A Fractured Peace

by Elia Seely

  “What exactly is a sutra, anyway?”

  “Simply, they are the teachings of the Buddha. There are thousands of them and mostly they’re pretty complex. We have some very rare sutras here and Choden was studying them. It’s quite special they are here in the U.S., a testament to the respect and reputation of the Rinpoche. He came to the West at the behest of his teacher in Dharmsala.”

  I noticed she was now using the past tense to refer to Choden. Unconscious slip? Or did she know he was dead? I’d asked the Rinpoche not to tell anyone that Choden had been killed. Had he disregarded that? “Well, we will let you know when we’re ready. Should just be a few minutes, while we get organized.” I gave her my most dazzling smile.

  She nodded and smiled at both of us. Elijah watched her go while I poured us glasses of water.

  “We need to get more information on all of this Buddhist stuff, so we can understand how, if at all, religion plays into this crime,” I said.

  “Seems like there’s been a lot of bloody politics in Buddhist cultures over the years—like the whole China-Tibet thing—despite their teachings of non-violence,” Elijah replied. “And those monks setting themselves on fire—back in the 60s, right? Vietnam?”

  “But that’s more like political protest, isn’t it? Awful.” I shivered. What kind of faith or mindset would you have to have to set yourself on fire? I felt both curious and nervous about interviewing the resident monks.

  I pulled the file that Pema had given me yesterday out of my bag and reviewed Choden’s application to study at the monastery.

  “There’s not much in this file, really. An address in India, probably his residence, and also an address and phone at the university.”

  “Emergency contact?”

  “Amrita Naraswany.”

  “Wife?”

  “He didn’t specify. Sounds Indian though, and the last name is different. Maybe someone he works with?”

  “But you’ve got a number?”

  “Yes. We definitely need to contact her now the there’s been an ID. Probably should have done that yesterday.” I felt bad for Amrita, whoever she was, blissfully ignorant of the death of Choden. “You know—we should call down and have Bill try to get through to this number. Whatever time it is in India right now—God knows. Would you run down and phone him? And then let Pema know that we’re ready to start seeing folks.”

  “Sure, yeah.” He rose and left with the file.

  While Elijah phoned the sheriff’s office, I looked again at the lists of names. Choden’s killer had to be someone that he had encountered in his time in the U.S. The possibility of Choden having some enemy who had followed him to Colorado just didn’t seem feasible. Had he previously known anyone at the monastery? Or from the area? I found myself wanting the killer to be outside of the monastic community. I thought of the Rinpoche, his benevolent eyes and seemingly compassionate way of taking in the world. Was he a great man? Better, somehow, than the rest of his fellow humans?

  I don’t know what I think about enlightenment, whatever that really means, or what might lie beyond that. When my brother Danny died, I had been completely devastated, and at the age of nine I didn’t have any kind of way to think about his absence other than to miss him and be terribly sad and angry. I remember asking my mother if God had taken Danny away, and why, but I have no memory of what she said or that it helped. What would I tell Margo if something terrible happened to our Dan? My gut clenched at the thought. I know having children makes some people more aware of mortality and what lies beyond, but for me the act of parenting is such a daily demand that I can’t really think beyond the present.

  “Shan?” Elijah touched my arm.

  “Sorry. Miles away. Get through to Bill?”

  “Yep. He’s going to look up the time zone and try to make the call.”

  “Okay, shall we get started? Why don’t you take that table at the front, and I’ll stay here in the back.”

  “Sounds good.” Elijah rose and went to the front table. “Pema said she’d manage everyone coming up a few at a time, to wait in the hall, and then rotate more through.”

  “Okay. Let’s git ‘er done,” I smiled, in my best loving imitation of Butch.

  Chapter Ten

  The interviews began with the resident monks. The monastery housed a few female monastics, which surprised me, though I couldn’t reconcile their shaved heads and orange robes with my idea of what a ‘nun’ was. A couple of them looked quite young. I could not imagine what would draw anyone to the monastic life. I had to admit to myself that I was totally ignorant of this world I had entered.

  At one o’clock we took a break, having made it through ten of the fifteen monks who called Shining Mountain their home, as well as a few of the lay residents. Pema brought up a plate of steaming food for each of us. Her clear gaze rested on Elijah the moment she entered the room, and her face flushed as she handed him his plate.

  “I think she likes you,” I said to Elijah through a mouthful of rice.

  “Shut up.” Elijah dipped his head and shoveled in his food.

  We ate the rest of the meal in silence. I found the interviews draining, asking the same questions about Choden over and over, listening intently for information and watching responses. I finished my last forkful and pushed the plate away.

  “Getting anywhere?” Elijah asked.

  “What I’m finding is that no one had any real knowledge about Choden. Some of them knew who he was, of course, because of seeing him at meditation, meals, etc. But they have their schedule pretty set: get up, go to the temple to meditate. Then breakfast and onto their chores. Lunch, more meditation, more chores, dinner, repeat. It seems like a pretty ordered sort of life. As a visitor, Choden observed the meditation times and meals, but otherwise didn’t really engage with the working life.”

  “I’ve got the same, mostly. No one was keeping track of him, so no one so far knows when he left, with whom, or how. He didn’t have a car, I know that.”

  “No? I guess he wouldn’t; he would have to have rented it in Denver and then weeks up here—that would get expensive. If he could drive.”

  “Yeah, and the parking is pretty limited. The community owns only four vehicles. Four cars for thirty-five people— four of the five monks I spoke to don’t drive anyway— the foreign ones. Choden wouldn’t have been allowed to keep a car here unless he was just staying overnight.”

  “So how did he leave?”

  “In pieces?”

  “Jesus, that’s not funny!”

  Elijah blushed. “Sorry. But, I mean, it’s possible that he was killed here and then taken up to Gold Creek Park.”

  “That implies someone with a car, who came up with the purpose of killing him, or who lives here, or who took him out alive and then did it.”

  “Anyone here has access to the cars. There’s a large transport van, two work trucks, and a Subaru station wagon. My guess is that the CBI will have to go over the whole site: cars, buildings, etc. If he was dismembered here, there would be a hell of a bloodbath somewhere. Unlikely the killer would get all of it cleaned up.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but really, can you imagine the Rinpoche chopping off someone’s head? Or being party to such a thing?”

  “It wouldn’t likely be the Rinpoche—I’m not implying that. We’ve got to question him too, though. Get his whereabouts for the likely time of death.”

  “It would be helpful if Kyle had a more approximate window for us.”

  Elijah shrugged. “Outdoor scene, hard to say. But it had to be Friday night, right? ‘Cause there’s no way those entrails would have lasted more than a day, tops.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” I stared out the window a moment. A little coffee would have been great right about now. I yawned. “So, you didn’t talk to anyone who had any kind of relationship with Choden?”

  “There was one guy, Steven, a long term student, who had a couple interactions with him. Steven said that he knew Choden was actually only half-Chine
se. I guess his father was Tibetan, though of course from the government perspective, Tibet is China, or part of China. Choden was an enthusiast for Tibetan culture. Not just Buddhism, but the original Tibetan religion.” Elijah scanned his notes. “Bon, it’s called. It’s the indigenous spiritual tradition, or at least one that predated Buddhism. But they all got mixed together. I gathered that it’s more shamanistic than Buddhism. But, like Christianity, the Buddhists sort of absorbed the Bon deities and myths and stuff. A lot of the images you see on these paintings are different gods and goddesses.” Elijah gestured to the thangkas on the wall. “Steven seemed pretty gung-ho on the Tibetans himself. Seemed to know a lot about them.”

  “Choden had some books about the thangkas, some sketches too. Maybe his Tibetan heritage explains his interest there. Did this Steven have any thoughts about why Choden was killed?”

  Elijah shook his head. “Nah. I had the feeling that maybe he knew already.”

  “There had to have been some gossip, even though I asked the Rinpoche not to say anything to anybody. I thought that a couple of my interviewees were actually a little too unsurprised. Though it’s hard to tell because they’re all so damn unreadable anyway.”

  Pema entered the room, causing Elijah to sit up straighter in his chair. She gathered our plates. “Are you ready to begin again? There is a rest period now, so it would be a good time to see the senior monks and teachers.”

  “How many people would that be?”

  “Five. Lobsang, Tenzin, Jampa, Rabten, and Tsewang. And then, of course, the Rinpoche makes six.”

  “Okay. We’re ready.”

  Pema paused before going out. “The Rinpoche did have to tell some of us about Choden last night. He thought it best. Especially the senior monks. They are the leaders of the community.” She gave her little bow and left.

  So, she did know, which meant other non-management type residents could have too. Which meant we were possibly getting carefully rehearsed responses to our questions.

  “The heavy hitters now,” Elijah mused, rubbing his beard. “One of them will know something. They have to. These are the guys who drive the cars, I bet.”

  “And the ones who interact the most with the outside too. You’re right. We might get somewhere now.” I heaved myself up and returned with my water and notepad to my own table.

  I heard a slight knock and two people entered the room. The senior monks wore red robes as opposed to the orange of the novices. Sunlight filtering in from the window illuminated their faces with an almost holy glow. They were both white, and one of them was a woman.

  The woman sat down at my table. She looked about fifty years old. Her hair cropped and graying, her smooth face brown from the sun. Her eyes had seen some life, had known pain too I’d bet; I’d seen her look before working with women who put up with a lot of drinking and men’s tempers.

  “I need your name, your role here at the monastery, and your movements for the last two days, in particular Friday.” I said, trying to put a little life into my voice. I knew these questions off by heart by now.

  “My name is Tsewang, and I’ve been at this monastery for five years. I lived for five years at the Rinpoche’s other community in New Hampshire. Before that I lived a secular life,” she paused. “As a wife and a professional: I was a public defender in Atlanta. Divorce and the resulting dissolution of the rest of my life, as I had known it, brought me deeper into my Buddhist practice and eventually to choose a monastic path. I’ve been very happy here, very content. I am shocked, as is everyone, that Choden has been killed.”

  “Your legal name? And your activities the last two days?”

  She smiled faintly, face crinkling. “My given name is Susan Robicheaux. As for my activities, I’ve been here. I oversee the administrative aspects of the monastery, with the others, of course. We have a kind of council. But the book-keeping, general management of support staff, and so on, come to me. In fact, I rarely leave the grounds here. I prefer an enclosed life.”

  “You have been here, in the monastery, since Friday?”

  Tsewang nodded.

  “Do you drive?”

  “Of course, I can. I rarely do, however.”

  “Who has access to the vehicles? Is there any record-keeping about who takes them and where and for what purpose?”

  “Technically anyone in the community can use a car if they have a license and a reason and one is available. But typically, only members of the senior staff use the cars. There is a sign-up book in the reception office. The keys are in a box there too.”

  “Locked?”

  Tsewang’s eyebrows went up. “No, there is no reason for them to be. Other than this shocking occurrence, we don’t have crime here. Yes, people squabble, even fight sometimes. But we’re a community devoted to our practice and a peaceful way of life.”

  “Did you know Choden? Interact with him? Did you notice when he left the monastery?”

  Tsewang let her eyes drift to the windows. Her hand smoothed absently over her thigh, rustling across the soft red fabric. She thought so long that I finally cleared my throat, ready to ask the questions again.

  “I am involved with processing guest requests if they intend long term stay. As a committee, we assess applications for study, residency, and so on. He applied to stay for three months— the longest his visa allowed— to read the Unfolding Lotus sutras, and generally partake in the teachings of the Rinpoche. Choden was part of a sangha in Dharmsala that is of the same school, or lineage teaching, as our own. He is also a student of languages and Buddhist teachings at the Dharma Gate University there.”

  I felt like she wasn’t really answering the questions. Was it evasion? A cultural difference? Although Tsewang, formerly Ms. American Lawyer, had no excuse there. I was definitely irritated by this woman’s indifference. Though she said they were all so shocked, I could see no evidence of any emotional distress. Their collective response pissed me off, though honestly, none of them had really known him and he’d only been at the monastery a short time. I guess I couldn’t expect outrage, or shock. But I wanted it. Because I had a response: I was angry. I had been shocked; finding him was burned into my brain for probably the rest of my life.

  “Are you aware how Choden died?” I tried to keep an edge from my voice.

  “No, Rinpoche only told us that he had been killed outside the monastery, and that we were to keep that to ourselves until authorities arrived.” Tsewang’s face betrayed no flicker of curiosity.

  “I found his head,” I said, flinging the words at her. “He was dismembered.”

  Tsewang flinched, but remained silent, and I became aware that both Elijah and the man with him had stopped speaking too. Elijah raised his eyebrows at me in question. I looked away. The non-sound in the room pressed around me. I had an urge to stand up and shake Tsewang by the shoulders. I took another deep breath.

  “Let me ask you again: did you know Choden had left the monastery? Did you have any interactions with him?”

  “You realize that in Tibet the tradition of Sky Burial, or ritual dismemberment after death, is still quite common?”

  “Sky Burial? Tell me more about this tradition. Would everyone here know about it, and, uh, how to perform it?”

  “You say you found his head? Were there other body parts?”

  “Yes, but they were fairly scattered.” I couldn’t think of any reason not to disclose this information.

  Tsewang now looked clearly troubled, and I have to say I felt distinct satisfaction in having ruffled her.

  “I don’t know who would be aware of the tradition. Anyone could know about it; certainly the Tibetan and Chinese members of our community. The American and Europeans not so much, although it’s an ancient practice and I would imagine information about it is pretty widely available.”

  Widely available where? I wondered. The Encyclopedia? Under how to chop up a body?

  “But,” Tsewang continued, “though anyone could find out about this practice, it i
s very elaborate and ritualistic, and typically performed by a rogyapa and presided over by a lama. I am not saying that his dismemberment is a Sky Burial, you understand. Or that it was the method of death. I don’t want to unnecessarily implicate any of our community here.” Tsewang’s eyes sharpened.

  Ms. American Lawyer indeed. “At this point no-one and anyone may be implicated. Now, did you know that Choden had left—”

  Tsewang put up a hand. “Of course, you’ve asked me already, I’m sorry. No, I was not aware that Choden had left the monastery for any reason. He had only been here a short time—two weeks or a little more. You should speak to Rabten, he had several interactions with him, and Lobsang. And I know there was a journalist, or a writer, who came up here to speak with him a couple times. I don’t know his name. He and Choden had similar interests, I believe. But I can’t really tell you more.”

  “And your movements Friday, can someone corroborate them?”

  Tsewang looked at me steadily. “I participate in our religious life with everyone else. After the morning meditation I had meetings with the Rinpoche, with other members of staff. With Pema going over some data entry tasks.”

  “And what about the day before—Thursday?”

  “Much the same. Thursday a group goes down to facilitate meditation and dharma talks in Gold Creek in the evening. But they go straight there and back, and I can’t imagine that anyone could— no. But Choden could have gone down with them. You would need to check the roster of duties. We all do it. But I did not this Thursday.”

  I nodded, making notes across my yellow legal pad. Of course, everyone’s alibi would be checked, but it seemed that given the kind of communal life they lived, it would be hard for any of the core members to get away without someone noticing. Her Saturday morning movements were the same as she’d described—all routine. The monotony of it would have made me crazy, but it seemed she found it comforting.