by Elia Seely
We were all silent, imagining that scenario.
“I don’t think he was killed up there,” Elijah said finally. “I mean, since that trail is pretty well used, it would have to have been after sunset, right? So, if the deed was done there, it had to be someone the victim knew, would go up there at night with. With a weapon. I can’t see it.”
“That means the killer had to be strong enough to carry a body up a steep trail for a mile. But why? I mean, why cut the body up as well? Are we thinking this is a serial killer?” I said.
In truth, none of us had any idea what to think. I had the awful feeling that we were going to fail. I could handle straightforward stuff, mountain rescue, helping women get out of domestic disputes, being a good citizen. But for a homicide—no one had the experience for this type of crime.
“Butch,” I said, “don’t you think we ought to just ask the CBI for an investigator? I mean, do we even have the resources to deal with this? Since we’re missing a daytime dispatcher and all?”
“It’ll stretch us, but we’re here and we’ve got to get started on it whether we give it to the Bureau or not. Okay? Everybody? There’s going to be overtime and nobody’s got a day off until we get the Bureau in or until we get a result.”
We all nodded assent, and I sighed inwardly thinking about childcare. At least Margo had an art day camp that started Monday. Her brother had a job working out on the MC ranch that his dad, Chenno, had helped him get, and wouldn’t be around to look after her all day.
“First, we need to find out if anyone was up at Gold Creek County Park anytime from Thursday afternoon and evening to Saturday morning. We’ll need to do a house-to-house along Canyon road, see if anybody saw anything suspicious. Probably won’t lead to much, but you don’t know. Elijah, I’ll put you on that. Have a look at everyone’s trash—our killer could have dumped his weapon or the victim’s clothes anywhere. Don’t give folks any details other than the basics. I want to put off talking to the paper as long as possible and I don’t want a bunch of rumors getting around.”
“Got it,” Elijah said.
“Second, somebody needs to get up to that monastery and see if anybody’s gone missing from up there. Shannon, that’s you.”
I nodded.
“Joe, I need you to put together a list of anyone you can think of who might have a beef against Asian folks. Then we’ll get out to the restaurants, bars, Stewart’s Market, start asking if anyone has seen our vic. You’re also on patrol, so I’ll help you once you get a list together.”
“Those monk guys are always down in town in their red dresses and new Nikes. Not like we’ve got any shortage of Chinks.”
“Joe, can you just not, for once?” I said.
“Well, we gotta ask,” Butch said, his voice echoing the irritation I knew we all felt. “So just do it and keep your personal opinions to yourself. Be professional, Joe, I mean it.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. I am a professional. Not like Miss we need to call the CBI. I can’t handle it.” Joe’s voice squeaked out in his falsetto imitation of me.
“You know what, Mr. Professional?” I said, standing up. “I’m sick of your sexist comments.” He’d struck a nerve with his blunt radar for my weaknesses. He knew I felt insecure about working this case. But goddamn if I was going to let him be right. I would bust my ass to find this killer just to give myself the satisfaction of proving Joe-asshole-Laherty wrong.
“People!” Butch raised his voice. “You need to pull it together and work together because we got a dead guy here who needs our help and a killer at large. I shouldn’t have to say this to either one of you. Joe, keep your mouth shut and do your job. Shannon, keep your temper and a civil tongue in your head. Either one of you can’t handle that, turn in your badge right now.”
Nobody spoke. Elijah turned his ball cap around in his hands, and I stared at the floor, grateful to Butch for sticking up for me but seething at Joe’s attitude.
“Sorry, Butch,” I said. “I’ll keep myself in line.”
He nodded at me. Joe said nothing. Butch stared him down.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Joe finally grunted, refusing to meet anyone’s eye.
“I’m going to meet the CBI crime scene guy in a half hour up at the park. Everybody, you know what to do. Meet back here at 3 p.m.”
The mood felt edgy and deflated. A slog of police work loomed ahead of us. I’d gotten the good assignment and I knew it. We dispersed; Elijah for his blue pickup to start the house-to-house, me for my Bronco. I would check on the kids and then go to the monastery. Joe stayed in the office to start his list of fellow racists and troublemakers. It promised to be a long day.
Chapter Five
The phone rang as soon as I got home: Norma, too sick with a sudden cold to come by for Margo. It was inconvenient but not the end of the world. I stood in the kitchen, thoughts whirling. Dan and Atticus were still asleep; I wouldn’t ruin Dan’s last free day before his job started by making him babysit. In the end I just decided to take Margo with me. What could be the harm? The monastery had a nice walled garden, and she could also just stay in the car.
Soon enough we were in the Bronco headed up Two Dog Canyon road toward the monastery. It’s a narrow, twisty highway, but I love it. So many aspens glowing green in the innocent summer sunlight, the rush of Two Dog Creek, full from spring snowmelt, and the smell. Fresh green sage and dirt and pine.
The monastery has been situated up this canyon since the early ‘70s. I knew that some rich eccentric had gifted the land to the monks and helped them build the monastery. I occasionally saw the monks in town, red or orange robes, shaved heads, and Nikes. They always had Nikes. I had never exchanged one word with any of them. I’d been up there a few times in my early days of living in Gold Creek, back in ’79 or so. Chenno liked to think he might be a Buddhist, so we came up once or twice when the kids were small. The monastery hadn’t been finished then; I remembered a big stone building and the garden, and other structures had been in progress. It had been peaceful. What would happen to their serenity if this victim were one of their own?
The entry to the monastery finally came into view on the right side of the road. Big timbers supporting a wooden sign with “Shining Mountain” carved in English.
We drove down a gravel road for about a half mile before we saw the building: a stone and timber structure with giant wooden doors like a medieval castle and a walled garden running alongside and behind. A gravel parking lot lay between the monastery and a small enclosure and barn for goats. Another road led up and away into the trees. Much more going on than when I’d been up here six years ago.
“Mama!” Margo cried, eyeing the goats that watched us from their pen. “Can I go see them?” Margo was animal mad; after today she’d be begging me for a goat.
“Why not? Just be careful with your fingers and don’t go inside the pen or the barn.”
I slipped from the Bronco while Margo leapt out and ran toward the goats. I stood to take in the building. It felt ancient, maybe modeled on some temple from far-away lands. I shivered; aware I was possibly about to shatter their peace and quiet.
The monastery’s entry doors were double eight-foot carved artworks, depicting images of strange beings I’d never seen before. Grasping a great iron handle, I pulled the door open, revealing an outdoor entryway. A door to my right led into the garden. On the left a fountain trickled into a pond. A mossy Buddha sat serene. Flowers floated on the surface. I felt my blood pressure drop, standing within the sound of the water and otherwise silent, dappled sunlight. I took a breath and entered the monastery.
Inside, windows ran along a hall and the air smelled faintly of smoke and pine. On the walls between windows hung elaborate paintings of more beings—gods or monsters or whatever they were. I remembered now, from that first visit years ago, that the monks practiced Tibetan Buddhism here. I examined a painting hanging just inside the inner door. It contained wild images: people on fire and lakes full of
flames and grimacing, dancing figures with daggers in their hands. Not what I pictured when I thought about Buddhism. I followed a sign into an office filled with houseplants and another Buddha presiding over a smaller fountain.
A young woman sat working at a desk. She wore a loose kind of sundress and I was aware of how tight my brown uniform Carhartts felt and the sweat under my duty belt. I turned my radio off. When she looked up, she revealed eyes like I had only heard described in romance novels—dewy, sparkling jewels, not a crow’s foot in sight.
“Good morning,” she smiled. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Deputy O’Connor, from the sheriff’s office in town. I need to talk to someone in charge here about a possible missing person.”
“Oh.” She paused. “I haven’t heard anything about someone going missing. But let me see if the Rinpoche is available.” She picked up a phone and dialed, speaking softly when someone answered on the other end. She hung up and rose from the desk. We went back into the hall.
“The Rinpoche’s office is just there,” she pointed.
“Thanks. And, my daughter is with me—she’s just out by the goat pen. I wonder, could she go into the garden? She has her books, she’s eight, very quiet, would that be okay?”
“Of course. Would you like me to go and get her settled?”
“Uh, yes, her name is Margo. Thanks.” I watched the woman glide away, sure that Margo would be enchanted by her ethereal loveliness. “Thanks again,” I called, and walked down to the next office, that of the Rinpoche. I didn’t know what ‘Rinpoche’ meant, although when I got to his outer office, an impressive golden Buddha sat in an alcove in the wall. Underneath burbled another fountain. Head guy for sure, I thought, and was surprised to feel a little nervous.
I’m not sure what I expected, but when the Rinpoche emerged from his inner office I thought, yep, this is exactly what he should look like. Gold and red robes, shaved head, and a wonderfully creased, kind face fulfilled all of my limited mental pictures about Buddhist monks.
He extended a hand, which I took. His grasp was firm, skin smooth and warm.
“Chodak Rinpoche.” When he retrieved his hand, he bowed slightly.
“Shannon O’Connor,” I replied, and I found myself following suit. He brought me into his office. Behind the desk hung a massive painting in the style I had observed in the hallway. A blue, grimacing, flame-engulfed being stared with piercing ferocity down from the wall.
“A thangka,” the Rinpoche said, observing my interest. “Vajrapani. Wrathful deity.” He nodded and clasped his hands.
“Thangka.” I repeated the foreign word, and looked away from the disturbing image. “Why is he wrathful?”
“Vajrapani is a protector and guide of the Buddha, of the Dharma. Symbolizing the power of compassion.” He went around his desk and sat, hands still clasped loosely together.
I didn’t quite make the connection between compassion and the blue, fiery image that glared down from the wall, but I let it pass. I took a deep breath and decided to cut to the chase.
“So, Mr., uh, Rinpoche, I’m here because I found a body in Gold Creek County Park yesterday, and we’re trying to identify him. He’s Asian, you see, so because there aren’t so many Asians in Gold Creek—well, most of them, you, live here …” I could feel myself getting rattled and saying everything wrong. Though I’m culturally sensitive compared to Joe, I felt awkward. The quiet repose of the man opposite me was oddly unnerving.
“Yes?”
“Have you had anyone go missing from up here? Or anyone unusually absent?”
“Possibly.” The Rinpoche reflected.
I waited for more. After an endless pause of watching the light on the Rinpoche’s phone blink from green to red, I continued.
“The man we found looks to have died in suspicious circumstances. Right now, we need to get an ID on him, so that we can let his family know, obviously, and determine our direction in the investigation. I have a picture with me, from the neck up.” I coughed and fished around in the big tote bag I carry everywhere. It held a copy of one of the autopsy photos that Kyle had rushed through the county darkroom. “If you don’t know him, I won’t need to waste more of your time. Would you mind taking a look? It’s—I have to warn you, sir, that it’s distressing. You see, he was out in the forest, so animals …” I hesitated with the envelope in my hand.
“Yes, I will look. We have visitors here and the residents. I do not always know the comings and goings of everyone.”
He gave me a beatific smile and with grave feelings I handed over the photo. The Rinpoche took the picture out of the envelope and gazed at the image. His lips began to move. In his left hand he held an ebony strand of beads that he thumbed rhythmically one to the next. Was he praying? He replaced the photo in the envelope and handed it back. His brown eyes regarded me, soft and deep.
“Can you identify him?”
“Yes. His face is altered, but yes.” The Rinpoche clasped his hands together again, still holding his strand of beads.
“Who is he? Could you tell me more about him?”
“Yes. His name is Choden. He is Tibetan-Chinese. He came here from India to study some of our rare texts. He is a doctoral student in Dharmsala. I believe his age to be perhaps twenty-five.”
I was elated and let down at the same time. Now we had more than a body. Now he was a person, and I knew I wouldn’t be able rest until I found who had done this to him.
“Do you know when he last left the monastery, or where he was going? Does he have other connections in the area? Family maybe?”
“Pema will have this information for you in the office. All visitors fill out a long form,” Chodak Rinpoche nodded, “all very correct.”
“Okay,” I said, reluctant to be shuffled off just yet. “How long had he been here? What were your interactions with him like?”
“We have here fifteen monks and nuns. Resident. Also, it is usual to have up to twenty visiting students who exchange work for study. I do not always know who does what.” The Rinpoche chuckled. “Sometimes there is quite a lot of chaos.” His face became immediately somber again. “I did not know this man well. He had been here maybe two weeks. I do not know why or when he left the monastery. Lobsang is the caretaker of our books. He will know more.” Chodak rose. “I will take you to him now.”
Chapter Six
I followed the Rinpoche out of his office and down the hall. We walked without speaking, the Rinpoche’s robe swishing in the silence around us. We soon reached an ornate carved staircase that ascended to the second level of the monastery. The staircase was surrounded by a light-filled atrium that reminded me of a fancy ski chalet. We went upstairs; the Rinpoche seemed to glide up before me. I caught a glimpse of an ankle and leather strapped sandals under the folds of his robe. No Nikes for him. Well, he had appearances to keep up, didn’t he? I wondered if the Dalai Lama wore Nikes. We stopped as we reached the top of the stairs. Double carved doors in front of us bore a small plaque in both a swirly lettering and English: Library.
Chodak pushed through the door and we entered a room even more hushed than the corridors we had traveled through. I smelled the tang of pine and smoke and was struck by the feeling of being inside of a church. A large wooden table surrounded by chairs dominated the center of the room. Books filled shelves on all sides and various cupboards and furnishings suggested other treasures housed within. A man dressed in similar robes to the Rinpoche looked up from his seat at a wooden desk. I shivered. The library was cold. Would they have air conditioning? Were they allowed to be comfortable? Certainly, they must. I was freezing; goose bumps rose on my arms.
“Lobsang.” The two men gave each other a slight bow. “Will you answer this woman’s questions. She is from the police.” He nodded and stood aside.
I stepped forward and fought the inclination to bow again myself.
“I’m Deputy Shannon O’Connor. I’m looking into the suspicious death of a young Asian man, found last e
vening in Gold Creek County Park. Your Rinpoche here has just identified a picture of the victim as a visitor named Choden. I need to know anything you can tell me about him. Why he was here, who he was, anything at all.”
Lobsang’s gaze flickered to the Rinpoche, now standing slightly behind me, then back to me. I felt Lobsang close up inside himself, much as Margo does sometimes when she is really mad or overwhelmed. A pause that felt endless hung between all three of us.
“Choden Khedrup. Yes.” Lobsang finally spoke. “He was here from a Buddhist university in Dharmsala to study our sacred texts.” His eyes moved to the shelves behind me. “He came in every day for some time to read. He sat there, usually.” Lobsang pointed to the central table.
I watched Lobsang closely. His English was better than the Rinpoche’s, or at least his accent was less pronounced. Their faces were similar yet contained differences; I honestly had no idea what their nationalities were. I was embarrassed by this fact—it seemed really not okay that I cannot tell a Chinese person from Japanese, or a Tibetan from a Nepali. I coughed. My throat was dry.
“Would it be possible to have a glass of water?” I asked the Rinpoche, though maybe it wasn’t okay to ask the head man for such a thing. But I was suddenly dying for a drink of water and I thought it might be useful to speak to Lobsang on his own.
“Surely,” he said, and moved unhurriedly from the room, the door falling shut behind him with a soft whoosh. The room felt larger and emptier.
“Now, Mr., uh, Lobsang,” I cleared my throat again, “do you know why or when Choden left the monastery?”
“I did not know that he had left. There are many people here.”
“But you did not notice his absence?”
“I observed that he did not arrive the last two days, as before. But,” Lobsang shrugged, “there was no friendship between us. Words we spoke were for locating the texts he wished to see. I have my work, he has his. I would not think to assume that he would leave the monastery. Certainly, his study was not finished. He had just started on the Unfolding Lotus sutras.”