Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar Page 43

  Naremore smiled, although it was more of a sneer. “If you’re saying that makes me a suspect, I’m good with that. I was born a suspect…I’m a perpetual suspect…what the research calls ‘a symbolic assailant.’ Police see a black man and they see a threat.”

  He fiddled with a pen on his desk, twirling it around. “When they kill people like Freddie Gray or Michael Brown, they always claim they were afraid…so afraid that they shot them in the back…or let them die without any medical help, which was a phone call away. What exactly are they afraid of? Blackness? Does racial fear make it OK for them to kill unarmed black men…actually black kids?”

  Jillian knew that Wes was human and sometimes got angry, although he rarely showed it. She could tell that he was getting angry. Naremore was still going on about the police killing these unarmed black men, and Jillian knew that if this continued, there could be any number of outcomes…most of them bad. She didn’t want this…actually it scared her, although she couldn’t say why. And she didn’t think it had any bearing on their investigation. So, she tried to stop his oration.

  She said, “Professor.” He kept talking. “Professor Naremore.” His voice was rising in pitch and in volume. “Ian,” she finally said, and this time, he heard her.

  He was still revved, but he stopped talking, and wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth. Still defiant, he said, “I think you get where I’m coming from.”

  To Jillian, it seemed that her effort to calm Professor Naremore had worked…maybe in two ways. It calmed him, at least a little, and she thought, that maybe it calmed Wes, too. At least she hoped that it had.

  Wes said, “Professor, I don’t like being here anymore than you want me here, but someone murdered Professor Siemens. My job is to find out who, and then arrest that person. Whether she was a fine person or a jerk…doesn’t matter. And I will do my job.”

  Jillian could tell that Wes was still working to regain his self-control. She also realized that she’d been holding her breath.

  Wes continued, although in a more conciliatory tone. “Look, Professor I’m a detective with the Tempe Police Department. And I know that you have a certain view of the police. I get it. But not all police are the same. For example, Jillian.”

  Wes pointed to her, palm up. “You should know…you were one of her professors. I think she is exactly the sort of a person AND police detective that you’d want her to be.”

  Naremore looked at Jillian and smiled…only a little, but still a smile.

  Wes continued, “And as for what happened to the young men you named…I know their names, too. And what happened to them…it’s not right…you know it…I know it. But it doesn’t change why I’m here. Why Jillian is here. So, if it’s all the same, I’m moving on with more questions.”

  Naremore was still upset, maybe even too upset to talk right away because he just nodded…and kept twirling his pen.

  Wes must have sensed this, too, because he paused for a few beats before proceeding…maybe to let Naremore cool off just like he’d had cool off himself. Finally, he plunged ahead again.

  “Initially, when we read the back and forth with you and the Professor, we didn’t know what she was referring to. Her email didn’t actually say. Since then, we’ve learned that she was probably referring to an article you’ve written that’s going to be published in a national educational magazine. Your article took her to task. First, do you know how she’d learned that you were the author? And second, can you tell us about the article?”

  Naremore seemed to be back in control so, with no hesitation, he said, “In terms of your first question, I have no idea. It wasn’t a deep secret. My identity was going to come out once the article was published. On the other hand, it wasn’t something I was broadcasting, either. So, when I got that email from her, I was surprised.”

  He wiped the corner of his mouth again, this time with a tissue. “As to the second question…the content…it’s simple…universities are in a bad spot these days. They’re being starved by conservative state legislatures. So, they have to grovel for money wherever they can get it, and there are plenty of right-wing donors who are more than happy to give it. But the cost is the strings that are attached. More and more, universities are hiring right wing professor because they’re right wing…because that’s what the donors mandate. In some cases, the donors even have a hand in choosing the people the universities hire.”

  He was on a roll now. This reminded Jillian of being in his classes. Of course, a lot of this he’d said to her the other day when she interviewed him, alone. She realized that she was breathing normally again.

  “The point of all this is to, one, infiltrate the university. And, two, a university position gives people like Nelda more legitimacy than if she simply worked for some right-wing think tank. Oh, she works for them, too, but being a professor confers some standing when she writes the stuff she writes or when she’s on TV. She has a university title after her name.”

  Naremore glanced at Jillian. No smile…his expression was neutral.

  He turned back to Wes. “What I’ve written before—and I state it even more strongly in my article—is the degree to which professors like Nelda are well-paid to spread their drivel under the guise of scholarship. The Nelda’s of the world reject the data on issues ranging from economics to race. For instance, her ideas and those of lackeys like her don’t acknowledge the causes of something like the 2008 recession…they conveniently forget. They never learn from history. Never. Ever.”

  Jillian decided to intervene again so that he didn’t keep going with this, which she knew that he very well might do. She wanted to get the interview back on track. “So, what does all this have to do with your email exchange with Professor Siemens?”

  He wasn’t annoyed at the interruption…apparently, having a question from Jillian made him even more comfortable. He smiled, and this one was genuine.

  “Don’t forget that during my doctoral studies, I took law courses at Cal, which is a top tier law school. And what you’re asking, Jillian, what both of you are asking, is…was my exchange with the late lamented Professor Nelda Siemens a motive for killing her? Am I right?”

  When they both nodded, yes, he said, “Thought so.” His smile widened. Anyway, quite the opposite. Like I said, I don’t back down from people like her. But, beyond that, I welcome anything that she’d serve up…and for a simple reason…the more attention she drew to my article, the more people would read it.”

  He stopped twirling hi pen. “I want to expose Nelda and the people like her…for what they are. It doesn’t so much matter to me whether they believe the ideas they espouse. The thing is…they are paid a lot of money to deliver those ideas…to conveniently forget the facts…to deny the data. Their ideas aren’t just wrong, they hurt people…real people, who lose jobs and houses. It pisses me off. And now that people like her are showing-up in universities, I want to call attention to this business. I want to generate a dialog about it.”

  He paused and then said, “So, no, Detective Sergeant Webb, Detective Sergeant Warne…Jillian.” He smiled at her again. “It’s true: I despise Nelda Siemens…or I guess I should say that I despised her…past tense.” He elongated the word, pronouncing it ‘de-spiz-d’ for emphasis.

  “But because of that, I would not have offed her. I’d rather keep her around. Shine a light on her. You know how cockroaches scurry around at night when you turn on a light?”

  Having said his piece, Naremore was quiet. In the distance, the university carillon was playing…Somewhere My Love.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jillian could see Wes turn his head, orienting toward the music. He listened for three or four seconds, then smiled. “Well then…a few last questions, professor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “We’ve also heard about your run-in with Professor Siemens at a committee meeting a couple of weeks ago.” Wes glanced
at his notes and added, “The University’s Curriculum Committee. Things seem to have gotten out hand between the two of you. Your response, please?”

  Professor Naremore actually laughed, although it was more of a snort, and then almost nonchalantly, said, “Wondered when you’d get around to that business. Jeff LeJohns called last night and told me you’d be interviewing him this morning. You know, he actually predicted that someone would be looking into this…within a day or two of Nelda…dying.”

  He sighed, moved a hand toward the pen, but pulled it away. “That situation really got out of control in a hurry.” He shook his head almost in disbelief, Jillian thought.

  “The thing is, I was so mad at her in general that when she showed-up at that meeting and started…it was like she was cross-examining me…I just lost it. I shouldn’t have done that…it was unprofessional, AND it played right into her hands. It’s like she was trying to make me go-off on her…that’s what I think, and it’s what Jeff said…at the meeting, and since then, too.”

  To Jillian, it seemed that he turned more thoughtful, almost pensive. “It was a set-up. I was just there to present my ideas for a new certificate, on regulation,” he said and looked at Jillian. Then, he looked again at both of them. “I was not looking for a confrontation with Nelda…I didn’t know she’d even be there. But, then there she was…with a volley of objections to my proposal that she’d already prepared…they were written-out. I mean, how’d that happen?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what set me off the most…that this was all so out of the blue, or, that she was so insulting…man, she was vicious. I shouldn’t have let it get to me…but it really caught me off-guard. And, “I lost it.” He nodded, “I lost it.”

  Wes continued, “When we spoke earlier with Professor LeJohns, he said that Professor Siemens was pointing her finger at you…in a manner that was very aggressive.”

  Wes stopped and looked at his notes. “And you said, and I’m quoting now, ‘If you keep poking me, Nelda, I’m going to make you eat that digit.’ To the best of your recollection, is that what you said, Professor Naremore?”

  He made an expression that was somewhere between a sneer and a laugh, then shrugged and said, “If that’s what Jeff says I said…OK. I was pretty teed off, so I can’t remember verbatim.”

  Before Wes could follow-up, he added,” What I do remember is, Nelda asking ‘is that a threat?’ And I answered, ‘no, it’s a promise.’ See, in hindsight, Nelda was trying to orchestrate what appeared to be a physical threat. But, I have to hand it to her…if she was trying to construct me as the aggressor in this scenario, I fell right into her trap. I lost my cool, and when you lose your cool…”

  Jillian said, “Did you know that Professor Siemens had started the process of filing a formal grievance against you?“

  “Why am I not surprised,” he answered, quickly.

  Jillian continued, “She’d filed a preliminary document, but had informed the proper authorities that she planned to complete the grievance process.”

  “So, if she didn’t even complete the procedure, then,” Naremore stopped mid-sentence, and his demeanor changed again. He rounded his mouth into a kind of ‘O’ and took in a slow, deep breath, which he held and then expelled.

  He was quiet then, before he said to Jillian, “At home.”

  When she looked confused, he said, “Before…earlier, when we talked, I asked you if I needed an alibi for the night Nelda was murdered. And now, I’m telling you, I was at home. And, before you can ask the follow-up…alone. Russell, my partner, who Jillian knows,” he said and looked at Wes, “was in San Diego…at a conference.” Naremore shrugged and lifted an empty right hand, palm up.

  The only sound in the room was ASU’s carillon playing…the song had changed.

  Jillian knew that Wes was still upset as soon as they left Wilson Hall because he didn’t say anything. There was no, “So what do you think, Jilly?” Or, “Well, that was intense.” Nothing…just silence.

  When they were almost even with the Social Science Building and he’d still said nothing, Jillian asked, “Wes, you OK?”

  After they reached and then passed the tunnel-like entrance to the building and Wes hadn’t answered, Jillian wondered if he was so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard her.

  She was about to ask again, when Wes said, “I’m just so damned mad...” and tailed-off.

  Relieved, but also embarrassed—Naremore had been her professor—she said, “I know. Professor Naremore can be exasperating.”

  Jillian had turned so that she was facing Wes, who was walking on her right side. He had been looking straight ahead, but now took a right turn after they passed the Social Science Building. The sidewalk opens-out there into a very wide pedestrian intersection.

  He walked a few yards and sat on a bench. Jillian followed.

  He leaned forward slightly…elbows resting on his legs…his fingers were interlaced. At first, he just stared at his hands, but then he looked up at Jillian. She thought he looked frustrated, but thoughtful, too.

  “It’s like I’ve got wade through all of Naremore’s…stuff before I can get to the issues that we need to be dealing with…the confrontation at that damned committee meeting, their email exchange, his article, her grievance …I swear,” he said and exhaled.

  “OK,” was all she said.

  “What makes me mad is that I can’t get mad. Naremore obviously is very full of himself…seems to have a serious chip on his shoulder. Ordinarily, a guy like that would piss me off and I’d be all over him in an interview. But I can’t even enjoy my righteous indignation. I can’t get mad about his anti-police opinions because cops did shoot and kill the men he named, those unarmed young men.”

  He shook his head, vacantly staring straight ahead at the Language and Literature Building. Then he turned back toward Jillian. “You and I had this very discussion that day when we were walking along the Tempe Town Lake…you remember that?”

  “Yes. You were saying that maybe I should think about being a detective, and I wanted to know what you thought of the killings.”

  “I was impressed that you cared about these issues and that you weren’t afraid to ask me what I thought of them. I was impressed that you needed to have that discussion before you could even think about being a detective. Your question wasn’t out of the blue, Jilly, and neither is Naremore’s anger. From what you told me, there’s the neighborhood where he grew up…and he’s a black man. He can probably tell stories about things he’s directly experienced…or things that others have told him about…that they experienced.”

  Jillian thought about what Georgia had told her…about ‘the talk’ that black parents have with their kids. She didn’t mention this, though. Instead, she sat quietly beside Wes. He was upset, and he did not get like this very often. She wanted to say something supportive, but instead just let him talk…that’s what she thought he needed.

  “That day when we were talking…you referred me to some articles. One said that people in black neighborhoods where the police had killed someone were afraid to call them even if they were crime victims. The other article said that residents in these neighborhoods wouldn’t help the police with information that might help catch a criminal. Either way, this keeps us from doing our job.”

  “I remember.” And she did. His words took her back…walking along the lake with him. “A lot has happened since then,” she thought. She was mostly happy about the choices that she’d made, but obviously, the issues they’d talked about were…still issues.

  “Actually, Wes, I think I got those references from a class with Professor Naremore.”

  “Figures,” he said. Then, a few seconds later, he laughed.

  That laugh seemed to lift his mood…a little.

  “There were other cites like those from his class, too…like research about having more diversity on the pol
ice force, and how that is perceived by people of color in their neighborhoods. “

  “Positive, I’d assume?”

  “Yes, having more diversity increases the legitimacy of the police in neighborhoods where the residents are predominately people of color.”

  “I know you were a good note-taker—still are—but if you can dig-up any of those cites, shoot them my way.”

  “OK.”

  “Anyway, I read those earlier articles after you sent me the citations.” He shook his head, again. “By the way, do you know what Naremore meant when he used the term symbolic assailant?”

  “No. What is it?”

  “It’s from research from years ago. It’s about how cops on the street make decisions. They have short-hand ways of sizing-up the people they encounter. Who’s suspicious? Who’s a threat? Cops have a working definition of that threat, of the ‘symbolic assailant.’ It’s called ‘symbolic’ because it’s in the abstract.”

  “Like, how do you mean?”

  “The definition of who is or isn’t a threat is based on their own experience…and on the stories they’ve heard from other cops. It makes sense because it’s based on experience from the street.”

  He paused for emphasis. “Until you start to unpack it. That’s when you start running into stereotypes. Who’s a threat isn’t just someone who appears to be out of place or acting weird…it can include people of color…Blacks…Latinos…you know, the people Arpaio rounded-up. In other words, the definitions can be racially biased.”

  “Which is why Professor Naremore mentioned racial fear.”

  “Exactly. If a cop’s quick definition of who’s a threat has a racially biased component, you’ve got a problem. We’ve got a problem.”