Postham squinted into the glare of the steely sky. Judy Little growled back at the dogs, which made them bark louder. “I don’t envy the mailman. Where’s the gate? Surely they don’t expect us to drive around the entire perimeter.”
Decker picked up his mobile phone and called Oliver. “How do we get in?”
“Where are you?”
“In front, being sized up by a trio of maniacal Dobies. Have someone come out here and direct us.” Decker punched the end button, regarded the stucco cubes. From his perspective, he could see seven.
“A real architectural masterpiece.” Little had to shout to be heard over the dogs. “What’s the style? Neo-Cult military?”
“Squares are the way to get the most space for the least money.”
“May be practical, but no aesthetics.”
“Agreed.”
Little said, “Got any background for me?”
Decker tried to stare down the dogs. No success. “Call came into headquarters as a suspicious death. Detective Oliver found an empty fifth of vodka under the victim’s bed. I’m thinking like a Heaven’s Gate suicide—a combination of drugs and liquor. The victim was Dr. Emil Euler Ganz. He was once a big wheel in academic physics. Then he suddenly disappeared for ten years. When he finally showed up, he had reinvented himself as Father Jupiter. He’s been running the Order for fifteen years.”
Little screamed at the dogs to shut up. They didn’t listen. “Oh. Him. So you think he left this galaxy to ascend to a better universe? Well, good luck to him. I wonder if he took anyone with him?”
The thought made Decker shudder. “We’ve only found the one body.” He waited a beat. “It’s a good point.”
“What is?”
“Ganz’s taking his disciples with him. Maybe he left some instructions for them to join him. Even if he didn’t, there’re bound to be a few unbalanced individuals in there who could play follow the leader.”
“A few unbalanced individuals?”
Decker raised his eyebrows. “Look, if adults inside want to kill themselves, I’d try to stop them, but you can’t save the world. In this case, though, there’re kids involved. That concerns me.”
Little made a face. “Now that’s a very good point.”
Decker rubbed his forehead, wondering how he could possibly ensure the kids’ collective safety. As always, responsibility weighed him down, much more than his two-hundred-plus poundage.
A silver van was approaching from the other side of the fence. When it stopped, a girl of around twenty stuck her head out. No makeup or jewelry. She had a heart-shaped face and a smooth complexion. Her murky pond-colored eyes were swollen, her nose was red and drippy. Her hair was tied up in a bun and covered by a white, crocheted net. She wiped her nostrils with a tissue and said, “How many more of you are coming down?”
“Pardon?” Decker asked.
“Police,” she sneered. “How much longer must we put up with this invasion of our cherished privacy? What we do is no one’s business but our own.”
Decker didn’t speak for a moment, letting the silence hang in the air. Pausing always helped him to deflect anger and control his tongue. Finally, he said, “Ma’am, are you supposed to direct us to the compound’s entrance?”
“I am not Ma’am! I am Terra!”
“Okay,” Decker answered. “Terra! Are you supposed to direct us to the compound’s entrance?”
She nodded. “Yes, I am.”
Decker opened his car door. “So why don’t you do just that?”
2
Ignoring hostility was part of the profession. Decker was used to stony glares and the occasional hurled epithet. But there was something disconcerting about the group. So many disciples, all of them displaying a curious mixture of fury and fragility. Or maybe it was the white cotton robes they wore, making them look like zombies housed in shrouds.
He thought a moment.
That wasn’t fair. Jews also wore white robes—kittles. Men wore them when they married, during the High Holy Days, and at the seder—the festive Passover meal. The garment was also used in burial. A morbid association, but Decker couldn’t help thinking about it.
Most of the sect members simply stared as Decker, along with Oliver, draped the yellow crime tape across the temple door.
Brother Pluto, on the other hand, expressed himself verbally. “Is that yellow ribbon really necessary, or are you two just looking for something to do until that doctor is done?”
He was thin and short and balding. He also wore a robe, but his was blue and appeared to be fashioned from silk. He had a belt on it, but it was partially open. Underneath, Pluto wore a white T-shirt and jeans. The acting head guru was irritated. He spoke in a reedy voice. If Decker were to personify him as a planet, Pluto would have been the logical choice.
Decker finished pinning the tape and straightened his back, towering over the little man. “Sorry about spreading the investigation all over the place. Since the body was moved, we can’t confine ourselves to just the one room—”
“A clear violation of our civil rights!”
Decker smoothed his mustache, then said, “Tell me whose civil rights are being violated and I’ll put a stop to it!”
Pluto spoke bombastically. “You know what I mean! Your people questioning our grieving family.”
Oliver ran his hands through his black hair, wondering if the guy really was an alien. He sure as hell looked like one. “We’re trying to find out what happened to your leader, sir. Don’t you want to know?”
“But we do know, Detective! Our Father Jupiter has gone to a better place.”
So why all the grieving? Decker glanced upward at a peaked skylight of stained glass—swirls of blue, yellow and orange. It looked like something Van Gogh would have designed. Huge mother. It was supported by beams of steel and wire mesh.
He returned his eyes to Pluto and said, “Spiritually, I’m sure you’re right, sir. Unfortunately, we need to know what happened physically—”
“Spiritual and physical are one and the same. Of course, the violators will never understand that. Society’s thinking has been fractured irreparably, constantly separating the soul and body. Just as you’ve done now, Lieutenant. It’s not your fault, though. You’ve just never been schooled.”
Decker said, “Perhaps, at another time, you can enlighten me.”
“You’re being sarcastic. Your attitude is typical for a violator. Even more in sync with your work as a policing agent.”
Pluto’s vitriolic words had drawn a little crowd. It was growing by the moment.
Now what was the friggin’ purpose of all that? But of course, Decker knew the purpose. To embarrass him, to make the outsider—the violator—look like the ignorant fool. Still, he held his tongue. He wasn’t about to start a riot for what appeared to be an open-and-shut case of suicide.
“I’m not trying to be contentious. Just curious. If I were an outsider interested in joining the Order, how would you explain to me the true nature of the universe?”
Pluto sneered. “Our philosophy is not a parlor game, Lieutenant!”
“I didn’t say it was. Tell me your philosophy. And if we have time, I’ll spout off a few theories of my own.”
Pluto seemed amused. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the temple door, breaking the crime ribbon. “Very well. We’ll trade philosophies. But you two go first—”
Oliver’s brown eyes darted across the masses. He held his hands up. “Hey, leave me out of this one.”
“As you wish.” Pluto turned to Decker. “Lieutenant.”
Spitting out the title as if it were a swear word.
Decker picked up the yellow tape and tacked it back onto the door, aware that the gathering was waiting for him to begin. “Interesting that you should mention the universe. Because I remember reading one of Ganz’s—”
“Father Jupiter,” Pluto interrupted.
“Excuse me.” Decker was deferential. “I was reading Father J
upiter’s lay articles on the universe…back when he was a cosmologist.”
Like Pluto, Decker knew he was playing to an audience. He divided his glances between the cotton-robed followers and the silk-robed Pluto.
“As an observant Jew, I was struck by one of Jupiter’s statements—that the universe has neither a past nor a future. It was something that just was…or is. Sort of flies in the face of the Big Bang theory—”
“The Big Bang?” Oliver smiled. “I like the sound of this theory.”
Decker held back laughter. “It stated that the universe came from one massive explosion.”
“Explosion of what?”
“An explosion of…stuff.”
“How’d the stuff get there?”
“That’s an open question,” Decker answered.
Pluto broke in. “It’s not the universe that always was. It’s matter in the universe that was, is and always will be. The physical component of course explains nothing about the spiritual.”
“Agreed. Which is why we Jews have kind of combined the two aspects. We believe that God—whom we call Hashem, which means the name in Hebrew—is the source of all matter and is neither a creation nor susceptible to destruction. Hashem just is. God is material and God is spiritual. And He described His heavens as limitless way before science got into the act.”
Pluto continued to slouch with his arms across his chest. “Precisely why Father Jupiter left science and returned to the spiritual.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t think you’ve said anything too profound about God’s existence. In fact it’s rather simplistic.”
Decker was winging it now. “Well, I was just thinking…now correct me if I’m wrong—if the universe or at least matter was, is and always will be, and if matter has existed forever…and all matter is conserved, then Jupiter’s still a part of the universe—”
“More simplicity—”
“So if your leader isn’t dead, just…transformed, then why grieve for him? Why the shrine? Why all this hoopla for someone who—as you stated—is in a better place? You shouldn’t be grieving. You should be having a party.”
Oliver added, “Yeah, like a wake or something. BYOB. Judging from the fifth under Jupiter’s bed, maybe your leader was doing just that.”
The crowd’s eyes went back to Pluto. The short man’s cheeks had taken on a deep blush. “Your cavalier attitude to our Father Jupiter the Beloved is obscene!”
Pluto turned on his heel and stomped off.
Oliver and Decker exchanged glances. Decker shrugged. No one spoke for a moment as the crowd stood shell-shocked in the absence of a leader. Decker cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’d like us out as soon as possible. And we’d like to give you back your privacy. So could you all please keep the aisles clear so we can conduct our business?”
No one moved.
Decker said, “Come on. Let’s break it up. Debate club is over.”
As if programmed, the people began to disperse. After the crowd had thinned, Oliver whispered, “Think the lobotomies are done before or after they join up?”
Decker smoothed his pumpkin mustache. “Some people just have a rough time coping.”
Oliver shook his head. “You did pretty good…being put on the spot like that.”
“I plagiarized from Rina. Actually, she made the connection between the universe and how Jews view God. We were watching some science yawner on PBS or the Discovery Channel…‘Nova’ or ‘Omni’ or something with a short name.”
“You mean there are human beings who actually watch those shows?”
“Rina does. She likes that stuff. I don’t remember much. I fell asleep.” Decker looked up at the skylight. The gray overcast was beginning to burn off. “We pissed Brother Pluto off. That wasn’t smart. It’s going to make our job harder.”
“Loo, what exactly is our job?”
“To bring the body to the morgue for a complete autopsy. Once Dr. Little formally declares this a suicide, we can button this case up.”
“So let’s load the body into the meat wagon.”
Decker shook his head. “Not yet. Let me talk to the Doc. If she sees no overt sign of homicide, I’m inclined to let these guys have their shrine and their last goodbyes.”
“Why? Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
“Patience. I’d like to give you and Marge more time to check out the bedroom. It would also give the people here some closure. Maybe make them feel a little less hostile toward us. And maybe that would mean fewer problems if we need to come back.”
“Body temperature hasn’t dropped much. I’d guestimate that he’s been dead for less than six hours. No rigor, but it was cool last night. If the room wasn’t heated, the lower temperature could have delayed its onset. Lividity was shot to hell because the body was moved.” Little consulted her notes. “No stab wound, no gunshot wounds, no overt bruises, contusions or ligature marks. Nothing to suggest foul play by brute force.” She leaned over the body. “But there are subtler ways of doing a guy in.”
Decker’s interest perked up. “Meaning?”
“He had a few puncture marks in his arm—the left bicep. A neat job. No evidence of hitting a vessel or a subdural hematoma. Just a tiny prick. See this little dot right here?”
“Sure do. Is it self-inflicted?”
“Possibly,” Little said. “He also had some punctures in his buttocks. Could be harmless, but I won’t know anything definitive until I get the bloods and gases back. I’m about done here…ready to take Professor Ganz to the chophouse—”
“Uh yeah, that might be a problem—”
“They don’t want to autopsy the body.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s the law.”
“Exactly.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “How much time before the body chemistry starts changing?”
“The sooner I get him in a meat locker, the better.”
“The folks here want to have some kind of processional, walk by the body to say good-bye to their leader.”
“How long?”
“There’s two hundred and thirty-five of them—”
“Two hundred and thirty-five?”
“Including children, yes. Still, I think we could wrap it up in a half hour…forty-five minutes.”
Little made a face. “Can we put him on ice?”
“Will it mess up your tests?” Decker asked.
“It’s certainly not ideal.” She smiled, showing big, yellow incisors. “You want to do this for them, Pete?”
“It would give me a chance to look around and allow my homicide team to finish up with the bedroom. Once we’re kicked out of here, we may have a hard time getting back in.”
“Someone going to stand guard here to make sure they don’t screw up the body?”
Decker winced. “They’d like to dress him…throw on his royal robe.”
“Royal robe? What the hell is a royal robe?”
“Some purple silk job with gold embroidery. Wouldn’t mind having it for a smoking jacket.”
“You smoke?”
“If stressed enough, I even burn. They also want him to hold his royal scepter. Can they squeeze his fingers around the staff without screwing you up?”
“This is all very odd.”
“Can they do it? Yes or no?”
Little smiled. “Sure, dress him in a robe. Put the scepter in his hand. And while you’re at it, add a crown on his head and a ruby in his naval. Let them pay homage to their Grand Imperial Poobah!”
3
The processional gave Decker the opportunity to skulk around. Assigning two uniforms to watch over the body, he slipped away just as Pluto took center stage. As he left, he caught a glimpse of the guru, who still wore his blue silk robe, but had overlaid it with a long, purple vest, which was no doubt meaningful of something.
Carefully, he tiptoed down a hallway which held one door after another, like a hotel corridor. He jiggled a couple of knobs—closed but not locked. Glancing over his
shoulder, he saw nary a soul.
Just a quick peek.
He opened a door.
The space was spare and tiny. Bare walls except for a postage-stamp, square window opened to let in a wisp of cool air. On the floor was a cot with a brown blanket. A shelf above the bed held a pot, a mug, a ceramic bowl and several black-spined books. More of a prison cell than a bedroom.
Again he looked around.
The foyer was empty.
He went inside, managing to squeeze his giant frame into a cavity’s worth of square footage. Then, he shut the door.
Time’s a tickin’. If you’re gonna do it, get to it.
He took the pot from the shelf. It had been used, but was scrubbed clean. The mug was also clean, and contained one tablespoon and one teaspoon. The pottery bowl held ashes of burnt incense. Decker sniffed. Sandalwood maybe? No evidence of pot. He put the accoutrements back. The books turned out to be videotape cases. No labels. He hesitated, then took a tape at random, and tucked it under the strap of his shoulder harness. He buttoned his jacket.
Just borrowing, he told himself. No harm in that.
No sign of a closet. With care, he crouched down and peered under the bed. A suitcase. He pulled it out. Inside were two neatly folded white cotton robes, and two pairs of denim jeans along with two white T-shirts. Several pairs of woman’s white cotton briefs—the only indication that the room’s occupant was female. Gingerly, he restored everything back to pristine condition, and stowed the valise under the bed.
No connecting doors to any room. Ergo, no connecting bathroom.
And that was that. Opening the door a crack, he scanned the foyer. Still empty. In a swift move, he glided out to safety, then came through another corrider, opening several doors and peeking inside. Replicas of the bedroom he had just seen. Spartan surroundings, even for those without material attachments. Were they also without emotional attachments? Maybe, but maybe not. There had been a lot of weeping following Father Jupiter’s death.
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