“Right. Sunyarta spritz. I like it.”
From somewhere in the distance came the sound of someone sweeping a stone surface with a straw broom. The sound gradually became more distinct as we approached the main building. There, we saw a young monk sweeping away leaves from the path that led to the entrance.
“Ram’s missing sandal could be a clue, couldn’t it?” said Dusty with a glance at the monk’s leather thongs.
“You mean, find the sandal, find the murderer?”
“Maybe. If the murderer took it, then it was almost certainly taken as a trophy. What sort of person would be likely to do that?”
She gave me a troubled look and I realised what she meant.
“Right. A person who kills from some sort of psychotic motivation might want to keep a memento of the deed. Is that what you’re thinking?”
Dusty nodded. I suspected her superstition about black crows had influenced her. Now she was concerned the murderer was a monk about to strike again.
Saya, who’d been expecting our visit, met us at the door of the main building and escorted us to the back area to sit under an open verandah surrounded by trees. Morning sunshine filtered through the leaves.
“You are seeking answers.” It was a matter-of-fact statement with the barest hint that he considered Dusty’s search for answers a futile endeavour.
“Before I seek my answers, Saya, there’s something I need to tell you. Well, to warn you about really.”
As diplomatically as she could, Dusty raised the possibility one of the monks at Sunyarta might be a killer. Saya’s face remained impassive even as Dusty suggested he and the other monks be on the alert for danger.
“We are a peaceful community,” was all he said.
Dusty, who didn’t share my suspicions about Saya, persisted. “If you think of anything at all, even the smallest thing out of the ordinary in the behaviour of any of the monks here, please contact me immediately.”
Saya smiled and inclined his head. Dusty’s eyes met mine. I read the beseeching message there: Please don’t let another murder happen here.
Realising there wasn’t much more she could do to convince Saya, Dusty began the interview by asking about Josh Edwards. Sadness crossed the elderly monk’s face.
“The boy struggled. His heart and mind could not meet in peace.” Saya gazed at the natural stone floor.
“Did you or the other monks have any inkling Josh would take his own life?”
Saya didn’t answer directly. He explained Josh had been in the guest accommodation with a live-in mentor who stayed with him during the day as well as sleeping there. Sometimes Ram was his mentor, sometimes one of the other monks. He went on to explain they were concerned when Josh stopped his medication so Ram visited his mother to let her know. However, when Kellie came to talk to him, Josh would not see her.
“I spent many hours with Joshua. Often we sat together in silence. Sometimes Joshua talked. I listened. After he stopped his medication he talked only a little. He became restless.”
“How did he get the heroin he overdosed on?”
“We do not have drugs here.” Saya gazed up at the tree canopy, seeming to examine the leaves gently swaying like green marionettes. “It is not pleasant for me to talk of these things. For many years we have lived here in harmony. We have cared for the environment. We tried to help the lay community and we have welcomed all to Sunyarta. Talk of death and drugs brings a sour note to our place of peace.”
Dusty was quick to reassure him. “Oh, no. What you’ve established here is an exquisite example of living with nature.”
It seemed natural, after that, for us all to slip into silence and absorb the presence of the trees, the sprinkles of sunshine and the blue of the sky.
Chapter 18
Saya eventually broke the quietude. “You wish to ask about Ashin Ram?” Without waiting for Dusty to respond Saya gathered his robes and stood up. “Ashin Ram became a good gardener but his true gift lay elsewhere. Come. I will show you.”
We followed Saya inside, our footsteps echoing in the long hall as we continued to his office. He stood behind a long desk on the opposite side of the room, extending his arm from under his robe to point to four paintings along the wall behind the desk.
“Ashin Ram was an artist.”
“He painted these?” Dusty peered at the corners of the paintings where an artist’s signature might be found.
Saya’s smile was all knowing. “His name he painted on the back.”
Dusty nodded, looking in admiration at the row of paintings. “They’re good.” All of the paintings depicted ocean scenes. Dusty studied the one at the end: a dramatic image of waves breaking up against rocks. Something piqued her interest. She moved even closer to examine a section of one of the rocks.
“I think there’s something written in this rock crevice. It’s hard to see because the writing is almost the same colour as the rocks.” She examined it again. “It looks like…Port…Port something.”
“Port Douglas,” I suggested. “Is this one of the local beaches, Saya?”
Saya arched his eyebrows, causing his forehead to crinkle. After a moment’s thought, he shook his head. “I think it is a place of Ashin Ram’s childhood.”
“It’s not Port Douglas.” A note of excitement in Dusty’s voice. “It’s Portsea. Look!”
I looked at where her finger was pointing. The writing, done with a brush, was well obscured. Most people standing back to view the picture would not have noticed it or if they had would have taken it for a mark on the rock.
“Portsea?” Saya repeated the word as though hearing it for the first time.
“Yep. Portsea is a famous place in Victoria with some dangerous beaches. In fact, one of our prime ministers disappeared there in the 1960s.” Dusty turned her attention to the other paintings. “The one in the middle is…” She paused thoughtfully, unsure how to describe it.
Saya nodded his understanding. “Not like a picture painted by a monk.” That’s exactly what I’d been thinking. So had Dusty, apparently, because she nodded vigorously. Nothing in Saya’s expression suggested he was judging us for stereotyping monks. He’d probably had years of experience in dealing with the ignorance of the lay person.
The passionate energy and dynamic colours in the painting contrasted with the perception of stillness I associated with people living a life of meditation. The canvas was completely filled by an unusual looking tree, branches extending on either side all the way along the trunk, heavy with dark green leaves. Underneath the tree and entwined in its coiled, twisted roots was what looked like an ancient coffin with a bright green lid.
“I guess it’s symbolic in some way.” Dusty put her head to one side, her eyes still on the painting. “Maybe it’s about the regeneration of nature. Or incarnation. After death comes new life.” She looked across at the monk for confirmation of her theory.
“It is a good suggestion that you make, that it is symbolic.”
“Did Ram tell you what it represents?”
Saya shook his head. “It does not matter what the artist wished to symbolise. It matters only what we see.”
Not convinced, Dusty persevered. “You have looked at it every day here in the office. What do you think it means?”
“Each day the meaning is different.” Then, as if the painting had released something within him, Saya began to talk about Ram while still staring at the dead monk’s extraordinary artwork. “Before he went to volunteer in the town I did not know he was an artist. It was only then, after he found some peace within, that our brother began to paint. He was not a beginner. You can see his work is of high quality.”
“So you think something happened to Ram before he came here, something which made him withdraw and protect himself from his fellow human beings?”
Saya sighed. “That is what I think. Ashin Ram was wounded when he came here.”
“It sounds like he was betrayed by someone, or even by society in general.”
“Perhaps betrayed by himself.” Saya bowed his head.
“Betrayed by himself? Oh, you mean he did something he was later ashamed of.”
“It is possible. He did not speak of it. I only know what I saw in his eyes. His spirit was damaged. It was his spirit I thought of when I asked him to take care of the garden.”
I could understand the symbolism in that. Plants suggest renewal. On a practical level, working so close to nature was likely to have a therapeutic effect.
“Ashin Ram knew nothing of gardening,” continued Saya. “At first, he pulled out weeds which were really herbs. No matter.” Saya’s lips curled up in an indulgent smile.
“Did gardening help Ram?”
“After some time, it began to soothe his spirit, I think. Ashin Ram did not like to go out of Sunyarta but after some years I encouraged him to go into the town.”
“Because you knew he had something to give?”
Saya turned to look at Dusty. Reading his eyes, she answered her own question. “No. Because going out would help Ram?”
Saya nodded.
“Who went into town to volunteer at the retirement home before Ram?”
A brief passing shadow in his eyes was the only hint Dusty’s question had thrown Saya off guard.
“A different monk.” His voice remained calm yet I sensed wariness in his manner. Was he feeling defensive because he had something to hide or because he considered Dusty’s questioning had crossed the line into the Sanctuary’s private business.
“Why did that monk stop going?” Dusty was never one to back down because of someone’s sensitivities. In fact, she viewed any discomfort on the part of her interviewees as a green light to go full steam ahead.
Saya bowed his head. “He could not continue his good work.”
Once again I had the sense there was much he could have told us but chose not to. Why did he feel it necessary to be so secretive?
“What was that monk’s name, Saya?”
Dusty had told me earlier she had a hunch Ram had taken over the volunteer duties of the monk who had been killed several years earlier.
The old monk inclined his head. “His name was Ashin Khin.”
“Ashin Khin. Do all the monks use the title ‘Ashin’?”
Saya dismissed the choice of title with a wave of his hand. “It is just our way. We use it here. It is not necessary for lay people to use it.”
Dusty nodded thoughtfully. “By the way, do you have a photograph of Ram?”
Saya shook his head.
“What did he look like?”
Saya smiled. “A middle-aged man with a shaven head wearing yellow robes.”
Dusty laughed and didn’t press him further. Instead, she asked his permission to use her phone camera to snap Ram’s paintings.
I took one last look at the painting with the casket. Was it something to do with sacrifice? The tree with its sideways branches might represent a cross. A life had been surrendered to a tree rather than on the cross. But whose life? Did Ram have a premonition his life would be sacrificed? I brushed away my fanciful thoughts. If the painting had any symbolic meaning at all, it could simply reflect Ram giving his life to nature here at the Sanctuary.
At the doorway, Dusty turned to ask Saya what I call an ambush question. She often used this tactic of waiting until after she’d wrapped up the interview and said goodbye before asking a question to catch the interviewee off guard.
“Did you see Ram the morning he died?” Her tone was offhand, as if her query was of no particular interest.
Saya answered without hesitation, his face impassive.
“I saw him.”
“Where?”
“He was on his way to meditation. He walked past the office.” Saya pointed to the desk and computer. “I came here that morning before first light.” He gestured at the window behind the desk in the main office area. “It was still dark outside, a few minutes after four, but I saw Ashin Ram.”
“Was he alone?”
Saya responded with a slight raise of the eyebrows. “Of course.”
Clearly, the idea of Ram doing his morning meditation with another monk was incongruous.
“Did you see anyone else on the path that morning?”
The monk shook his head. I got the feeling if he’d seen one of the other monks he would not have told Dusty. Or the police.
Chapter 19
A neglected white house with a cast-iron roof surrounded by overgrown lawn stood behind a chain wire fence. Just as we pulled up outside, a dusty red truck hurtled into the driveway, coming to a noisy halt in the carport. A tattooed grizzly bear swung himself out of the cabin while balancing a can of beer and a lit cigarette in one hand. Prolifically tattooed arms bulged out of a well-worn black T-shirt. More tattoos decorated the skin on his chest. He scowled in our direction. The scowl deepened when we entered the property though a rusted old gate which gave the impression of being permanently open.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” This came out as an intimidating growl.
If Mulligan didn’t like our answer to his question, his next words would surely be: Get off my property!
Blue-grey eyes glared out at us from a round face accentuated by close cropped hair and a receding hairline. His neck was so short his double chin almost sat on his chest.
“I’m Dusty Kent.”
The sound of Dusty’s voice set a dog barking. It was the bay of a large dog. Chains rattled. Dusty and I had been walking along a cement path towards Mulligan. Now we stopped and looked cautiously in the direction the barking had come from. The dog appeared to be under the house. The underfloor space, created by raising the house on stumps, was high enough to allow the average adult to enter without bending over. Through the slats of timber around it I could see a black Rottweiler with brown face markings. Thankfully, the gap between the slats was too narrow for the dog to squeeze through. However, a gate under the steps leading up into the house appeared to be open. I hoped the rattle of chains meant the dog was tethered.
Moose Mulligan, without taking his eyes off us, dropped his cigarette butt on the cement floor of the carport. He extinguished it under the sole of his thong with a decisive twist of the foot. A line of tattoos ran from his feet and along his beefy calves to the frayed hem of the grubby pair of shorts he was wearing.
“We called you several times and left a message.” That was true. Dusty had asked me to use her phone to call his number while she was driving. When I didn’t get an answer, I had texted him to let him know we were on the way.
Dusty took a few more tentative steps forward. Mulligan brought his can to his lips and gulped down what was left of the beer. The dog remained under the house, its muzzle pressed up against the timber slats.
Mulligan’s silent stare indicated this was the point at which he might order us off his property and threaten to set his dog on us. Dusty was keen to avoid this.
“I’m writing a book about the murder of the monk at Sunyarta Sanctuary.” By presenting herself as an author rather than an investigator, Dusty was hoping to distance herself from the police and thus avoid stirring Moose’s antipathy. “I know the police had you down as a suspect. I wondered if you wanted to tell my readers your side of the story.”
Mulligan narrowed his eyes, squinting suspiciously at Dusty. I knew he was deciding whether to welcome or banish us. The Rottweiler made its opinion clear with a deep, threatening growl. Moose Mulligan crushed his empty beer can in one hand and threw it over his shoulder into the tray of his truck. One last squint before his body relaxed. He turned in the direction of the growling dog and bellowed. “Down, Butch!”
His tone changed only slightly when he addressed Dusty. “I’ve heard of you.”
He didn’t strike me as the kind of bloke who would spend a lot of time reading. On the other hand, one of Dusty’s books had been made into a television mini-series. I could imagine Mulligan watching true crime shows with the intention of learning as much as he could
to avoid being caught.
Dusty introduced me.
“Wanna beer?” A gruff offer directed at me but extended to Dusty by an enquiring glance.
Dusty, who didn’t usually drink beer, accepted enthusiastically. She probably realised Moose Mulligan wouldn’t have a wide range of beverages on offer.
Mulligan directed us around to the back of the property and disappeared inside to get the beers. Behind the house, well-used chairs waited for us at a plastic table shaded by the overhanging branches of a jacaranda tree growing in the next door property. Parrots, hidden in its lacy purple canopy, whistled to each other. A terracotta plant saucer in the middle of the table was full of old cigarette butts. Dusty used a pen from her bag to nudge the make-shift ashtray to the other side of the table, screwing up her nose at the smell.
Mulligan tramped down the back steps of the house carrying an armful of cold cans of beer. He gave Dusty a surprised look of approval when she cracked open her can with an expert pull, watched the froth bubble out and spill over the rim and raised it to her lips. Mulligan sat back in his chair which only just managed to accommodate his bulk. The animosity that had been steaming from him earlier had now evaporated, making him slightly less intimidating. He pulled a battered packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his shorts, offering it round. Dusty and I declined.
“Lung cancer in a packet, eh?” He pulled out a crumpled cigarette, grinned and shrugged. “What the hell, you only live once.” He poked around in the saucer of cigarette butts until he found a small lighter. Once the tobacco was burning and he had enjoyed a long drag, Dusty judged the time right to open the conversation.
“The police say you hold a grudge against the monks because they’re occupying land that used to belong to your family.”
“Too bloody right I do. That land was in my family for years. For generations. Then some rich foreigner bought it and gave it to that lot of flower pots. Gave it to them! Land we’d worked on all our lives. And they just walk onto it and do what they like with it.” Dusty was not about to point out that the monks were not at fault. Moose wanted to tell us how he’d been wronged. Our role was to listen.
Disguising Demons Page 8