“Honestly, I’m not sure. As I said, we are friends…but I really don’t know.”
Wes looked thoughtful, then said, “Since you were close…and remained friends, maybe you can tell us a little about Professor Siemens’ personal life, you know, her background, things like that.”
“OK, where to start…so…Nelda’s from LA originally, Orange County to be more specific. She went to the University of Chicago for her MBA and her PhD in English. What else…what else…she’s never been married, although she was engaged back in Chicago…to law student, I think. I take it that this was mostly a grad student kind of thing…because it ended when she took her doctorate and was offered a position at Mount Holyoke.”
He thought for a few seconds, then said, “Nelda’s an only child…her dad’s a professor. I did meet him when he was out to visit Nelda last year. We all had dinner…nice guy. They’re a lot alike…libertarian thinkers. He retired from USC several years ago. Her mom is deceased…this was before Nelda came to ASU…I think five or six years ago. From what Howell said—that’s her dad—Nelda gets her combativeness from her mom…she was an attorney.”
Wes asked, “And what about the nature of her relationship with her dad?”
“Well, he is her dad, and Nelda is her own person…you can be sure of that.”
Roberts seemed to catch himself, and paused with a kind of inquisitive look.
Wes picked-up on it and said, “Professor Roberts, I know these kinds of questions can seem intrusive, so apologies. It’s just that, through experience we know that getting a better picture of Professor Siemens will help us get to the bottom of this. So, apologies again, but thank you, too.”
Roberts was quiet, but nodded that he understood. Finally, he said, “No, again, it’s me who should apologize. I’m just…it feels so strange to be discussing Nelda like this and to know that she’s…” he tapered off.
“We understand, and again, we’re very sorry for your loss.” Wes was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “OK, I think that’s it for now, Professor Roberts. Thanks for your time, and for sharing this information with us. We’ll leave our cards with you and if you think of anything, no matter how minor it might seem, please contact us.”
“Will do. And, just let me say, Nelda is…” He seemed overcome again, but then composed himself. “Nelda was my friend. Please, leave no stone unturned. She didn’t deserve this.”
He saw them out of his office. The hallway was still crowded with students changing classes.
After they left the BAC building and had walked maybe twenty yards beyond the outdoor tables that were crowded with students, some transfixed by their IPADS and some just having a cup of coffee between classes, Wes stopped and looked contemplative. He ran his hand through his hair and said, “I’m undecided about what should be our next move…maybe grab a bite to eat in the student union OR just go directly to arrest Professor Naremore. Is his office nearby, Jilly?”
Jillian laughed, hard. She’d forgotten about Wes’ humor. They could be in the middle of something serious, and then, literally out of the blue, he’d say the craziest things.
Wes continued, serious again. “OK, Jilly, we’ve heard Naremore’s name several times now…and not in a positive way…and from different people. You know him…is he good for this?”
“No, of course not,” she said in a dismissive way, and without skipping a beat. “I will say this…Professor Naremore is as passionate about regulating corporations as Professor Roberts is about de-regulating them. He studies corporate crime and regulation.”
“Is he a zealot about this? Do you think he’s been black-balled by business majors?”
“A zealot? I don’t know. That is his area of study, and he’s very serious about it. As for his classes…” Jillian tried to remember back to her undergraduate days and then fast-forward to her graduate studies. “I had him for an undergrad class and then in a grad seminar. Both classes dealt with law and society-type issues, and there was a heavy focus on regulating corporate behavior.”
“Any business majors in those classes?”
“Well, obviously Mr. Sarsour, the guy we met at the Professor’s condo. He was in the undergrad class. I don’t know if there were other Business majors in it…that was a long time ago, and it was a lecture hall-size class. As for the grad seminar,” she thought for a few seconds, “I’d say the grad seminar had somewhere between twelve and fifteen students. And there were maybe a couple from Business…from the Business & Society program, I think.”
“How’d Professor Naremore treat them?”
“Well, he’s an excellent teacher…very charismatic, and also VERY knowledgeable. And, he’s really good about encouraging student participation. The Business grad students—one guy was from Dubai and the other guy was from Africa, Nigeria maybe—they seemed to fit right in.“
“OK…”
Jillian interrupted him. “As a matter of fact, one of those guys even asked Professor Naremore to be on his supervisory committee. I remember...the guy was a PhD student from Nigeria, and his class research paper dealt with land appropriation and displacement in Africa…he was working on that topic for his dissertation. Professor Naremore was a member of my graduate committee, so I went by his office fairly often, and sometimes I’d see the Nigerian student waiting for him, too. He seemed to really respect Professor Naremore. I mean, he did ask him to be a member of his dissertation committee.”
“Alright, so I guess its lunch, then, and not the cuffs and the paddy wagon. Can we get a decent salad in the student union?”
CHAPTER 5
Wes and Jillian went for lunch at Engrained on the second floor of the MU. She’d eaten there a couple of times with Carolyn Patek as a student, and a few times since joining the ASU Police Department, again, always with others. It was a large space: food display on the far right, a large kiosk for personalized orders in the center, and seating—tables and booths—on the left. There was a large outdoor patio straight ahead for when the weather wasn’t so hot. It was fancier fare than the student eateries downstairs and in the basement, so the clientele was mostly faculty, staff and administrators.
They both ordered a salmon salad and paid the cashier, who gave them a placard with a number that matched their table. As they were getting their drinks at the right rear of the room, Jillian spotted two of her former professors: Ruth Holland Clement and Zuzana Szabo. Dr. Clement, a Justice Studies prof, specialized in feminist theory. Jillian had had two classes with her, one as an undergrad and one as a 4+1 grad student; both were required courses. She smiled, remembering Carla Nagel’s dismissive comment about how no one had a favorite philosopher. Jillian did—Iris Marion Young—who she’d been introduced to in Dr. Clement’s undergrad class on Justice Theory…the one she’d taken in the then Ag Building, now Discovery Hall. Jillian loved Young’s ideas about participatory democracy, and probably could still quote her views about oppression and domination.
Dr. Szabo, a Women & Gender Studies prof, was an expert in indigenous feminist theories and methodologies. Jillian had had a grad seminar with her. Dr. Szabo—‘‘ZZ’ to grad students and colleagues—was an interesting woman. She was a Roma and even spoke the Roma language. Originally from Hungary, she’d gotten her PhD in Paris at The Sorbonne. Her lectures wove seamlessly through negative stereotypes about the Roma to the music of Django Reinhardt to Pierre Bourdieu’s ideas on social capital to the newer ‘Southern Theories,’ which included theorizing from non-Western scholars. Jillian usually left ZZ’s classes either depressed that she’d never be that smart, or, alternatively, so exhilarated that she’d immediately start Googling authors that they’d discussed. Maybe Wes was right…about getting a PhD.
Her former professors were already seated at a table and were awaiting their orders…a placard with a large # 15 sat in the middle of the table. Jillian didn’t know whether to say hello or leave them to their con
versation. Before she could choose, Dr. Clement saw her, waved, and then said something to ZZ who looked for Jillian, spotted her and motioned for her to come over. She did, with Wes in tow. Both professors beamed when Jillian arrived at their table.
Dr. Clements spoke first. “I guess this means the rumors are correct, Jillian. You’re back on campus. Good to see you.” Before she could introduce Wes, ZZ added, “Jillian, can you tell us anything about all of this? Obviously, we’ve heard the rumors.” She had a slight, but complicated accent, a bit eastern European, a bit French, and something else that Jillian had never been able to place…maybe that was the Roma inflection.
“Well first of all, it’s so good to see you both. And, no, only that Professor Siemens was, indeed, found in her office in the English Department yesterday. We’re conducting the investigation. Oh, and this is my colleague…my partner, Detective Sergeant Wes Webb. Wes is with the Tempe Police Department.”
ZZ smiled in acknowledgement to Wes, then turned back to Jillian…serious, and obviously upset. “You must please tell us more, Jillian, about this. Is this a hate crime against women—the rumors speak of a violent murder, at night, and in her university office. And now ASU has already re-opened as if it is to be ‘business as usual.’ But this cannot be our usual world…can you please speak to this?”
Jillian noticed that several people at nearby tables had stopped eating and talking, and were eavesdropping. This happened almost instantly, as soon as Jillian said the name, ‘Professor Siemens.’ One man at the table behind Professor Clement and ZZ was literally leaning-in toward them.
Professor Clement said, “As you can see, Jillian, everyone’s on edge about this.” She didn’t actually acknowledge the listeners at the nearby tables, but she didn’t have to…the lack of a conversational hum was noticeable. “What we all want to know is…is it possible that this a hate crime, as ZZ asked, or is it something that was specifically directed against Nelda?” She gestured toward the empty seats at their table and said, “Please, would you like to sit?”
Jillian wanted to diffuse the situation AND to allay their fears, so she remained standing, and without obviously addressing everyone at the nearby tables, spoke loudly enough so that her professors and the others could hear. “It’s too early in the investigation to know anything, but we really are on it. And, we have no reason to think that the larger ASU community is in any way at risk.”
Wes added, “And as for the university re-opening, that was the decision of the ASU administration, but I know that my chief at Tempe PD and Jillian’s chief at ASU PD were a part of that discussion. I can assure you that for both of them, the safety of everyone on this campus would have been a paramount factor in their recommendations…I know them…I can promise you that.”
There was silence, and a stillness, too, at their table and at the tables nearby…as if someone had hit a giant pause button’ in the restaurant. Even two people who were walking by, probably on their way of the restaurant, had stopped moving, somehow caught-up in the frozen moment.
Reading the situation, Wes said in a calm but definitive voice, “Honestly, it’s too early for us to know what happened…or why…but we will find whoever did this…and we will bring them in…it’s what we do,” he said, and included himself and Jillian with a hand movement.
The situation was still tense, but Jillian could almost feel some release.
Wes said, “It’s nice to meet you both. Jillian always has such positive comments about her time at ASU, including her professors.” She noticed that he referred to her as ‘Jillian,’ not ‘Jilly.’
Somehow, his comments did the trick...the conversations at nearby tables resumed—if a bit subdued—and even the people who’d been stopped while walking by were freed, as if from a trance, and headed toward the door.
A waiter arrived carrying the entrees, a salmon salad and a panini, for her professors. Jillian said, “We are doing some interviews on campus, so if I’m in Wilson Hall, I’ll come by and say hello.”
Professors Clement reiterated how glad she was to see Jillian, and said she hope she could come by for a chat. ZZ smiled, said, “yes, I hope you can visit,” but continued to have a wary look.
After they said their goodbyes, Jillian and Wes went to their table. Their placard was number 22. They talked quietly while they waited for their food to arrive.
Jillian asked, “Did I handle that OK?”
“I think so, yes. They’re expressing what a lot of people must be feeling…uncertainty, anxiety…fear. You know what, though, I think it may have helped that you’re on the case…they know you…and obviously, they like you. I think that helped.”
Outside the MU, they spotted a three-person TV crew interviewing passersby. A serious-looking woman reporter held a microphone toward a woman who could be either a professor or a staff person, while a guy filmed them with a shoulder-held camera. A third man, Jillian figured that maybe he was directing the sequence, completed the crew. They were standing midway between a side entrance to the MU and a large, circular fountain.
Jillian asked, “You think they’re here about Professor Siemens?”
“You bet. Can you route us away from them, Jilly…I’d rather not be interviewed just now.”
“OK, we’ll take a right here…then double back in a minute. But what if they see us?”
Out of the corner of his mouth, Wes said, “Try not to look like a detective.“
The traffic was light so it was about a ten-minute drive from Headquarters to ASU’s SkySong. As he turned off Scottsdale Road just before McDowell, Wes asked, “You ever been here before?”
“I’ve driven past it many times, but no. You?”
“Me either. Course…Jilly, do you remember back when this used to be Los Arcos Mall?”
“That’s a long time ago, so only a little. Tempe was less developed then, so my parents shopped at the mall a lot. And, if you remember, Harkins had movie theaters there…they showed a lot of foreign films, which my mom loves—especially French films—and she and I would go there some. I was young, so I wasn’t a big fan of foreign films, but I loved going with Mom…it was a ‘girls’ day out’ on the weekend kind of thing.”
Wes found a parking space and pointed to a building under and then through the large shade structure. “It’s this building over here.” As the exited the car, he said, “I still think it looks like the masts on a sailing ship. What was it the Business guy called it?”
Jillian thought for a couple of seconds, and then said, “He called it the ‘iconic shade structure.’ If you noticed, there’s another one a little like it outside the MU, where we ate…just a lot smaller.”
Wes nodded. Once inside the building, they walked to the bank of elevators and Wes pushed the up button. The elevator door opened immediately, and up they went to the 2nd floor. There was an information desk to the right of the elevator as they exited. Wes asked for Ms. Moser’s office, and a young man—probably a student—pointed past the elevator, told them to then take a right and they’d see her office.
They headed along a wide, open corridor. There were desks here and there, but they were scattered throughout the open corridor as were chairs and mini-couches. Up ahead, they saw an office with mainly glass walls…so that, in its own way, it was open like everything else.
Wes had called ahead for an appointment so Susan Moser was expecting them. She stepped from behind her desk, into the doorway, and invited them into her office. As they presented their IDs, Wes said, “Thanks for seeing us on short notice, Ms. Moser.”
Jillian was surprised…Moser was the Director of SkySong, but she was 30 at most. She was about five six with long light brown hair, streaked with blonde highlights. Moser’s make-up was a perfect rose-pink choice for her light complexion. She was wearing the matching jacket to her light grey pants suit, even in the office, so either she just wanted a very professional look, or maybe it
was because she’d been expecting them. High heels with stylish, very pointed toes completed the ensemble. What was most obvious, though, was that she’d been crying: puffy eyes, red nostrils, and a number of tissues visible in the wicker garbage basket along with one that had missed its mark…off to the side.
“Please forgive me,” she said as she sat in her office chair. She hesitated, then said, “I’m a wreck. It’s this thing with Nelda…” She dabbed at her eyes and then took a pull from a bottle of Perrier. “She was a mentor to me. But, she was also a friend. I just can’t understand…”
As Moser cried, Jillian thought about how difficult it was, emotionally, to talk with people in these situations, and she never knew what to do. Her natural reaction was to try to comfort her, but somehow that didn’t seem to be appropriate…she was a police detective. So, she did what she always did: she waited, respectfully, and let Moser cry for a while. Wes waited patiently, too.
Then she said, “It’s OK, Ms. Moser. This has been a shock. We understand...and we’re so sorry for your loss. Please, take your time. We’re here to learn more, to try and get to the bottom of this. But we understand.”
Moser’s eyes were still wet, but she took another sip of Perrier, followed it with a deep breath and said, “OK, how can I help? I want to help.”
Wes said, “We know you do…and thank you. As you know, Professor Siemens was discovered yesterday in her office in the English Department. From all appearances, we suspect,” he paused and pursed his lips, “…we suspect murder. Obviously, Detective Sergeant Warne and I are trying to figure-out what happened…who did this…and why? Any information you can give us…for example, enemies, anything you know of that was troubling the Professor…anything…it will help us.”
Moser nodded and answered, but she was obviously in a fog because her answer wasn’t exactly responsive. “So, we’ve both been here for…this is the start of our second year at ASU. We arrived at around the same time, me early in the summer, and Nelda shortly before the start of the semester…last fall. Because of her research focus, she was obviously interested in SkySong. She was here quite often…we even gave her a small space, essentially a temp office, for when she visited.
Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar Page 13
