Alignment: A Tale of the Arts Department

“I regret…”

“Yes?” Saanvi probed after a moment.

A sudden, revelatory smile. Devoid of contrition or shame.

“Nothing.”

**

“Professor Saanvi Deshpande,” the petite woman announced, smiling serenely down at the redheaded undergrad behind the registration table.

“Of course,” “A-H” beamed. “I almost took your commercial graphics course fall semester, but then I switched my major. To, ah, Business Administration,” the younger woman whispered, peeking at “R-Z” conversing with a registrant about the atrium’s gleaming marble floor being “a missed opportunity in texture.” The chartreuse-haired student was a study in curated thrift, but had pulled over a few exits ahead of Goth. “I wanna, you know, manage a gallery or something someday.”

“Are you aware we have an Arts Management track, Addie?” Saanvi offered with a surreptitious peek at her nametag. “It even comes with a vague promise of employability.”

“Yeah, I know. See, Mom says an arts degree is just a fast track to living in a van and painting existential murals on freeway underpasses.”

“This isn’t a shining era for the arts and institutions nor, indeed, creative expression in America. And, of course, parents want to see a return on investment.”

Addie shrugged. “They run this big-deal dental clinic in Hawthorne Heights, and Dad warned if I majored in Art, they’d start sending me hygienist listings.”

“Ah, the eternal struggle: Passion versus pragmatism. We once called it ‘finding your voice.’ Now it’s ‘finding your brand.’”

“Whatever the fu--, sorry, whatever the hell that is. Here’s your badge and materials, and let me get you a swag bag, Professor Deshpande.”

Addie reached for one of the blue-and-gold cotton canvas totes dominoed behind the table. “Thank you, Addie. May your eventual ‘brand’ align with your voice.”

The Architectural Design Program had always been a sort of departmental stepchild, but a nonetheless vital one, endowed by three generations of Central Illinois’ top construction family. The Stableford name was engraved on the Leiber Hall cornerstone plaque, half-obscured by lichen and ivy.

Nestled among the labyrinthine early 20th Century behemoths that anchored the Quad, Leiber had stood for a half-century as a showcase for modernist campus architecture. Saanvi’s architectural interest generally predated glass and steel or even limestone, but she’d rigorously researched the building’s pedigree out of respect for those who’d laid the cornerstones of form, function, precision, and aesthetics that had made American architecture even today an artform for the masses. The new mural on the atrium’s west wall commemorated those giants of design.

Professor Deshpande’s gaze locked on the 40-foot vertical drop banner hanging dead-center over the atrium, heralding “Legacy Lines: Architecture, Alignment, and Function for the 21st Century.” The accompanying art – what appeared to be an abstract drafting pencil point that formed the banner’s tapering tail – was clean, bright, and fresh. The drop itself was mathematically hung, to Saanvi’s sharply attuned eye. It was as she might have expected at a design symposium, even from University staff or students.

“Plumb perfect,” punned Edward Capaldi, jarring Saanvi from her appreciation. The Architecture School’s bald, lanky director was quite dapper today, and he seemed to preen for his Arts Department chair. “All this glass and steel and marble, it’s impossible to use a laser level, so we relied on old-school ingenuity to ensure perfect alignment.”

Capaldi sighed rapturously. “It may lack grandeur, but she’s – pardon me, it’s still a beauty,” he murmured. “Ahead of its time in terms of form and line and energy efficiency. The recent ‘green’ improvements – the double-silver glazing on the façade, the smart lighting and energy sensors – are relatively unobtrusive, and the contractor did a creditable job of integrating them with the original design. But to me, they spoil the integrity of the Stablefords’ work.”

The screams echoing through the atrium spared Saanvi any further architectural critique.

**

“We got a basement apartment, where I actually wasn’t last night during the big storm. So the roommate wakes up to about a half-foot of water. I ducked behind here to text and make sure she’d called somebody.” Vine Burstyn’s studied apathy and inscrutability were beginning to fray at the edges. “Didn’t see any blood or shit, so I checked his pulse. Then I saw, you know, that.”

The functional arts design major staggered slightly back against the 20-foot trifold standup the University’d installed behind the registration area. Detective Curtis Mead nodded impassively.

That, incidentally, was a deep, conical divot in the young man’s forehead. Professor Deshpande leaned in to examine the non-penetrating parietal wound which according to Curtis had nonetheless shattered his skull.

“Chris says he died at least 10 hours ago,” Curtis related. “She saw evidence of a brain bleed – boy may not have died immediately, may not even have been attacked here.”

“Attacked?” Edward Capaldi piped, still eyeing Saanvi. “Couldn’t this simply have been an accident? There was all kinds of work going on here yesterday.”

The cop glanced over wearily as he ushered the group from behind the display. “’Cept your people said they locked up and activated the alarms around 8:30 latest. Every entrance has key card-only access, and Campus Security’s already confirmed nobody came or went overnight. And you see any loose tools or wall hooks he might’ve stumbled into with this kind of force or Victorian fireplace pokers mighta fallen from the sky?

“’Sides,” Curtis added, gloved hand reaching for a scuffed but stuffed and rattling University backpack a Millington patrolman had retrieved from the shadows beyond the body. He unzipped the main compartment and tipped it for inspection by the professors. “Spray paint. Three flavors. Thor-sized sledge hammer. And the 64-ounce Kingsford charcoal lighter fluid. Right tools for the right job, Dad used to say. Now, what do you think he wanted to do a job on?”

Detective Mead waited patiently as the quartet turned as one toward the illustrated wall across the marble expanse.

**

“The People’s Gallery: Form, Function, and Legacy in Midwest Architecture, dedicated November 23, 2024,” the young woman proclaimed, arms crossed before a 30-foot, colorfully abstract but ostensibly recognizable procession of diverse figures spanning more than a century but now sharing a single timeline and leaving a cramped assemblage of familiar structures and landmarks in their wake. The artist, Class of 2025 graduate Jess Taylor, had been apprised of the circumstances, and wore a sardonic if wary smile. Curtis had cleared the show to go belatedly on while taping off the east half of the atrium.

“Of course, you recognize Frank Lloyd Wright, vanguard of Midwest design and the Prairie School,” Edward stated formally. “Louis Sullivan, the ‘father of skyscrapers’ and specifically the Chicago Stock Exchange. Then we have Daniel Burnham, who authored the Plan of Chicago in 1909.

“As we move on to the more contemporary figures, we have Michael Ford, founder of the Hip Hop Architecture Camp, which bridges cultural critique, representation, and innovative special design. And Jeanne Gang, founder of the Studio Gang – her iconic projects include the Nature Boardwalk at the Lincoln Park Zoo. We’ve worked here as well to acknowledge the, um, the unjustly ‘hidden figures’ of American design. Julian Abele was the University of Pennsylvania’s first architecture graduate, and was responsible for the Duke University’s West Campus. His white firm’s policy prohibited designer credit, and Duke didn’t acknowledge his contributions until decades after his death in 1950.”

“I recognize Norma Merrick Sklarek – Professor Mason noted her work at LAX’ Terminal One during a faculty scouting trip.”

“The first black woman architect licensed in California and New York,” Jess nodded reverently. “Her collaborator in designing the U.S. Embassy in Tokyo, Cesar Pelli, got full credit. She also did the Mall of America in Minneapolis, so I kinda technically justified including her.”

“Absolutely,” Professor Capaldi assured her. “Architecture has no color.”

Saanvi and Jess let that settle. “I’m a bit curious about this gentleman,” Professor Deshpande inquired, indicating a slight, bespectacled man in a conservative ‘60s-vintage suit.

Edward suddenly began studying the atrium, and Jess smirked. He looked to the muralist and sighed. “All right. We – OK, I – felt it was only appropriate we credit the designer of the building in which we’re now standing. Amos Stableford was responsible for a number of noteworthy structures in Millington, Champaign, Decatur, and Peoria, and…”

“And?” Saanvi prodded, delicately.

“And Stableford Design and Engineering has been very generous toward the university over the decades.”

“Of course. That established, we have one more figure. This gentleman of color, positioned very closely behind Mr. Stableford’s shoulder. Who might that be, Edward?”

Capaldi frowned. “I should know,” he confessed self-consciously.

“I think that’s the idea,” Saanvi suggested. “The only figure half-submerged in shadow. In Amos Stableford’s shadow, to be precise. The hidden figure. Ms. Taylor?”

Jess simply grinned.

“Ah,” Saanvi shook her head gently. “Will you keep us guessing, Ms. Taylor?”

The grad student shrugged. “William Hord was my grandfather. He was one of the University’s early black architectural design students, in the early ‘60s. Mr. Stableford hired him as an assistant a semester before graduation, then let him go in ’71. Right about the time they broke dirt on Leiber Hall. Didn’t find his old sketches ‘til he passed on in ’92. Grandpa was a man of his word, even at the raw end of a deal that left him without a degree.” Jess paused. “So am I in trouble, Professor Deshpande?”

Saanvi seemingly had tuned out, and was again peering at the mural. She turned abruptly to face the expectant student and an equally but conversely expectant Edward. “No, I don’t believe so. Right, Professor Capaldi?”

The director blinked, once, and sighed as he watched potentially millions vanish in a puff of paint. “I’d, uh, ah, yes, of course.”

“Excellent,” Saanvi smiled. “Then, I have one last question.”

**

“You think I’m a freshman or something?” Troy Kellermann laughed. “I do my research – the guys have gone to metal or composite pencils. You know, the mechanical ones where you load the graphite instead of sharpening and tossing pencils. That’s so OG.”

Saanvi, smiled. “Knowing shamefully little about architectural design, I had mistaken your banner design for a standard Ticonderoga No. 2. The yellow background perhaps compounded my error.”

“Gold. With blue text. The school colors, duh? Shit,” Troy breathed, glancing up at his creation. “It does look like a fucking pencil.”

“Not upon re-examination in context,” Saanvi course-corrected. “I assume you insisted on installing the banner yourself? You can’t use a laser level in an environment such as this. I imagine you employed an old-school plumb bob to ensure such perfect vertical alignment. I now see that what I interpreted as the beveled edge of a standard hexagonal pencil is indeed a a suspension string. The lead, pardon, graphite point is actually a replaceable lead or brass tip. A brilliant metaphor, Mr. Kellermann.”

“Well, duh -- Architecture, Alignment, and Function?”

“From this point, I will begin docking you for each ‘duh,’” Professor Deshpande advised. “Might I see this bob?”

After a nanosecond, Troy froze, shutting his eyes. “Oh. Shit.” Then his eyes opened and shifted as if toward the heavens. “Oh, fuck.”

“Yes,” Saanvi commiserated.

**

The text chimed through as Saanvi scoured Leiber Hall for Curtis Mead: “Men’s rm, second flr ASAP.” Professor Deshpande feared her tragically pedestrian solution was about to be deferred, if not derailed.

Edward Capaldi was shades grayer than even normal, propped stricken against the wall opposite a pair of single-seater restrooms. Curtis knelt over the body sprawled between the charmingly archaic gender-identified doors.

“This has all been truly upsetting, and I thought I’d get away from the mob for a bit…” the director began to elaborate.

“Either of you know a Duncan Archer, American Society of Commercial Architects?” Curtis inquired bluntly.

“The name doesn’t ring any—” Saanvi murmured.

“Dead,” Edward declared, hollowly. “COVID. Five years ago—”

“Well, then,” Curtis grunted as he climbed to his feet, flourishing a worn black leather square. “That makes sense. According to the nametag, this is the late Mr. Archer. But the wallet and his Maryland driver’s license says he’s Walter Exley of the U.S. Department of Education Office for Civil Rights. I’m gonna take a leap and assume in the current political environment that that’s an oxymoron.”

“An Orwellian oxymoron,” Capaldi breathed, coming off the wall. He turned to Saanvi. “Auditor?”

The arts chair stared at the burly, suited corpse and nodded. “Pursuant to Executive Order 14173, mandating the elimination of DEI-related policies in federally funded institutions. The administration’s been sending these DEI auditors out in droves to bring universities into line with international student/faculty reporting and redline cultural and gender-related programs.”

“Guessing somebody must’ve seen through his charade,” Curtis muttered. “Look at the skull -- same weird wound as the guy downstairs. Now we got two murders.”

“One,” Saanvi corrected.

**

“Are you familiar with how a plumb bomb functions?”

“I am vaguely familiar with how my Roku stick functions,” Detective Mead confessed.

“The banner has a sewn-in edge that slides into an aluminum track and ensures proper alignment, but even a few degrees of misalignment can disrupt visual rhythm.”

“Good to know,” Curtis murmured patiently. “So you attach the string to the rail next to the banner, lower the weight, the bob, and you get a perfect floor-to-ceiling line. I about got that?”

“But something happened after the banner was hung – to Mr. Kellermann’s best recollection, a phone call from his girlfriend. Befogged by romance, he neglected to collect the bob now balanced on the rail as he descended. As the campus security log notes, no one gained access to the building until the registration crew arrives this morning. But our young vandal, a bogus ‘student’ barely noticed in last night’s exodus, finds a spot to hide until all is clear. He is safe to sow destruction in complete privacy.

“It should be easy to trace the young man to Stableford Design and Engineering. He likely was familiar with and inspired by Amos Stableford. And as I imagine the firm’s offices are plastered with photos of the family scion, William Hord would be somewhere in the background of at least one or two. If our vandal was a University alumnus, it’s not unlikely he’d drop into the School of Design to flaunt his accomplishments. Talk to the faculty – I assume his last visit was after Jess Taylor’s mural was dedicated. It wouldn’t have been too difficult for him to interpret Hord’s presence and position. If Amos Stableford was his hero, might he have decided to remove the offending image before someone else uncovered the truth?”

“So, what, karma cracked his skull?”

“Merely gravity. Last night’s thunderstorm was quite violent, wouldn’t you say? The vibrations from the thunder must have dislodged the plumb bob from its delicate perch on the ceiling track, and as our victim plotted his attack on the mural, it plummeted tip down into his skull. Underestimating his injuries, he hid to avoid detection.”

Saanvi rose, and moved to the center of the atrium. “If the bob bounced hard off the victim’s skull, it may have struck the marble floor and rolled under a table or display. If you are fortunate, you may find a hairline crack or dent in the tile a few feet or yards from the banner.”

The chip was fresh. Curtis scanned the hall’s periphery, across the white-gray marble and under a nearby roughly 10-foot table.

“Well, shit,” he laughed, strolling around the reception table to what remained of the unclaimed conference swag bags. Which had again toppled. The first bag gaped open. “Seriously?”

“They were stacked here last night,” Saanvi noted, “and it’s one of the few places the bob might have remained hidden until the symposium’s opening. Or just before.”

**

“What tipped you the guy was a DEI auditor?” Curtis asked. “We know you helped set up the registration table and all the materials last night. Including the bags. Now, each bag has, what, a pen and pad, a university-engraved drafting pen, a map of the University, and some foam squeezy-ball-type house labeled ‘The School of Architectural Design -- Wright at Home.’ Jesus.” He hefted the blue-and-gold canvas bag. “Maybe a pound. You add a one-pound heavy-duty lead bob, and I’d think you’d notice the difference. You weren’t kind curious when you found this weird thingamabob in one of the bags? Or did you just figure one of the guys misplaced a tool setting things up, and you set it aside ‘til after the registration rush. Then, what? The body turns up?”

“I wonder,” Saanvi spoke softly, “if it seemed like fate, like karma.” Lips opened, closed. “You’d seemingly been handed an opportunity. An instrument of vengeance, of realignment. And here he was, standing right in front of you. Archer with an ‘A,’ though that wasn’t his actual name. What was it? What made you decide on this course?”

“He,” she began before hugging herself, fighting herself. She won, or lost. “He acted like I was some kind of mental deficient girl, trying to rush me, getting pissed when they’d given me the wrong information. Then he gets a call, and he just turns his back on me like I’m nothing, like I can’t hear, like I’m too insignificant or stupid to understand, like I don’t exist.

“He’s telling the guy on the other end, ‘Yeah, looking at it right now. These woke socialists think they’re untouchable.’ I mean, I saw what he was ‘looking at.’” She nodded toward the colorful opposite wall. “I might not seem that bright, but I watch the news. I knew what he was, and what they wanted to do.

“And I thought, what if there was something I could do? And then he comes out during the opening session and asks me where the johns are. I told him the second floor ‘johns’ were a lot more private.”

Addie turned to Saanvi, smiling. “And I found it. My voice. And, I guess, my fucking brand. And you know what?”