Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar by Gray Cavender (red scrolls of magic TXT) 📗

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 police 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