2
The first murder happened on New Year’s Eve—Gregorian calendar, not Chinese. The police wrote it off as gang violence, but even they knew it was too grisly for gangs. At least that was the word around the deli counters and bars of Little Italy. In Chinatown, nobody talks about the gangs. Certainly not with white guys who smell like pork. The underground gambling parlors in my neighborhood are all run by rival Chinese gangs overseen by the tongs, semi-legitimate Benevolent Associations. Above these groups are the international triads, organized crime syndicates that rival the Italian mafia with deep roots in Chinese secret societies and Southeast Asian drug cartels.
What any of that has to do with Tibetan monks is anybody’s guess. Most of my clients are Caucasian. I don’t know much about Asia, despite my business address, but I’m old enough to remember when Tibet still looked like a separate country on the Rand McNally globe, and I’m pretty sure the only white powder they have there is snow. The Dalai Lama and his followers seem pretty far removed from the Ghost Shadows gang that runs my street, even if the Diamond Path Dharma Center is only fifteen minutes away on the R train.
I consider cleaning up the mess Sophie Cheung made of my office, but time is tight. Most of it can wait until later, but I crouch and gently pick the little spider plant out of the pottery shards on the floor. I transfer it to a Styrofoam coffee cup, gather as much dirt as I can from the carpet, and pack it in around the roots. It’s a cutting from a plant that belonged to Tracy, my late fiancée. I don’t have a stellar track record when it comes to things that depend on me surviving, but today will not be the day I lose this plant.
With that tended to, I lock the newly developed photos in the safe with my gun just in case Sophie decides to come back and kick the door down while I’m out. If I can’t wear shoes into a Buddhist temple, I’m pretty sure I can’t wear a piece either. I slip a fresh notepad into my jacket pocket, lock up, and hit the street where the parade crowd is still milling around among the street vendors. Half a block down Mott, a string of firecrackers goes off. I duck at the sound and turn my back to the bricks, adrenaline spiking and heart thundering before my brain can tell my body it’s not artillery. I’m in New York, not El Chorrillo.
Nostrils flaring, I regain my composure and hoof it a few blocks to the Canal Street station. I grab a couple of jiao tze dumplings from my favorite steam cart on the way, skip the sauce to keep my shirt clean, and tuck into the shredded pork and cabbage snacks on the subway platform while I wait.
I’m still hungry when I step onto the R and rumble uptown to Union Square.
The dharma center looks like any other brick and glass building in the Flatiron District and I almost walk past it, scanning West 14th for numbers. I guess I’m looking for something exotic on the outside, but if not for the name etched above an interwoven diamond-shaped knot on the green glass door it could just as easily be the offices of some college administrators.
The interior is another story altogether. The vestibule is a clean, cream-colored space with a tile floor. Tracks of pin spots on the high ceiling lend it an art gallery or museum vibe, reinforced by the glass display cases lining the walls. But that’s where any resemblance to academic Manhattan ends. The content of those cases, the artwork on display, is an assault on the senses so rich in color and detail that it leaves gaudy in the dust on the way to psychedelic grandeur.
Columns of layered silk swatches like neckties in patterns of red, gold, and blue hang from the ceiling, absorbing the echoes of my footsteps as I approach the shoe rack. I step out of my loafers and place them among the others. Gold statues of buddhas, gods, and demons sit atop lotus flowers or dance in rings of fire in the display cases, their serene and fierce faces painted with exquisite detail. On the walls, the pantheon continues: paintings of similar figures floating over paradisiacal landscapes, haloed with gilded rays of light, sitting amid flower blossoms and swirling clouds, each mounted on a four-foot high panel of silk brocade.
Incense smoke spices the air, dark and woody. The lobby is vacant, despite the presence of several pairs of scuffed shoes on the rack. As I pad across the floor, self-conscious about the sorry state of my socks, a short, broad young man with dark skin and a bushy crew cut steps through a curtained doorway behind the reception desk. His sleeveless, mustard-colored shirt is draped with a maroon robe over one shoulder. A string of dark wooden beads twined around his wrist clatters softly as he walks toward me and extends his hand with a smile.
I give the hand a curt shake and do my best to dial down my grip. Everything about the guy makes me want to soften my rough edges.
“Mr. Landry,” he says in a soothing tone, and I recognize his voice from the phone call.
“Mr. Norbu?”
The monk nods, still smiling. “Norbu is my first name. Or you may call me by my title, Geshe. This way, please. Jigme Rinpoche is expecting you in the shrine room. You will refer to him by his title: Rinpoche.”
He leads me down a hallway decorated with more sacred artwork. I glimpse a couple of offices and what looks like a library. At the end of the hall, we turn a corner and arrive at another curtain, this one embroidered with the same interlaced diamond knot I saw on the front door.
Norbu draws the curtain aside and waves me into a large hall with more statues and banners. The centerpiece of the shrine is a large golden Buddha seated in lotus position with a begging bowl in his folded hands. After the procession of multi-armed deities with their elaborate crowns and ornaments, he looks about as plain and humble as a golden statue can, situated between pillars emblazoned with turquoise and lapis clouds.
I’ve seen a lot of Buddhas around Chinatown; most are fat and laughing. This one, fit and trim, radiates an austere serenity.
The smell of incense is stronger here. It hangs in dense layers illuminated by shafts of faint February sunlight filtered through the high windows. A row of wavering flames in silver bowls lines the altar alongside identical bowls of water and rice.
The wood floor is bare except for two meditation cushions. An elderly monk occupies one, his body swaying slightly, eyes almost closed, the syllables of a whispered mantra passing between his lips as beads pass between his fingers. He wears the same maroon and yellow robes as the junior monk, his head dusted with salt-and-pepper stubble. I can’t quite place his age—the flesh sags from the arm holding the string of beads, but his fingers are nimble.
Geshe Norbu places a hand at the center of my back and gestures for me to sit. I settle on the empty cushion feeling like I’m disturbing the old man’s practice, even though he summoned me. Surely he hears us, but he continues his prayers without looking up.
I let my gaze wander. The paintings in this room are concealed behind red and gold curtains, except for one on the south wall that I can’t quite make out. Something monstrous. A dark, horned beast. On a low wooden table beneath the painting, a set of offerings has been arranged. Unlike the clear water and white rice at the foot of the big Buddha statue, here we have a dish of sliced red meat and I swear that’s a bottle of Jim Beam.
Well, the Catholics have their bread and wine.
A tassel dangling from the prayer beads passes between the old monk’s fingers, his whispering ceases and his eyes flick open, fixed on mine. He smiles, as if we’re both in on some private joke.
Norbu speaks up from behind me. “Rinpoche, this is Detective Landry, the private eye you requested.”
Jigme Rinpoche nods. In my peripheral vision I detect Norbu bowing and retreating from the room. The senior monk coils the string of beads around his wrist and extends his hand. I offer mine to shake, but he takes it in a gentle squeeze instead.
“I understand you’re trying to find someone,” I say. “How can I help?”
“Norbu has told you I am seeking a former student. That is true, but requires explanation. For this job, you will need an open mind.”
There are little pauses in his speech as he formulates the English.
“I try to keep one on every job until it’s finished. Investigators have to.”
“Do you hold religious views?” he asks.
“No, sir. That’s part of my keeping an open mind.”
He nods slowly, but doesn’t seem displeased with my answer.
“So . . . no strong ideas about afterlife?”
I shake my head. Since Tracy was killed, there have been many times when I wished I had some kind of faith in a world beyond this one. But wishing is for fools.
“The student I am seeking died in 1961.”
He gives me a second to react to this. I don’t.
Norbu returns and places a silver tray on a low table beside us. He pours two cups of steaming, milky tea and offers one to me. I try a sip. Spicy sweet Indian chai. I’m usually a black coffee guy, but it’s good.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not asking me to find his bones or solve a cold case?”
The old monk laughs and says something to his attendant in Tibetan. Norbu nods in agreement and the old man decides to let me in on the joke. “I told Geshe we found the right man for the job.”
“On the phone he mentioned the Chinatown murders. Why don’t you fill me in? From the beginning.”
The Rinpoche sits up straighter and takes a breath. His tone of voice is a touch more formal when he speaks again, as if he’s slipped into teaching mode. “Beginning is always difficult to find. All phenomena have many causes and conditions at the root. To know all of the causes and conditions, the karmic seeds that produce the fruit, is to be a Buddha. The man I am seeking—if he is a man—I have karma with. I was one of his teachers in his last life.”
He gives me another chance to object. I drink my tea. I’ll look for the tooth fairy as long as the checks clear.
Jigme Rinpoche slips the coil of beads off his wrist and hands them to me in a pile. The beads clatter into my cupped hand; cold, despite their recent use. “This mala belonged to him,” Jigme says. “I am purifying it.”
I give the string of beads what I hope is enough consideration to satisfy the old man, then hand it back.
“You say he died in 1961. So it wasn’t a previous life for you when you were his teacher. Forgive me, but you don’t look thirty. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Seventy-two. I was . . . in my forties when I knew Dorje Tsering. I was not his main teacher, but I gave him tantric initiation. I am responsible for him.”
I’ve only seen the word ‘tantra’ in magazines promising interesting sex positions. Rinpoche says something else in Tibetan, and Norbu speaks up: “He says this is difficult to explain. He wants me to translate.”
I shift on my cushion to face Norbu while Rinpoche loads him up.
“There are several paths to enlightenment. One path used by Tibetan Buddhists is the Vajrayana, the diamond path, what is called tantra. This set of meditations and rituals channel the strong energies of the body for an accelerated path to realization. The practices are safeguarded with initiation and must only be engaged under the supervision of a qualified master. There are dangers. Rather than using meditation techniques as antidotes for emotions such as anger and lust, the raw energy of these states is refined and focused through visualization and mantra. This refined energy is like . . . rocket fuel to propel the practitioner’s consciousness to enlightenment in a single lifetime. The poisons become medicines that clarify the mind. Does this make sense?”
I shrug. “Honestly, not much.”
Rinpoche continues through the translator.
“When Buddhism came from India to Tibet, many local demons were tamed by masters such as Guru Padmasambhava. They were brought into the service of the dharma as guardians and protectors. Today, many monasteries have a patron protector deity. Wrathful emanations of Buddhas that also have a peaceful manifestation. Meditation on the wrathful form is a powerful way to burn away obstacles to spiritual practice. To obtain the full benefits, the practitioner must identify with the yidam, the meditation deity. He must visualize himself as the deity until he feels that he has become the deity. This identification can be dangerous—even when cultivating a purely compassionate emanation, such as Avalokiteshvara. In the case of a wrathful emanation, the practice must be handled with extreme care. When Jigme Rinpoche initiated Dorje Tsering into the practice, it was an urgent time for our culture. The monasteries were under attack from the Chinese invaders. The traditional structure for such practices was in jeopardy.
“Dorje Tsering over-identified with his wrathful deity. Then his guru, Lama Thubten, was murdered by the Chinese. This, and the slaying of his family members, may have intensified his anger and polluted his consciousness with a desire for vengeance. He gave up his robes and relinquished his vows at a delicate time in his practice. He joined the fight against the Chinese. We believe he was killed by the People’s Liberation Army in the Markham district in the spring of 1961. And we fear that he has reincarnated in this life as a powerful emanation of his wrathful meditation deity. Yamantaka, Lord of Death. We fear he has returned with a vendetta.”
“You think he’s the Chinatown Monster.”
Jigme Rinpoche nods. “Yes.”
“The police say that’s gang violence.”
“Your office is in Chinatown, Mr. Landry. What do you think?”
“I think you’re talking to me because the cops wouldn’t take any of this seriously for even a minute.”
Rinpoche smiles and says to Norbu, “He would make a good monk.” Then, to me, “Critical thinking and debate are important for study of philosophy. But what do you think? These mutilations . . . A gang did this?”
“I don’t know. And I’m sure the cops don’t either, but they have to say something to the press. I’m sure the Chinatown gangs are capable of some f— . . . Some very bad acts. To me, a gang trying to make a spectacle sounds more likely than a reincarnated demon monk.”
“True,” Rinpoche says, “if you don’t know how to read the signs.”
“Signs?”
The old man gets to his feet with minimal assistance from his attendant. I follow, and he leads me to the one uncovered painting above the table of offerings. Norbu takes away the tea tray and places my sitting cushion atop a pile of them. Looks like our interview is wrapping up. I’m still not sure what they expect from me, but I already know I’m taking the gig, if only for a little while. Even if I prove the monk’s theory wrong, I still get paid, and there’s enough gold and silver in this place to tell me they’re good for it. Also, I have to admit I’m a little intrigued by what they believe. I was raised loosely Catholic, but heaven and hell never really washed with me. Not that I’m likely to buy into the recycling of souls theory, either. But like an alluring song on the radio, I’d like to hear a few more bars before I tune it out.
Rinpoche waves his upturned palm toward the painting, as if pointing at it might anger the deity depicted on the canvas. The pooling cloud of incense stirs in slow eddies. “Yamantaka,” he says. “Destroyer of Death.”
Against a black background with liquid gold accents, a blue-black potbellied figure radiating a fan of arms and legs dances on a pile of human and animal corpses in a ring of fire. His head is that of an ox with long, sharp horns ascending from a crown of skulls. Three eyes blaze in a triangle formation above flared nostrils and bared fangs. The creature’s hair, beard, and eyebrows are all formed of golden flames. He’s naked, except for a necklace and girdle of human heads, his erect penis red-tipped and pointing skyward. His myriad hands and feet are tipped with white claws, each hand clutching a different object: a lion’s pelt, a noose, and every variety of weapon—knives, spears, arrows, and throwing stars—all radiating outward in a fan of blades, except for the two hands that meet at the center of the body. Of these, one holds a crescent-shaped knife with an ornamented handle, the other a skullcap splashing blood. The creature’s expression is fierce, but a set of additional heads rise in a column above the mane of flaming hair, like a totem pole. The topmost of these is the serene, smiling face of a Buddha.
“You mind if I take a picture?”
Rinpoche nods and I fish my trusty Olympus out of my jacket pocket.
“What does that mean, Destroyer of Death?” I ask.
Norbu confers with his teacher in Tibetan, and then explains, “Yamantaka symbolizes cutting through attachment. In his truest form, he represents severing the mind from all bonds. For the one who accomplishes this, there is no rebirth, and therefore, no more death.”
“Looks awfully bloodthirsty.”
“He is the wrathful manifestation of Manjushri, buddha of wisdom,” Jigme Rinpoche says. “In this form, he is a dharma protector, a guardian of the teachings. But he is not meant to walk the earth, to wield his weapons on city streets.”
“If I buy your theory for a minute . . . why here? Why not reincarnate in Beijing and go after Chinese officials?”
Rinpoche claps me on the back and smiles. “Maybe you will help us find out,” he says.
I scoff. “Honestly, I don’t know where to begin. I mean, what do you expect me to do? Interview doctors and nurses who worked on the maternity wards in the early 60s? Ask them if they remember anyone giving birth to a flaming blue ox?”
Rinpoche shakes his head, annoyed by my thickness, as if all of this should be obvious to me. “You must look into these murders,” he says. “See where they lead you. That is all I ask. Will you take the job?”
I feign reluctance. “I have a few contacts on the police force and at the newspapers. I’ll dig around a little. No promises, but I’ll see what turns up.” I bid Jigme Rinpoche farewell with a nod that borders on a bow, and let his attendant escort me out. Following Norbu down the hall, I flip my pad open and ask him to spell some terms for me. Back in the lobby, he hovers over me while I sit on the bench and pull on my shoes. I look up at him, hands on knees, and ask, “What makes him so sure the murders are connected to Tibet?”
Norbu steps behind the reception desk, opens a drawer and roots around in it. At my approach, he sets a folded tabloid on the desktop and glances around the lobby furtively before opening it to a dog-eared page. The blocky headline proclaims DOYERS STREET SLAUGHTER over a lo-fi newsprint photo in garish colors. The blood looks like cherry syrup, but the photographer soaked up a lot of it, probably from a fire escape with a telephoto lens before the cops covered up the dismembered body. It’s hard to extract details from the halftone dots, but I’m pretty sure I see bones jutting out of raw meat on the pavement.
“This photo came to Rinpoche’s attention after the second murder,” Norbu says. “Combined with reports of the first murder, it is clear the victims were butchered. Carved in the same way that dismemberment of corpses is performed by the rogyapas in Tibet.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“These are men who carve corpses for feeding to the vultures so that nothing is wasted in the cycle of life.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Across the desk, Norbu has been watching me study the picture. Now he grins. Is he getting off on creeping me out? I meet his gaze and he shrugs. “The ground is too rocky for burial in the mountains. Westerners may find the practice barbaric, but sky burial is a final act of generosity.”
“To who?”
“We believe it is better to feed carrion birds than to let the body rot in a box just to deny the worms for a few years. This is a kindness, yes?”
I don’t answer him. My pork dumplings are getting restless.
“Dorje Tsering, whose incarnation we seek, was the son of a rogyapa—a corpse butcher. As a young man, before taking the monastic vows, he learned the family trade.”
