a Bunsen burner running in his lab, knocking himself unconscious. No pathologist would miss the clues. Official cause of death: coronary thrombosis brought on by carbon monoxide poisoning. Suicide.
It was four months from the time of Parvesh’s death before Dr. David King completed the final lines of his autopsy report, reaching for answers to the end, his conclusion left dangling like a question mark. He wrote, in part:
Summary of abnormal findings:
Postmortem examination revealed the body of a young-appearing, East Indian female showing no significant external abnormality. Internal examination showed oedema of the brain with evidence of herniation, but no subarachnoid or subdural hemorrhage and no other external evidence of the cause of the brain pathology....
Changes of very early acute bronchitis noted in the right lung. The heart was normal. No pulmonary emboli were present, microscopic examination revealed changes in the brain of early but established anoxic ischaemic encephalopathy but an underlying pathology was not identified. It is quite possible the collapse could have been due to some cerebral pathology but this could not be identified.
Cause of death:
1a) anoxic ischaemic encephalopathy due to
b) collapse of unknown cause.
Parvesh Dhillon’s brain was sent off for incineration, meeting the same fate as her body already had. As a matter of protocol, King had tiny tissue samples from the brain and other organs sealed in paraffin wax, then packed in a series of thumbnail-sized blue-gray plastic cartridges and placed in a cardboard container the size of a box of chocolates. The case closed, a technician carried the box to a cramped storage room in the bowels of the hospital and put it on a shelf, squeezed between hundreds of other containers of tissue samples from other dead. That’s where the final traces of Parvesh Dhillon remained, in darkness, her secret, and her killer, still safe.
CHAPTER 3
“YOU KILLED MY DAUGHTER”
April 5, 1995
Ludhiana, India
Sarabjit Kaur Brar had tanned, smooth skin; her voice was soft and hesitant. She usually managed to keep her smile at bay, but it would occasionally crack and briefly light up a room. In English her name meant “the universe.” She sat on the edge of the bed, the moment nearing when her new husband, a man she neither knew nor loved, would arrive and expect intercourse from her. His name was Sukhwinder Dhillon. He was 36 years old, had two young daughters. She was 20, and had never even kissed a man before. Sarabjit waited to hear him mount the stairs and enter the room. She sat there, her small hands clasped on her lap as though in prayer, head bowed, staring at her bare feet, wearing a magenta lehnga—a formal silk blouse and skirt—and sheer chunni wrapped regally around her neck. Traditional bridal bracelets colored ivory, maroon, and gold lined the new bride’s thin wrists and forearms. The ritual red dye that covered the palms of her hands in an intricate pattern looked like dried blood.
Sarabjit Kaur Brar
She lived in a farm village called Panj Grain, two hours southwest of Ludhiana, where 2,000 people lived in a collection of bungalows made of a combination of concrete and sun-hardened mud and cow dung. The road to her arranged marriage had begun two weeks earlier when Sarabjit had first been presented to Dhillon. She had sat in the living room of her uncle Iqbal’s home along with her parents. Sarabjit wore a blouse known as a salwar kameez, rose-colored pants, and her head was covered in a scarf.
Panj Grain, the village Sarabjit called home.
Iqbal had suggested his niece to Dhillon as a prospective bride. And now, to her uncle and others, the bride-to-be seemed happy. Why wouldn’t she be? Marrying a Canadian citizen like Dhillon meant she could move to Canada, a new life, new opportunity. It was the dream of many Punjabis. Not all young women like Sarabjit held such an arrangement as their life mission, but what did the
It was four months from the time of Parvesh’s death before Dr. David King completed the final lines of his autopsy report, reaching for answers to the end, his conclusion left dangling like a question mark. He wrote, in part:
Summary of abnormal findings:
Postmortem examination revealed the body of a young-appearing, East Indian female showing no significant external abnormality. Internal examination showed oedema of the brain with evidence of herniation, but no subarachnoid or subdural hemorrhage and no other external evidence of the cause of the brain pathology....
Changes of very early acute bronchitis noted in the right lung. The heart was normal. No pulmonary emboli were present, microscopic examination revealed changes in the brain of early but established anoxic ischaemic encephalopathy but an underlying pathology was not identified. It is quite possible the collapse could have been due to some cerebral pathology but this could not be identified.
Cause of death:
1a) anoxic ischaemic encephalopathy due to
b) collapse of unknown cause.
Parvesh Dhillon’s brain was sent off for incineration, meeting the same fate as her body already had. As a matter of protocol, King had tiny tissue samples from the brain and other organs sealed in paraffin wax, then packed in a series of thumbnail-sized blue-gray plastic cartridges and placed in a cardboard container the size of a box of chocolates. The case closed, a technician carried the box to a cramped storage room in the bowels of the hospital and put it on a shelf, squeezed between hundreds of other containers of tissue samples from other dead. That’s where the final traces of Parvesh Dhillon remained, in darkness, her secret, and her killer, still safe.
CHAPTER 3
“YOU KILLED MY DAUGHTER”
April 5, 1995
Ludhiana, India
Sarabjit Kaur Brar had tanned, smooth skin; her voice was soft and hesitant. She usually managed to keep her smile at bay, but it would occasionally crack and briefly light up a room. In English her name meant “the universe.” She sat on the edge of the bed, the moment nearing when her new husband, a man she neither knew nor loved, would arrive and expect intercourse from her. His name was Sukhwinder Dhillon. He was 36 years old, had two young daughters. She was 20, and had never even kissed a man before. Sarabjit waited to hear him mount the stairs and enter the room. She sat there, her small hands clasped on her lap as though in prayer, head bowed, staring at her bare feet, wearing a magenta lehnga—a formal silk blouse and skirt—and sheer chunni wrapped regally around her neck. Traditional bridal bracelets colored ivory, maroon, and gold lined the new bride’s thin wrists and forearms. The ritual red dye that covered the palms of her hands in an intricate pattern looked like dried blood.
Sarabjit Kaur Brar
She lived in a farm village called Panj Grain, two hours southwest of Ludhiana, where 2,000 people lived in a collection of bungalows made of a combination of concrete and sun-hardened mud and cow dung. The road to her arranged marriage had begun two weeks earlier when Sarabjit had first been presented to Dhillon. She had sat in the living room of her uncle Iqbal’s home along with her parents. Sarabjit wore a blouse known as a salwar kameez, rose-colored pants, and her head was covered in a scarf.
Panj Grain, the village Sarabjit called home.
Iqbal had suggested his niece to Dhillon as a prospective bride. And now, to her uncle and others, the bride-to-be seemed happy. Why wouldn’t she be? Marrying a Canadian citizen like Dhillon meant she could move to Canada, a new life, new opportunity. It was the dream of many Punjabis. Not all young women like Sarabjit held such an arrangement as their life mission, but what did the
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