Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar

by Gray Cavender

  She thought as she climbed out of the cart, then said, “I don’t think I ever had a class in here…but maybe I was here once for a lecture…something like that.”

  They walked to the elevators, Wes looked at his notes, and punched the button for the second floor. “Peter was supposed to call ahead and get someone to open her office for us.”

  The doors opened, they looked at the directory, and then headed down a long corridor. Both sides were lined with rooms: some were classrooms, in use; others were offices. Some rooms were “sponsored” either by individual or organizational donors; metal plaques on the wall beside the doors noted the sponsorship. Toward the far end of the corridor, a uniformed ASU police officer was waiting for them.

  He greeted Jillian. “Detective Sergeant Warne, I’m Officer Tyler Cuevas…we met once at a reception…when you first started.”

  “Yes, hello again, Tyler. And this is Detective Sergeant Wes Webb, Tempe PD.”

  They shook hands and Wes said, “Thanks for opening-up for us.”

  “Glad to. So, obviously I heard about the incident over in English. You’ve probably seen it,” he said, addressing Jillian, “…but they’ve issued a campus advisory so Ross-Blakey is now off limits except on an ‘as needed basis.’ Don’t know what they’ll do about classes there. Anyway, it’s hard to believe, I mean, on a college campus.” He addressed both of them again, “Anything on that yet?”

  Jillian answered, “No, we’re just getting started. Forensics is still over there.” Jillian flashed on the scene in the Professor’s office…her legs protruding from behind her desk. “The entire building is mainly just offices and conference rooms. Still, I imagine that everyone over there is freaked…especially the people on the Professor’s floor.”

  Wes said, “During an interview, I learned that the victim—Professor Nelda Siemens—also had an office in this building,” he said, and pointed to the door on the left side of the corridor.

  “That’s right, she’s listed as the occupant. Anyway, I unlocked it so it’s open,” he said, standing aside so Wes and Jillian could enter the office. A name plaque read Professor Nelda Siemens, and under her name, ASU Center for Ayn Rand Studies. Jillian remembered a similar plaque had been under her name in Ross-Blakey Hall.

  Wes said, “So ASU is still mainly a lock and key system…” addressing both Jillian and Officer Cuevas.

  “That’s affirmative,” Officer Cuevas said,” and displayed his keys. “A few buildings are a fob entry, but that’s mostly the very newest ones.”

  Wes asked, “And what about surveillance footage?”

  “Afraid not…” Jillian answered, “…again, except for the really new buildings.”

  “Alright,” Wes said. “Guess that makes what Forensics will have for us even more important. So, we hurry up…and wait for them…but for now, we’re on our own.” He shrugged, then donned gloves and booties. As he opened the door he asked Officer Cuevas, “So it was locked when you arrived?”

  ‘That’s right,” he answered, chewing his lower lip, “but I just opened it; I wasn’t wearing gloves or anything. I looked inside, you know, just to be sure that everything looked OK, but I didn’t actually go in.”

  “No worries, Officer Cuevas,” Wes answered, and entered the office. “Forensics will be here in thirty minutes or so. We’ll have a look inside, but, if it’s OK, can you stick around when we finish and keep anyone else out of here?”

  “You got it,” he answered, probably relieved that he wasn’t in trouble for opening the door with bare hands.

  As she pulled on gloves and booties, too, Jillian thought that Wes was always good about putting people at ease, especially compared to some others she’d seen. He always told her, “ya catch more flies with sugar...”

  This office had windows, but Wes flipped on the lights as they entered. At first, she and Wes stood just a few feet inside to get a sense of what was what. Officer Cuevas stood in the doorway behind them, half-way in and half-way out of the office.

  For Jillian, it was first-things-first. This office was larger than the one in Ross-Blakey Hall and, if anything, even more upscale: better carpet, better furniture, better everything. It looked like some executive’s office in the private sector, or maybe a lawyer in a big-time firm in Phoenix…she’d seen some of those before while working cases back when she was at Tempe PD.

  Her eyes were immediately drawn to the two photos behind the desk; one was the same woman that she’d seen in the other office, and the other photo was that of a man, but not George Orwell, if that’s who the other guy was. She needed to check on that.

  So, in this photo…same woman but in a different pose. In this one, she was in a lecture hall, photographed from her left side, capturing both the woman standing at a podium and also a part of the audience in the first couple of rows. Jillian thought that this photo looked to be from the 1950s or 60s given how the people in the audience were dressed…they looked like people in an old movie. In the other photo, which seemed to be more contemporary, the man was smiling at the camera. It was an upper torso photo; you could see his tie, down to his chest; he appears to be seated, maybe in an office, although she couldn’t really tell. This photo was inscribed “Best Wishes, MF.” Jillian snapped pictures of them.

  The windows were to Jillian’s left. They were larger than those in Ross-Blakey Hall and looked across an intramural athletic field toward the ASU Recreation Center. It was a similar view from the windows in Ross-Blakey, just a different angle because it was on a different side of campus. As in the professor’s other office, there was a wooden coat rack, although this one was upright, of course. A maroon windbreaker hung on a wooden coat hanger. The windbreaker was on the outside of the rack, but facing away so Jillian couldn’t see the front. Two book cases were on the right as they entered the office. Jillian walked over to them and, as she’d done in the other office, used her IPad to snap pictures of the books.

  She scanned the entire office, her eyes moving slowly from left to right. Nothing in this office seemed to be in any way out of the ordinary. Still, she took more photos.

  Then, she turned and looked at the framed diplomas on the wall near the doorway. They appeared to be expensive framing jobs, and since the three diplomas—same framing—were replicated in the other office, this must have been a pricy proposition. They were even arranged in the same side-by-side manner as in the other office: BA (English) from Wellesley College; MBA (Booth School of Business) from the University of Chicago; PhD (English) also from the University of Chicago.

  Jillian said, “She did her graduate work at the University of Chicago…an MBA. And her doctorate in English.”

  “Chicago, huh?” Wes walked over to the coat rack and felt of the windbreaker, rubbing the material between his thumb and other fingers. “Expensive for a windbreaker. Clearly doesn’t shop where I do.” He back a step away from the rack, but continued to look at the windbreaker. “Well, this isn’t any of the colors of Chicago-land teams: not the Cubbies, or the Sox, not the Bears or the Bulls. Or the Blackhawks. I guess it’s ASU, huh?”

  Jillian joined Wes at the coat rack. “It’s close,” she said, and eyed the windbreaker. Then, she shook her head no. “But I don’t think it’s ASU…it isn’t exactly the right shade of maroon. And the accent color is white, not gold. Maybe she just likes maroon.” She pointed to the corner. “See, maroon sneakers.”

  Wes walked to the corner and looked closely at the shoes, then whistled, “Whew, these are high-end, too. Maybe you make more money with two offices.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s also because she was in Business…they make more than professors in the Humanities. Anyway, I think they do. As for the windbreaker, I’ll do some homework; maybe she really does just like maroon, or maybe it’s the school colors from one of her universities.”

  “Yeah, gooo Wellesley or rah rah, Chicago,” he laughed, elongating the ‘
go’ and making hand motions with each ‘rah’ as if in a cheer. “Do schools like that even have teams?”

  “Maybe intramurals. You know, I guess it does make sense that she had joint appointments in Business and English since she had grad degrees in both.”

  Jillian looked at the windbreaker again, and without removing it from the hanger, leaned around the side just enough so that she could see the front of it.

  “This is from the University of Chicago, Wes. It’s monogramed: Booth School of Business. That’s her MBA in Business,” she said, pointing to the diplomas on the far wall. “And you’re right, it does seem to be expensive for a windbreaker. Up close, you can see the fabric has some texture woven into it, and it seems a little heavier than the usual windbreaker.”

  Wes nodded, then started opening the desk drawers, one by one. He looked in each one, moving his head around for different angles, occasionally shifting some papers with a pen. He closed the last drawer and said, “I don’t see anything interesting in any of these drawers. Angel will bag all of this stuff and go through it with a fine tooth comb.”

  Jillian followed his lead, opening the drawers in two file cabinets. They were of a light-colored wood, real wood, and maybe teak, she thought, and the slide mechanism worked smoothly. They seemed to be expensive…like everything in the office. One cabinet had a paperweight on top, but it was a different color and texture than the one in her English office. She thought, “I’ve never seen a paperweight, and now it’s two in one day,” and snapped a picture. She figured that maybe Wes was right about them being chotskies.

  They had both returned to near the middle of the office, midway between the desk and the doorway. Wes looked around again and said, “I don’t see anything here. You?”

  “No…at least not at first glance...”

  “OK, so Forensics will check it out…maybe they’ll find something.” He turned back to the doorway and asked, “Officer Cuevas, can you stick around till Forensics arrives…like I said, it’ll be maybe in thirty minutes…an hour at most?”

  “That’s affirmative,” he responded, eagerly.

  ”Thanks. OK, Jilly, Keefer gave me the name of her boss over here, a…Professor Lucas Seay, he said, looking at his notes. He heads something called Entrepreneurship and Innovation, and he’s in the Business Admin Building. Let’s see if he’s around.”

  “You want me to stay here or go with you…or, I could head back to the English Department?”

  “No, let’s talk to him together. We can ask him to identify someone, a colleague…whoever, who can take a look at her office to see if everything at least looks right. And, I want to let him know that Forensics will go through this office…he is her supervisor. Mostly, we’ll see what, if anything, he knows.”

  The Business Administration Building was thirty or forty yards in front of BAC. They entered, then took the elevator to the third floor.

  The entry to the department was through a glass door—Entrepreneurship and Innovation printed on the door—and off the main corridor. It really was an office within an office. An entry area housed several staff desks. These were set off from the Chair’s office. One of the staff people, a woman in a professional suit said, “Professor Seay’s expecting you,” as if she somehow knew who they were. “We’ve heard the news,” she explained. She stood and walked them to his office; the door was open. Standing part-way in, she said, “Professor Seay, the police detectives are here.” She stood aside and let Wes and Jillian enter.

  “Thank you, Margaret,” he said as he stood, came from behind his desk, and greeted them just inside of his office. When they’d entered, he closed the door.

  “I’m Lucas Seay. Please,” he said, pointing to a smallish couch. The office was fairly large and the floor was covered in a tan Berber carpet. He’d been sitting behind a beautiful desk made from a rich brown wood…the grain in the top and in the front made Jillian think it was oak. There were two chairs directly in front of the desk. But set off and across from the desk and its surrounds was a separate area, laid out as if in a living room. Professor Seay moved them to that section, and Wes and Jillian both sat on the proffered couch. The color of its fabric complimented the desk; Professor Seay took a living room-type chair opposite them; it also was in an accenting color. A coffee table separated them. Several business-oriented magazines were arranged on the table, as well as a copy of ASU’s research magazine. Jillian wondered if this office also had a sponsored donor.

  Professor Seay was a lean, tallish man with a pale complexion. He appeared to be in his 40s although his sandy hair, parted on the right, was going gray at the temples. He wore gray pants, tan loafers, and a white shirt. No tie. His jacket, a blue sport coat, hung on a coat rack.

  As they sat, both detectives showed their IDs and stated their names and affiliations. Wes said, “Thanks for seeing us, Professor Seay.”

  Seay nodded and said, “It’s nice to meet you, although…and I know this sounds hackneyed…I wish there were different circumstances. I still cannot belief this…I’m in shock…I’m sad, I’m angry. What can you tell me?”

  Wes answered, “Well, first, let me say that we’re sorry for your loss.” He paused, then said, “And, as for what we know…I’m afraid not a lot at this stage. Professor Siemens was discovered this morning in her office in the English Department. We won’t speculate too soon…we’ll know more when our Forensics Team completes its work…they’re in her office now. And by the way, Forensics will come to her office in BAC when they finish in the English Department. We’ve left an ASU police officer there, in the BAC, to secure that office until Forensics arrives.”

  Wes paused in case the professor had questions, but hearing none, he proceeded. “She had several injuries to the head; one could be an accident, but several…well, again, we really have to await what Forensics comes up with.

  “So, your forensics people will come here, too? We had a request earlier…have you been to Nelda’s office in BAC?”

  “Yes, we just came from there. Although there was nothing immediately noticeable, we will of course want Forensics there for a thorough examination. And, they will remove many items…computer definitely, and the contents of her desk…things like that. These will be carefully analyzed in our labs at Tempe PD. Eventually, everything will be returned.”

  “Yes, of course,” he answered and shook his head. “How was she…Nelda…discovered? I guess, how and when?”

  Wes responded, “She missed an appointment with a student this morning. The student sought assistance in the English Department, and a staff person entered her office…they were concerned, especially since they said she’s a stickler about being on time.”

  Seay laughed a short, snorty laugh, then seemed to catch himself, stopped and pursed his lips. “Do you have any…any leads?” He shook his head again, and then said, “It seems as if anything I can think of to say sounds like dialogue out of a crime novel. Honestly, I am in shock and literally don’t know even what to ask.”

  Jillian said, “We understand. This is a lot to take in.” She paused, then said, “At this stage, we’re just trying to get a picture of Professor Siemens…friends, enemies, whatever we can learn about her life…that sort of thing. So, to begin, can you tell us anything about her personally?

  “Sure, OK…let’s see…Nelda came here last year…that was her first at ASU. She came here unattached…to my knowledge. Often, when a professor is interviewing for a job, if they have a spouse, it comes up during the interview process that the spouse needs a job, too. Whether the spouse is an academic or not. We do what we can to facilitate that. Sometimes, if the spouse is also a professor, ASU finds a way to hire them…as a trailing spouse…that’s what we call it. Maybe in another department…or whatever. Or maybe there are questions about what are good schools for their kids. There was none of that with Nelda. She came here as a free agent, to my knowledge.

  He th
ought for a few seconds. “What else…OK, I know her dad’s a professor, a professor emeritus…a philosopher, I’m fairly certain. Her mom’s deceased…I think. Nelda’s from LA, originally. Really, it was mostly day-in-day-out business with us. I mean, I saw her all the time, but…I guess I never thought about how little I knew about her…I mean, outside of …” and held his hands outstretched…apparently meaning the university. He sighed.

  After a few seconds, when it was obvious that he’d finished, Jillian said, “Thank you, that helps.” She paused and then said, “If it’s OK, I’d like to change the topic a little.” He nodded, and she continued. “Professor Seay, some people we’ve interviewed mentioned that there had been bad feelings about hiring Professor Siemens, even about the Center for Ayn Rand Studies. Is that accurate?”

  “I suppose so, to a degree. Academics can get their hackles up over almost anything,” he said, frowning. “Yes, there was some opposition to this. But, I do think that the opposition was directed more at the Center for Ayn Rand Studies generally than at Nelda personally.”

  Jillian continued, “What was the nature of the opposition?”

  Seay thought before answering, and then said, “I’d say there were several strands. Some focused on a university department taking any money from the private sector to create something like Rand Studies. It was viewed as somehow undercutting academic freedom. I think that’s a fairly naïve view in this day and time. All universities have had to change, and ASU is just at the vanguard.”

  Jillian and Wes nodded but didn’t speak so he continued, “I think some of the opposition was of an ideological nature.” He pronounced the word as if it were the dictionary’s short “i,” not the usual long ‘i.’ “I think the ‘critics’ (he used air quotes) in this camp were actually more angry about the Center for the Study of Economic Liberty than about Ayn Rand Studies because of the connections to the Koch Brothers. University professors are as divided as the public in general these days. Faculty fulminated at the Faculty Senate, there were letters to The State Press…that’s the campus paper.”