Jupiter’s Bones. Faye Kellerman

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!”