Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar

by Gray Cavender

  Today, she was in charge of making sure that the District was in compliance, initially with the “No Child Left Behind” guidelines, and now with ‘The Every Student Success Act,’ the ESSA. As she always put it, “my job is to try to figure out how to actually educate children while appearing to comply with whatever’s the latest educational fad.” Not long ago, exasperated, she’d told Jillian, “Don’t’ even get me started on Grit.”

  Franklin, her dad, was an administrator with the Arizona State Retirement System (the ASRS), one of two major retirement management systems for state employees. He’d majored in Finance at ASU, then worked for the Auditor General for several years before moving on to the ASRS job, initially as a financial planner, and now in the upper echelon of management. In a way, he was just a little “against type” because while still an undergrad, he was into poetry and had taken a couple of poetry courses as electives. He actually wrote poetry and had even been published in some of the ‘small magazines.’

  He had black hair (showing some gray), a dark complexion, and was the sort of a man who needed to shave twice a day. Her dad was the one who’d taken her to City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco. He called her ‘Jilly,’ always had. Jillian made a mental note to ask him if he knew any of Professor Billy Gilroy’s work and also about Ayn Rand’s literary standing.

  In addition to the car, her parents had helped with a down payment on her condo. That thought made her think about Professor Siemens’ condo, and the question of how a professor could afford something so expensive. As for her own place, Jillian had tried to start a schedule to repay her parents for the down payment money. They refused.

  Both parents had helped while she was looking at prospective condos. Sometimes both had accompanied her to see a prospect, but mostly they took turns. After she’d narrowed her options to three places, her mom had served as a sounding board on the matter of which one she should choose. Isn’t that always the way, Dad was a financial advisor, Mom’s a school administrator, and yet she was the one to help Jillian to make the final decision. The second runner-up had been a great place off of Kyrene, between Baseline and Elliot. In a way, it was the nicest, the most…the most adult. The first runner-up was in the same complex as where she lived. It was a 2-story model and she had really liked its layout. But, the one-floor model just seem to have more light, and in the end that made the difference. She and her mom had discussed its proximity to ASU because she was worried about living so close to the campus.

  Her mom had said, “You know what, Jillian, it seems almost as if you have somehow convinced yourself that you have to move a long distance from campus to start a new life. Don’t over-think this…just choose the one you like best.” In the end, Mom’s advice had turned the tide. Plus, the place off College was closer to work (she was at Tempe PD then), and on the Orbit line. And now, it was home.

  Her mom had been right in another, maybe deeper way, too. Condo shopping had caused Jillian to realize that her thing about not being close to campus had somehow had something to do with wanting to get started with her adult life. This was about stability, in a way…not because she had had an unstable family life…far from it, she’d enjoyed an incredibly stable upbringing. But as a result, she wanted that even more now…for herself, of course, but also for her parents, so that they would know that because of them…or at least with their help…their daughter “had it together.”

  She thought, “OK, maybe I’m not upscale like Professor Siemens, but basically…I’m doing great. I have a job that I like, and I think I make a difference with it. I have a nice place of my own after years of roomies, but I’m not lonesome. I have good friends, good parents, and hobbies. I’m even published, like Dad. As Wes would say, ‘the whole megillah.’ I’m happy.”

  Jillian toasted herself with her last sip of tea, glanced at the clock and noted the time—she’d give herself 45 minutes, no more. She opened her IPAD and started what would become her Murder Book: her notes and thoughts and evidence about the investigation into the death of Professor Nelda Siemens.

  She started by reviewing her notes from the day, including looking at the photos. She was especially interested in going over those from the Professor’s condo. Jillian first googled Herman Miller chairs, trying to ID the models that she’d seen in her office. Her photos helped. She found a chair that she was fairly sure had been like the one near the bookcase: close to $400. She was even more sure about the chair that had been scooted so neatly at her desk under her desktop. Jillian did a doubletake at its price: $3200.

  Next, she worked through the photos of the paintings and the prints in the condo. She enlarged each one to better read the artist’s signature. A couple of the prints were listed as being in the $2000 to $3000 range. They were from artists outside of Arizona. Not surprisingly, the paintings ran as high or higher…they were originals, after all. A painting from an Arizona artist was listed at $4000, another at $7000, and yet another—from an artist in LA—was…Jillian visibly pulled back from her screen, then leaned forward to check it again…$20K. Aloud, she said, “Wow!” She made notes about these prices, and reminded herself to tell Wes…this was relevant to the issue of what the condo had cost. Professor Siemens had a very upscale lifestyle.

  Next, Jillian made a list of people she wanted to Google, including Professor Siemens (obviously); Billy Gilroy; Jonathan Keefer, Ian Naremore, even Carolyn Patek. She organized her thoughts and ended with her tentative plan for tomorrow.

  She assumed that she’d be interviewing Carolyn Patek and Ian Naremore, but didn’t email them to schedule an interview because she’d now be coordinating everything with Wes. He wanted to go to ASU’s SkySong to interview the Moser woman, and they also were interviewing the business prof, David Roberts. And, maybe he would want her to interview the student, Carla Nagel. And, Andrew Paxton was coming in, too. So, her plan for tomorrow had to be loose. She did look forward to seeing both of her former professors, although it would be a little strange since it would be a part of a murder investigation. She didn’t know Professor Naremore all that well, and wondered how he’d take it.

  She looked up from the screen and thought again about the last time she’d been in the law library…to check-out a book for a project in Professor Naremore’s grad seminar. And now today… Maybe it was the same building, but it felt so different. A lot had changed since she’d worked on that research paper.

  She backed-up her notes, emailed everything to herself as well, and then put away the IPAD. As her final bit of work, she went to her study, canted her head sideways and read the titles in her book case. She was looking on the shelves where she had the textbooks that she hadn’t re-sold. She found her copy of 1984 and, sure enough, George Orwell was the guy in the poster in Professor Siemens’ English Department office.

  She looked some more and found the other paperback she wanted…Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. Jillian thumbed through the thick book and noted the places where she’d used a yellow highlighter, or, in some cases had made notes in the margins with a pen. She would dig-through her notes and find those from the English class when she’d read the book.

  She turned it over and on the back cover was a photo of the author…the woman in the photos in both of Professor Nelda Siemens’ offices. Jillian looked at the front cover again, shook her head as she had another “who would have thought this” moment, and then re-shelved it.

  She glanced at the clock again, but stuck to her decision about not going out for dinner or a movie. She’d read or maybe binge watch something, maybe Outlander. Time traveling with Claire back to Scotland in the 1700s seemed like exactly what she needed.

  Jillian wished she’d had a sandwich and a salad at Postinos. Oh well, she wondered, “What’s in the fridge? Or, better still, she smiled, it’ll be a ‘Door Dash night.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Jillian was nervous as she made breakfast: a banana and raspberry smoothie, fortified with prote
in powder, since she didn’t know when she’d get to have lunch. Today was the first real day on the job, her old job. Yesterday, she’d hadn’t thought much about it; she’d been running on adrenalin, head down and eyes focused on the tasks at hand.

  It didn’t help that she hadn’t slept well…a couple of anxiety dreams, one that she used to have sometimes: it’s the first day of the semester, she’s running late and doesn’t know the room number that her class is in. The other dream was murky…something about a Justice Studies term paper, only it was an English professor who was grading it, and she worried that…she didn’t know what worried her because the dream woke her up. She had a drink of water from the bedside glass, and told herself, “it’s only a dream...English profs didn’t grade Justice Studies papers, and anyway, my writing is just fine, thank you very much.”

  Dressing took longer than usual, too. In case she interviewed Carolyn and Professor Naremore, she wanted to look good, not dressy, but professional. She also thought a lot about her ‘carry’ purse vs. the holster. She chose the purse, the brown one. That necessitated re-thinking the clothes, which annoyed her that she was choosing clothes based on the color of her purse, which she chose because it troubled her to think about the Glock showing when she interviewed her former professors. All of this fuss bothered her; she doubted that men detectives thought about these things. In the end, she decided to stop over-thinking…but still went with the brown purse…then changed clothes.

  It was rush hour so the Orbit bus was crowded, and Jillian had to stand. But when some kids got off at the charter school and a few others at the elementary school, she got a seat toward the rear of the bus. Along the way, she thought about the questions that she would ask Carolyn and Professor Naremore if she interviewed them today. Mostly though, she was just eager to get started. The prospect of actually doing the investigation eased her anxiety. Door to door, it was just over a 20-minute ride, longer than usual…it was rush hour and there was a lot of off and on, and she was going on to Tempe PD and not exiting at ASU headquarters. That made her smile…old times. She entered Tempe PD through a side entrance.

  “Morning Wes,” she said, and waved.

  Morning Jilly,” Wes greeted her with a big smile. “You just missed Angel by two minutes. She says hey, by the way, and welcome back.”

  She nodded, and then asked, “Is the analysis back already? That’s fast.”

  “You know Angel and her crew. Of course, some of this is only preliminary; she was just trying to give us a head start.” He held up one finger. “Blood first: their lab tests did indicate blood on the Professor’s blouse and skirt, and Forensics also found smears and smudges here and there...on some of the furniture…also blood on the paperweight…and no surprise…her blood type. Angel said it looked to her as if that paperweight could have been the murder weapon. That’s based on its weight and shape, and the nature of the wounds.”

  As Wes described Angel’s lab results, Jillian saw the scene again in her mind’s eye.

  “And get this,” he continued, “Angel also said it seemed to her that in addition to the blow to the temple, there were maybe three other blows, not two like we thought. She said what was confusing is that the wounds were messy because of the damage, which made it hard to see, and also that two were really close in proximity—less than an eighth of an inch apart. So, there were those three wounds, plus the other that definitely was a singleton strike.”

  “So, four in all: a blow to the temple, then three more to the upper rear of her head…four?”

  “Yes…although again,” Wes held up a cautionary hand, “this was only Angel looking at the body...with magnification, but still…obviously, we have to wait for the coroner on this.”

  “OK,” Jillian responded and shook her head in a kind of disbelief.

  “Yeah, I know,” Wes agreed. Of course, all this means that we need the detailed work-up more than ever, and we need it yesterday. And, I’m also itching to get my hands on the rest of it…the Professor’s computer info, her phone, all her social media stuff…”

  Jillian interrupted, “So, what was the thing, the paperweight?”

  “Glad you asked. Here’s a close-up of it,“ he said, sliding a photo over to Jillian. “It’s a commemorative paperweight…honoring a guy named Milton Friedman for a Nobel Prize in Economics. See, here’s his name on the award…even some kind of Nobel emblem.”

  “Wow,” she said, studying the photo. “Well, that explains something. OK, behind her desk over in BAC, there were two photos: a woman and also a man. I didn’t recognize the man, but—and I think I’m remembering correctly—it was signed. And the signature read, “Best wishes, MF. That could be Milton Friedman.” She opened her IPAD, soon pulled-up a photo, and turned the screen so that she and Wes could both see it. “Yes, he’s the guy from that office photo.“

  She read quickly, then said, “Yes, Friedman did win a Nobel in Economics…I thought I remembered that from somewhere. And, I’ll bet he was one of Professor Siemens’ professors for her MBA…at the University of Chicago.”

  A paragraph heading in the Wiki entry caught her eye and she made a mental note to come back to this later when she had more time. For now, she stopped reading, thought for a couple of seconds, then said, OK, but, here’s a question: is the paperweight heavy enough to cause that level of physical damage?”

  “I think so, yes. Angel said it weighed almost five pounds. If you hit someone hard enough with a five-pound object…yeah, that could do the trick…unfortunately. As for prints, not good so far…Angel said it was wiped…although there was a smudge. She’s working her magic trying to re-build a print. Of course, that’ll take a while…if it works at all. But if it does, maybe she’ll be able to pull DNA out of it, too.”

  Jillian nodded, continuing to look at the photo from Angel. “You know what, there also was a paperweight on her bookshelf in the BAC office. No, that’s not right, it was on a file cabinet. But I don’t think it looks like this one, although, honestly, I didn’t take much notice of it yesterday.” She looked-up from the photo. “Oh, and for what it’s worth, the photos of women in both offices were of the same woman. And…drumroll…they are photos of Ayn Rand.”

  ”How do you know that? The great Google detective?”

  “No, I actually had to read a novel by Ayn Rand in freshman English—Atlas Shrugged—and I still have the book. Her photo’s on the back cover…I checked it out last night.”

  “Really, so what’s it about…this novel?”

  She grimaced and said, “It was a long time ago that I read it. But, as best I can remember, it was about a time in the future when businesses are complaining about being overly regulated, and business leaders form kind of secret organization. But, Wes, like I said, this was freshman English.

  “That bit about over-regulation…you can see why the business types would love her.”

  “Well, that’s what Professor Gilroy said…that her novels are read these days more for their economic perspective than for their literary merit.” She had to remember to ask her dad about Professor Gilroy’s comment. Then, “What else did Angel have?”

  “Let’s see…OK, she puts the tentative time of death at between 11:30pm and 1:30am. Obviously, the coroner will narrow-down the time frame. And as far as we can tell, there was no one else working on her floor at that time.”

  “Makes sense, and it’s why no one heard anything, why no one knew anything till yesterday morning when the Professor didn’t show for the appointment with her student.”

  “Right, Carla Nagel. By the way, let’s call her in a few minutes. I’d like you to be on the line—recent student, closer in age, and all that. I’m thinking that we’re probably not going to learn a whole bunch from her, but we’ll call just to be sure.”

  “OK. And, Wes, if you want, I can call her on my own…whatever you think.”

  “You know, I think I’ll take
you up on that. And while you call Ms. Nagel, I’ll follow-up on that other prof—Roberts—and also on the Director out at SkySong. I’ll try to arrange meetings with them today.”

  “Sounds good.” Wes gave her the student’s phone number, and Jillian walked over to her desk (Lin’s desk) to make the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Nagel?”

  “Yah?”

  “Ms. Nagel, I’m Jillian Warne, and I’m a Detective Sergeant with ASU Campus Police Department. “

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “Ms. Nagel, I’m following-up on Professor Siemens’ death. Could we talk a bit?”

  “Yah. I’ve been expecting that someone would call. I’m afraid I don’t know much, Detective...but I’ll tell you what I can?” She ended the sentence as if it was a question. From just these few words, Jillian thought that she sounded a little out of it, maybe depressed, which was totally understandable.

  “Thanks, Ms. Nagel. OK, so you were working with the Professor on your honors thesis. Is that right?”

  “Yah, I’m in the Honors College. And, Professor Siemens was my thesis advisor?”

  “If I may, can I ask a couple of personal questions?”

  “Sure, I guess?”

  “These won’t be anything extreme, I promise. So, first of all, what year are you?” Jillian started with basic questions, thinking it would be a good idea to ease-into the interview.

  “I’m just starting my senior year; I’m an English major?” A question again.

  “So, how’s your honors thesis coming?”

  “It’s going OK…at least it was…before…you know? The honors advisors always tell us to pick our thesis director during our junior year, have a topic, and start working on it during the summer between your junior and senior years. And I did all that.”