The Campus Murders Read Free Page B

cloth, ponchos, beads, Nehru jackets, long-chained necklaces on the men, American Indian outfits on some of the girls … a riot, McCall thought, not without humor. One long-haired young man swathed in a royal blue velvet cloak stood in the middle of a walk flaunting a sign across his chest that said I AM A STUDENT, DO NOT FOLD, BEND, OR MUTILATE .
    There were signs on young people all over the place— KEEP ON THE GRASS—WHO’S AFRAID OF BIG BAD WOLFE?—TURN ON DEMOCRACY, TURN OFF AUTHORITARIANISM —and the like. One sign on the back of a boy solemnly picketing the steps of the administration building said simply: SMOKE POT .
    A head of auburn hair bobbed into view on the other side of a tall privet hedge. Something inside McCall bobbed with it. There had been an auburn-haired girl on the campus of his youth … but when this girl came around the hedge, the auburn turned to carrot, and the girl was a freckle-faced plain Jane. McCall laughed and stepped around the boy with the SMOKE POT sign. A fat, broken-nosed young man in too tight jeans and an orange sweater, with streaming blond hair, chased a miniskirted girl. The girl was shrieking with real fear. The boy hurled a book at her and shouted an obscenity.
    â€œIsn’t love beautiful?” the boy with the sign said.
    McCall entered the building. Five minutes later the President of Tisquanto State College rose from behind his gleaming desk. He did not offer to shake hands. “Well, Mr. McCall,” Wolfe Wade said. “Doesn’t the governor trust us to take care of our own affairs?”

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    Wolfe Wade was a big man, a tall man, high on beef. He looked as if he either were a heavy drinker or suffered from high blood pressure. He was smartly, even sportily, dressed in tones of gray, as if to go with his thick gray hair; there was even a certain grayness about his lips. Success spurted from every pore. But his eyes were bloodshot and there were lines of fatigue at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
    McCall decided to put him on the defensive. He stuck out his hand. Wade hesitated, then shook it. The man’s hand felt cold, fat, and dry, like raw pork out of a refrigerator.
    â€œSit down, Mr. McCall. Cigar?”
    â€œI’m not smoking this week, Mr. Wade,” McCall said.
    â€œOh.” The president of the college laughed uncertainly. “I see. Yes, I’ve had my difficulties in that direction, too. Really, Mr. McCall, I must say I’m surprised.”
    â€œSurprised?”
    â€œI mean, by your appearing like this. I find it hard to believe, with what’s going on all over the state, that Governor Holland is stepping into our affairs.”
    â€œI assure you the governor sent me, if that’s what you mean, Mr. Wade.”
    In the silence McCall looked about. It was an MGM version of an office, all done in high-polished ebony, straight lines, and lemon-yellow leather. The books looked out of place.
    â€œI share your dislike,” President Wade said suddenly. “The architects hired by the state didn’t bother to consult me when they planned this building and its decor. I prefer the old-time religion, as it were. The good old days, if you’ll forgive the cliché.”
    â€œIs it possible, Mr. Wade, that that’s what’s the matter?”
    The bloodshot eyes looked wary. “I don’t follow.”
    â€œThe good old days. These aren’t the good old days. Good or bad, they’re the new days. They’re today. Maybe that’s what’s got the students up in arms.”
    With all its splendor, the room exuded the faintest odor of mothballs. It puzzled McCall.
    â€œNo doubt.” President Wade had begun drumming with his manicured fingernails on the glossy desktop. “At least that’s what people keep telling me. Yet I’m convinced that the fundamentals of a college education remain constant, regardless of changing tastes and attitudes. What was