The Campus Murders Read Free

cheese, he signed the register. He paid no attention to the dark bar in the adjoining room, not even filing it for future reference. Alcohol was not his bag.
    â€œFabulous morning,” the clerk said, a small man with big round eyeglasses.
    â€œBeg pardon?” McCall said, cupping his ear. It discouraged further conversation. The clerk rang for a bellhop.
    Then he was in a comforter sort of room, all maple and pine and chintz curtains, the kind McCall liked best. It could be a happy omen, but he doubted it.
    He tipped the bellhop, latched the door, took off his jacket and tie, and lay down catercornered on the bed. His mind was keyed to questions. His reception at Tisquanto police headquarters bothered him not at all. He had paid his courtesy call, made his presence known, and that was that.
    McCall took stock.
    First, there was this trouble at Tisquanto State College. It wasn’t just innocent “unrest,” in spite of Chief Pearson’s first allegations. McCall had done some homework before coming. Along with reports of widespread dormitory sex, the spreading use of LSD, marijuana, amphetamines, barbiturates, and other drugs (at least one documented case involved STP; it had sent a girl student over the brink into a mental hospital, where the prognosis was poor), there was outright, outspoken defiance of the Establishment, threats against the administrative authority, a minor revolt of some of the younger faculty, and at least one medium-sized campus riot that had hospitalized ten students and one of Pearson’s officers.
    â€œI want you to fly down there and check it out, Mike,” Governor Holland said. “See if it’s as bad as reports claim. Or if it’s worse. Finish up that Mafia report first. Next week will do.”
    But the next afternoon the governor called him in again.
    â€œA complication, Mike, one that might be nasty. You’ll have to leave for Tisquanto right away. Turn the Mafia report over to Bill.”
    The governor was worried.
    â€œWhat’s this about, sir?”
    â€œBrett Thornton just left.”
    â€œThornton—here?”
    â€œSurprised me, too. It was obviously not a social call. He came to me for help.”
    â€œTo you? It must be a personal matter.”
    â€œIt is. Characteristically, of course, he doesn’t ask for my help, he demands it.”
    â€œHe threatened you? With what?”
    â€œHe said if I didn’t help him he’d use my ‘negligence’—his word—in his nomination fight against me. Of course, it’s silly—I’d help him in a matter like this under any circumstances. But he’s under great stress, Mike. I feel sorry for him.”
    â€œWhat trouble is he in?”
    â€œIt’s his daughter. You met Laura once, I think. She’s in her sophomore year at Tisquanto State. The girl is missing, hasn’t been seen since last Friday, Thornton says. He’s half out of his mind.”
    Brett Thornton was a highly successful corporation lawyer and Sam Holland’s chief opponent in the state party organization. Governor Holland was up for renomination for the gubernatorial plum. Ordinarily his incumbency would have made renomination automatic. But the necessity to raise taxes, statewide riots in the ghettos of the cities, and other hard issues had made him the target of the opposition, and he faced a fight for the renomination from the conservative element of his party, of which Thornton was the outstanding figure.
    They had been friends for many years. But the political bug had bitten Thornton, and with his bold, adamant, opinionated nature he swept friendship off the board. It had hurt Sam Holland, a sentimental man.
    â€œWhy did he come to you?” McCall demanded.
    â€œYou, Mike.”
    â€œMe?”
    The governor grinned. “Somewhere he’s developed a high opinion of your talents. Or maybe your publicity has oversold you.” Then his mouth went grim.