“What’s going on?” I said.
“Nothing. I just, I hate my life!”
Oh. I wanted to contradict her, but I knew better. She had just presented me with an unarguable truth.
“Every dress I’ve tried on makes me look like a fat meringue, and I’m tired of not making any money, and, and, my fucking lawyer finally called but I can’t even talk with you about it because suddenly you can’t stand to be around me, and it all just sucks!”
She honked into a tissue.
“Jules.”
She held up her hand. “Not yet. I need to talk to you about something else. It has to do with us.”
“Okay,” I said. But I didn’t feel okay. I felt trapped in a brutal tug of war between Mr. Fight and Mr. Flee.
“You know how you get out of bed early in the morning and leave? Like this morning?”
“Julie, I’m really sorry, it’s just that I can’t . . .”
“Ten, I need to tell you this before I lose my nerve. Please, just listen. Do that breathing thing if you need to, but let me finish.”
Good advice. I took a deep breath in. Let it out slowly. My lungs reminded my brain that whatever was coming, they, at least, remained committed to keeping me alive.
“It’s just, sometimes I feel relieved. I like sleeping with you, I mean, I love it, most of the time. But sometimes I feel like everything’s just gotten too . . . crowded—with you, and me, and Tank, and even Homer. Like there’s not enough room for me to just . . . be.” She shook her head. “Crap! Just saying this makes my stomach hurt. I’m scared to death you’ll, you know . . .”
I finished the sentence for her. “Freak out? Want to leave you? Call off the wedding?”
“Yes. Yes!”
“Not gonna happen,” I said.
“It’s not? Are you sure?” She looked down. “It’s happened before.”
I pulled her closer. “Hey, it’s okay to need space,” I said. “It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
Homer chose that moment to crawl onto Julie. His considerable weight spilled over both sides of her lap. He groaned with pleasure.
She shook her head. “What are we going to do with us?”
“Figure it out,” I said. “Or not.”
She gave me a watery smile. “The good news is I feel ten pounds lighter inside.”
“The confession diet. Those suckers called secrets weigh a lot.”
I felt closer to her than I had in weeks.
“So, not to bring up a sore subject,” I said, “but what did your lawyer say?”
“Same ol’ same ol’. There are suddenly a bunch more forms to fill out. More permits needed. More regulations, this time from the county.”
“So that’s okay then. That means it’s just a matter of time.”
“I guess.”
Julie set Homer on the floor. She circled her knees with her arms. I reached underneath the flimsy cotton to stroke the arched bow of her spine, running my thumb down the bumps of her vertebrae, top to bottom, until I reached the base, where the Kundalini snake sleeps. I pressed firmly on the curved tip of bone.
“Mmm. That feels amazing.”
I rested my palm there, cupping the nest of energy.
“Spending this time with the monks has been . . .” Julie turned her head to me. “They’re like kids, you know? Everything they do is a form of play. Well, maybe not Wangdue, he’s Mr. Serious, but Yeshe and TJ, for sure.” She smiled. “Even Lobsang. He likes to pretend otherwise, but his heart is as open as they come. They find such joy in their work. I’d almost forgotten what that felt like.”
I nodded. I knew the feeling.
“I watched them building a work of art out of nothing but tiny grains of sand and I felt this peace, this contentment. Then my lawyer called, and bam, the anxiety hit. Worse than anxiety, actually. Dread. Because it’s not going to stop with the permits, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve worked in restaurants my entire adult life. Who am I fooling? Say I do get the permits, and the financing. Say we do find a site. Say I do open next year. Then what? There’ll be the same insanity happening on a daily basis that always happens in restaurants. The only difference is, it’ll be my insanity to deal with, even when it isn’t mine. That’s what being a chef-owner means. Crisis management all day, every day. Forget having a life or a family. Forget cooking, even. I’ll be lucky if I get to boil an egg.”
I could see her point. Julie had more kitchen stories of aberrant behaviors and dangerous loonies than I did, and I’d worked in Burglary/Homicide for over eight years.
“Whatever,” Julie said. “I’ve already spent thousands of dollars to get to this point. It’s a little late to have doubts.”
I searched for the right thing to say.
What would I want to hear? Then I recalled a time when I was just as stuck, and the words that helped me make a shift.
“What does your heart truly long for, Julie?”
“It’s not that simple, Yoda.”
“Maybe it is. Come on. It’s worth a try.”
She nodded. She closed her eyes. “Ask me again?”
“What does your heart truly long for?”
She rotated her shoulders back and forth, and her neck side to side. Finally, she was still.
I waited.
“I want to cook food I love for people I love, or at least don’t hate,” she said. “To have fun with it again. The freedom to make spontaneous, mind-blowing art with my cooking.”
She opened her eyes.
“Sounds like part of you isn’t confused at all.”
“Great. So what am I supposed to do now?”
I kissed her cheek.
“Do that,” I said.
CHAPTER 37
“Hey, Mike. Can you talk?”
“Dude, we were just about to crash,” he grumbled.
“It shouldn’t take long.”
“Whenever you say that, I worry.”
“Ten minutes maximum, I promise.”
It took 25, but most of that was Mike’s fault. He wanted to hear details about the hypnotherapy, and exactly how the recurring nightmare was in fact my unconscious mind waving a desperate flag.
“That’s so dope,” he said.
I added dope to my list of Koenigs terminology, although I wasn’t sure whether it meant good, bad, or insane. Most of the adjectives he used were open to multiple interpretations.
“So this long-lost brother of yours. Nawang. His last name Norbu?”
“No. It’s Gephel, I’m pretty sure. Can I get back to you on that?”
“No problem. And Maha Mudra? Just a wild guess—that’s not her real name.”
“Probably not.”
He waited, but I had nothing else to add.
“You don’t have a clue in the world who she is, do you?” he asked.
“No. I wish I did.”
“Okay, well, I’ll start with her. Especially if she’s still here in Los Angeles. Someone’s bound to know something.”
“I’ll text you whatever else I can find out about Nawang. I’m sure to have more after meeting with Sonam.”
Mike covered his mouthpiece to have a muffled conversation.
“You’re in luck, boss. Tricia’s heard of the Mudra chick. Says our friend’s been to one of Maha Mudra’s concerts.”
“Satsang,” I heard.
“Satsang. Whatever the fuck that is.”
“It’s a Sanskrit term,” I explained. “A satsang is like a social gathering, only spiritual. A devotional coming together.”
“Whatever. We’ll see if we can track her down. Our friend, I mean. Her name’s Lia Pootah. You’ll like her, she’s cray. Ciao.”
Cray, meaning good? Bad? Insane?
I was betting on insane.
Before signing off, I encouraged Mike to grab a few hours of sleep before setting his digital hounds loose. Fatigue leads to stupid mistakes, and I didn’t want either of us to make any
.
Julie and Homer were on their way to Los Feliz. Again. As for me, I was tired, but also wired, a state that meant the adrenaline surge was alive and well and sleep would be impossible.
That said, I dreaded the digging process ahead of me. These shadowy events from the past had occupied the crap silo, as Eric so graphically put it, for a very long time. Their grip was sure to be tenacious and the act of uprooting them would be painful.
The whole thing was making me very grumpy.
I wandered into the kitchen. Three days’ worth of mugs and dishes filled the sink and the garbage can was overflowing. What a mess, and Julie was MIA. Once again it was up to me to restore order.
I caught myself. Resentment was like any other mood-altering drug; indulging in it felt good—until it didn’t.
I decided to make cleaning the house today’s spiritual practice.
May I cultivate gratitude with my heart.
I dry- and wet-mopped all the floors, feeling the solid surface beneath my feet, counting breaths with every swipe across the wood. I cleaned and emptied Tank’s cat box, inviting appreciation for his healthy digestive system as I refilled the box with fresh litter. I pulled my damp clothing from the washing machine.
I am grateful for hot water. I am grateful for cleanliness.
I hung the clean laundry on the clothesline we’d strung between two poles outside, a householder’s display of domestic prayer flags.
I am grateful for the sun.
I sorted through mail, putting bills to one side, shredding everything else. This had become part of Kim’s job, but she wasn’t due home for another week or two.
I am grateful for Kim.
I wasn’t sure what to do about the deconstructed altar, so I left everything as it was in my meditation nook after mopping and dusting the exposed surfaces.
I am grateful for my path.
By 10:00 A.M. the house was returned to harmony and so was I—or I would be once I’d showered. I had stripped and was heading for the bathroom when the County Coroner’s Office number showed up on my cell phone screen.
“Hello?”
“Ten? It’s me.”
My stomach tightened. I hadn’t talked to Heather in more than a year, but I’d know her voice anywhere. The last I’d heard, she’d been on a leave of absence to deal with some health issues. A relapse of some sort, or so the rumor mill claimed. She’d confessed to a long battle with bulimia when we were together, and the thought that she might have lost another skirmish made me sad at the time.
“Hey, Heather. How are you?”
“Better, thanks. Day at a time, like everything else. You?”
“I’m doing well.” I wasn’t sure if she knew about my engagement to Julie, but now wasn’t the time. “So, you’re working weekends these days?”
“And weekdays. You know me.”
Heather was a brilliant forensic pathologist, both driven and meticulous. She was also tall, blonde, and strikingly beautiful, genetically blessed with the kind of flawless looks that turned heads, both male and female. We hadn’t made a great match as lovers or as mates, but our hearts were always in the right place.
I am grateful for past loves, and for letting go.
I am grateful for Julie.
“I’m phoning you about the Griffith Park body, Ten. Bill was just here. He gave me the go-ahead to contact you. He thought you might want to know the initial autopsy results.”
“I do. It’s connected to a case I’m working on.”
“Right, that’s what he said.”
“So you can tell me what killed him?”
“I can tell you more than ‘what.’ I can tell you ‘who.’”
“How is that possible? Oh.” I answered my own question. “He took his own life.”
“Affirmative. It’s a suicide. Probably one of the stranger suicides that’s crossed my path, but I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-percent positive the wounds were self-inflicted. They’re comparing his prints with those on the weapon as we speak, but there’s no doubt in my mind.”
“Can you hang on a second?”
I pulled on a cotton kimono and moved to my desk. I put the phone on speaker so I could take notes.
“Okay. I’m ready for specifics.”
“You sure about that?”
“I already saw the body, Heather.”
“Right. I knew that. Okay, so, I’ve ruled the official cause of death as exsanguination due to multiple sharp-force injuries sustained from self-inflicted puncture and incised wounds, consistent with a curved knife.”
My pen flew across the pad. “Exsanguination. Loss of blood, in other words.”
“Massive loss of blood. There were . . .” She paused. “There were ten knife wounds in all, including a vertical incised wound along the underside of each forearm from elbow to wrist, longitudinal axis blah, blah you-don’t-need-to-know-that . . . Two horizontal slashes across the left upper thigh, two puncture or chop wounds to the calf and the same on the right, a pair of longitudinal cuts across the thigh, and two stabs to the calf. The circular carvings on his chest and stomach area were more like scratches—insignificant in terms of actual damage. And finally, there was the additional removal of several strips of epidermis.”
“Can you tell which knife wounds came first?’
“Either the chest and stomach or the thighs and lower legs. They were shallow enough to cause great pain, but not fatal.”
“But the arm wounds were. Fatal.”
“Eventually, but here’s where it gets interesting. He managed to implement two fairly deep arm wounds while avoiding any major veins or arteries. Not easy to do, especially when using his weaker hand to cut the right arm.”
“He was right-handed?”
“Best guess. I don’t like to speculate, but the wounds were self-inflicted, and the directionality is clear.”
“So . . .” I tried to picture what had happened. “So, he took off his robe, folded it, put it under the bush, took off his hiking boots and laid them next to the robe, scratched a circle on his chest and stomach, cut his thighs, stabbed and skinned his calves, made a deep slice down his right arm with his left hand, and then another down his left arm with his right, placed the knife on the robe, danced around barefoot on the dirt, lay down, positioned himself in a symbolic pose of power, and bled to death.”
“Can’t confirm the dancing or the pose. He was past rigor when they brought him in. I can confirm that he was lying on his back when he died, and nobody moved him to or from there, before or after. Livor mortis was fixed, though not pronounced. The rest of your description sounds about right.”
“And the time of death?”
“Everybody’s favorite question. I can give you an approximation. It’s always trickier when there’s exposure to heat and other elements. But the cold core temperature, combined with the lack of stiffness and early stages of decomp, indicates he’s been dead approximately thirty-six hours.”
“A day and a half?”
“Give or take. But not much longer than that. I’d say forty hours, max.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Coyotes. Hawks. I’m betting the next round of carrion eaters were closing in from all directions when you found him. Once they arrive, its circle-of-life time. Bye-bye soft tissue, hello, skeletal remains.”
“Jhator,” I said, realizing.
“What?”
“Jhator. Sky burial. It’s a traditional Tibetan Buddhist burial method. Once the individual’s consciousness enters the bardo state, the physical body is readied for excarnation and left out in the open. It’s a final act of generosity—providing sustenance to other sentient beings.”
“Wow. Like becoming at one with nature?”
“That’s a little lofty. More like becoming a snack.”
“How common is the procedure?”
“Well, it’s still around, but barely. As a burial technique, jhator has become largely replaced by cremation. The Chinese positively hate t
he practice.”
“For sanitary reasons?”
“Political. Historically, invading nations merge with those they overtake. China prefers obliteration. So sky burials have gone underground, excuse the pun.”
I mentally compared what I knew about jhator with the crime scene.
“Not everything jibes,” I said. “Most sky burials in Tibet take place on a flat rock, called a mandala, which has been transported, along with the body, to as high a point as possible. A mountaintop, for example, or a cliff. Whatever terrain overlooks the surrounding areas.
“So by snack, you mean Clif Bar?”
“Good one.”
We shared an amused moment. Heather’s wit was alive and well.
“I’ve missed you,” Heather said. “This.”
In the awkward silence that followed, I did a gut check and found, to my relief, that I didn’t. Now was the moment to mention Julie.
I let it pass.
Heather’s voice was light. “Moving on, you were saying? Most sky burials are up high?”
“Yes. But this corpse was in a gulley, partially under a bush. Still, the number and placement of the wounds fit the sky-burial pattern. Approximately fit, to use your favorite word. Thankfully.”
“Why?”
“Well, the completed procedure results in a major disassembling of the flesh. To make things easier for the vultures.”
“Charming.”
“Yup. The rogyapas pretty much strip the body of all its parts, like a stolen car in a chop shop.”
“Rogyapas,” Heather said, as if tasting the word.
“Body breakers. They’re very adept at dismemberment. Actually, you would make a good rogyapa, Heather.”
“No comment.”
“Anyway, thirty-six to forty hours puts time of death at . . .” I counted back, “Wednesday night? Approximately?”
“Correct.”
Pancake night at our house. Paresh Kapoor had only been in Los Angeles for two days.
“Can you send me the final report?”
“Sure, in a few weeks. Toxicology is backed up, as usual.”
“Right. The datura plant.”
“The alkaloids weren’t what killed him, but they might have made the ride more interesting. Anything else I can help you with?”
The Fifth Rule of Ten Page 19
