Flashback

The change in Derek Dean was shocking. Nick had seen the man just hours ago while flashbacking the interview, but six years of Total Immersion had taken their toll. Dean had been slightly stocky six years earlier but very energetic, quick, and fit: the kind of country club tennis player who can give the resident pro a decent game. Now Dean had lost at least forty pounds. The once-strong and -florid face, almost always graced with a CEO’s confident smile during Nick’s first interview, was now gaunt and expressionless save for the vague, confused stare that Nick associated with Down syndrome children. Dean’s arms emerging from the loose saffron robe were skeletal stems with flaccid vestiges of muscles hanging loose beneath the bones. The formerly sturdy hands were now an old man’s extension of quivering and twitching sticks in lieu of fingers. Perhaps most disturbing to Nick were Dean’s fingernails, which were three inches long, curved, and piss-yellow.

Dean was sitting on a low bench between the hedge and gravel path, his haunted gaze firmly fixed on the rear door of the auditorium.

Nick sat down on the bench opposite and introduced himself. He did not introduce Sato or offer to shake hands.

“It’s almost time for me to go back… into… under… back,” mumbled Derek Dean in a brittle husk of a voice. “Almost time.”

“Do you remember me, Mr. Dean?” demanded Nick, sharpening his voice to get the man’s attention.

The unfocused gaze moved across Nick’s face. “Yes. Detective Bottom… they told me… Detective Bottom come to see me again. But it’s almost time to go, you see… to go back… you see.”

“We’ll keep it short,” said Nick, not disabusing the former exec of his mistake regarding Nick’s detective status. If Dean’s believing that he was still a cop would move the interview along, then so be it. Nick had identified himself only by name.

Dean had been a shaven-head acolyte six years ago, but Nick had seen photos of the exec with a full head of short, sandy-colored hair. His skin had looked tanned and healthy. Now Dean’s shaven skull was fishbelly white and pocked with small sores.

“Do you remember our earlier interview, Mr. Dean?” asked Nick, resisting the urge to snap his fingers to get the man’s attention.

The limpid but hungry gaze tore itself away from the auditorium door and tried to focus on Nick. “Yes, several weeks ago… yes, Detective. About that Japanese boy who just died. Yes. But you see, since then, Mrs. Howe has said I can work on the Alamo mural in the art room during recess. Did you know that Davy Crockett died at the Alamo?”

Sato made a grumbling interrogative noise.

Nick said, “Is Mrs. Howe your teacher, Derek?”

Dean beamed. He’d lost several teeth in the last six years, despite the fortune he paid for constant medical and dental care here at Naropa. “Yes, Mrs. Howe is my teacher.”

“What grade are you in, Derek?”

“I’m in third grade. Just beginning third grade. And Mrs. Howe said that Calvert and Juan and Judy and I can work on the Alamo mural in the art room during recess. We have enough crayons.”

“Can you remember what I asked you about the murder of Keigo Nakamura, Derek? Do you remember the questions I asked you last time?”

Dean frowned and for a moment seemed to be on the verge of tears. “That was weeks and weeks ago you were here, Detective Bottom. I’ve been so busy since.”

“I can see that,” Nick said.

“If you’re going to shed yourself of karma, you have to visit every moment it accumulated,” said Dean in a stronger, older voice. “Total Immersion is the only possible way to achieve full, mindful awareness in a soul-transformative way, Detective. My spiritual counselors help me reintegrate everything with insight.”

The man sounded like a student reciting something in a foreign language from rote.

“Mr. Dean, did you kill Keigo Nakamura?” said Nick.

“What… kill… a human person?” said Dean, his emaciated fingers going to his cracked lips and sunken cheeks. “Did I, Detective? Do you know? It would help if one of us knew for sure. Did I?”

“Why were you at Keigo Nakamura’s party the night of the murder, Derek?”

“Was I there? Was I really there, Detective? Reality is a relative term, you know. Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie might be dead… or maybe they’re still alive somewhere on a contiguous plane.”

“Why were you at Keigo Nakamura’s party the night he was murdered, Derek? Take your time to remember.”

Dean frowned theatrically and set his bony fist under his chin to show that he was thinking hard. After a minute he looked up and showed that gapped, childish smile again. “I was invited! I went because I was invited! And my teacher said that I could go and came with me.”

“Your teacher Mrs. Howe?” asked Nick.

Dean shook his head pendulously and for too long, like a drunk or an annoying child. “No, no, my teacher here at the institute. Shantarakshita Padmasambhava. We called him Art. Art had founded the Yogachara-Madhyamika and was a Great Soul and a great blessing to the institute.”