn’t help much.”

“There’s an administrative meeting at McNiel Hall. You should hear them. I’ll be over later.”

“I’ll look in. Won’t stay, though, I’ve got to stick to this. I want a kiss.”

Katie looked around. “So do I.”

He leaned over the desk and kissed her on the mouth. As he did so the door opened and Dean Vance burst in.

“What,” the Dean said, “have we here?”

She shut the door and set her ample back against it.

Kathryn Cohan’s face resembled a strawberry.

“Well,” McCall said, “you’ve found us out, Dean Vance. Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know where you’re going,” Ina Vance said, striding across the anteroom, “but me, I’ve got work to do, damn it.” She stopped at her private office door and winked at her assistant. “Nice going, Katie. Your looks and my brains and I’d have had him where I wanted him yesterday.”

She slammed her door.

“Well!” Katie gasped. “The old bag.”

“So you see,” McCall grinned, “you never know about people.”