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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 Jupiter’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 good-byes.”
“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 (#ulink_e6f26607-8ca2-5e0a-b2dc-3b9ab21f14f1)
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.
Eventually, the pathways led Decker to a set of double doors. He pushed on one, revealing the Order’s kitchen. It was cavernous and industrial with metal cabinets, stainless-steel counters, massive sinks and a built-in refrigeration system. It was also flooded with light from the ceiling’s giant glass dome.
The cooking area was devoid of people but not of smells. A wave of something savory tickled Decker’s nose, causing his stomach to do a little tap dance. He checked his watch—ten forty-two. Twenty-three minutes had passed since the procession had begun.
Go for it, he told himself. Worse came to worst, he could say he was just looking for a drink of water.
He walked into the area, running his index finger along the countertop. Spotless and dustless. Lots of heavy cauldrons hanging from an oval-shaped central rack secured by chains from the ceiling. Four mammoth-sized kettles sat on the cooktops. Using the cloth of his jacket as a pot holder, Decker lifted a lid and got a faceful of steam. Blinking back the heat, he was looking at some kind of soup or stew. He replaced the lid, then pulled forward on one of the oven doors. Warm, but not hot air. A pan with loaves of bread still in the rising stage. He returned the door to its original position, hoping he didn’t screw something up.
Lots of light coming down from on top, but still, not much in the window department. There were long but narrow fenestrations running along the top of the walls. Hands on his hips, he looked around.
Alone.
He opened one of the cabinets above the counter—sacks of flour, a dozen packets of dried yeast and jars of dried spices. Another had the same contents. A third held a dozen canisters of different types of teas. The cupboards seemed to hold provisions only. The bottom storage area was filled with water bottles—at least a hundred five-gallon jugs. He closed the doors and leaned against the counter.
No plates, no bowls, no cups, no eating utensils and no other cookware except the hanging kettles. Soup or stew in the cauldrons, and a small pot and a mug in each room. Probably stew or soup was the sect’s usual fare, and each person was allotted an individual pot and spoon for his or her portion. Maybe a personal cup for the tea. And that was that for tableware. It would sure save on the kitchen labor if each person took care of his or her own vessels.
Pulling the handle of one of the built-in refrigerator doors, Decker saw rows of jars, each labeled with a specific fruit or vegetable. Some of the produce was pickled, others had been made into purees or sauces. Some of the citrus fruits had been candied. He had to hand it to the Order. The members were earthquake-ready, better prepared than he was. In the case of absolute shut-down, the sect could go on for months.
He took out his pad and made a quick sketch of the physical layout. As his eyes panned over the room, Decker noticed another door along the back wall. It opened to an immense garden with rows of produce, sided by orchards of fruit trees. The plot seemed big enough to qualify as commercial agriculture.
Tucking his notepad into his jacket, he climbed down the three steps, then ambled along a dirt path lined with trellises woven with plant material—vines of tomatoes and cucumbers dotted with their small, yellow flowers. The twisted suckers of pole bean plants climbed along a steel vegetable cage. There were also raised beds made out of brick. They housed squash plants abloom with mustard-colored flowers, two-foot-high eggplant with purple blooms and a panoply of pepper plants. Also included were remnants of the winter vegetables—lettuce and spinach heads on the verge of bolting. Sprinkled among the edibles were beds of flowers—newly planted marigolds and petunias. Aesthetically pleasing as well as practical because marigolds were insecticidal. Strike another notch for the Order’s self-reliance. The patch was damn impressive.
The area looked to be about a couple of acres with two fruit orchards sandwiching a vegetable garden. Beyond the arable portion was scrubland overrun with wild fauna and airborne spores: dandelions, orange nasturtiums, purple statice, wild daisies, sage plants and chaparral. Copses of silver eucalyptus gave the land some texture and height. Gnarled California oaks sat dormant in ground water, grumbling because El Niño had overwatered the turf.
Decker stopped walking, his ears hearing more than ambient sounds. Dogs barking—the Dobies. He hoped they were locked up somewhere, but suspected they were close at hand. Stupid to explore with them on the prowl. Yet he kept going.
He came upon a good-sized tool and potting shed—around two hundred square feet. The usual stuff—trowels, claws, rakes, hoes, weeders. Shelves with terra-cotta pots, and dozens of plant starts sitting in egg cartons. There were also shelves containing bags of fertilizers, boxes of nutrients, plant food sprays and aerosol cans of weed killer. There were also jars of rat killer, all clearly marked with the skull-and-crossbones logo, some pest traps and animal cages as well. Apparently the Order of the Rings of God had decided that bugs and pests took a backseat to human needs.
Not that Decker found that philosophy objectionable. He embraced the Jewish philosophy that had animals serving people, and not the other way around. God had given the human race the gift of reason, although in Decker’s line of work he rarely saw it utilized. That being said, people—with their theoretical gift of reason—had obligations to their animals. Cruelty was strictly forbidden. As a matter of fact, pets and livestock had to be fed before sitting down to one’s own meal, the rationale being that though people don’t forget to eat, they are occasionally remiss about that bowl of dog chow. Tsar Ba’alei Chayim—kindness to animals.
