Steven James - The Knight

After the server left, I spent a few minutes helping Tessa and Cheyenne get to know each other, then Tessa said, “Detective Warren, did you know geographic profiling was first developed in India?”

I stared at my stepdaughter quizzically.

What is she doing?

“No, I didn’t,” Cheyenne said.

I didn’t want to talk business tonight, especially knowing how derisive Tessa could be about my work. “I’m sure Detective Warren isn’t interested in the history-”

“Actually, I am. Go on, Tessa.”

How did I know she was going to say that.

“Well,” Tessa said. “For nearly two thousand years the rural villages of northern India have been plagued by gangs of bandits who sneak into the towns at night and attack, rob, kidnap, and murder people, and then escape under the cover of darkness back to their own villages or to their hideouts in the jungle. Isn’t that right, Patrick?”

“Yes. They’re called-”

“Dacoits,” said Tessa. “So, to solve the crimes-and I’m not exactly sure what year they did this, you’d have to ask Patrick-the Indian authorities finally decided to stop looking for the three things detectives in North America usually base their entire investigations on-motive, means, and opportunity. First of all, the Indians didn’t care what motivated the crimes-whether it was anger or greed or tradition, or whatever, because it was probably all of the above. And second, they knew that most people in the region had the ability to attack and rob others, so focusing on the means wouldn’t have done any good. And finally, as far as opportunity, well, the crimes were always committed during the new moon when it was darkest, so that didn’t tell them a whole lot either.”

The food arrived and I was glad, if nothing more than to interrupt Tessa’s lecture.

“One thing before we dig in,” Cheyenne said. “If we want to be culturally sensitive, we need to eat with our fingers.” She demonstrated by swiping her thumb and the first three fingers of her right hand along the edge of her plate, scooping up some rice and vegetables, then lifting the food to her mouth.

I knew all of this from my trips to India, but I’d never taken the time to teach my stepdaughter Indian table etiquette.

“Cool,” Tessa said. She began to eat with her fingers. Out of instinct, she used her left hand.

Cheyenne smiled. “But always use your right hand.”

A slightly offended look. “What about left-handed people?”

“Well,” I said. “Indians use their left hands for other… chores.” I kept my description purposely vague, hoping Tessa would be able to fill in what I left unsaid.

“Chores?”

Cheyenne leaned forward and said softly, “Most rural villages don’t have adequate sewer systems, so the people don’t use toilet paper.”

Stunning dinner conversation, this was.

“What do they…?”

“Water. They wash.”

Tessa stared at her plate. “Well, that’s informative.” I sensed that she was about to ask a follow-up question, but she held back and instead wiped her fingers on a napkin.

All three of us ate for a few minutes, then Cheyenne swallowed some of her vegetable curry and asked Tessa, who was now eating with her right hand, “So what did they look for?”

“Who?”

“The Indian authorities.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Tessa punctuated by stabbing a finger into the air. “Timing and location.”

“Just like Patrick,” said Cheyenne admiringly.

“Not exactly-” I began.

“Yes,” Tessa said. “Just like Patrick.”

What has gotten into her?

“They studied how far a person could travel on foot at night, and then reduced the search area to include only those villages within that radius.”

She alternated between taking bites of her dinner and expounding on her answer. “Then they evaluated the most likely travel routes, studied land use patterns, and compared those to the proximity of the crimes and reduced the suspect pool even more. Finally, they considered the culture and traditions of the region.”

“Culture and traditions?” Cheyenne asked.

“Yes. They knew that the men in the gangs wouldn’t attack members of their own caste, so that eliminated even more suspects. At that point they started to look for physical evidence, eyewitness identification, confessions, etc… But they started by looking at timing and location.”

“Wow, I’m really impressed. Where did you learn all that?”

Tessa pointed her gooey, rice-covered fingers at me. “Patrick’s books. They’re very engaging and informative. Well-researched too.”

OK, this was just ridiculous.

I was about to explain that any investigator could have figured out the same approach by just using logic and rational deduction, but Tessa shoved her chair back from the table. “Well. I think I need to use the little girls’ room.” She paused, then said, “Um, they do have-”

“Yes,” Cheyenne said. “They do here.”

“Perf.”

Tessa wove between the tables on her way to the restroom, and I just shook my head. “I have no idea what’s going on with her tonight. I’m really sorry.”

“For what?”

“She’s not usually like this. Most of the time she’s a lot less. .. um, forthcoming.”

“She’s proud of you, that’s all.” Cheyenne took a drink, then set down her lassi. “I like her. She’s got spunk.”

“Yes,” I said. “Spunk.”

We ate for a few minutes, then I set down my fork. “Cheyenne, let me ask you something.”

“Yes?” She took a small bite of her vegetables.

“Back at the barn when you shot the chain…” I took a moment to collect my thoughts so it wouldn’t sound like I was questioning her judgment. She chewed her food. Swallowed. Waited for me to go on.

“Why didn’t you shoot it when you were beside me? You know, before the horse started running. It seems like that would have been a much easier shot than hitting a three-centimeter-wide chain from a galloping horse.”

“You’re right. It would have been easier.”

“So then, why?”

She took one last bite of her meal, then slid her plate toward the middle of the table and dipped her fingers into the small metal bowl of water that the server had provided for patrons to clean their fingers. “I would have needed a few extra seconds to aim, but the fire was spreading so fast I didn’t want to chance it. I wasn’t confident the horse would make it if I waited.”

That seemed to make sense, but I got the impression there was still something more she wanted to say.

“On the horse it was all instinct,” she explained. “That’s the way I work best-gut instinct. A person can overthink things, you know.” In the amber light of the restaurant she looked more attractive than ever. “You trust your head, Pat, and I admire that. I trust my gut.”

The ambient sounds in the restaurant seemed to fade away. “And what’s your gut telling you right now?”

A gleam in her eye. “That it’s hungry for dessert.”

Then she let her gaze drift past my shoulder as Tessa reappeared from behind me and plopped into her chair. “Did you say dessert?”

“That’s right. As soon as you two are finished.”

While Tessa and I worked at our meals, Cheyenne told her about some of the horses she’d owned over the years, and considering Tessa’s love for animals, I could see that Cheyenne was making a new friend.

At last Tessa took one final bite, swished her fingers clean, and looked brightly at me. “I’m hungry for tiramisu. They don’t make Indian tiramisu, do they?”

“Not usually,” I said.

Cheyenne eased back from the table and stood. “Tiramisu sounds perfect. Let’s go.”