Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar Gray Cavender (motivational novels for students .TXT) 📖

give. He replied that he had a late class that started at 4:50, but could see her at 3pm. She walked over for the meeting, mentally going over what she’d say…and ask.

Professor Naremore’s office was the fourth on the left, and near the Justice Studies conference room. His windows overlooked West Hall, a vaguely White House-looking building, and the huge green lawn that was a kind of front yard. His office door was open and, almost as if on cue, she saw Professor Russell Griffiths. He was in a visitor’s chair and was seated opposite Professor Naremore, although given her angle of view through the door, she could only see Professor Naremore’s long legs.

Russell Griffiths took a second to place her, then in his lovely British accent, said, “Ms. Warne, or should I say Detective Sergeant Warne…so good to see you.”

“Hello Professor Griffiths, what a nice surprise.”

“That you, Jillian?” Even as she heard the voice, Professor Naremore stood and entered her field of vision. “How you doing?”

Before she could answer, Professor Griffiths stood and said, “I fear this must be a hello and goodbye…I have to attend a faculty meeting…as one does. Ta.”

For a brief instant, the two men stood facing one another. They were, as Jillian had told Wes, a study in contrasts. Even though it was 105 outside, Griffiths was wearing a sport coat, light weight, but still a coat, and a tie…a knit tie against a shirt in a subdued plaid. His shoes were tan wingtips. He was of light complexion, although a bit more tan than she remembered—probably the Arizona summer—and his hair was still an unruly mass of light brown. He was clean-shaven.

Professor Naremore wore very trim blue pants that barely reached his ankles, and a pair of long, bone-colored loafers. His shiny, light grey jacket hung by its loop on a coat rack in the far corner, and a blue and gray plaid pork-pie hat hung from an adjacent loop. His perennial three day growth had morphed into a full beard since she’d last seen him. He still had a shaved head, and small rings in both ears.

The office was familiar to Jillian. Maybe she hadn’t been there as often as in Carolyn’s, but she’d been here a lot. The same three posters still dominated his walls: Arthur Ashe (she thought about Wes’ short biography of his accomplishments); Martina Navratilova; Billie Jean King…all were signed. Another familiar decoration was positioned in plain view on a book shelve, a plaque from the Crime & Juvenile Delinquency Division of the Society for the Study of Social Problems designating its Outstanding Book Award for Professor Naremore’s book, Deregulatory Misadventure: Enron and the Corporate Crime Scandals of 2002. He called it his ‘tenure’ book.’ There was one change in the office: he now had one of those variable desks that can be raised or lowered; his was in the raised position.

As the two men hugged briefly, Griffiths asked, “See you at home when your class ends?”

“Definitely.”

Griffiths left and Professor Naremore immediately hugged Jillian. She stood on tip toes because of his height. He was nearing 40, but he was physically fit, even athletic. She knew that he still played tennis.

“So, Jillian, how you been?” he asked as they sat…Jillian in Griffiths’ chair, and Naremore back where he’d been sitting.

“I’m good. You know, I’m back on campus with ASU PD,” she said, and at the same time displayed her ID…a way of following protocol, but without calling attention to it.

“Carolyn told me that. I’m glad cause we’ve been wanting to get you back over here.” He made a grand gesture so that ‘over here’ took in everything from Justice Studies to the ASU campus. “But now you’re here and right in the middle of this Nelda Siemens thing. Em em em.” He shook his head as if noting his disbelief or disapproval…something.

“Yes…we’re pretty certain that Professor Siemens was murdered, and I was hoping you could help me with this.”

“Be happy to…but I gotta ask, Jillian, how come you’re asking me about this?”

This was a question that she’d been dreading. On the walk over to Wilson Hall, as she was passing the Social Sciences Building, she decided that this was one of those ‘less is more’ situations, and concluded that a straightforward answer was best.

“We’ve interviewed a number of people, and several of them mentioned your name.” She had mentally practiced this answer, but was still nervous, so to hide it, she took a swig from her water bottle.

“Oh my goodness, Jillian, do I need an alibi?”

This made her laugh, but she was mid-swallow, which caused her to choke, spewing water like a cartoon character.

“Sorry to choke you up,“ he laughed. “You gonna be OK?”

The choking spell ended, and she was left smiling at him. It was a treat to hear his voice, which was melodious, but with just a hint of a Miles Davis rasp at the back.

“No, Professor Naremore, you don’t need an alibi. I just wanted to talk with someone who could give me the scoop about opposition to the Rand Studies Center…AND about Professor Siemens.”

“Well, I can certainly do that. Let’s see…where to begin…I supposed we should start with Marx.”

Jillian chuckled silently, but also knew that he was serious. She remembered from his classes that Professor Naremore usually started any new segment of material with some sort of theoretical grounding.

“I’m thinking Marx, because, as you’ll remember, the superstructure reflects the mode of production. And in this case, the relevant superstructure institution is Education.” He pronounced the word distinctly: ‘ed-u-cation.’ We are in a neo-liberal phase of late capitalism—a mode of production, economic base, if you will—so we are seeing the decline in state funding to ‘ed-u-cation.’ You know, many of us no longer refer to ASU or similar schools as state universities…we now call them state-assisted universities.”

Jillian knew better than to interrupt once he got on a theoretic roll, just as she also knew that he’d get to the point…eventually, and that it would be worth