Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar by Gray Cavender (classic literature list txt) 📕

even the guy with the bull horn. The protestors glared, but it didn’t matter…the chant continued, if anything, louder because the hecklers had joined-in, too.

The guy with the bull horn tried to speak, but was distracted by the loud, rhythmic “ASU” chant. Then, obviously annoyed, he made some hand gestures to his lieutenant, and left the stage. The group re-formed a semblance of their double line, and marched back the way they’d entered the campus, with as much dignity as they could muster.

The other groups continued the “ASU” cheer for some time, waving their signs toward the departing protestors and also toward the TV cameras. Some students even held their signs up toward the helicopter hovering overhead.

Jillian and Wes breathed a sigh of relief, and Wes said, “I’d say that was a definite fizzle.” He looked at the receding marchers, then added, “The hate mongers were trumped by an ASU pep rally…you gotta love it,” he laughed and shook his head.

Jillian smiled, glad that there had been no violence, no real trouble, and proud of the Justice Studies contingent. She followed Wes’ gaze toward the departing protestors and saw that at least two media crews were accompanying them. A journalist walked alongside the guy with the bull horn, moving a microphone back and forth from her mouth to his.

Closer to Wes and Jillian and near the stage, she saw another crew interviewing Cedar Lanning, ASU’s PR guy and one of Jillian’s co-members on the Sexual Task Force committee. Cedar nodded an exaggerated nod toward the reporter…he seemed to be in his element.

Jillian saw other crews interviewing students, one near the fountain and another near the side door of the MU. Jillian did a double-take because the student being interviewed near the MU was Andrew Paxton, the English major who’d been a part of the grievance against Professor Siemens. Like Cedar Lanning, he seemed to be holding-forth. Jillian pointed him out to Wes and reminded him of who it was and what he’d done. She was struck by how much Paxton resembled the men who were marching away. The helicopter was gone, too.

CHAPTER 11

At first, after Jillian had successfully defended her MS project and graduated, she visited faculty and staff and grad student friends in Wilson Hall fairly often. Of course, as those things go, her friends graduated, the faculty moved on to other students and Jillian got busy in her job with the Tempe PD. So, her visits to Wilson Hall, a building where she had been going three or four times a week for several years, tapered-off.

That’s why she enjoyed taking the stairs to the third floor, her third trip to Wilson Hall since they’d begun the investigation. It’s funny how you don’t notice when things fade. But, being here seemed so normal…she realized she missed it.

Still, she was here under different auspices. She’d just been to a campus demonstration…not as a participant, but as a detective, observing, making mental notes, seeing and interpreting everything through the frame of a murder investigation. Walking-up those stairs…everything was the same, except that it wasn’t.

Except for offices occupied by professors in the Asian Pacific American Studies program and the office for the Writing Mentor Program, most offices on the third floor were occupied by Women and Gender Studies faculty. ZZ’s office was in the left hallway and then on the right…the side of Wilson Hall that faced (at an angle) the MU, and opposite it, the area where she and Wes had just stood while they watched the demonstration.

ZZ’s desk was positioned on the left side of the office, and angled toward the hallway. She waved Jillian in even before she could knock. She stepped away from her desk, they hugged, and she gestured toward two chairs across from her desk.

ZZ was not a tall woman—around five six—but well-proportioned to her size. Her brown hair was long and thick. Her eyes were a vivid green. Her complexion was somewhat dark, and although she wore no make-up, her skin seemed to glow. She wore a gathered, loose-fitting cream-colored cotton skirt and a pale-yellow blouse, also loose. The short scarf around her neck was knotted in front; it was a burnt orange and mauve paisley. ZZ always wore the coolest earrings: today, they were bronze and dangly. Her shoes were sparkly gold sandals.

Her office always gave off a comfy vibe, in part because one of her windows was dominated by a bougainvillea that ran the length of the outside façade of Wilson Hall, from the ground to the third floor. It felt good to be partially enclosed by a giant green plant with red blossoms. The bougainvillea also seem to filter the glare of office lightening.

Their chairs were separated by a short rectangular wicker trunk with coasters on top for drink cups. Jillian remembered that inside the trunk was a batch of ZZ’s journal article reprints and copies of her four books. A three-drawer file cabinet, positioned against the bougainvillea side of the office and opposite her desk, was draped with a long, colorful silk scarf. Small wicker baskets atop the cabinet held a stash of loose teas, tea spoons and tea balls, and packets of honey. You wouldn’t describe her office as “minimalist” but it was definitely less crowded than Carolyn’s.

Jillian realized that the faculty offices she’d visited over the past several days visited reflected the lives of their inhabitants, or at least what’s important to them in their academic lives: posters on the walls—of their book covers or their heroes like poets or tennis players or novelists turned economic philosophers. ZZ’s walls revealed what was important to her, as well. They were filled with framed photos, all in black and white, and a little larger than a page of printer paper. Jillian wondered if they were in some European size. She remembered most of the photos because she’d visited ZZ often when she was a grad student.

One photo was of Stephen Grapelli and Django Reinhardt. Grapelli is standing, violin under his chin,