Read The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) for Free Online Page A

entrance. Across from me, a young man in a dark suit and yarmulke was camped out in another chair, rocking slightly back and forth. His eyes were closed and he was chanting continuously under his breath. I don’t know much about the Jewish faith, but I’d once questioned another such young man on another case, this one a hit-and-run involving a Rabbi and a van. He’d told me keeping the body company, guarding it from harm, and soothing it with prayers until it could be put into the ground, was central to the Jewish burial process. He’d said the human soul can feel somewhat lost and confused between the time of death and burial, and so they offer companionship and comfort. I’d told him this practice was not unlike my own Tibetan tradition of chanting to help guide the dead through the confusion of the bardo and beyond.
    I respected the fervency with which this young man was praying. This was a building filled to the brim with discarded lives, and most of the deceased had only homicide detectives and the County Coroner’s Office to advocate for them. I closed my eyes as well: May all beings, as many as exist in ten directions, be always well and happy. May all beings live in harmony with the dharma, and may their every dharma wish be fulfilled.
    “Vultures. I thought I’d never get away,” Bill said, touching my arm. He’d survived the onslaught of media. I stood and followed him to the security window. He showed his ID to a woman behind the glass, and then leaned toward the slotted opening, gesturing to me. “You remember Detective Tenzing Norbu — he’s with me,” and that was that, we were buzzed right in.
    We walked toward the autopsy room, pulling on our standard-issue latex gloves, paper aprons, and face-shields. “Just to let you know, there’s gonna be a crowd in here—a case this high profile.” He stopped at a door. “Okay, here goes nothing.”
    We stepped inside the refrigerated room. Bill was right again—this was a standing room only event. I looked around at the gloved, masked, and aproned attendants. The chief medical examiner, Dr. Padman Bhatnager, was there, as were Sully and Mack, plus a second autopsy technician, a stenographer, and a staff photographer whose job was to carefully chronicle every cut and swab for the Prosecutor’s office, should this case ever go to court. They were all familiar to me from past autopsies, though I’d never seen them in one examination room at the same time like this. A tall, willowy blonde hovered by Bhatnager’s elbow. Her I’d never seen before, with or without a mask. She must have felt my glance. Clear blue eyes behind delicate wire-rimmed glasses locked in on mine and then looked away. I checked out her hands. Her long, latex-gloved fingers were gripped tightly together. No rings. Hmmm.
    We exchanged brief hellos all around. I barely caught her name—Heather something. She and Bill nodded like they already knew each other. I shot Bill a look: he’d been holding out. He ignored me.
    “Let’s keep going,” Bhatnager said. He glanced at Bill. “We’ve already reviewed the medical records from his physician,” he read from a clipboard, “a Dr. Davitz. He confirms Mr. Rudolph was on a number of medications typical for a male in his late sixties. He had slight heart issues, high cholesterol, moderate plaque, the usual. Nothing to indicate an acute myocardial infarction might be imminent.”
    I’d thought Marv looked like a heart attack waiting to happen, but nobody was asking me.
    Bill and I moved to one corner as the ME began a meticulous visual scan of the body, reciting his findings into a tape recorder. The assistant marked a body diagram on his own clipboard, and the stenographer took notes. They were being triply careful with this. The external autopsy started to give up its first round of data. It was just as puzzling as the crime scene photos. The absence of major bleeding around the skin wound indicated it was inflicted post-mortem.