A Fractured Peace

by Elia Seely

  “And what are these sutras?”

  “This library is one of the finest in the world.” Lobsang’s eyes shone, and color rose in his cheeks. “Not in size but in the rarity and importance of the texts. Many of the books here, the Unfolding Lotus sutras included, are one of a kind. Very important to our school. Our lineage. For teaching, for study.”

  “So, they are, like, holy books?” I asked.

  Lobsang nodded.

  “Is the collection valuable? In monetary terms?”

  Lobsang put his hands together and pursed his lips. Very librarian.

  “Spiritual knowledge is beyond value.”

  Well, he would say that. “I mean—”

  “But yes, yes, there are texts here that are unique. No other, no copy, and very ancient.”

  “And you supervise anyone who looks at them? All the books are accounted for?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. But no one, no one here would betray the dharma.”

  I looked at him. Blank as blank. “What does—”

  “Harm them. They are artifacts. Beyond value,” he said again.

  This didn’t seem like a fruitful line of questioning and I wanted to get to the point.

  “So Choden was staying here? Living here?”

  “Yes. He would have a room in the visitor’s area, downstairs.”

  “I’m going to need to have a look and seal that room for the time being. Did he have a roommate?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Okay. I’ll have you show me that in a moment.” I paused. “Mr. Lobsang, can you think of any reason why someone would harm Choden? Did he have enemies? Create bad feelings?” Although, God, if bad feeling were all it took to get chopped in pieces, I’d have been compost long ago.

  Lobsang’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips again. Thinking. That must mean there was something.

  The Rinpoche re-entered the library holding a tall glass beaded with condensation. He handed it to me with a gesture so simple and elegant I felt that some ritual gift had been given to me. And damn if I didn’t bow my head.

  “Thank you,” I said and drank half the water down. I thought of Margo, possibly alone in the garden. I realized that we would need a much more organized questioning process in the days to come with over thirty people rambling around the place. These monks—the Rinpoche, Lobsang—were obviously going to play it close to the vest, and in fact, as the upper management of the place, they really might not have much information about a young, visiting student. The important thing was the ID of Choden and figuring out his next of kin and who here had actually known the guy. I needed to look at his room.

  “I was just asking Mr. Lobsang here about Choden. Did he have enemies, create a bad feeling, things of that nature? Because we are fairly certain that he was murdered, and with some violence and premeditation. So. That would suggest …”

  I waited for them to fill in the blanks. The Rinpoche remained standing with his head slightly bowed. They were both obviously comfortable with silence. And unreadable; they’d make a fortune as poker players. I’d have to be patient too. We were all quiet a few moments and I thought again of Margo, felt myself getting antsy.

  “As I said before,” the Rinpoche began, “I do not have personal knowledge of everyone here.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “Many come and go. But it is not the way of people here to behave with violence, to create enemies, or to commit murder. I simply cannot understand the connection to anyone at Shining Mountain.”

  Lobsang nodded. “He was very quiet. Very … committed to his study. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

  “It may not be connected to anyone here,” I said, “but as he was a foreigner, knowing no one, possibly, beyond the monastery, we have to begin here. Most murder victims know their attackers. Statistically.”

  Both men looked at me with mild expectancy but were utterly without curiosity or perceptible anxiety. Though I’d sensed a ripple of something earlier, now they presented a united front of calm, even disinterest. This kind of reception isn’t what the police normally get. When we show up to question people, they are usually a little more tense. Even innocent people get rattled by cops.

  “So, neither of you can think of any reason why Choden would have left the monastery or been killed?” I waited, but both men just continued to gaze at me. Enough beating a dead horse. “I’m going to need two things now. One, I need access to Choden’s room and then I will need to seal it. Two, one of you, perhaps Mr. Lobsang, will have to come down to the county hospital in Gold Creek tomorrow and make a formal identification of the body. I need to let you know that the victim was found, was found … the body was dismembered.”

  The two monks stiffened slightly and exchanged a glance.

  “I will come,” Lobsang agreed.

  “Anytime in the morning will be fine. I’ll let them know you are coming in. Thank you. And I’m sorry it’s so gruesome. The identification won’t be a long process, but it is a formality we must adhere to.”

  They both nodded and the Rinpoche gestured to the door and took my glass. I followed him out of the library, down the staircase, and to the hall. I felt deflated and excited both; we had an ID and a place to start. But something about the whole vibe in the place struck me, not as wrong, but as impenetrable. Maybe it’s because I’m not in the least spiritual, haven’t been since my brother Danny died, and that was a long time ago. Maybe it was that they were foreign to me. But they were lucky it was me and not Joe; he wouldn’t have lasted one minute in the place.

  “Choden’s room, then?”

  “Pema will assist you,” the Rinpoche said. “This is very terrible. Very shocking. I am sorry that you had to find his body and now carry this burden.”

  “Yeah, it’s not very nice. Not like anything I’ve seen before.”

  He nodded. “Please, ask Pema to assist you in whatever way. We are completely at the service of the police.” He bowed and turned away.

  “I’ll be back up with my colleagues to speak to you all more thoroughly,” I said before he completely disappeared. “It is important that no one leave the monastery for any length of time just now, until we have questioned all of you. We will have to ask everyone here about Choden and their relationship to him. I need to ask you to not inform anyone else that Choden has been killed.”

  He turned to face me. “Yes, I understand.”

  Chapter Seven

  I returned to the office and explained to Pema that the Rinpoche had identified Choden Khedrup as the man involved in my inquiry, and that I needed his information and to see his room. She agreed to take me to the room and while I was there, she would prepare copies of his personal file.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, deciding to run outside to check on Margo. I pulled open the side door in the outer entry vestibule that led into the garden. Margo sat on a bench under a pine tree, reading aloud to herself from a book. I decided not to bother her; she seemed content and if I interrupted her, she’d only want to come inside. I returned to Pema and followed her back down the hall to the rooms that lay under the second floor, opposite the atrium.

  Pema walked without speaking. The lack of curiosity of the people here was weird, and it was odd that it was so quiet. There were fifteen monks living here full-time, and another twenty-odd students. Where was everybody?

  “Pema, why isn’t there anyone around here, on a Sunday morning? The Rinpoche said that about thirty-five people are here right now, resident.”

  “Oh, the residence halls are up the hill,” she replied. “These rooms are for short-term visitors.”

  We stopped at a door, the end in a line of four. “Here is Choden’s room. It is a double room, but he’s in there by himself at the moment.”

  “How does life operate here? Do people go out to jobs? Do they stay and work here?”

  “Everyone works on site. We have quite a large vegetable garden in addition to the meditation garden where your daughter is. Cooking staff, and cleaning; we have a s
mall goat dairy and then there is the schedule of meditation, and instruction for novice monks and students. Days are full.” Pema smiled her beatific smile again.

  “Are you a nun?”

  “No, no. I am a student of the Rinpoche.”

  “Do you know Choden?”

  “I know who he is. He’s from China. He speaks Mandarin, Tibetan, Hindi, but only a little English. I only speak English, sadly. Though I study and read Sanskrit, of course.”

  The swirly lettering, that’s right. I’d heard of Sanskrit.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “I’ve been here just six months. I came from another community in New Hampshire, where the Rinpoche also teaches. Where he started, when he came to the U.S. I live in the hall with the nuns and other women residents.”

  “How many buildings are on the property? How much land does the monastery own?”

  “I’m not actually sure of how much land,” she mused. “A lot. You may have noticed a gravel road behind the goat barn. That leads up to the Temple and the cafeteria, and the housing for the long-term residents. And the dairy is up there, and another goat barn, and the vegetable garden. And we have a maintenance shop too. There are a few community vehicles, a small skidsteer to plow snow and clear land. That kind of thing.”

  “Wow,” I said, surprised. I’d had no idea; it hadn’t seemed so large when I’d been up here six years ago. Only twenty miles from town but a world of its own. It would be a bitch to search. There were probably dozens of possible murder weapons and tucked-away corners in which to bash a man over the head.

  “Yes, it’s pretty special. I love it here.” She gestured to the door.

  “Not locked?”

  “Oh, no, we don’t lock doors here. No need.” She bowed and left me.

  Maybe. Obviously, they weren’t as innocent a bunch as they thought, if Choden’s killer had been among the community. And now that I knew it was so large, how could it be otherwise? Who else would have reason to so violently end the life of a young Chinese grad student?

  Choden’s room smelled musty, and a bit boy-funky like my basement at home where Dan has his lair. The first thing I noticed when I entered the room was the large window and a thankga painting, or replica of one, hanging on the left wall. I stepped into the room to examine it. More peaceful than the wrathful deity in the Rinpoche’s office, these images of gods and Buddhas were still elaborate, colorful, and, to me, inexplicable.

  Abandoning the thankga, I stood and surveyed the room. Simple furnishings, not unlike a college dorm, with two single beds, one obviously slept in, the other piled with books; two plain wooden desks and chairs between the beds, facing the window. Two built-in closets immediately right and left of the door, two built-in dressers, and two small sinks. All a neutral color, or wood, very University of Zen. It was peaceful.

  The room looked as though Choden hadn’t been planning to leave anytime soon, judging by the piles of papers and books on the unused bed, and the clothes still hanging in the closet. A toothbrush stood in a clear glass at the sink; next to it lay a newish bar of soap that I recognized as Dr. Bronner’s. I had the same at home in my bathroom, a fact that sent a strange pang through my stomach. I imagined Choden at Manuela’s, the small, funky grocery that was the only option to Stewart’s IGA (and where they don’t stock hippie things like Dr. Bronner’s), choosing his soap, his toothpaste, perhaps a stash of treats to have in his room. A life full of the small details of existence. Had he been excited to be in the U.S.? Enjoying the trip away from the familiar, time away, perhaps, from family, obligations, friends?

  “Okay, Shan, let’s get a move on,” I said to myself and set my bag on the floor. I pulled out the baggie of latex gloves from a stash I carry. If I thought he’d been killed here, I’d leave it for the crime lab guy. But I wanted to see what I could find out about Choden so I could have something to tell the crew beyond his identity.

  The piles of books and papers on the unused bed was pretty haphazard, and I wondered if someone had been through them already or if he was just a typical messy young man. The sink was tidy, though, and both desks were bare. I pulled out the center drawers: only pens, loose notebook paper, and Starburst wrappers in one and nothing in the other.

  I moved to the pile on the bed: a few notebooks and legal pads. I picked up one at random; ideograms of an Asian language filled the first page. Flipping through the pages I noted that some from the back had been torn out. I replaced the notebook and moved to his closet. A simple collection of clothes hanging, one pair of Puma two-tone brown sneakers. The built-in dresser housed an equally spartan number of clothes, neatly folded and clean smelling. The bottom of the third drawer was empty. It appeared that Choden had been tidy in some of his habits and had not brought much. But where was his suitcase? And more important, his passport and wallet? I felt uneasy. His things were orderly, except for the books. So, had someone gone through those? No wallet or passport here, and of course the body had been found without clothes, so possibly the killer had Choden’s valuables. Would Choden have been wandering around with his passport? Maybe Pema had that downstairs. Still, only someone who knew he was missing—or dead—would go through his things, right? Or just take a ballsy opportunity, risking the fact that Choden might walk in. And what was important in these notebooks and books, to make them worth going through?

  A search of the other closet revealed the suitcase, and the second dresser held a man’s toiletry bag, a book in an Asian language, and a Ziploc bag with credit card receipts inside. I flipped through the book’s pages. I found nothing and moved on to the plastic bag. This I opened carefully; a folded piece of blue airmail stationery lay on the bottom of the small pile. I realized I was holding my breath. I set the Ziploc aside and unfolded the letter, the gloves making my fingers clumsy. The creases of the paper were worn, as if it had been folded and unfolded many times. Writing covered the page, inked characters of a foreign language that wasn’t recognizable to me and that didn’t look like the characters in the other books. I folded the paper and put it back in the plastic bag. All of this would have to be dusted, tagged, and bagged for evidence. And we would need a translator.

  I knelt down to check under the beds and mattresses; nothing. I returned to the papers and books. I sat down and separated them into piles: three notebooks and two legal pads covered in writing; a thick file full of typed and photocopied pages; loose papers with sketches and writing; and the books. These were pictorial, written in English, and contained images of thangka paintings. I glanced at the sketches—these appeared similar to the paintings in design. It seemed he had been interested in the iconic paintings as well as the sutras Lobsang had told me about. Perhaps he wanted to create his own paintings?

  I finished the sorting and stood, stretching to crack my back. Glanced at my watch; a little past noon. I’d been up here longer than I thought, and Margo would be restless. Someone would have to go over the room again; I’d just seal it and leave for now.

  I placed police tape across the door in a huge X pattern from the top of the door to the floor. I’d ask Pema to lock it too. Then I shouldered my bag and hurried downstairs. I collected a slim file of papers regarding Choden’s visit from Pema and asked if they kept the visitors’ passports for them. No, but a copy was made and it was in the documents she’d just given me. She affirmed that she would lock the door. I thanked her and went outside and back into the garden.

  It smelled of pine and rock and dust, and the midday sun shone bright. I scanned the area for Margo. I saw her finally, laying on her back on the ground. My heart leapt.

  “Margo!” my voice shattered the stillness.

  Margo sat up quickly. I strode over to where she lay.

  “You scared the spirits, mama.” Margo frowned up at me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I was watching the spirits in the fountain,” she said, pointing to yet another fountain which bubbled in a large pond, the one I remembered that had koi. “A
nd the fish. I was watching them too. But the spirits, they—”

  “Bear, I know you like to play pretend games and that’s great. But we’ve talked before about this whole imaginary friend thing, and—”

  “That’s different. TomTom is my friend; I’m talking about the spirits here.”

  Margo’s tone pure ‘duh Mom, why are you such an idiot?’ But I didn’t want to go down the rabbit hole of Margo’s invisible world right now. I loved my daughter but did not want to encourage her ‘psychic’ ramblings. Who has an imaginary spirit friend named TomTom, for God’s sake? It’s not like Margo lacked for actual human friends; she had a gaggle of them. Naomi told me it was nice that Margo had a spirit guide or guardian angel or whatever it was, but I felt unsure about it. My temper prickled and my head throbbed over one eye; it had been an oddly stressful morning. By the time we got down to town and I fed Margo lunch and figured out her childcare for the afternoon, it would be time for the meeting. I wanted to have my thoughts and notes together.

  “Bear—”

  “O-kay,” Margo replied, giving me a look.

  “Let’s go. Where’s your pack?”

  She ran over to get it off the bench and skipped ahead, pausing at the gate that led to the parking lot to look back at the fountain. She waved, flipped her hair, and darted through the gate toward the car. I followed, a feeling of unease building in my heart.

  Chapter Eight

  “Jesus, Joe, you could stand a spoon in this,” Bill said, stirring sugar into his cup.

  “Shannon made it,” Joe replied, rolling his eyes my way.

  “Well, my ulcers will thank you,” Bill grinned at me.

  “I want us to stay awake,” I said. “And I can’t make coffee in this thing. It’s ancient. And too big. I never know how much to put in.”

  We were waiting for Butch to arrive back from the morgue to review the details we had so far. It was Sunday mid-afternoon, and we were all jacked up on the pressure of dealing with our homicide and too much coffee.