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

turf, a murder investigation (if that’s what this was) was Wes’ turf for several reasons, some jurisdictional, some experiential, so she stood aside and he entered first after they’d donned booties and surgical gloves. The office door had been closed, but was unlocked. Jillian was on Wes’ heels a few paces back. Officer Voss immediately began the business of crowd control…moving away from the door the people who had been sucked along down the corridor in the wake of the three cops, gathering names and phone numbers.

As Jillian followed Wes into the office, the first thing she noticed was disarray: the desk chair was overturned and a potted plant—she had no idea what kind—had been knocked-over, spilling some of the plant and a lot of the dirt. Toward the right wall, a wooden coat rack also had been knocked over. A woman’s jacket, still attached to one of the hooks, was spayed open now atop the rack. A wooden hanger was on the floor nearby, probably dislodged when the rack toppled. Although she couldn’t completely see from her position, what was noticeable was a woman’s legs, up to the lower torso, protruding from behind the desk, on what was Jillian’s right.

Wes stepped to the right of the desk, then behind it, and bent over to check for a pulse. He shook his head “no” to Jillian, removed his cell phone, and tapped one button. A few seconds elapsed as he waited, and then said, “It’s Webb, and it looks to be a murder; send the team.” He rang off and stood aside to give Jillian a chance to look.

Trying to carefully avoid stepping on anything except open floor, she moved to the side of the desk to have a better view of the body. A woman, white, late 30s, maybe early 40s. Wearing a skirt that had ridden several inches up her legs. Her blouse had what looked to be blood stains on it. The skirt (a light tan color that matched the jacket on the rack) and the blouse (cream-color and either silk or something like it) said “expensive.” Medium heels—one on and one off—of a dark cream color that went well with skirt and blouse.

She crouched a little, but did not touch the body. She canted her head a little right, then left, and focused. An obvious trauma to the left temple. The woman’s head was turned just enough to the right that Jillian could see what appeared to be more damage toward the left rear of the head.

A smallish round object was lying between the body and the coat rack. Jillian stared at it for a time, then decided it was a paperweight although she wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen one. She couldn’t guess its weight, but it was almost a handful, and it looked to be fairly substantial. She thought maybe it was bronze…at least in color. There was some sort of a smear on it. Maybe blood. The woman looked to have been dead for several hours.

Jillian stood, moved a few feet to the coat rack, and knelt. Up close, the jacket looked to be linen although she still didn’t touch it. She glanced back toward the body, and the skirt seemed to be the same material. By canting her head, Jillian had a partial view of the jacket’s label: Eileen Fisher. So, yes, her clothes were expensive.

You have to be careful not to assume too much too quickly, but Jillian’s working hypothesis was that the woman had been beaten to death—multiple head wounds—maybe with the paperweight thingy. She couldn’t know if it was heavy enough, but it did seem to have blood stains on it. She stood and backed away from the desk.

For a few seconds, almost as if by silent agreement, both detectives looked away from the body, away from each other, and scanned the entire office…carefully, thoroughly, in sectors, in a way that later they’d remember it. Photography and video would follow, but for now this was their way of categorizing, organizing the room. Their searching gazes paralleled each other’s. As they should. Wes had taught Jillian how to look.

Both took notes, Wes in a small spiral notebook and Jillian in her IPAD. When Wes saw that Jillian had completed her notes, he said, “Trauma to left temple, so…”,

“Probably right-handed.”

Wes again, “And I don’t know how well you could see, but there’s at least one more blow toward the back of the head. Maybe more. I couldn’t tell without moving her head, but just eyeballing, the back-of-the-head injuries appear to be at a different angle than the one to the temple.”

“So maybe she was down, or at least not fully standing when those blows came.”

Wes nodded yes.

Jillian was up next, “Also what looks to be blood on that…that’s a paperweight, right…” she said, pointing to the object.

Wes nodded “yes.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever actually seen a paperweight. Are they really for holding down papers?”

He laughed, “Yes, once upon a time. Now, I think they’re mainly a chotski.”

She nodded, then added, “Also, what looks to be some blood on her blouse. Expensive clothes by the way…from the jacket label. She’s maybe late 30s or 40s.”

“What’s her name?” Wes asked.

Jillian scanned the print-out again to double check it with the nameplate on the door. “Nelda Siemens.”

“Know her,” Wes asked, “maybe from back in the day?”

“No…” which she left open ended…and then more firmly, “No. But for some reason I feel like I’ve heard her name…somewhere. What I can tell you is that she must be pretty high up in the English Department because of her office.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, on the few occasions that I visited any English professors, they were in very small offices. Sometimes, a couple of professors even shared an office, and they didn’t have windows. She has a row of them,” Jillian said, and pointed to the bank of windows that looked out over toward an intramural athletic field. “Plus, compared to other ASU offices I’ve been in, this one