by Elia Seely
Not an iron-clad alibi, but we could easily confirm his presence at Ruby’s Steakhouse. I knew the regular bartender there. But Jerome could have left and met with Choden, killing him and taking him up to the County Park. I’d have to check with the night staff at the motel, they could have seen him coming in or leaving.
“Did you drive home from Ruby’s?”
“Well, I walked there. It is about a mile from here. Not so far. I walked back. Rather slower.”
“Did you go into the lobby of the motel before going to your room?”
“Ah! Yes, I did. I bought cigarettes from the machine in the lobby. I spoke to the man who is on the desk at night. Albert, I think his name is. He will remember.”
“We will have to follow up on all of your movements, and you’ll need to come and sign a typed statement by tomorrow summarizing what you’ve just told me. I may need to contact you again—”
“I hope you do.”
Was he flirting with me? It would not be a good idea to encourage any kind of thing with this man, though I was definitely attracted to him. I glanced toward the counter and saw the clock on the wall. It was almost ten; I had been gone longer than I expected.
“I need to go,” I said, standing and fishing for a couple of dollars from my pocket. “I’ll be in touch. Thanks for meeting me.”
He stood and we shook hands. I both liked and didn’t like the glance that passed between us. Different place and time, I’d be headed to the ladies’ to get a condom out of the machine. But now I needed to stay focused, clear, and on-task. And my kids were home alone.
“Okay,” I said, as I eased away. “Thanks again.” I turned and walked out, aware again of him watching me. I felt excited. Not just because of the attraction, though that was strong enough. But because we had a little bit of a lead, and I knew I’d be talking to Jerome again. It would be easy to confirm his alibi—I didn’t really figure him for a killer, what would be the motive? Maybe we could get him to translate Choden’s documents. I smiled as I got into my Bronco, a smile that lasted all the way home.
The house was dark; I crept in silently and checked on the kids. Dan snored softly and was totally out. Margo lay burrowed between pillows as usual with several Barbies scattered about the bed. She said my name softly as I entered, but she was asleep; I hushed her and went to get ready for bed myself. Tomorrow would be another long day.
As I brushed my teeth, I thought about the last time I’d been on a date. I used to see this man called Mack, an older guy who liked to hike and fish and ski, and occasionally take me dancing at Ruby’s when they had a band in the bar. We’d had an on-off thing for a couple of years. He was never going to be dad material, had been clear about that, but I had been terribly lonely after splitting up with Chenno and overwhelmed with the kids. I’d stopped things because my behavior was getting out of control and I didn’t like who I was with him. Tonight’s little excursion brought back some of those feelings, of sneaking out to meet him once the kids were asleep, leaving them alone for a few hours so I could feel loved and free. Dan had been twelve then, and Margo six. I knew that I was reckless sometimes—how I’d gotten pregnant in the first place—and my adult self of course didn’t approve. But there seemed to be a rebellious teenager inside of me that I couldn’t always control.
I finished up my evening routine, looking critically in the mirror. There were circles under my eyes and my hair needed trimming; I was looking older. Getting older. I wondered if I would ever have a partner again, a man to help the kids grow up, to get old with. I sighed. Gold Creek isn’t exactly prime hunting ground for women nearing 40 with kids. I chucked the towel at the mirror, turned off the light, and went to bed.
Chapter Sixteen
I checked in with Butch before heading up to the monastery, filling him in about my meeting with Jerome. I had a long to-do list, including re-interviewing our short suspect list and giving the local paper a watered down version of the crime for this week’s edition. The horror of Choden’s murder had already started to fade, becoming just another tragedy dulled by passing time and paperwork.
A different girl was in the monastery office when I checked in. She told me that the Rinpoche was away at some kind of conference but would be back the following day. Tenzin I could find in the kitchen, where he worked. I decided to tackle him first.
It was a little after 10 a.m. and the big kitchen already smelled like a good Indian restaurant. Huge pots simmered on the stove. Tenzin was chopping up carrots with a shiny and lethal-looking cleaver. I noticed his big hands and forearms decorated with swirly tattoos. An image of his cleaver coming down on Choden’s neck flashed through my mind. I shivered a little and fiddled with the radio on my duty belt to mask the response. Tenzin looked up as I came closer. He wore a black chef’s coat and black and white checkered pants, and a black beanie covered his shaved head.
“Deputy,” he said, by way of greeting.
“Good morning,” I replied. “Tenzin, right?”
He nodded and kept chopping.
“I’d like to follow up on your statement from yesterday. Clarify a couple of things.”
“All right.” He lay his cleaver down. “Would you like tea?”
I nodded, more to seem sociable than from thirst, and he went out to the dining area and returned with two small mugs steaming with a pale green liquid. It smelled pleasantly fragrant, like flowers. He pulled a metal stool out from under the stainless steel worktable and gestured for me to do the same. I sat, grabbed my notebook and Eli’s interview notes from my bag.
“You mentioned that you overheard Choden and Lobsang having an argument. Can you tell me more about that?”
Tenzin took off his beanie and set it on the table, rubbing his head with his hand. He had pale blue eyes and a puffy face. He looked fairly unhealthy. I wondered if he might be unwell.
“I don’t really know what it was about. I told your colleague. They were speaking Mandarin and I don’t speak much, though I can read it okay. But it was clear they were arguing. Lobsang looked fit to kill.” He blinked and looked away. “Figure of speech. They were going at it, standing toe to toe, pointing, you know, that kind of thing. They were out there, in the dining room. When they saw me, they ended the conversation rather abruptly and Lobsang walked away. I spoke to Choden, as well as I could with his limited English and my poor Mandarin. I asked him if he was all right, that kind of thing.”
“So, you knew Choden well enough to take an interest in his emotional state after this argument?”
Tenzin blushed, an unattractive mottled red that rose patchily over his throat. “I wouldn’t say that. But he was clearly upset. It seemed the kind thing to do.”
“And what did Choden say? When you asked?”
“He made light of the whole thing. A philosophical difference, he said.”
“And did you believe him? Since it was clearly not a light disagreement?”
“Don’t read anything into this,” Tenzin said, a note of belligerence rising in his voice. “It was an argument over some bit of research or other. Choden was young. He was fired up about spreading the dharma, all that. My guess is that Choden wanted to make a copy of the Unfolding Lotus sutras, and Lobsang told him no way. They aren’t meant to be copied. Lobsang is old school. He’d have told Choden to memorize it like everyone else.”
These damn sutras again. Of course, it made sense; they had been Choden’s primary topic of study. But I remained skeptical. People didn’t get chopped up for old books. At least not in any world I was familiar with. I decided to be direct, see if I could throw Tenzin a bit. Something had him rattled, otherwise, why get angry?
“As I’m sure my colleague described, Choden was quite brutally murdered. Do you feel that anyone here would be capable of that, or have a motive to do such a thing? What would be the reason to give—to do …” I struggled for the right word. “To perform this Sky Burial, if that’s what it was?”
Tenzin slurped his tea. His expression shutt
ered and he stared down at his cup. I was surprised to see his eyes were moist. Had he been closer to Choden than he was letting on? Although it seemed implausible; Tenzin was my age if not older and Choden was young and a stranger. It was unlikely they’d formed a close bond. I waited.
“I don’t know anyone that is capable of committing such a crime. No one here would have any motivation to do this. Not because of any argument. I can’t imagine it.”
“We rarely know our fellow humans,” I said. “You’ve lived long enough to figure that out.” He looked at me and looked away. “Where were you Thursday evening and Friday of last week?”
“I told—”
“Well, tell me.”
He sighed. “Thursday I was at the evening meditation here from 7-9 p.m. Then I went to my room and went to bed. I get up early to attend the 4 a.m. meditation and make breakfast.”
He’d told Eli as much. I thought that it would be easy enough to verify his presence at the evening meditation. Although if most of the community attended, it might be easy for him to sneak out unseen as well—besides, weren’t their eyes going to be closed?—and get a vehicle and high tail it to town to meet up with Choden. He could have known the young man planned to go to town with Rabten and would know the basic schedule of the talks at the church. Or, for that matter, he could have stayed for the entire meditation and still made it to town by around nine-thirty if he’d pushed it.
“Can anyone corroborate that you went to your room and didn’t leave?”
“No. I don’t know.” His face reddened again.
“Did you speak to anyone in the residence, maybe in the hall, a bathroom?”
He thought, his eyes moving toward the window. “No. I don’t remember, really. I might have. But probably not.”
I noted this fact in my notebook.
“Do you live in the same building with the rest of the visitors and students? Or do you senior staff have different quarters?” I wanted to at least narrow the field of those I’d have to ask to corroborate his story.
“The residence facility is divided into male and female dorms, although the female residence wing is much smaller. The Rinpoche has a larger apartment on the top of the men’s wing; myself, Lobsang, and Rabten all have rooms on that floor as well. Jampa lives on the floor below along with other resident monks. Below that is the floor for students and other resident non-monastics. “So,” he said, anticipating my next question, “the only people who would have seen me would have been those three. The Rinpoche stays in the temple after to clear away ritual items and so on, and he often then goes to his office to work. Rabten was in Gold Creek, and Lobsang—well, I didn’t see him after the meditation.”
This was good information—and it opened up questions about where Lobsang was at the time as well.
“And Friday evening?”
“The same. We have a rhythm. Some people would find it boring or monotonous, but I find it peaceful. Orderly. It’s a good way of life. And no, I don’t remember if I spoke to or saw anyone after meditation on Friday either.” He shrugged. “The days blend together.”
Tenzin had kept his eyes focused on the window as he spoke. Finally, he met my gaze. “I liked Choden. I feel bad this happened to him. I have no idea why, or who did it. I think that the similarity to Sky Burial is coincidental. I don’t believe that his murderer resides here. It’s just not possible. Do you know anything about Buddhism?”
I didn’t want to get into a religious discussion, but I did know it would be helpful to understand the way these monks saw life. Maybe Tenzin was right, maybe the killer wasn’t among the monastery community. But it didn’t make sense that it would be anyone else.
“Not really,” I answered him. “I mean, I understand that there is a principle of non-violence. But it seems to me you could say that about Christians or Jews or whoever. But plenty of wars still get fought—often in the name of religion. Aren’t the Chinese primarily Buddhist? And yet, they’ve persecuted the Tibetans, right? So, I suppose, Tenzin, the whole non-violence thing doesn’t really wash with me.”
Tenzin laughed bitterly. “I will have to concede your point as to the Chinese,” he said, “although technically they are atheist communists. But those of us who choose a monastic life—it’s just not possible. Look, I don’t know anything, and I’ve got lunch for thirty-five people to fix. I think you are barking up the wrong tree,” he said, rising. “No one here could have wanted to harm Choden. No one would have. There may have been differences in opinion as to our philosophy, but this would not have been a motive for murder. I think you should focus your efforts on finding the person who did do it.” He replaced his hat, took our mugs, and went to the sink. He washed his hands, his back to me. It was a dismissal.
“Thank you for your time,” I said, irritated. I didn’t think he should tell me my job, and he had no idea how unlikely it would be for some random person to have chopped up Choden in the County Park. I had a gut instinct that his relationship to Choden had been more than he was telling me. Perhaps they had corresponded? Met at some monastic gathering?
“Have you ever lived in China or Tibet?”
“No,” he turned. “Midwestern boy all my life until finding the teachings of the Rinpoche. Then I lived in his community in New Hampshire and then came here.”
“You’ve always been a monk?”
“For the last fifteen years. Secular life didn’t suit me. This does.” He picked up his cleaver and started chopping carrots again.
I watched him a moment and left the kitchen. The cleaver could easily have been the weapon. I decided that I would ask Butch if we could test the kitchen knives with Luminol. Blood has a way of getting in cracks and hiding ‘unseen’ until it shows up under the light. I made a mental note to call Jim too, and ask his opinion of testing the knives. He’d have a better idea whether after a few days’ time it would be worth it to do so—and, of course, when he could do it and how much it would cost us.
I exited the kitchen and emerged into a large vegetable garden. I took a few breaths of fresh air and made some notes in my notebook. I wasn’t really satisfied with this interview. But it was time to move on to Lobsang and see if he would shed light on his argument with Choden. I wanted to make quick work of these interviews and get back down to my kids.
There hadn’t seemed to be any way to avoid leaving them for a few hours, but Margo had her camp and Dan had promised me he’d be okay and didn’t need the pain meds. He agreed to make sure she got off all right to camp and then park himself on the couch. Should I call him from reception? I dithered about it and then went back down the road to the main building and reception office. The new girl was on the phone, and I didn’t like to hover, wasting time. I decided to just head up to the library to see Lobsang. The kids would be fine. I sighed, full of the mix of guilt and love that I always feel, and walked toward my next interview.
Chapter Seventeen
I entered the library and immediately experienced that special hushed, expectant feeling; the idea that you were being watched and should be on best behavior, and also that sense of anticipation. What would you find? I had loved my small-town library as a kid, loved to read mystery and adventure stories: Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden.
There was no evidence of Lobsang. I tried the office where I’d taken the phone call yesterday from Norma. He was there, on the phone in fact, speaking in rapid fire Chinese or whatever it was. He acknowledged me with a nod when I entered. I pointed to the outer area and nodded in return and withdrew to the main room to wait. Idly I perused the books. Most were not in English, and those that were had unusual titles that made no sense to me anyway. In about five minutes Lobsang emerged. He looked flustered. So much for the famous detachment.
“Lobsang,” I said. “Sorry to interrupt your call. I just need to ask you a few more clarifying questions.”
“I have been speaking just now to the officials of Choden’s university. They are demanding explanation.”
�
��Oh.” I was caught off guard. Well, that meant that Jim had gotten through, at least. “We have been trying to reach his emergency contact. What did the officials say?”
Lobsang took a deep breath and seemed to center himself. “Of course, they would like to have explanation of what happened. I told them we are in process of inquiries with you and your department. I have said they must speak with you. Your superior. There is nothing to be done. But they want his remains, naturally; his family needs to make the arrangements for a proper ceremony.”
“When we have apprehended the killer,” I said, ridiculously matching his formality, “they will get the body.”
“Time is important. And the autopsy—too quick—now his ghost has not had time to leave. The family is most concerned. There should be a ceremony before the cremation.”
“I understand that,” I said, and felt the hair rise on my arm at the mention of Choden’s ghost. Who knew what cultural traditions had been violated along with Choden’s life? “But it’s not possible to release the body yet.”
Lobsang took another deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. “What do you require now?”
“I need to ask you about an argument you had with Choden last week. A witness has stated that you were seen—”
“Tenzin,” Lobsang said dismissively. “He makes problems. He is troubled.”
The comment surprised me, as the monks so far had seemed disinclined to speak badly of each other—or anyone. But it was interesting from a gossip point of view.
“How is he troubled?” I asked.
Lobsang’s eyes snapped with emotion. “It is important, very important, in the monastic life, that one keeps the vows. The commitment to the Buddha, the Dharma, the Sangha. If not,” Lobsang shrugged, “there is no possibility of reaching enlightenment or of release.”
