The Fate In Our Stars: A Professor Deshpande Mystery

“You are no fan,” Saanvi observed.

The man would have attracted little notice nearly anywhere in Millington but the Theodore Bradbury Gallery. He turned slowly with only his torso, lowered his gaze nearly two feet.

“This is some woke shit.” He turned back to the print, shaved head glinting in the studio light. The towering, sunbaked man was in jeans and a black pocket tee turned a dusty near-indigo by constant self-laundering.

“And how so? How is this painting ‘woke’?”

He now turned completely, and the Arts Department chief regarded the ink peeking from his right sleeve. The man peered about the University gallery and the debut of “Our Fate In The Stars.”

“Well, the whole thing, really,” he finally murmured. “This is what folks send their kids here for?”

 “Among many things. Among those, looking at the world in different ways.”

“And what the hell way is this?” he muttered.

Saanvi smiled again. “If this exhibit appears meaningless, how do you see it as ‘woke’?”

The brawny man paused. “Look, I ain’t here to make trouble or anything.”

“There is no trouble. I’m sincerely interested. My major area is cultural sociology – how customs and beliefs and art and rituals influence various societies and systems.”

“So just what are you trying to say here? Read your daily horoscope?”

Saanvi nodded appreciatively. “Fundamental belief systems continue to guide social norms, political perspectives, our relationships with others. Religious beliefs, community standards and ethics, generational biases, gender dynamics. These are divisive issues. So I selected a traditional system that bridges cultures and skirts contemporary religious and political thought streams. Astrology.”

“Horoscopes.”

“In a 2020 survey of more than 173,000 Chinese ages 18 to 60, major personality traits were shown to have no reliable correlation to stereotypes associated with individual zodiac signs, such as heightened ambition in Aries, loyalty and passion in Leos, perfectionism in Virgos.”

The man smirked. Saanvi continued.

“At the same time, these stereotypes pose some undesirable social effects. The sign Virgo carries negative connotations for many Chinese, who see persons born under that sign as fussy or critical. Many respondents indicated they would refuse to date or even hire Virgos.”

The smirk vanished. “So what?”

Saanvi grinned happily. “The pandemic spurred a resurgence of interest in astrology. Isolated young people sought guidance in navigating challenging situations. My students have referred me to a number of astrology podcasts, and some even use dating apps like Co-Star that match astrologically inclined individuals. Did you know the global astrology industry was valued at $12.8 billion in 2021, and may reach $22 billion by 2030?

“Scientists are concerned about a generation leaning on astrology to make major life decisions influenced by commercial interests. You see ‘woke’ philosophy as indoctrinating individuals into a liberal hive mindset, correct? My interest is to encourage students to look within themselves for answers and scrutinize beliefs and institutions that propose predestined identity, behaviors, and destinies.”

“Dr. Deshpande?”

Again, Saanvi was forced to look up, this time at Assistant Prof. Ethan Cooper behind her shoulder. She smiled with amusement as Cooper and the stranger exchanged wary nods.

“Yeah, the president just got here,” the sculptor/metalsmith murmured.

“Gonna wait outside, I think,” the burly man rumbled, moving off. “Thanks for the conversation, Doc.”

“My,” the department chief breathed. “Doctor Deshpande. Did you hope my honorary or your indomitable presence would frighten him away?”

Ethan shrugged. “Sorry, Saanvi. After the vandalisms last week, I just wanted to, uh…”

“Assert alpha dominance? As if the president would deign to grace us with his presence during NCAA finals. Our guest neither raised his voice nor attempted to shout down my arguments. He didn’t come here for trouble. He was here for a specific purpose. Or person.”

“Please do go on.”

“The obvious assumption would be that our guest was a parent, venturing into the academic lion’s den to admire, tolerate, or more likely investigate his child’s creativity. Only one of the 12 pieces seemed to attract his full, considered attention. I tested him and sparked a reaction. Exasperation – affectionate exasperation.

“So our guest appeared to share a relationship with one of our artists. Parental, perhaps. But, if so, a detached or disaffected relationship. He asked if others enrolled their offspring in the University for this type of woke abstract nonsense, not if this was how his hard-earned wages were being expended. He may be a father, but an estranged one.”

“Long-lost daddy come to reconnect?” Ethan theorized. “Or maybe reclaim?”

“Why risk a public confrontation here in the gallery when he could simply wait outside?”

Prof. Deshpande did not normally subscribe to cues. But the uniformed man in the gallery entrance caught her eye, and she raised a finger as she crossed the floor.

“You Dr. Dez--, Desh--?” the young campus cop demanded.

“Deshpande, yes. May I help you?”

 “We got one of your guys, one of your students, and he asked for you. A Hayden Barr?”

“I’m familiar with him. A sophomore. Has he been injured? Has he committed some kind of infraction?”

“Yeah, the second one. And, well, more than an infraction. We got a dead guy.”

**

He lay at the foot of the concrete bench beside The Abattoir of Ideas, at Wrightson Hall’s south entrance. The quad was relatively deserted, and red and blue University/Millington PD flashers illuminated Ethan Cooper’s tarnished metal installation, defining the tools of butchery, destruction, and warfare the assistant professor had welded about a VW-sized “brain.”

Even in the intermittent darkness, Saanvi could discern the seeping slit in the art critic’s black tee. She paused to study the spray-painted graffito on the bench above him, then sought out her sophomore, sitting dejectedly in the back seat of a Millington cruiser.

“Steve and I rolled up when we saw the dude on the ground,” a sturdy female University officer reported, one leg blocking Hayden’s flight. “Guy here was about 30 feet away, and he fled when we called out. I gave pursuit and brought him down in front of the Communications building.”

 “And you didn’t lose sight of him at any time during the, ah, ‘pursuit’?” a fortysomething city detective asked. “Couldn’t have thrown anything away, stashed a weapon?”

“Nothing on him.” She glared at Hayden.

“And you didn’t see anybody else nearby?”

The officer backed a step, her baton nearly concussing Hayden Barr. “Nobody.”

“Detective Mead?” Saanvi asked gently.

The Millington cop looked down at his friend of an ostensible friend. “Professor. How you been?”

“Up to this point, very well. Should Mr. Barr contact an attorney?”

“Don’t know yet. We can’t seem to find a weapon.”

“I’m sorry, but weaponry is art,” Saanvi said. “The man’s wound seems wider and broader than what one might expect from an ordinary piece of cutlery or hunting knife. And I would be interested in knowing if the blade’s exit path might exhibit tearing.”

“You would. OK. Why?”

“That symbol someone spray-painted near the victim. Specifically, the symbol for the zodiac sign Sagittarius. The Archer.”

**

“It’s very…” Det. Mead struggled as he surveyed the 12 paintings, sculptures, lithographs, and miscellaneous objets about the now-deserted gallery.

“Yes,” Saanvi replied. “Each of my Ancient Norms in Contemporary Culture students was charged with creating a work conveying the superstitions, stereotypes, and/or influence of astrology in modern society. Sagittarius here takes aim at modern male toxicity.”

“And the artist?” Mead asked, staring up at the steroidally brawny behemoth in a red cap and loincloth leveling a camo-finished crossbow.

“Donita Carver. Who has been in Chicago for the last three days following the death of her grandmother. Moving on, Pisces is a water sign often used to connote healing, and the artist, Meta Gahrab, chose to address climate change and the oceans.”

Saanvi led Mead to the largest piece, anchoring the central wall.

“Fuck,” the detective stated. “Is that…?”

“It most assuredly is,” Prof. Deshpande sang. “Virgo. Chrystle – Chrystle McMasters, the artist, has a talent for using negative space.”

“And positive,” Mead argued, averting toward the descriptive placard next to the silk-screened, anatomically detailed canvas. “The little dudes with the bio-suits and ladders?”

“The patriarchy, working to preserve pristine womanhood,” Saanvi related.

“Mm. So how’s this connect to dead redneck downstairs?”

“I spotted the gentleman almost as soon as he entered the gallery. This was the first piece he approached.”

“Well…”

“He displayed no shock or prurient interest. He called the exhibit woke, a waste of college tuition. But he didn’t comment on what the general public likely would view as the most offensive piece in the gallery. So I pushed his buttons a bit. I referred to a Chinese study of discrimination against those born under the sign Virgo. He reacted as if familiar with the perceived traits of the Virgo.

“Now, are you aware of the recent series of break-ins and vandalisms across campus? The campus police have investigated, but I’m unaware if the Millington Police have been involved.”

Mead shrugged. “You guys told us you wanted to keep this inside the University. Minor damage, broken locks, some graffiti, maybe fake gang symbols, nothing major stolen.”

“Our department was one of the five targeted. It’s difficult to divine a common political or personal grievance against the medical imaging lab, the Center For Advanced Energy Utilization, the School of Environmental Sciences, the astrophysics department, and the School of Arts. Then I identified the symbols left at the scenes. Astrological symbols, specifically those for the signs Taurus, Aquarius, Scorpio, Leo, and Capricorn.”

“Maybe some kind of anti-science thing?” Mead pondered. “Some twisted rightwing protest? I take it the energy and environmental sciences folks do a lot of eco research, that sort of thing?”

“Well, the Nazis commissioned Swiss astrologer Karl Ernst Krafft to advise high-ranking German officials, and of course, we know Nancy Reagan came to depend on a White House astrologer to help guide the president’s activities and movements.”

“Soooo, what, the Campus Young Republicans are behind this?”

“I would doubt that. But my class discussion of the break-ins did reveal that a number of students – including three or four of mine – are involved in an astrology group, a club, of sorts…”

“Oh, good,” Mead responded. “A mystical stargazing cabal.”

“Not certain how they chartered it,” Saanvi said. “Would you care to speak to one of the founders? She’s also our Virgo.”

**

“Yeah, I said I don’t know,” Chrystle McMasters told the iPhone through her teeth. “No, I would rather you didn’t – you’re such an Aries, such a control freak. I said, I will see you at home. You got that leftover cake, and we can binge and do Squid Game.”

The artist tossed her phone in an open canvas bag and yelped as she spotted her faculty mentor and a very obvious cop waiting in the open gallery doorway.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Chrystle,” Prof. Deshpande murmured.

“Just my helicopter girlfriend. Sometimes, the matriarchy can be as oppressive as the patriarchy. And who’s this?”

“Detective Mead with the Millington Police. He’s investigating the murder that took place outside. Did you know someone painted the symbol for Sagittarius next to the body?”

“Jesus, this about the group?” McMasters breathed. “Dudes, we’re not a fucking cult or a terrorist cell or anything. We meet at the Coffee Commune, do our charts and talk about relationships and financial shit and stuff. I don’t know who these other assholes are, especially if they killed some guy. Was he a student?”

Mead pulled his iPhone from his windbreaker, and pulled up a photo. “Maybe you seen the guy? I’m going to show you the victim now. If you’re up to it.”

“If I’m up to it. Gimme.” The rangy brunette grabbed the phone, and her eyes locked on the image. The phone dropped to the eco-friendly bamboo floor.

“You OK?” Mead asked, retrieving his phone.

“Fuck no,” McMasters rasped. “That’s my fucking dad.”

**

“Well, biologically speaking,” Chrystle clarified after chugging the water Prof. Deshpande had supplied. “They put him in Joliet for shooting that minimart clerk in Bolingbrook 15 years ago. He came up for parole last fall, and started calling and texting. Said he was getting out in January, and when I made the mistake of telling him about the exhibit tonight, he said he wanted to come. I didn’t think he’d actually show.”

“You didn’t see him in the gallery?” Mead asked. McMasters slumped back, eyes red but dry.

“Yes, I fucking saw him, so I hid back here in the office. Then Professor Deshpande and Ethan got rid of him. I thought.”

“And you didn’t go anywhere after your dad left?”

Chrystle repeated her favorite catchphrase. “Ethan, Prof. Cooper, was working on some grant forms over there. We talked shit the whole time, ‘til you guys shut the exhibit down.” She drained the rest of the bottle. “I didn’t think Dad’d have the balls.”

**

Ethan Cooper had retreated to his second floor office, where he appeared to be completing the aforementioned grant application.

“Yeah, Chrystle was with me the whole time. She didn’t say anything about that guy, though. Kinda figures – growing up in Nebraska, I met a lot of tough guy hardcases like that.”

“Let’s change gears for a moment,” Mead said. “When the art department got vandalized a few months back, was anything valuable stolen or destroyed?”

The craftsman pushed back from his keyboard. “I wouldn’t say valuable. Hayden couldn’t finish his current project because they apparently walked off with what ferrofluid we had left.”

“Ferrofluid?” Mead asked.

“Hayden’s been working in ferrofluid – it’s like this magnetic liquid you can use to create static or even moving sculptures. Hayden’s become almost like a Jedi with the stuff.”

“So this is like a chemical compound. What else they use it for?”

The artist turned to his laptop and, after a few minutes, dropped back. Saanvi skirted the detective and peered over Cooper’s broad shoulder. Then she looked to Mead. “Oh, cursed academic myopia. Ferrofluids are used in recycling to remove metals from refuse and in bioresearch to separate particular cells from cell clusters. They can be applied in drug targeting and theoretically in developing thruster mechanisms for small satellites. As well as medical imaging and possible harvesting of ‘vibration energy’ from the environment. I think that might well constitute an ‘Eureka.’”

Mead frowned. “Still doesn’t tell us where our missing weapon might be.”

Prof. Deshpande smiled. “Actually, the victim was virtually surrounded by weapons. Come along, please.”

**

“Nope,” Assistant Professor Cooper sighed after an exhaustive inswpection. “Everything seems to be in order, and, what’s more, intact. Unless the killer brought welding gear.”

“What’s that on your sleeve?” Mead asked. “No, left one. Looks like blood. See you can find where that came from.”

Cooper focused his Maglite over the fused composite of knives, augers, mines, bayonets, and butcher’s tools reminiscent of the Nebraska sculptor’s adolescence. The spotlight halted over a congealing red-black streak bisecting a SWAT shield.

“Ah,” Saanvi turned toward the campus cruiser. “Oh, by the way, a belated Happy Birthday!”

“Thanks!” the killer sang, before gripping the passenger door frame.

“Ah,” Mead echoed. “Leftover cake for a March birthday girl. An Aries, I presume? You mind I take a look at your unit, Officer What…?”

“Officer Quennell, Dana Quennell.” the compact policewoman stated crisply, relaxing her grip with a tight smile. “No, not at all, Officer…?

“Detective. If you and your partner can just stand off, over there. And yeah, you, Barr? Get on out of there.”

“The bizarre but minor nature of the recent Zodiac break-ins didn’t rise to a city investigation,” Prof. Deshpande began. “But I imagine you were quick to volunteer to search the premises, Officer Quennell. It was simple enough to remove small quantities of ferrofluids and ID them as stolen. Chrystle must have told you weeks ago her father planned to visit, and being the ‘helicopter’ girlfriend she describes, you were worried he might pose a material threat, rekindle a toxic relationship?”

Det. Mead foraged in the trunk of his own unit, tugging an MPD poncho free.

“Did Chrystle tell you she would ask her father to meet her outside the Arts Center, or did you suggest it? Ethan’s stunning installation. A perfect forest in which to hide a leaf.”

“Chesterton,” Ethan mused. “The Father Brown guy. Antisemitic bastard, too.”

“My. You staged the campus break-ins to accumulate enough ferrofluids to magnetize your disappearing ‘arrow.’ Then, you affixed it to Ethan’s piece. You contrived a reason to come by the center, and watched for McMasters. You pulled your improvised weapon from the sculpture, impaled Chrystle’s father, sprayed the zodiac symbol on the bench to implicate the campus ‘vandals,’ re-concealed the arrow, and called your associate to the scene.”

“Yo, Steve,” Mead called. “While we were inside, she search that, uh, installation thing?”

“She was hoping we’d find the weapon, score some points. I kept an eye on Barr.”

“And what’d your partner do after searching the thingie?”

“She checked out her unit. Dana thought the front driver’s tire looked low.”

Quennell started to move forward. “Whooaaa, girlfriend. See, you thought the dumbass cop would search inside the car and then wish you a contrite fare-thee-well.” He spread the poncho on the damp asphalt behind the open driver’s door, and knelt next to the radial with a grunt. In a second, he displayed a bloodied, sawed-off metal “arrow” – seemingly a sharpened ornamental fence topper.

“It would appear you got something stuck on your undercarriage,” Mead observed.

**

“It was his own ‘sign,’” Saanvi extinguished the gallery lights. “He bore his own poorly rendered constellation.” 

“Prison tat,” Det. Mead nodded. “The four outside dots are the prison, the center the prisoner. Good eye, Doc.”

“Tattoos are art,” Prof. Deshpande noted. “What marks us; how we mark ourselves. Ultimately, we seek tribal connection, or we adapt to survive within the tribe. Whatever that may entail.”