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

it, and she worried that…she didn’t know what worried her because the dream woke her up. She had a drink of water from the bedside glass, and told herself, “it’s only a dream...English profs didn’t grade Justice Studies papers, and anyway, my writing is just fine, thank you very much.”

Dressing took longer than usual, too. In case she interviewed Carolyn and Professor Naremore, she wanted to look good, not dressy, but professional. She also thought a lot about her ‘carry’ purse vs. the holster. She chose the purse, the brown one. That necessitated re-thinking the clothes, which annoyed her that she was choosing clothes based on the color of her purse, which she chose because it troubled her to think about the Glock showing when she interviewed her former professors. All of this fuss bothered her; she doubted that men detectives thought about these things. In the end, she decided to stop over-thinking…but still went with the brown purse…then changed clothes.

It was rush hour so the Orbit bus was crowded, and Jillian had to stand. But when some kids got off at the charter school and a few others at the elementary school, she got a seat toward the rear of the bus. Along the way, she thought about the questions that she would ask Carolyn and Professor Naremore if she interviewed them today. Mostly though, she was just eager to get started. The prospect of actually doing the investigation eased her anxiety. Door to door, it was just over a 20-minute ride, longer than usual…it was rush hour and there was a lot of off and on, and she was going on to Tempe PD and not exiting at ASU headquarters. That made her smile…old times. She entered Tempe PD through a side entrance.

“Morning Wes,” she said, and waved.

Morning Jilly,” Wes greeted her with a big smile. “You just missed Angel by two minutes. She says hey, by the way, and welcome back.”

She nodded, and then asked, “Is the analysis back already? That’s fast.”

“You know Angel and her crew. Of course, some of this is only preliminary; she was just trying to give us a head start.” He held up one finger. “Blood first: their lab tests did indicate blood on the Professor’s blouse and skirt, and Forensics also found smears and smudges here and there...on some of the furniture…also blood on the paperweight…and no surprise…her blood type. Angel said it looked to her as if that paperweight could have been the murder weapon. That’s based on its weight and shape, and the nature of the wounds.”

As Wes described Angel’s lab results, Jillian saw the scene again in her mind’s eye.

“And get this,” he continued, “Angel also said it seemed to her that in addition to the blow to the temple, there were maybe three other blows, not two like we thought. She said what was confusing is that the wounds were messy because of the damage, which made it hard to see, and also that two were really close in proximity—less than an eighth of an inch apart. So, there were those three wounds, plus the other that definitely was a singleton strike.”

“So, four in all: a blow to the temple, then three more to the upper rear of her head…four?”

“Yes…although again,” Wes held up a cautionary hand, “this was only Angel looking at the body...with magnification, but still…obviously, we have to wait for the coroner on this.”

“OK,” Jillian responded and shook her head in a kind of disbelief.

“Yeah, I know,” Wes agreed. Of course, all this means that we need the detailed work-up more than ever, and we need it yesterday. And, I’m also itching to get my hands on the rest of it…the Professor’s computer info, her phone, all her social media stuff…”

Jillian interrupted, “So, what was the thing, the paperweight?”

“Glad you asked. Here’s a close-up of it,“ he said, sliding a photo over to Jillian. “It’s a commemorative paperweight…honoring a guy named Milton Friedman for a Nobel Prize in Economics. See, here’s his name on the award…even some kind of Nobel emblem.”

“Wow,” she said, studying the photo. “Well, that explains something. OK, behind her desk over in BAC, there were two photos: a woman and also a man. I didn’t recognize the man, but—and I think I’m remembering correctly—it was signed. And the signature read, “Best wishes, MF. That could be Milton Friedman.” She opened her IPAD, soon pulled-up a photo, and turned the screen so that she and Wes could both see it. “Yes, he’s the guy from that office photo.“

She read quickly, then said, “Yes, Friedman did win a Nobel in Economics…I thought I remembered that from somewhere. And, I’ll bet he was one of Professor Siemens’ professors for her MBA…at the University of Chicago.”

A paragraph heading in the Wiki entry caught her eye and she made a mental note to come back to this later when she had more time. For now, she stopped reading, thought for a couple of seconds, then said, OK, but, here’s a question: is the paperweight heavy enough to cause that level of physical damage?”

“I think so, yes. Angel said it weighed almost five pounds. If you hit someone hard enough with a five-pound object…yeah, that could do the trick…unfortunately. As for prints, not good so far…Angel said it was wiped…although there was a smudge. She’s working her magic trying to re-build a print. Of course, that’ll take a while…if it works at all. But if it does, maybe she’ll be able to pull DNA out of it, too.”

Jillian nodded, continuing to look at the photo from Angel. “You know what, there also was a paperweight on her bookshelf in the BAC office. No, that’s not right, it was on a file cabinet. But I don’t think it looks like this one, although, honestly, I didn’t take much notice of it yesterday.” She looked-up from the photo. “Oh, and for what it’s worth, the photos of women in both offices were of the same woman. And…drumroll…they are