Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar Page 9

  “Roberts, the other guy is Professor David Roberts.”

  “Roberts, right. And Seay gave us their phone numbers, so we’re good there. I’ll call them to set up an interview time.”

  “Sounds good. And I have that student, Andrew Paxton, coming in for an interview in the afternoon.” She studied her wine for a few seconds. “So, back to it…you think probably an emotionally-driven crime?”

  “Yes…unless there’s some sort of…intrigue that we don’t yet know about. Universities, professors, the whole megillah, always seemed to me to have a lot of hidden agendas. Maybe that comes from being in their own little world.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “I think grad students are professors in training…always a lot of things going-on…like trying to one-up each other, to know scholars and their books that other students don’t know, and to…to impress the faculty by critiquing the other students. For me, it was like being a character in a movie where things are happening all around you, but your character never sees it, much less understands it.”

  “At least once you became a cop, that all ended, right?”

  They both laughed.

  They split their bill, walked back to headquarters, and Wes gave Jillian a ride home. It was not much out of his way. She lived in the Los Arboles condos, just off College Avenue near Southern Avenue, and Wes and his wife, Marilyn, lived near Marcos De Niza High School, on Stanley Place.

  They discussed the case as they drove although Wes had to mind the road. He said that he intended to take Rural all the way to Southern, then turn right, but the traffic on Rural was narrowed to one lane and creeping along because of the water pipeline construction. Rush hour made a bad situation worse. He took a right at the traffic light on Broadmor, wound his way over to College, and took a left. College had some construction and rush hour traffic, too, but it was nowhere near as bad as the mess on Rural.

  As they drove, he kvetched about the construction bottle-necks. Jillian smiled. Wes really had been her mentor when she left the Research Division and became a detective with Tempe PD, even though she started downstairs in the Property Crimes Division. During that time, she got to know him pretty well, and of course even better when she transferred to Homicide. She thought he was a good detective and also a fine person.

  At 5 10 and 175 pounds, Wes was very fit physically. He worked-out and also played racket ball. He said that he liked being in shape, but also thought it was important as police detectives to make a good impression when they met the public. He represented the Tempe PD and wanted to look professional.

  Wes wasn’t boring or a dinosaur—no way—but he was a creature of habit, and she had learned his habits while they were partners. She considered to be a part of her apprenticeship. Clothes, for instance. He was wearing one of his three summer jackets, a linen blazer in a natural color, along with dark brown slacks, a pale yellow short-sleeve shirt and tie. A second summer jacket was also a blazer, this one a beautiful green. Wes always joked that it was his Augusta blazer. The joke was that when PGA golfers won at the Master’s Golf tourney, they donned a green blazer. Number Three was a blue-checked plaid sport coat. He had a similar three-jacket winter wardrobe. Wes also had one suit, a dark blue Year’rounder in light weight wool. This was his “court testimony” suit. He joked, “Detective Sergeant Webb’s Wardrobe by Landsend.” This wasn’t really a joke because he did buy most of his clothes from the catalog. Except for his ties. Most of these were wildly colorful and many were from the Jerry Garcia Collection. Wes was a Deadhead. His shoes were not from a catalog either. Most were good quality, always bought on sale, and always lace-ups. He said detectives shouldn’t wear loafers in case they had to chase someone. He was 42 and an Arizona native…Tempe actually. Which is why he went to the University of Arizona. He laughed that he wanted to see some of the world: Tucson was a two hour drive.

  He applied for and got a job with Tempe PD right out of college, mainly because he scored so well on the exams. He’d also interned for the department between his junior and senior years at the U of A. He had told Jillian that his two main interests in life were policing—he’d watched too many TV police shows as a kid—and music. He and Marilyn had even met at a David Bowie film, The Man Who Fell to Earth. Wes had gone because of Bowie, the musician, and Marilyn liked off-beat movies. The film was showing at the Valley Art Theater in downtown Tempe, back when it was what Wes called an “artsy-fartsy theater.” He had told Jillian that The Valley Art had been crowded that night, and that there was an empty seat between them. “We just got to talking...” They’d lived together for a while, then got married. They’d been together for fourteen years.

  Marilyn, an accountant, worked in a small CPA firm over near the Lakes, off Baseline Road. They had two kids: Kelley 12 and Brian 10.

  Wes pulled into her condo complex and let her off. By agreement, tomorrow, all day, she’d work out of Tempe PD. “Love to Marilyn and the kiddos,” Jillian said as she extracted her key and headed for her unit.

  She opened the door and when the beeps started, punched in her security code. This was a nice neighborhood, but from her days in the Research Division, Jillian knew the burglary stats in Tempe, and had an alarm.

  She dropped her keys in a tray by the phone in the kitchen. She always kept them in the same place, as her dad had taught her…”that way, you’ll always know where they are.” Her other “getting home” ritual was to unload and store her pistol, a Glock 19. She had a standard pancake holster for days when she carried the weapon on her hip, and also two “carry” purses (one black, one brown) for the days she didn’t want to wear a jacket. Because it was hot, today had been a purse day.

  Walking into her place was always a treat because she liked where she lived, liked being in her own home. Today, however, felt a bit different. She was working with Tempe PD again…on a murder investigation…Professor Nelda Siemens. Jillian could see the Professor in her mind’s eye…both versions of her: happy in the photo with her family, but also on the floor lying behind her desk. That image kept coming back to her…she couldn’t shake it.

  Trying to clear her head, she filled the electric kettle, hit the ‘On’ switch, and sifted through her tea selection. She found one that struck her fancy, then headed to the bedroom to change clothes. It was summertime hot, so her house clothes consisted of gym shorts, a Brandy Clark tee shirt, and flip flops. She had one “oh no” moment, then realized that today wasn’t a judo class day. She could enjoy the tea and just chill at home.

  Jillian had a three-bedroom, two-bath condo…everything on one level…street level. She’d converted a bedroom into an office complete with desk, book shelves…maybe not as nice as those in Professor Siemens’ offices, but wood…OK, wood veneer, but a good job. She still had most of her academic books—they brought so little on resale, so why bother. She had a stash of novels because she liked to read, and a growing library on policing written by criminologists, but by practitioners, too. Jillian figured that if she was going to do this for a living, she’d do it right and know as much about it as possible. This idea of digging-in to a topic was a hold-over from her student days.

  Her guest bedroom had a futon couch that folded down into a bed, an old chest-of-drawers that she’d had as an undergraduate student, and a chair that she’d bought at a yard sale; the chair had been in really good shape and was still comfortable. Her bedroom had a real bed, a chest-of-drawers, a small dresser, and a nice chair. She’d bought all these pieces at the same time—the furniture store had a great sale going—and then bargained for a free delivery…actually, she bargained for the delivery first, then bought the furniture.

  Jillian poured herself a cup of tea, turned on the timer to let it steep, and checked her messages. Only one…from Mom…she’d call her in a little while. While the tea steeped, she went outside to the group mail boxes and fished out her mail, which was almost totally circulars and catalogues. People mostly
texted or emailed; they didn’t write much anymore, and increasingly even her bills were online.

  Back inside, the tea was ready. She added some milk and a little honey, and sat in a tan, slimmed-down recliner that she’d bought at a Danish furniture outlet store in Tempe. Her matching couch was from there, too, and again, purchased on sale, just not at the same time as the chair.

  As she sipped her tea, Jillian looked around the room and automatically started comparing it with Professor Siemens’ place. The professor had original art and numbered prints. Jillian’s claim to art was two prints: Mary Cassatt’s Child in a Straw Hat and Vermeer’s The Concert, both gifts from her mom. Mom had bought the Cassatt print for her in the gift shop at The National Gallery in D.C. Her mom, who liked art as much as her dad liked poetry, was excited that Mary Cassatt was a woman Impressionist AND from the U.S. Mom had purchased the Vermeer print after a visit to The Isabella Gardner Museum in Boston…this was pre-theft so she’d actually seen the painting. The Concert was one of the priceless artworks stolen in the infamous Gardner Museum heist back in 1990. When Jillian became a detective, her dad teased that her first order of business should be to solve the mystery of the Gardner robbery, and to locate the missing Vermeer. He’d told her that finding the Vermeer would be a great gift for her mom.

  Jillian’s other wall décor consisted of a Veronica Mars poster that she’d received for donating to a Kickstarter Campaign to finance the 2014 Veronica Mars movie. Her two ASU diplomas were on the office wall, too. Maybe that’s why she was so quick to notice the diplomas in Professor Siemens’ and Professor Gilroy’s offices. She also had a Dream Catcher on the wall behind her bed; it came from The Heard Museum Gift Shop, a housewarming gift from her parents.

  She was pleased with her house and furnishings. She had left college with no indebtedness—difficult these days—in part because she was a good student and had gotten a number of ASU scholarships and a couple of national scholarships, too. Plus, her parents had paid the cost of her undergraduate education. Jillian had paid for the full year of grad school herself with her salary from the job at Tempe PD. She was careful with her money and had bought the furniture when it was on sale and a little at the time…as she could afford it. Her parents had given her a car, a new white Corolla, as a graduation present. As a result, the only major debt was her mortgage.

  She’d do a little work later, but for now Jillian willed herself to relax and enjoy the tea, and not to think about the case. Wes had always emphasized that you needed to relax and have a life, even when working a serious crime case. He’d been adamant about this, saying “you’ll survive and thrive.” He added that a clear head also made for better thinking. Good advice.

  Before Jillian returned her mom’s call, she had to decide how much to tell her about the case. Her parents had been supportive of her job change from Tempe to ASU PD. Of course, they usually were supportive of everything that Jillian did, but they’d been happy about the shift in jobs because they thought that it was safer to be working as an ASU detective than as a Tempe PD detective. But now she was back in the thick of it—a murder AND of an ASU professor. Neither of them had ever given her even a minute of grief, not when she first started working as a PD researcher, not even when she shifted over and became a detective. Sure, they’d been freaked about how her involvement as a researcher had led to the capture of a killer…by her… but, even then…

  Oh well, knowing Mom, the issue probably wasn’t how much to tell her about the case…she’d probably already heard about it, and that’s why she was calling. Jillian and her parents talked often, but still, a phone call on the day that an ASU professor is murdered…”not a coincidence,” she thought.

  Her mom answered on the second ring. “Hi Jillian…I saw it was you on caller ID.” Mom had always called her ‘Jilly.’ But, when she started grad school and with no warning, ‘Jilly’ became ‘Jillian.’ Of course, now as when she was a kid, sometimes when her mom was angry she still got the full name treatment: ‘Jillian Katherine Warne.’ Her dad still called her ‘Jilly’ as did Wes.

  She also was ‘Jillian’ to the Justice Studies faculty and to her former student peers. For some students, a name change in grad school is THE thing. Somehow, they want (or need) more gravitas, so Pat becomes Patricia and Marty becomes Martin. Although she’d seen that with several of her peers, that’s not how ‘Jilly’ became ‘Jillian.’ Because her email signature read Jillian Katherine Warne, to people who didn’t know her, she became ‘Jillian,‘ because that was the first name listed. OK, so maybe she was shooting for a bit more gravitas, too. Then, when she started at Tempe PD, when Lt. Timms had first called her ‘Jillian’ because she’d been talking with Carolyn Patek, somehow, she never got around to correcting her. But then, she had never corrected Carolyn either.

  “Thanks for calling back so soon.”

  “Yes, Mom, of course…” Jillian left the sentence open.

  “Yes, Jillian, I know, I heard it on KJZZ on the way home from work. You OK?”

  “I’m OK, Mom. It’s just a little…I was one of the first officers at the scene. So…”

  “Oh, my god, Jillian. Was it horrible?”

  It’s funny how you revert to being a kid no matter your age when you’re around your parents. Jillian didn’t want to cry, so took a long pull of tea to steady herself. “I was going to say, ‘not so bad,’ but, yes, honestly, it was awful. And I know that it shouldn’t make any difference, but somehow it was worse that the victim was a professor.”

  “I’m sorry you have to see things like that, Jillian. And I’m not surprised that it seems worse because she was a professor. You were a student there not so long ago, after all. On the news, they said she was fairly new to ASU, so I assume that you’d never had a class with her.”

  “No. And of course my English classes were a long time ago, anyway.” She was quiet, then said, “Mom…and please don’t be upset…I’m going to be on the case. I’m working with Wes. The reason…”

  “You don’t have to explain, Jillian. It makes sense in a bureaucratic sort of a way: you’re an ASU detective and the victim’s a professor, so… I do dread your dad’s reaction to this news. You know, he’ll be upset…just a little…proud, but worried.”

  “I know. But, it’ll be OK, Mom. If you want me to talk with Dad…”

  “No, don’t worry about that, but I may call Wes and make him promise to look out for you. Just kidding,” she chuckled. “I imagine that you’ll enjoy partnering with him again.”

  “In a lot of ways, yes, it already feels comfortable. I learned so much from Wes, so maybe this will be like a refresher course.”

  “I know better than to ask a lot of questions about a case…especially since it’s so early in. As always, though, call or better still come over, if you’d like to talk.”

  “Thanks, Mom, you’re the best.“

  “OK, I just heard the garage door opening so your dad’s home. I imagine he’s heard the news, too, so I’ll ring off and he and I will have a confab. Don’t worry, it won’t be a pity-party. But, we are parents so it’s our job to worry some, even if we’re very, very proud.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Tell Dad hi and I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  OK. And honey, you and Wes catch whoever did this.”

  “We will.”

  The water in the kettle was still hot, so Jillian re-used her tea bag…just let it steep longer the second time around. While it steeped, she went to the bathroom and splashed some water onto her face. As she dabbed her face with a hand towel, she studied herself in the mirror.

  She’d reached the age when genetics were starting to show. Depending on the lighting, her hair was either auburn or brown, as was Mom’s. Her eyes were a greenish gray, again like Mom’s, and the structure of her eyes was that of her mom, as well. Her complexion was lighter, like Mom’s. So, as Jillian looked at her reflection, it was pretty much like Mom was
looking back at her.

  But, she could see Dad peaking-out, too. Mom had a cute, concave nose, while hers was a bit flatter, more like her dad’s. Her jawline was somewhat squared like his, too. Mom was just under five seven, Dad was almost five ten, and she was between them at five eight. She looked first at her left profile, then her right profile, holding her hand to her hip like celebrities on the red carpet before the Oscars. She backed-up, then moved forward again, checking herself out from various angles. She decided that she was pretty, definitely not as beautiful as Mom, but basically…good.

  Mom’s hair was longer, more femmy, while hers was cut shorter in a classic bob…parted on the left side, combed over to the right, and pushed behind her ears. She’d thought of letting it grow longer—her hairdresser encouraged her to do so—but when she was an undergrad and had much longer hair, it took forever to blow dry it and get ready before a morning class. She’d cut her hair shorter when she started working in the Research Division. That cut wasn’t just more functional every morning…keeping it shorter meant that there wasn’t something for a criminal to grab her by.

  The timer sounded and she returned to the kitchen for her tea. As she sat, she reminded herself of how lucky she was to have parents who were so understanding and so supportive.

  Her mom, Alice, was an Academic Success Specialist for Tempe’s Kyrene School District, although these days, she spent more time with teachers and administrators than with school kids. She’d majored in Education at ASU, minored in French, and also taken Art History electives, which is where she learned to enjoy art…and maybe to enjoy foreign films, as well. After graduation, she’d taken a gap year—this was before they called them that—and travelled in Europe, mostly in France. She’d planned on teaching French, but, instead, after she returned to the US, started as a 6th grade teacher at Apprende Elementary, then later moved into administration, first at Apprende, then on to the Kyrene District Office over on Kyrene Road and Warner Road. While working, she’d gotten her MA in Ed Policy at ASU, a program that she’d really enjoyed, although it had since been disestablished.