by Elia Seely
Eli shook his head in the negative. “He left and then the Rinpoche came in … it just got lost. That’s my bad.” He reddened a little. “There was that one kid, Steven, who’d had a few interactions with Choden,” he added.
“That’s right,” I nodded, passing over the lapse with Rabten, then continued with my summary. “But the really interesting thing is what a female monk told me. She said that in Tibet there is a practice called ‘Sky Burial’ that involves dead bodies getting chopped up. And it’s a ritual thing and there’s this whole caste or whatever of people who do it.”
“Yeah, the Rinpoche, he mentioned that too,” Elijah added.
“Interesting,” Butch said. “So maybe we’ve got some kind of—what? Religious or ritual killing here?”
“That was my thought,” I said, and Elijah nodded too. “Though for what reason? I mean, the guy was twenty-six, totally unknown to everyone there. What would call for that kind of ritual killing?”
We were all silent. I could hear Margo’s cartoon jingles filtering through the screen under the sound of the crickets as the shadows deepened toward twilight.
Elijah then related the rest of his information, which wasn’t much. Steven’s understanding of the Tibetan religion and Choden’s nationality, Tenzin’s recollection of an argument between Lobsang and Choden. The Rinpoche’s knowledge of the Sky Burial. The other senior monk, Jampa, had not had any dealings with the student at all nor was he aware of Choden’s presence or absence.
The list of suspects was small. Or gigantic, depending on how you looked at it. But our short list consisted of Lobsang and possibly Tenzin; Steven could have known about Sky Burial, given his knowledge of the Tibetan religion, but there seemed to be no discernible motive. Since Dan wasn’t taking his pain meds after all, I agreed that I would return to the monastery tomorrow to talk to Tenzin and Lobsang again, as well as follow up alibi information. Jim would return to Fort Collins but would liaise with the CBI about fingerprint ID on the latents. Joe had patrol duty for the whole county and Butch had to be in court. Eli and I would be working our leads. Though Bill had agreed to spot us on the day dispatch shift, we were understaffed.
“I’ll call this Jerome guy too,” I offered. “Give me his number, Eli, and I’ll see if I can meet with him tomorrow. Oh, and Bill, did you get ahold of the emergency contact in India?”
“Nah,” Bill said, shrugging. “Tried three times. Connection was terrible and no one answered two of the times. Can’t imagine what it’ll cost you, long distance to India. They are twelve hours ahead, so you’ve got to plan it, as I think it’s maybe a place of work. One time they answered, it was in English and sounded like the name of something, you know, like a business, but I couldn’t understand it.”
“We really need to let someone know what’s happened. Jim, is there any way the Bureau would help us make contact? Maybe through a consulate or embassy or something?” I asked, feeling terrible for this young man’s mom, living her life like normal with no idea that her beloved boy was horribly mutilated and dead.
Jim agreed to take the info and try. There’d be repatriation and all kinds of official things that would need to be done through official channels anyway. He wasn’t sure if there was a Chinese diplomatic presence in Denver, but it was one thing off our list.
Around eight-thirty everyone started to go. Butch helped me carry in dirty dishes and empties. We made quick work of cleanup—why I love paper plates—and stood outside on the front porch when we’d finished. A few bats flitted over the rooftops, and Venus shone in the evening sky. We didn’t talk for a few minutes, both of us just savoring the peace.
“Well,” he said at last, “the monastery angle will probably be the main aspect of this—you okay leading that up? How are you fixed for childcare?”
“Butch, I want to do well here. I felt so angry today for Choden. I really feel like somebody has to have this poor guy’s back, and I guess that’s us. I won’t lie, I’m stretched. But I’ll figure it out. Margo’s got an art camp for a few hours this week, and Dan will be home now and not running around much just yet. And there’s Norma too, for some of the time. But she’s old and I don’t like to wear her out.”
“Chenno?”
“You know what a mess he is. He’s not even working at the MC’s main ranch right now; he’s up at their summer range in Big Fish fixing a cabin and building fence. Besides, he is absolutely my last resort. I think he’s drinking again.”
“Okay.” He said. “But I need you to be focused this week. Chances are we’ll get some help from the CBI and they can take the lead, get your schedule back to the early shifts so you’re home by three. But this week, all your attention. Is that doable?”
“Yes, yes, absolutely,” I said. I believed I could, it was only a few more days. In some ways Dan’s accident had been a blessing, though I would never say that aloud.
Butch left and I went back inside the house and unglued Margo from the TV. We talked a little about her art camp—pinch pots and handprints in clay for mom today—and I made her go to bed. Then down to check on Dan; he was asleep with the light on and magazines strewn everywhere and a copy of The Hobbit open on his stomach. Gently I removed the book and turned out the lights. I went back upstairs and got another beer and returned to sit on the front porch. It was almost full dark now, and pleasantly cool. The beer relaxed me, and I was fuzzy from all the mental exertion of the interviews and our meeting, and the stress of Dan’s accident. The day seemed like it had been a week long. I thought about the monastery and the monks, wondered what it would take to dismember a body. The strength, the detached focus—or fury—that would bend your mind away from what you were doing. But if it were a respect sort of thing, like a kind of last rites? I was far from understanding the beliefs that governed the monks. I shook my head, leaned back on the porch swing. The sky was deep indigo, the stars cold and far away.
Chapter Fifteen
I forced myself up from the porch swing and went in to call Jerome Taschen. I was tired but it would be good to get an appointment arranged. Hopefully at nine on a Monday night he’d be in. His temporary address was the Little Pine Motel, which is a funky 40s-era place that rents out kitchenette rooms by the week. The front desk operator connected me to his room. When he answered, his voice betrayed a clipped sort of accent I associated with the Germans on Hogan’s Heroes.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Jerome Taschen?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Shannon O’Connor and I’m a deputy with the Creek County Sheriff’s office. Sorry to bother you so late, but I need to speak with you as soon as possible in connection with a crime that has been committed.”
“A crime? But—where? I don’t—”
“A man who was staying at the Shining Mountain monastery has been killed—murdered—and your name has come up in connection with our inquiries. I just want to ask you a few questions about the dead man. I was told that you are writing some kind of article or book about the monastery?”
“Yes, well, I am writing about—it doesn’t matter. How did my name ‘come up,’ exactly?”
“Just that you may have information about the dead man and knowledge about the monastery that could be helpful. Could we speak tomorrow?”
“We can speak tonight if you want. I am not doing anything but avoiding my writing. Do you want to meet somewhere? Or you may come here?”
My mind did a few intricate loops around why I shouldn’t go tonight to speak to Mr. Taschen, not least of which were my kids sound asleep in bed. But they were safely tucked away, and I didn’t imagine I would be too long. I could determine the nature of Taschen’s relationship with Choden, find out what he knew, and be that much closer to getting our translator problem figured out, perhaps. I wanted to check some things off our list. I asked if he knew where the Double D diner was and that we could meet there, have a cup of coffee.
“Off the record?” he asked.
“Depends on what
you have to say,” I replied.
I locked the doors for a change and promised my sleeping kids I’d be back in thirty minutes. They’d be fine. It felt good to jump back into the Bronco with some purpose, and the excitement of talking to someone who might actually have something helpful to say and who wasn’t a Buddhist monk cleared my foggy brain. I eased out of the driveway with lights off, then made my way to Broad Street, the main thoroughfare through town. The Double D is on the south end of town, a small, dingy diner that stays open late. It took me just a few minutes to get there and I parked and walked in, surveying the counter and dining room for a German-looking guy sitting alone. I was first, apparently, as I knew by sight most of the people who were enjoying pie, coffee, or a plate of chicken fried steak. I nodded to a couple of older guys, retired BLM, who were playing checkers over cups of lethal looking coffee. I chose a table in the back where I could see the door.
Within a few minutes a tall, rangy, blond man walked in and looked around. I gave a little wave and he spotted me and walked over. I smoothed my hair that was kinking from being in the braid. He was a good-looking guy in a weathered sort of way. Similar, in fact, to Rabten.
I stood up as he approached. “Mr. Taschen?”
“Please, Jerome.”
“Thanks for coming, Jerome.” I waved at the bored teenage waitress reading a comic book at the counter. “I hope that you can help me with this inquiry.”
We both ordered coffee and when the waitress had filled our chunky mugs with black, oily brew, I began.
“Do you know a man called Choden, a young Chinese doctoral student staying at the monastery?”
“I do. Is he the person—?”
“Yes. I found his body this weekend. I spent the day up at the monastery today. Your name came up as one of Choden’s known associates. Can you tell me anything about him?”
“How was he killed? God, this is terrible. He was a really nice young man. And intelligent.”
I reminded myself that Jerome was a reporter and I needed to be careful with information.
“I have to say, first of all, that we haven’t talked to any press yet about this murder. It was especially brutal and we’re hoping to put off publicity until we have a few more answers. I know that you are a journalist …”
He waved his hand. “I’m not that kind of journalist. I do long form stories on topics far from the category of murder. But you have my assurance. I do not say anything to anyone.” He smiled and my belly did a little flip.
“So, you knew him?”
“Yes. I had some interactions with him because he was studying the Unfolding Lotus sutras.”
“Can you explain why these sutras are so special? They keep coming up. Aside from being old, are they significant?”
“There is a myth in some of the more obscure tributaries of Buddhism that speak of the power that reciting certain sutras can give. Choden was studying these myths, looking for this magic—you understand? It is very—what is the word?—esoteric. Not mainstream Buddhism at all, not even mainstream Tibetan Buddhism. I am interested in these spiritual topics and where the intellect meets the magical. I knew that Shining Mountain had these Unfolding Lotus sutras which may be an example of the ones spoken of, in the myths.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to take this in. “So, he was writing his doctoral thesis on these mythical religious texts?”
Jerome shrugged. “He was interested in this esoteric knowledge. I am not sure exactly what his thesis is—or was. But he will have materials among his things. It should not be hard to discover.”
“Well, it’s all in Chinese.”
“Oh, yes, it would be. I spoke Mandarin with him. I lived for many years in China and Tibet, and so, though we are very different, we have a language in common. It was nice for him, I think, to have someone to speak to. He was a shy, studious young man.”
Jerome’s English was very good too, and I found myself wondering why we Americans are so resolute in speaking just one language.
“Mr. Taschen—Jerome—can you tell me where you were last week and over the weekend?”
“You are questioning my movements?” He gave me a small smile. “Am I suspected?”
“To eliminate you. Maybe you can help account for Choden’s whereabouts, help narrow down the time of death.”
He took a sip of coffee and leaned toward me. He had a nice smell. I couldn’t identify it, but I liked it. Woodsy, clean, and warm.
“So … last week? Beginning when?”
“Thursday.”
“I went to Boulder on Wednesday to speak with a man there who is very learned in the Shambala Buddhist tradition. I wanted his opinion of these mystical Buddhist ideas. I spent the night there with a friend,” his eyes flicked away and I felt an unreasonable stab of jealousy. “And then I returned on Thursday to write up my notes. I went for a run—”
“Where did you run?”
“I went to the Gold Creek County Park; I like to run on the trails there.”
I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck and I was jolted out of my girlish enjoyment of his company. What if he was some kind of charming psychopath? A possible suspect?
He noticed my reaction. “Is that where you found him? In the park?”
I hesitated. But it was too late; my face betrayed the accuracy of his assumption.
“Yes. That is where I found the body. I was off duty and out for a run myself.”
He reached out and touched my arm briefly. “I am sorry. This is terrible for you.”
I was disarmed by his compassion; I reached for my coffee and broke our gaze.
“And did you see anything or anyone unusual at the park?” I asked.
“No. In fact, I saw no one. When I was leaving there was a car coming in with a man and woman inside. No one else.”
“I don’t suppose you noticed the license plates? Make of the car?”
“The license—no. It was …” he thought a moment. “It was a Subaru, a station wagon. Blue. Very dirty.”
I fished a notebook out of my handbag. I scribbled down the car details. One of us would have to follow up later. There were only a few hundred Subarus in Gold Creek, and most of them dirty. No problem.
“And you have a car, obviously? What make?”
“I am borrowing a car from my friend in Boulder,” he said. “A red Chevy pick-up. Small. With a white top on the back.”
“A canopy?”
“Yes, that is the word.”
“Okay. What trail did you run?”
“The Little Gold Creek trail. The one that goes up to the left, that crosses the train track—you know it?”
“Yes.” Not the trail where Choden was found, although that was easy enough to lie about. “And then what did you do?”
“I went back to my place and took a shower and made some coffee …” he reflected. “But—I did see Choden that night. I was thinking it was Friday, but it was the same day I came back from Boulder. I went out about 8 o’clock to have some dinner. Just to the Chinese restaurant. He came in not long after I arrived, and I asked him to sit with me. We had a meal, talked some about his life at home, these kinds of things.”
“So, this last Thursday night you had dinner with Choden from about eight to when?”
Jerome closed his eyes briefly. “It was maybe nine-fifteen when he left, because he needed to go back to the church, where there was a meditation and dharma talk, so he would not miss his ride back to the monastery.”
“It’s only a five-minute walk from Soo Long’s to the church. But the monk who was driving him back says that he never showed up, and he drove back up alone.”
Jerome looked steadily at me. “Well, what I know is that he had the intention to go back. Who is the monk?”
“Rabten. Do you know him?”
“Oh, yes, he’s very learned. Very—enthusiastic.”
“Reliable?”
Jerome shrugged. “That—I cannot say. But why not? Of them all he strikes me as
the most devout. If he says that Choden did not arrive to go with him, then I would assume that he is telling the truth.”
I am a little more jaded about people’s capacity for truth, but he was probably right. I made notes in the notebook, aware of Jerome watching me. If Jerome’s story was true, and Rabten was telling the truth as well, then Choden went missing after nine-fifteen on Thursday night, walking in plain sight on the main street of town. Summertime, would have been plenty of people out, someone would have seen something.
“Was there anyone else in Soo Long’s?”
Jerome gave me that small smile again. “A group of young people and an older couple and many who came in and out for take-away. And the waitress.”
“And Friday? What did you do?”
“Friday, I went up to the monastery to speak with the Rinpoche. I met with him before lunch, took a walk, ate in the cafeteria. I returned to the library after lunch to look at some texts with Lobsang—the librarian. I was there until about three. You could ask the Rinpoche and Lobsang to confirm that.”
I scribbled in my notebook. “And then?” Depending on what had happened on Thursday night to Choden, there was an outside chance that Jerome had an opportunity to kill him on Friday. I realized what had been an informal opportunity to learn about Choden had become a conversation with a potential suspect. But of course, I hadn’t cautioned him and anything he said at this point was inadmissible.
He thought. “I came back to my room at the motel. I went running, just in town here. I took a shower, had a meal at the steakhouse on the main road. I ate in the bar and stayed there talking with some men about politics and Ronald Reagan. I drank rather too much whiskey and came back here around eleven; I am not exactly sure of the time. I went to sleep. Alone.” He smiled.
