Chapter 4: Chapter 4: Mathura

Chapter 4

Mathura

Men dressed in tanned uniforms stood around the green of a soccer field. Sweat pooled beneath maroon berets as their brown eyes scanned the crowd, brandishing long black rifles with both hands. Women dressed in colorful sari's and lenga dresses held back curious kids, some of their faces covered in dirt from a recent futbol game that was stopped too early. Their fathers had no such compunction to keep them from bearing witness, perching the boys on their necks and shoulders to see over the regiment police.

“Get those children down!” A inspector of Police growled beneath a thick, bushy mustache. Lifting his stiff cap to wipe sweat through his thinning black hair, Inspector Naidu turned back to the field. The aircraft had arrived hours ago. Its engines were nearly silent, and his village would not have known of the Americans arrival if not for foreign policy which meant they had to give a courtesy call before landing. There were some advantages of being a nuclear nation.

Walking back to the area the Americans had cordoned off, he stood close to the man he thought was the leader of the landing party.

“Thank you for that, Inspector,” the man called Amaral said.

Naidu nodded back, replacing his hat atop his head.

The scene was alive with American workers, wearing their typical black suits and sunglasses , sweating even more than him in that insufferable heat, moving from the aircraft that looked like a broken arrowhead painted black. Most of their attention was drawn to a small depression in the otherwise untouched field. Some held out devices he did not recognize that beeped at intervals, taking readings. It was a toss up whether the noises were a good or bad sign.

“Do you mind telling me what you are doing here again, Mr. Amaral?” Naidu asked in his best English. Amaral was tall, brown, just like him, but not Indian. And had a pleasant, disarming smile that made Naidu worry.

“Please call me, Celio Inspector,” Amaral replied. “And were just here taking evidence of a--” he paused, then said, “--unusual origin. It shouldn't be much longer.”

“You said that hours ago, Celio,” the inspector replied. Celio only replied with that smile Naidu suspected made women swoon. “And you still haven't told me what you are looking at. As a representative of the government of India, I demand--”

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Celio cut him off by putting up his hands. “Okay Inspector Naidu, I surrender. No need to get geopolitical.” He waved him forward, “Come. Let me show you something.”

Bristling at being summoned, Naidu hesitated a moment but curiosity moved his legs, and he followed Celio past the other Americans who eyed him as he passed. Getting closer, he noticed the small emblems on their chests, stenciled with the letter M.D.C., and he felt the sweat trickle down his back. Getting closer to where the Americans had setup a strong light that shined down on the depression that had scorched the grass and earth, he began to smell the stench of rubber being burned.

Leaning into the light, Celio crouched next to a smoldering pile. Black plastic had been pulled away, revealing charred building material. There was the aroma of burning meat, but it was tainted, smelling more like a putrid animal killed on the road and set alight. Together, it all looked like a pile of burned garbage put together by children as a prank, not something that required international attention, nor forcing him out in that weather.

“What am I looking at?” Naidu asked, leaning over.

Celio face tightened, “Take a closer look, Inspector.” He said the last word as an insult, as if he were disappointed that all Naidu saw was garbage.

Taking a step, Naidu leaned in closer. Inside the garbage, he saw the burned flesh sticking out beneath what he now guessed was drywall. Beneath those remains were fabric burned on the edges, but he could still see that they were blue and gold.

“Is that a symbol of some sort?” Naidu asked.

Celio grinned and nodded. “Very good inspector,” he said. Retrieving tweeters from his breast pocket, Celio moved the garment pieces around, rearranging the material until a clear pattern emerged.

Naidu swallowed and asked, “What is that? A lightning bolt?”

Celio Amaral nodded again. “Yes it is.” He stood and put the tweezers back in his pocket. “It belonged to a man named Stun. He was one of ours.” He looked down at the pile. “What we have here is evidence of a murder Inspector, and I want to know what happened.”

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