Karma Read Free

as Jesus Christ died on the cross, just as Buddha died, uh, as all great spiritual leaders have—”
    Moans rose from the audience.
    Braga did a double take. “I didn’t say he was dying!” Again he swallowed. “We are not in a position to know what Padma has planned. We cannot know his karma. But we do know he has done this for you. For your benefit…”
    The ambulance crew burst through the door, followed by the lab crew and six patrol officers. As the beat officer on the scene, this case would be mine.
    I had just finished instructing the officers to get the names and addresses and row numbers of those in the audience when the ambulance men slipped the guru onto a stretcher and started down the steps. The guru’s assistant started after it, but an officer stopped him.
    I looked pointedly at the doctor.
    “He won’t make it to the hospital,” she whispered.
    Four officers moved to the last row of the audience and started taking down names and addresses, working their way from the sides to the center aisle until they’d meet and begin on the next row. It would be a long, tedious process.
    Again Braga faced the audience and started to speak, but his words died in mid-sentence. The required mood was gone. The crowd was restless, watching the print man as he spread powder near the spot where Padmasvana had fallen, murmuring in reaction to the flash of the photographer’s bulbs.
    Turning his back to them, Braga paced to the rear. As he neared the wall, the guru’s assistant, Chupa-da, grabbed his arm. His words were muffled, but anguish was etched on his round face.
    Braga shrugged.
    “Miss, Miss.” Chupa-da rushed toward me. “I must go. I must be with Padmasvana. He will need me.”
    Softly, I said, “No, he won’t. He’s probably already dead.”
    He stared, unbelieving.
    “I’m sorry.”
    Without comment, he walked back toward the wall. The residue of shock was visible on his face. The stiffness of his walk and the tremor of his hands suggested that only by a great effort of will was he managing to contain his distress.
    I looked away, an awful feeling of helplessness welling up inside. Above the altar, Padmasvana’s likeness still smiled down.
    Forcing myself to be professional, I surveyed the stage itself. The only access to it was through the side door that Braga had used. Steps that led to the audience had been blocked off with giant pictures of deities. The stage was about four feet high and the latticework railing that extended up from its edge added another foot or so. Only a pole-vaulter could have got to Padmasvana from the audience. I caught myself thinking how ridiculous it was even to pursue this line of thought. Padmasvana’s presence was so mesmerizing that the audience’s attention had been firmly fixed on the stage. No one could have attacked him that way unseen.
    Catching the pacing Braga on a turn, I said, “Where were you during the ceremony?”
    He stopped. “What?” He glanced at the crowd and, turning back to me, lowered his voice. “I was downstairs in my office taking care of the donations.” When I let my gaze rest on him, he added, “I’ve already been blessed. I am free of hate. You don’t need it more than once.”
    “Smith?” It was the print man addressing me. “The altar’s been done,” he said. “Everything but the brass box. You want that?”
    I turned to the altar. It stood a few feet right of center stage. The brocade cloths had been pulled slightly apart, revealing the edge of a yellow metal folding table that had probably held tea and cookies at P.T.A. meetings. Still on the altar, still sending smoke on high, were four incense burners, and in the middle sat a long, narrow brass box, studded with what appeared to be rubies. The box was the right shape to have held the knife. Its lid was fastened by a snap hinge that would catch on impact. The guru could have pulled the knife from it while shielding it from view with his body. He could have plunged the