Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar: Mystery

by Gray Cavender

  She went to her office and got her own stash of business cards, and called from the phone there. Professor Gilroy sounded a little surprised, but said that he was in, and could see her within the hour.

  “She returned to Wes’ office, and said, ”OK I’m in…sure you don’t want to come?”

  “No, I want to check with the people in Criminal Intel…see if they have anything new…they’re analyzing the Professor’s bank records. Besides, you did the first interview with Gilroy, so let’s go for the continuity. Tomorrow, of course, with Keefer…that’s a different story.”

  He paused, thinking, then said almost as if to himself, “Main thing, I want to learn more about the nature of their relationship—Keefer and Siemens.” Then, to Jillian, he said, “Let’s be honest…this promotion thing probably is nothing. Or…our first break.”

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Professor Gilroy.”

  “No, worries. I have office hours this afternoon, but, it’s early enough in the semester that there’s not much student trade. That will change after the first exam…always does.” He smiled, then asked, “To what do I owe the honor of this follow-up, Detective Warne?”

  “Well, as you might expect, the more we speak with people, the more information we get…some of it is relevant to our investigation…and sometimes it merits a follow-up.”

  “I see.”

  On the walk over, Jillian had decided to get straight to the point with Professor Gilroy.”

  “We were told about a rather heated exchange between you and Professor Siemens at a faculty meeting last month.”

  To Jillian, he looked sad (the word ‘crestfallen’ came to mind), then defiant, then with some movement of his lips, back in charge…all within the space of only a couple of seconds.

  “Don’t know if ‘heated’ is the right descriptor, but, oh well…perhaps that’s how others would describe it.” He gestured with his hand. “What would you like to know?”

  “Mostly, I’d like to hear your take on it.”

  “Very well. I’m sure your informants gave a blow-by-blow description of what was said. By the way, Nelda did most of the talking, as I recall. Perhaps this leaves it to me to provide some commentary.”

  He was quiet again, and to Jillian looked genuinely sad. He took a breath and said, “As I mentioned before, Detective Warne, I’m sure that my ‘detractors’ (he sounded very southern when he said this, with no ‘r’ at the end of the word) had shared with Nelda my objections to her position specifically, and my opinion of Ayn Rand’s place in literature, more generally. What’s more, Nelda has a vicious tongue, not unlike the Bard’s Kate Minola.” He glanced at Jillian and added, almost as if a question, “Shakespeare’s Shrew?”

  Jillian nodded, and thought that it was hard to feel sorry for him for long because here he was testing her again.

  “She had her own candidate for our faculty position, which is most certainly within her rights. What she did, however, was to state that opinion in a decidedly nasty way. It was extremely unkind to the candidate the hiring committee had recommended, and, of course, it was a gratuitous insult to me.”

  “So I heard.” She paused, then changed gears. “Professor Gilroy, I know that aside from Professor Siemens, you received many compliments for the recruitment that you and your committee managed.”

  His expression brightened. “Yes, well…others were more gracious about our efforts.”

  “Given this praise, did Professor Siemens apologize for her…well, her insulting comments?”

  “An apology, no, that wasn’t within Nelda’s repertoire.”

  “How did things stand between you two?”

  “Well, there was no rapprochement (he gave the French pronunciation), if that’s what you’re asking.” His demeanor shifted again, this time from angry to conciliatory. “Look, I don’t like being disrespected…who does…but what could I do but consider the source, and move on…” He shrugged and said, “Life goes on…’ob la di, ob la da…’ Right?”

  He pursed his lips, thoughtfully, then said, “I’ve been at this a long while, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to wear my feelings on my sleeve. What Nelda did was inexcusable, but I didn’t murder her, Ms. Warne…as a matter of fact, I’m genuinely sorry she’s dead.”

  As Jillian crossed the campus, she thought about the difference between how Professor Naremore had reacted to the Professor’s murder—strong, negative words—and Professor Gilroy’s expression of sorrow. But, as she’d thought after she talked with Professor Naremore, would a murderer say something that was so incriminating? At least his feelings about her were straightforward. Maybe Professor Gilroy’s sorrowful emotion was faked. After all, Professor Siemens had demeaned him…publicly.

  Her dad knocked on the door to her condo at 6:25pm. “Ready,” she said.

  “Hi Jilly.” He gave her a hug. “Before we go, I have two books for you.” He displayed them, one in each hand. “This one’s by Fred Cavell…the one I used to read to you from.” He made sure she could see the cover. “And this one is by Billy Gilroy. I got it from the Tempe Library.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll look them over.” She laid them on the kitchen table.

  Her mom was behind the wheel and drove them to Café Forte in Old Town Scottsdale. It wasn’t Art Walk Thursday night so there was no trouble parking. They were directly across the street from the restaurant. They’d eaten there many times and were friends with the women who owned it so there were greetings, hugs, and catching-up before and after they sat down at their reserved table.

  While they waited for the water and also freshly baked bread, Jillian and her mom and dad continued the visit they’d begun on the drive over. Her mom thought that she looked tired. Her dad agreed, although he also thought that she looked very alert. He said, “Maybe it’s Sherlockian, you know, a ‘the game’s afoot’ sort of a thing.” Jillian shared what she thought was appropriate in terms of a progress report.

  The waiter came—they also were all on a first name basis—and described the specials. For appetizers, Jillian had the polenta cakes, her mom ordered a kale salad (one of the specials), and her dad had the caprese salad. Jillian’s entre was a seared ahi tuna salad, her mom had the mushroom ravioli (another special), and her dad had the pecan-crusted chicken breast. They ordered a bottle of French Rose, a nicer one than usual because it was half-price wine night.

  Once the orders were in and before the wine arrived, her dad said that he’d Googled Professor Siemens. “She was very conservative, and seemed to have had lots of dust-ups.”

  Jillian nodded. “I’ve been reading Google entries, too…on Professor Siemens…and on Ayn Rand. She was a controversial figure in her day, too.”

  Her mom said, “Maybe the Professor was trying to live-up to the reputation of her predecessor.”

  Her dad said, “From what I’ve been reading, Rand wasn’t just controversial, she also was a complicated person. Of course, I imagine that Professor Siemens was her own person with her own ideas, and not necessarily just emulating her subject. Who knows? Still, I expect that her murder might be harder to solve, given all the controversies that seem to have surrounded her.”

  “Oh, I have faith in Jillian and Wes,” her mom concluded.

  The wine came, mom did the tasting, and they changed topics away from Jillian’s case. The food was great, the wine, too—her dad had only one glass because he was the designated driver on the way home—and they shared a chocolate truffle tort for dessert…whipped cream on the side. Three forks...three decafs.

  Mom and dad dropped her off at her condo and said their goodbyes in the car. Once inside, as Jillian headed to the bedroom, she decided that she’d do a little work on the case. It was too late to watch the Helen Mirren film about Ayn Rand, so instead, she would review the photos from Professor Siemens’ two offices. She especially wanted to see
the books on the professor’s shelves. Jillian didn’t expect that this would yield anything important, but was following her own protocol.

  But first, she changed into more comfy clothes, including her red City Lights Bookstore T shirt. This was in honor of the decision to also browse the two books of poetry that her dad had loaned her.

  For obvious reasons, Jillian checked the Ross-Blakey Hall office photos first. She began with the crime scene photos taken by the forensics team, which she viewed online. Jillian had good visual recall so her recollections were consistent with the photos. She quickly scrolled through the gory ones of the Professor’s body, then slowed at the paperweight, especially the close-ups. It was hard to imagine that such a small object could be a murder weapon, but, given the forensics report, it had the heft. She thought it would have taken a strong person to cause these injuries.

  Jillian realized that she was assuming that it must have been a strong man, but made herself re-set, and consider a woman…motivated by strong emotion…Wes had emphasized the emotional aspects. She mentally scrolled through the list of women in this case, dismissing some at first before adding them back in to the mix. The disarray—the chair, the plant, the coat rack—attested to the violence that ended with a death.

  Next, Jillian turned to her own photos of the Professor’s bookcase in her English Department office. As she read the titles, she frequently minimized her screen, shifted to Google, and pulled-up info on the books and authors. There were books on literary theory (she learned from Google that these were classic texts), books on The Canon of Western Literature and a book challenging that Canon. There were several books on this history of the novel. There were several classic anthologies…Jillian remembered one from freshman English. There was an entire section of books devoted to Ayn Rand, including several analyses of her novels. There were Orwell’s novels, two volumes of his collected works, and several Orwell-related books...not surprising, given the poster behind her desk.

  Jillian shifted back to crime scene photos…the ones she’d taken. She scrolled for a time, stopped on her own photo of the paperweight, and looked away from her IPAD screen. Jillian thought it was ironic: something that commemorated her mentor, Milton Friedman, had been the murder weapon.

  She turned to the forensic photos from BAC. Jillian thought about how predictable people are. The BAC office was a kind of mirror image of the one in English, arranged in almost the same way. She remembered what the Professor’s colleague AND former lover, David Roberts, had said about her always having everything in its place. She paused and wondered…they’d been intimate…he looked strong enough…but then he had been forthcoming about their romance and their break-up.

  Then, it was on to the photos she’d taken in the BAC office. She swished through her batch quickly to get to the BAC bookcase photos. There were three bookcases in Ross-Blakley and two in BAC. Again, she had good close-ups.

  No surprise, the BAC books appeared to be titles that were more relevant to business and the economy. Although Jillian had heard of a few of these authors, she again relied on Google searches. There were books by notable economists and philosophers like Becker and Sowell, and of course several by Friedman. There was a section of books that either critiqued regulation or extolled the virtues of de-regulation…including Professor Roberts’ book. Jillian smiled when she thought of the set of polar opposites that must be in Ian Naremore’s office.

  Jillian saw two books that she quickly recognized: John Rawls, A Theory of Justice, which she’d read in undergraduate Justice Theory, and its successor, Justice As Fairness: A Restatement, which she’d read in grad Justice Theory. Jillian wondered what Professor Siemens would have thought about Rawls. From her recollection of Rawls’ ideas, she assumed that they’d disagree. She also noted that there were no books by Iris Marion Young on these shelves.

  After Jillian finished reviewing the photos, she looked away from the IPAD and let her thoughts wander…revisiting the day…especially coffee with Grace Wilson. She smiled at first—they’d had a nice visit—but that soon gave way to more serious thoughts…Grace’s info about Professor Keefer’s promotion, and then the story about Professor Siemens insulting Professor Gilroy at a faculty meeting…just last month, so those insults must still be fresh on his mind.

  Jillian also thought of Grace’s question about her shift to ASU PD. She hoped that she hadn’t been too abrupt in her answer…actually, her non-answer…to Grace.

  After coffee with Grace and on the walk back to HQ, Jillian had consciously tamped-down thoughts about Grace’s question. It’d seemed more important, more immediate, to focus on the ‘tidbits’ about Keefer and Gilroy, and to mentally organize the info so she could brief Wes. But now…

  Wes had been a good sounding board when the possibility of a job-change first came up. Actually, it was more than that…Al had contacted Wes when the position at ASU PD had been approved…even before it was officially announced.

  At the time, Jillian had put her papers forward for a promotion to sergeant at Tempe PD. Although Wes had encouraged her to do so and had helped her prepare for the written exam part, Jillian had been nervous. Even now, sprawled comfortably in the study in her condo, she remembered how queasy she’d felt: butterflies in the stomach, wondering, no worrying if other detectives were criticizing her behind her back.

  Her worry…that she was moving too fast through the police hierarchy…or that she’d be perceived as being too much of a careerist, of going for promotion to sergeant too soon…after only a few years. The department could easily delay a promotion on those grounds.

  Sure, she’d helped close some high-profile cases, and she was proud of that, but there’d been whispers that attributed her successes to Wes. Of course, there was such talk that would undercut a woman’s successes. While there wasn’t overt sexism in the department—Chief McCaslin and Lieutenant Timms were visible exemplars of successful women—still, it was a male-dominated military-type organization, and Jillian knew that in such a setting, gender, read woman, was always there…lurking…in the shadows.

  If she’d been a man, that speed of trajectory might have prompted some finger-wagging, but plenty of others would just attribute it to an ‘eyes on the prize focus.’ Some would even try to connect, to ride along on the coat-tails of a hard-charger. Jillian knew this business about how women in organizations were perceived, as opposed to men, from courses she’d taken, including Carolyn’s course…and also from her own research. But now she was living it.

  But, there was more. She worried about the new regulation—OK it wasn’t new, it was just being enforced more—that anyone who was promoted, no matter their current assignment or their rank, had to work for a time on patrol. Same with all new hires…they had to start on patrol. Although that reg had existed when Jillian had become a detective, exceptions were more commonplace then…she and Wes were examples. But now, for a variety of reasons, exceptions were rare. Jillian’s friend who worked in the Public Information Division was being promoted to lieutenant, no less, but even so, it was patrol for her. And, for her own variety of reasons, Jillian didn’t want to be a patrol officer, and she feared that if this preference became known, that, too, would generate opposition and hurt her chances for promotion.

  Maybe she hadn’t been a basket case, but all of this stuff weighed on her. And, amid all this uncertainty—would she get promoted, would she have to spend time on patrol—enter a sure thing: ASU offered her a promotion—literally, a double promotion—without any bureaucratic requirements, no exam, no boards, no patrol assignment…nothing…a promotion…free and clear.

  What’s more, Al actively had recruited her. He was effective, too, in part, because he’d had a good promotion when he left Tempe for ASU PD and understood the draw, and in part (she suspected), because Wes had shared all sorts of ‘insider’ information about Jillian with him. She didn’t begrudge this…Wes genuinely wanted to help her career advanceme
nt. Taken together, these ‘pushes’ to move to ASU outweighed the ‘pulls’ to stay at Tempe PD.

  Jillian realized the irony that her concern about being perceived (negatively) as a careerist was reified by her acceptance, enthusiastically, of a guaranteed promotion…yes, she admitted to herself, she liked being Detective Sergeant Jillian Warne…she liked the way it sounded.

  She also had to admit that she’d missed ASU…just a little…and that it was nice being ‘back home.’ It made her feel good when Grace had said something earlier during coffee that she was glad Jillian was at ASU.

  But, enough of all that…Jillian wanted to end her day with some fun reading. She went to the kitchen, grabbed the two books of poetry that her dad had brought, and took a seat in the living room. Both books were slim volumes. The Cavell book had the original cover from the publisher. Gilroy’s had one of those thick library-book covers.

  She started with Professor Gilroy’s book. The photo on the rear flap was of a considerably younger Billy Gilroy. Jillian looked away from his book and thought about him.

  She still didn’t much like Professor Gilroy, but, at the same time, she felt a little sorry for him. He had that condescending air, but she thought that it must be especially embarrassing for someone like him to be insulted in front of his peers by a person like Professor Siemens, who apparently knew his vulnerable point, and was willing to go for it. Still, she had no sense, no intuition even, about whether this would motivate a man like Professor Billy Gilroy to kill someone.

  Back to the book, Jillian browsed the table of contents. Unlike her dad, she couldn’t judge the merits of these poems so she simply chose a few with interesting titles. The first was like prose, just in stanzas; two others were more obviously poems. After she read them, she remembered that Fred Cavell had provided a Forward, and turned the beginning of the book. It was warm and supportive, in a professor/student way, but also something like a friend might write.