Foreign Body

Chapter 25

October 18, 2007

Thursday, 9:45 a.m.

New Delhi, India

On the relatively short run from the Imperial hotel back to the Amal Palace Hotel, Jennifer decided the regular taxi wasn’t that much more relaxing than the auto rickshaw except for having sides, providing at least the impression of being safer. The taxi driver was as aggressive as the auto rickshaw driver had been, but his vehicle was slightly less maneuverable.

En route and after checking the time, Jennifer reconfirmed her plans of doing some sightseeing during the morning and exercising and lying around the pool in the afternoon. After her breakfast with Rita, she was even more convinced something weird was afoot, and she didn’t want to obsess. As she looked out the cab’s window, she was becoming familiar enough with Delhi traffic to recognize that the morning rush hour was beginning to abate. In place of stop-and-go it was crawl-and-go, so it was as good a time as any for her to drive around the city.

Back at the hotel, she didn’t bother going up to her room. Using the house phone, she called Lucinda Benfatti.

“Hope I’m not calling too early,” Jennifer said apologetically.

“Heavens, no,” Lucinda said.

“I just had breakfast with a woman whose husband died last night, not at the Queen Victoria but at another similar hospital.”

“We can certainly sympathize with her.”

“In more ways than one. The whole situation resembles our experience. Once again, CNN was aware before she was.”

“That makes three deaths,” Lucinda stated. She was shocked. “Two can be a coincidence; three in three days cannot.”

“That’s my thought exactly.”

“I’m certainly glad your medical examiner friends are coming.”

“I feel exactly the same, but I feel like I’m treading water until they get here. Today I’m going to try not to think about it. I might even try to act like a tourist. Would you like to accompany me? I really don’t care what I see. I just want to take my mind off everything.”

“That’s probably a good idea, but not for me. I just couldn’t do it.”

“Are you sure?” Jennifer asked, unsure if she should try to insist for Lucinda’s sake.

“I’m sure.”

“Here I am saying I want to take my mind off everything, and I have a couple of questions for you. First, did you find out from your friend in New York what time he learned about Herbert’s passing on CNN?”

“Yes, I did,” Lucinda said. “I wrote it down somewhere. Hold on!”

Jennifer could hear Lucinda moving things around on the desk and mumbling to herself. It took about a minute for her to come back on the line. “Here it is. I wrote it on the back of an envelope. It was just before eleven a.m. He remembered because he’d turned the TV on to watch something scheduled at eleven.”

“Okay,” Jennifer said, as she wrote down the time. “Now I have another request. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Call up our friend Varini and ask her what time is on the death certificate, or if you are going out there, ask to look at the death certificate yourself, which you are entitled to do. I’d like to know the time, and I’ll tell you why. With my granny, I heard about her passing around seven-forty-five a.m. Los Angeles time, which is around eight-fifteen New Delhi time. Here in New Delhi, when I asked to see her death certificate, the time was ten-thirty-five p.m., which is curious, to say the least. Her time of death was later than it was announced on television.”

“That is curious! It suggests someone knew she was going to die before she did.”

“Exactly,” Jennifer said. “Now there could have been some screw-up here in India that could explain the discrepancy, like someone writing ten-thirty-five p.m. when they were supposed to write nine-thirty-five, but even that is too short an interval for CNN to get the tip, verify it in some way, write the piece about medical tourism, and get it on the air.”

“I agree; I’ll be happy to find out.”

“Now, the last thing,” Jennifer said. “When my granny was discovered having passed away, she was blue. It’s called cyanosis. I’m having trouble explaining that physiologically. After a heart attack sometimes the patient can be a little blue, maybe the extremities, like the tips of the fingers, but not the whole body. With all the other similarities between Granny and Herbert, I’d like to know if he was also blue.”

“Who would I ask?”

“The nurses. It’s the nurses who know what goes on in a hospital. Or medical students, if the hospital has them.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

“I’m sorry to be giving you all these tasks.”

“It’s quite alright. I actually like having things to do. It keeps me from obsessing over my emotions.”

“Since you’re not up for sightseeing, how about dinner? Are you going out to the airport to meet your sons, or are you going to wait for them here?”

“I’m going to the airport. I really am anxious to see them. As for dinner, could I let you know later?”

“Absolutely,” Jennifer said. “I’ll call you in the afternoon.”

After appropriate good-byes, Jennifer hung up the house phone and hastened over to the concierge desk. Now that she had decided to sightsee, she wanted to get on her way. Unfortunately, there was a line at the desk, and she had to wait. When it was her turn and she had stepped up to the desk, she couldn’t help but notice the reaction of the concierge. It was like he’d just recognized an old friend. What made it particularly surprising was that he wasn’t even the concierge who’d given her the city map the day before.

“I’d like some advice,” Jennifer said, while watching the man’s dark eyes. Rather than make proper eye contact, he seemed to be intermittently looking over Jennifer’s shoulder out into the lobby, so that even Jennifer herself turned to see if there was something going on, but she saw nothing unusual.

“What kind of advice?” the man asked, finally engaging Jennifer with normal eye contact.

“I want to do a little sightseeing this morning,” she said. She noticed the man’s name was Sumit. “What would you recommend for two to three hours?”

“Have you seen Old Delhi?” Sumit inquired.

“I haven’t seen anything.”

“Then I suggest Old Delhi for certain,” Sumit said, while reaching for a city map. He opened the map with a practiced shake and smoothed it out on the desktop. Jennifer looked down at it. It was identical to the one she’d gotten the day before.

“Now, this is the area of Old Delhi,” Sumit said, pointing with his left index finger. Jennifer followed his pointing finger but out of the corner of her eye she saw Sumit wave with his right hand over his head as if trying to get someone’s attention. Jennifer turned to look into the lobby area to see who Sumit was waving at, but no one seemed to be returning the gesture. She looked back at the concierge, who seemed mildly embarrassed and lowered his hand like a child being caught reaching for the cookie jar.

“Sorry,” Sumit said. “I was just trying to wave at an old friend.”

“It’s quite alright,” Jennifer said. “What should I see in Old Delhi?”

“For sure, the Red Fort,” he said, poking a finger at it on the map. He took her guidebook and flipped it open to the proper page. “Perhaps second only to the Taj Mahal in Agra, it might be India’s most interesting landmark. I particularly like the Diwan-i-Aam.”

“It sounds promising,” Jennifer said, noticing that the man no longer seemed to be distracted in the slightest.

“Good morning, Ms. Hernandez,” the second concierge said when he’d finished with his last client and was waiting for the next to step up. It had been he who had given her the city map the day before.

“Good morning to you,” Jennifer responded.

“Ms. Hernandez is going to visit Old Delhi,” Sumit said to Lakshay.

“You’ll enjoy it,” Lakshay said, while waving for the next hotel guest to approach.

“What about after the Red Fort?” Jennifer asked.

“Then I recommend you visit the Jama Masjid mosque, built by the same Mughal emperor. It is the largest mosque in India.”

“Is this area near these two monuments a bazaar?” Jennifer asked.

“Not only a bazaar but the bazaar. It is the most wonderful labyrinth of narrow galis and even more narrow katras where you can buy most anything and everything. The shops are tiny and owned by the merchants, so you must bargain. It is marvelous. I suggest you walk around the bazaar, shop if you are so inclined, and then walk here to a restaurant called Karim’s for lunch,” Sumit said, pointing at the map. “It’s the most authentic Mughlai restaurant in New Delhi.”

“Is it safe?” Jennifer asked. “I’d prefer not to get Delhi belly.”

“Very safe. I know the maître d’. I’ll call him and tell him you might be stopping in. If you do, ask for Amit Singh. He will take good care of you.”

“Thank you,” Jennifer said. “It sounds like a good plan.” She tried to fold the map into its original form.

Sumit took the map and expertly collapsed it. “May I ask how you plan to travel to Old Delhi?”

“I hadn’t gotten to that yet.”

“May I recommend using one of the hotel cars. We can arrange for an English-speaking driver, and the car will be air-conditioned. It is somewhat more expensive than a taxi, but the driver will stay with you, although not while you visit the monuments or the bazaar. Many of our female guests find it very convenient.”

Jennifer liked the idea immediately. Since the sightseeing outing might be her one and only, she thought she should do it properly, and for a babe-in-the-woods tourist, it might make the difference between enjoying herself or not. “You say it’s not much more than a taxi?” Jennifer asked, to be reassured.

“That’s correct if you are hiring the taxi by the hour. It’s a service for our hotel guests.”

“How do I make the arrangements? It’s not going to work for me unless there’s a car available now.”

Sumit pointed across the hotel’s main entrance to a desk similar to his. “That’s the transportation desk just opposite, and my colleague, attired similar to myself, is the transportation manager. I assure you he will be most helpful.”

Jennifer wove through the people coming in and going out of the hotel and approached the transportation desk. She was unaware of a balding, round-faced man behind her, more than three inches shorter than her, who stood up from a club chair in the center of the lobby and approached the concierges. But a few moments later she did happen to see him while the transportation manager finished up a phone conversation. She noticed him only because he was talking with one of the turbaned, towering doormen, and by comparison appeared considerably shorter than he actually was.

“May I help you?” the transportation manager said as he hung up his phone.

As she started to speak, she noticed the man had a similar reaction on confronting her as the concierge: a kind of distracted recognition. Jennifer felt instantly self-conscious, worrying something must be amiss with her appearance, like something was stuck between her teeth. As a reflex, she ran her tongue across them.

“Can I help you?” the man repeated. Jennifer noticed his name was Samarjit Rao. She certainly didn’t remember meeting him.

“Have we met?” Jennifer asked.

“Unfortunately, we have not — not in person, anyway. But I did arrange for your airport transportation Tuesday evening, and I know you are to accompany an airport pickup this evening. And we are encouraged by management to learn our guests’ names and faces.”

“I’d say that is impressive,” Jennifer said. She then went on to ask how much a car and driver would be for three hours or so, and if one was currently available with a driver who spoke English.

Samarjit quoted Jennifer a price, which was less than Jennifer expected. As soon as he was able to ascertain a car with an English-speaking driver was available, Jennifer said she’d take it. Five minutes later she was sent out to the porte cochere and told a Mercedes would soon be up from the garage for her. She was also told the driver’s name would be Ranjeet Basoka and that the Sikh doormen had been informed and would direct her to the right vehicle.

As she stood waiting for the hired car to appear, she amused herself by observing the mix of nationalities, but in so doing she didn’t make particular note of a man dressed in black with several gold chain necklaces exit the hotel, weave his way through the crowd, and climb into a black Mercedes. Nor did she notice that the man did not start the car but merely sat in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Would you care for more coffee?” the waiter asked.

“No, thank you,” Neil said. He folded the newspaper he’d been given, stood up, and stretched. The breakfast had been terrific. The buffet had been one of the most extensive he’d ever seen, and he’d tried just about everything. Having already signed the check, he walked out into the busy lobby, wondering what his plan should be. Catching sight of the concierge desk, he thought he’d start there.

It took a while before it was his turn. “I’m a guest in the hotel...” he began.

“Of course,” Lakshay said. “You are Sahib Neil McCulgan, I presume.”

“How did you know my name?”

“When I arrive in the morning, if there’s time, I try to acquaint myself with the new guests. Sometimes I’m wrong, but usually I’m right.”

“Then you must be aware of Miss Jennifer Hernandez.”

“Absolutely. Are you an acquaintance?”

“I am. She doesn’t know I’m here. It’s sort of a surprise.”

“Just a moment,” Lakshay said as he rushed out from behind the desk. “Wait here,” he added, as he ran out the door.

Bewildered, Neil watched him though the glass as he made a beeline to one of the colorfully dressed doormen. They had a quick conversation, and then Lakshay ran back inside. He was slightly out of breath. “Sorry,” he said to Neil. “Miss Hernandez was just here two minutes ago. I thought maybe I could catch her, but she just got into her car.”

Neil’s face brightened. “She was just here at the concierge desk a few minutes ago?”

“Yes. She asked for some recommendations for sightseeing. We sent her to Old Delhi’s Red Fort, the Jama Masjid mosque, and the Delhi bazaar, with lunch possibly at a restaurant called Karim’s.”

“In that order.”

“Yes, so I believe you could catch her at the Red Fort if you hurry.”

Neil started for the hotel exit when the second concierge called out, “She’s using a hotel car. A black Mercedes. Ask the transportation manager its tag number. It might be useful.”

Neil nodded and waved that he’d heard, then headed to the transportation desk, got the vehicle tag number and the mobile number of the driver, and then rushed out to snare a taxi.

Jennifer was instantly grateful she’d allowed the concierge to talk her into hiring a hotel car for her outing. Once she was nestled within the muffled air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes, it was like being on a different planet, compared with either the auto rickshaw or the regular taxi. For the first fifteen minutes she enjoyed gazing out at the spectacle of the Indian streets with their fantastic collection of conveyances, crush of people, and admixture of animals, from restive monkeys to bored cows. She even saw her first Indian elephant.

The driver, Ranjeet, was dressed in a fitted, carefully pressed dark blue uniform. Although he spoke English, his accent was so strong Jennifer found it hard to understand him. She tried to make an effort as he pointed out various landmarks, but she eventually gave up and resorted to merely nodding her head and saying things like “Very interesting” or “That’s wonderful.” Eventually, she opened her guidebook and turned to the section dealing with the Red Fort. After a few minutes the driver noticed her concentration on the book and fell silent.

For almost a half-hour she read about the architecture and some of the fort’s history to the point of being unaware of the traffic or their route. Nor was she aware of two cars that were following hers: one a white Ambassador, and the other a black Mercedes. At times these trailing cars were very close, especially when they all stopped for a red light or backed-up traffic. At other times they were quite far away but never out of sight.

“We’ll soon be seeing the Red Fort on the right,” Ranjeet said, “just beyond this traffic light.”

Jennifer looked up from her reading, which had switched from the Red Fort to the Jama Masjid. What she immediately noticed was that Old Delhi was significantly more crowded than New Delhi, with both people and conveyances, especially more cycle rickshaws and animal-drawn carts. There was also more trash and debris of all sorts. Plus, there was also more activity, such as people getting shaves or haircuts, medical treatment, fast food, massages, their ears cleaned, clothes cleaned, shoes repaired, and teeth filled — all in the open, with very little equipment. All the barber had was a chair, a tiny cracked mirror, a few implements, a bucket of water, and a large rag.

Jennifer was mesmerized. Everything about living life that was secreted away behind closed doors in the West was being done out in the open. For Jennifer, it was visual overload. Every time she glimpsed an activity and wanted to question her driver what people were doing or why they were doing it in the open, she saw something else more surprising.

“There’s the Red Fort,” Ranjeet said proudly.

Jennifer looked out the windshield at a monstrous crenellated structure of red sandstone, far larger than she’d imagined. “It’s huge,” she managed. Her mouth was agape. As they drove along the western wall, it seemed to go on forever.

“The entrance is up here on the right,” Ranjeet said, pointing ahead. “It’s called the Lahore Gate. It’s where the prime minister addresses the Independence Day rally.”

Jennifer wasn’t listening. The Red Fort was overwhelming. When she’d read about it, she’d envisioned something about the size of the New York Public Library, but it was vastly larger and constructed with marvelously exotic architecture. To explore it adequately would take a day, not the hour or so she’d intended.

Ranjeet turned into the parking area in front of the Lahore Gate. A number of huge tour buses were parked along one side. Ranjeet motored by them and stopped near a group of souvenir shops.

“I will wait just over there,” he said, pointing to a few highly stressed trees providing a bit of shade. “If you don’t see me the moment you come out, call me and I will come directly back here.”

Jennifer took the business card the driver extended toward her, but didn’t answer. She was gazing at the immensity of the fort and recognizing the futility of trying to see a famous edifice the size of the Red Fort in an hour. It certainly would not do it justice. Adding to that negative feeling was the general exhaustion she felt with her jet lag, the lulling sensation the car had provided, and her admission she was not much of a sightseer of old buildings. Jennifer was a people person. If she was to make an effort, she’d prefer to see people than crumbling architecture any day of the week. She was far more interested in the spectacle of Indian street life, a portion of which she’d just witnessed from the car.

“Is there something wrong, Miss Hernandez?” Ranjeet asked. After handing her his card he’d continued looking at Jennifer. She’d made no effort to move.

“No,” Jennifer said. “I’ve just changed my mind. I assume we’re close to the bazaar area?”

“Oh, yes,” Ranjeet said. He pointed across the road running the length of the Red Fort. “The whole area south of Chandni Chowk, that main street leading away from the Red Fort, is the bazaar area.”

“Is there somewhere convenient for you to park so I can wander in the bazaar?”

“There is. There is parking at the Jama Masjid mosque, which is at the southern end of the bazaar.”

“Let’s go there,” Jennifer said.

Ranjeet made a rapid three-point turn and accelerated back the way they’d come, raising a cloud of yellowish dust. He also hit his horn as they bore down on a man dressed in black and carrying a jacket over his arm. What Ranjeet didn’t see was a short man standing at a refreshment stand toss away a canned soda and sprint for his car.

“Is Chandni Chowk both a street and a district?” Jennifer asked. She had gone back to reading her guidebook. “It’s a little confusing.”

“It is both,” Ranjeet said. Although stopped at the traffic light, he hit his horn again as a taxi turned into the parking area for the Lahore Gate more rapidly than appropriate, came within inches, and sped past. Ranjeet shook his fist and shouted some words in Hindi that Jennifer assumed were not used at “high tea.”

“Sorry,” Ranjeet said.

“That’s quite alright,” Jennifer said. The taxi had alarmed her as well.

The light changed and Ranjeet accelerated out into the broad multilaned Netaji Subhash Marg that fronted the Red Fort, turning south. “Have you been on a cycle rickshaw, Miss Hernandez?”

“No, I haven’t,” Jennifer admitted. “I’ve been on an auto rickshaw, though.”

“I recommend you try a cycle rickshaw, and specially one here at the Chandni Chowk. I can arrange for one at the Jama Masjid, and he can take you around the bazaar. The lanes are called galis and are crowded and narrow and the katras are even more narrow. You need a cycle rickshaw; otherwise, you’ll get lost. He will be able to bring you back when you wish.”

“I suppose I should try one,” Jennifer said, without a lot of enthusiasm. She told herself she should be more adventuresome.

Ranjeet turned right off the wide boulevard and was promptly engulfed in the stop-and-go traffic on a narrow street. This was not the bazaar per se, but it was lined by modest-sized shops selling a wide variety of merchandise, from stainless-steel kitchen utensils to bus tours in Rajasthan. As the car slowly moved along, Jennifer was able to gaze at the myriad faces of the local population reflecting the dizzying variety of ethnic groups and cultures that have miraculously become glued together over the millennia to form current-day India.

The narrow street butted into the exotic-appearing Jama Masjid mosque, where Ranjeet turned left into a crowded parking lot. He jumped out and told Jennifer to wait for a moment.

While Jennifer waited, she took note of something about the Indian temperament. Although Ranjeet had left the car in the middle of the busy parking area, none of the parking attendants seemed to care. It was like she and the car were invisible despite blocking the way. She couldn’t imagine what a firestorm it would have caused to do something similar in New York.

Ranjeet returned with a cycle rickshaw in tow. Jennifer was horrified. The cyclist was pencil-thin with protein-starved, sunken cheeks. He didn’t appear capable of walking very far, much less pumping hard enough to move a three-wheeled bicycle supporting Jennifer’s hundred and fourteen pounds.

“This is Ajay,” Ranjeet said. “He’ll take you around the bazaar, wherever you might like to go. I suggested the Dariba Kalan with its gold and silver ornaments. There’s also some temples you might like to see. When you want to come back to the car, just tell him.”

Jennifer climbed out of the car and then with some reluctance up into the hard seat of the cycle rickshaw. She noticed there was little to hold on to, making her feel vulnerable. Ajay bowed and then started pedaling without saying a word. To her surprise, he was able to propel the cycle with apparent ease by standing up and pedaling. They rode along the front side of the Jama Masjid until they were soon engulfed by the extensive bazaar.

By the time Dhaval Narang got back to his car at the Lahore Gate at the Red Fort, Ranjeet had already gotten a green light and had accelerated southward to join the traffic coming from Chandni Chowk Boulevard. Hurrying, Dhaval was able to get to the light before it turned red. Accelerating as well, he rushed after the hotel’s car, trying desperately to keep it in sight. Since the traffic was heavy, it was not easy, even though he was driving very aggressively in an attempt to catch up. He was doing well until a bus pulled away from the curb in front of him and blocked even his view.

Forcing himself to take even more of a chance, Dhaval pressed down on the gas pedal, cut in front of a truck, and managed to get around the overly crowded bus. Unfortunately, by the time he could again see ahead Ranjeet had disappeared. Slowing to a degree, Dhaval began looking down the side streets that headed west as he passed them. A moment later he had to stop at a traffic light, allowing crowds of people to surge forth to cross Netaji Subhash Marg.

Dhaval was disgruntled, impatiently tapping the steering wheel while waiting for the light to change. Originally, he’d been happy about the Red Fort, as it was big and packed with tourists, making it easy to do a hit and melt into the crowd without fear of being caught. But then Ranjeet had suddenly driven away, giving Dhaval no idea where he was going or why.

When the traffic light turned to green, Dhaval had to wait impatiently while the vehicles in front of him slowly accelerated forward. At the corner, he glanced down toward the Jama Masjid mosque and made a rapid decision. Halfway down toward the mosque and mired in traffic was what looked like the Amal Palace’s Mercedes.

Suddenly throwing the steering wheel to the right, Dhaval recklessly turned into the oncoming traffic, forcing several vehicles to jam on their brakes. Gritting his teeth, Dhaval half expected to hear the crunch of a collision, but luckily it was only screeching tires, horns, and angry shouts. Whether the car ahead was the hotel’s or not, he’d decided to check the mosque. If Jennifer Hernandez wasn’t there, then he’d head back to the hotel.

Moving slowly in the stop-and-go side-street traffic, it took some time to get to the front of the mosque, where Dhaval turned left into a parking area. As soon as he did so he recognized the hotel car as it was being parked. Quickly glancing over his shoulder in the opposite direction, he was rewarded with catching sight of Jennifer on a cycle rickshaw just before she disappeared into one of the crowded galis.

Having been told the order in which Jennifer was planning on touring Old Delhi, Inspector Naresh Prasad merely assumed she’d changed her mind about the Red Fort and was moving on to the Jama Masjid. Although still hurrying to a degree, he felt there wasn’t the need to put himself in jeopardy. At the same time, he didn’t want to lose her, even though he was progressively questioning the need to follow her while she was acting like a tourist. He would have much preferred to see whom she’d had breakfast with that morning than follow her on a sightseeing junket.

As he pulled into the parking lot and parked, he noticed a man in black climbing from his Mercedes. He was the same man Naresh had seen only a few minutes earlier rushing for his car as Jennifer Hernandez was driving out from the Red Fort’s parking area. Curious, Naresh rapidly got out himself.

Neil had to Smile at himself as he ran along the face of the Jama Masjid mosque. He was certainly having a devil of a time surprising Jennifer, and wondered what had happened at the Red Fort. When he had visited India five months ago, the Red Fort had been one of his favorite tourist sites, but apparently Jennifer had felt otherwise.

A minute earlier, by sheer luck, Neil had just caught sight of Jennifer, poised on a cycle rickshaw and about to be swallowed up by the labyrinthine Delhi. Yelling to the driver to stop, Neil had tossed the fare into the taxi’s front seat, and had leaped from the vehicle, only to be bogged down by the milling crowds massed at the mosque’s entrance. When he’d finally broken free, Jennifer had disappeared.

When Neil entered the bazaar, he had to slow to a jog. At first he wasn’t sure which way she’d gone, but a minute or so of further jogging brought her back into sight. At that moment she was about fifty feet ahead of him.

Jennifer was not enjoying herself. The cycle rickshaw seat was hard and the alleyway bumpy. Several times she was concerned she might fall as the cycle’s tires fell into potholes. The alleyways, narrow lanes, and even narrower katras were horribly crowded, noisy, frenetic, vibrant, and chaotic all at the same time. Myriad electrical wires, like spider webs, hung above, as did water pipes. There was a symphony of smells both delightful and sickening, involving, among other things, spices and urine, animal feces and jasmine.

As she held on for dear life she thought she probably would have found the experience more engaging if it hadn’t been for her grandmother’s death, which she couldn’t quite displace from the forefront of her consciousness, despite the bombardment on her senses. Although she was dealing with the tragedy far better than she had imagined before arriving in India, it was still affecting her negatively on many levels. As such, it seemed to her that the part of the bazaar she was seeing was dirty — filled with too much trash and sewage, and teeming with far too many people. The shops themselves for the most part were mere holes in the walls, their junk tumbling out into the lane. Although she recognized she’d yet to see the section selling the gold and silver or the spice area, she’d had enough. She just wasn’t in the right mind-set.

Jennifer was about to try to tell the cyclist she wanted to go back — in fact, she’d leaned forward, holding on with her left hand and keeping her shoulder bag in her lap, to attempt to get the man’s attention — when she noticed a kind of commotion out of the corner of her eye. As she turned to her left and looked down, she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun. Over the top of the barrel was a man’s hard, thin, expressionless face.

The next thing everyone in the crowded galis heard was the startling noise of the gun being fired twice. Those close to the victim, who happened to be looking in his direction, also had to witness the awful destructive power at close range, of a nine-millimeter bullet traversing the skull and exiting the left side of the man’s face. In this incidence, most of the victim’s left cheek was blown away, laying bare the upper and lower dentition.