The Turin Shroud Secret

178

Mitzi walks in at 8 a.m. to an office already close to full.

She scans the desks suspiciously as she slips off her coat. ‘So what happened, guys? You all get tossed out by your wives as part of some class action?’

A stone-faced sergeant by the photocopier catches her eye. ‘Go see the captain. Said he wanted to know when you came in.’

She spins her coat around the top of a chair. ‘Matthews, at eight on a Monday?’

‘Your phone’s off. He’s been calling you.’

‘Shit.’ She hasn’t paid the last bill. They finally disconnected her. She digs in her purse for her cell. It’s dead. Has been since she called Carter going home last night. She’d been too tired to remember to put it on charge.

Mitzi heads to the boss’s office. If she’s in trouble, it’s probably to do with the legal mumbo jumbo at the hospital. What the hell. She did the best she could. They can’t ask more than that.

Matthews’ secretary isn’t at her guard post. Through the door she can see him talking to Tyler Carter. Doesn’t look too friendly.

She knocks and walks in. ‘You wanted me, sir.’ Her heart skips a beat.

‘Come in, shut the door.’ He waves her over.

She doesn’t like the look on their faces. ‘What is it?’

‘Nic Karakandez was shot last night at LAX, a gunfight with a man fleeing border guards.’

She takes a deep breath.

‘He died on the way to County. A bullet through the gut and another in the shoulder—’

‘Oh Jesus.’ Her legs go shaky.

He puts a hand up. ‘Let me finish. They brought him round in the ER. He’s alive but in a coma.’ Matthews guides her into a chair. ‘He shot dead a guy running away, the son of a bitch who’d pinned him with two .45s.’

Carter touches her shoulder. ‘Broussard, the scientist you said he was bringing back, he’s dead too. Plus a disabled guy who caught a headshot. A teenage boy is going to be paralysed for life.’

Mitzi is speechless.

‘Broussard was found murdered in a LAX restroom — airside of the border line. It’s what sparked the shoot-out.’

‘I thought they were home and dry,’ she finally says. ‘Nic rang from JFK and said everything was fine.’

‘Well, it wasn’t.’ Matthews tries to be practical. ‘Tyler’s got a couple of his men processing the scene and the two bodies are down at the morgue.’

‘I’d like to go to the hospital.’ She looks to Carter. ‘If that’s okay? I’ll try to wrap up my stuff on the Creeper when I come back.’

‘Sure. Watch yourself down there. The press have got wind of the shootings and they’re crawling over the local ER rooms.’

The office door is opened by Amy Chang, her face full of sympathy. ‘I came straight over when I heard.’

Mitzi’s glad to see her. ‘Thanks.’

Matthews can’t let her leave without spelling things out, bracing her for the worst. ‘Things don’t look good with Nic. The docs last night said it was sixty-forty against him pulling through.’

‘Screw the docs.’ Mitzi pulls the door open. ‘He’s got a boat to sail and I’m gonna damn well make sure he does.’

179

The trip out to County almost breaks the lieutenant’s job-hardened heart.

She’d hoped that turning up at his bedside would have some magical effect — like it does in films. But it hasn’t. Nic Karakandez is as pale as a ghost.

She looks across the tubes, the blood and plasma bags and the beeping monitors to Amy Chang. ‘Can you go talk to them — you know, doctor to doctor? Tell me what his chances really are?’

‘Of course.’ The ME heads out.

Mitzi stares at Nic. Shit, he really looks dead. ‘Four days, you dope.’ She takes his hand in hers. ‘Four freakin’ days. How can you go screw things up with just four days to go? I should kick your ass. Fact is, when I get you outta here I will kick your ass.’

She studies the monitor then locks his fingers between both her hands and just holds on. Amy opens the door and the movement makes her turn.

‘Good and bad news, Mitz. The gut wound was a through-and-through. He bled out badly but no vital organs were hit. That’s a big plus. Bad news is he cracked his head going down and that caused intracerebral haemorrhaging and edema that they didn’t find until they CT-scanned him. Add the shoulder wound, major blood loss and trauma and you can see why he flatlined. Paramedics did an incredible job bringing him round and keeping him ticking until they got him in surgery.’

‘What are his chances, Amy?’

‘Really hard to say.’

‘Don’t doctorise me. Friend to friend. Are we booking a party or fixing for a funeral?’

Amy pushes out a smile. ‘The next few hours will tell us.’

180

Sixty-forty against.

The odds roll like dice in Mitzi’s head. Surely Nic’s beaten stats worse than that out on the street? She bites at a nail and stares out of the passenger window as Amy drives back to the precinct. If she hadn’t sent him to Italy, none of this would have happened. But she knows there’s no use beating herself up — it ain’t gonna make him better. She pulls off the last of the hangnail and turns to her friend. ‘The guy Nic shot, did you do the exam on him?’

‘Terri Jones got him. I was still finishing up on Emma Varley when they called it in.’

‘You see him at all? See what he looked like?’ She knows why she’s asking. ‘Just a glimpse. He was nothing out of the ordinary. Arabic. Athletic. Late-thirties, I guess. I didn’t pay too much attention.’

Mitzi can’t help but ask. ‘Where’d Nic shoot him?’

‘Head.’ She taps a finger just above her nose.

‘Shame. Bastard would have died quick from that.’

They park up and swipe themselves in. ‘I’ll call you later,’ says Amy. ‘I’ve still got stuff to do. I finished that report on the Shroud. Let me know if or when you want it.’

‘Thanks. It doesn’t seem important right now.’

‘It isn’t. Anyway, I’ll stick it in the internal mail for you.’

‘Thanks.’ Mitzi smiles. ‘What do you think? Faked or not?’

‘Ignoring what all the sceptics and nutjobs claim — and believe me, there are hundreds of them who’ve written on this — I’d say the marks on the Shroud are consistent with someone crucified and stabbed.’

‘You’d stand up in court and say that?’

‘Probably would — but I’d want a big fat fee to do so.’

They both laugh. Amy waves as she turns away. ‘Don’t go home without calling me.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Mitzi walks back into Homicide and through to Carter’s office. She’s going to keep busy. Stay involved. Not think about those monitors, tubes and unfavourable odds.

Carter is with Tom Hix, hands on his desk, bent over folders, papers and transparencies. He looks up as soon as Mitzi walks in. ‘What’s the latest?’

‘They say he’s stable but still critical.’

‘Out of the coma?’

‘No. Amy Chang reckons the next couple of hours will be decisive.’

Hix nods. ‘We used to think that all the brain damage came at the moment of injury. Now we know the time afterwards is even more dangerous. You’re talking brain swelling and complications like spastic hemiplegia, hyper-refiexia, quadrispasticity—’

‘No, we’re not, Tom.’ Carter interrupts. ‘We’re absolutely not talking that kind of trash.’

‘Sorry, Tyler, I wasn’t thinking.’

Mitzi gestures to the desk. ‘What you looking at?’

Carter takes a beat. ‘Tom’s discovered something unusual. Unusual and disturbing.’ He spreads out three sets of DNA codes. ‘You’re the scientist, you explain it.’

Hix is keen to do so. ‘The first transparent printout is the DNA of the offender who left trace at Tamara Jacobs’s house and in the rented Lexus. We’ve already blood-matched it to the man Nic shot dead last night. It’s one and the same.’

Mitzi looks pleased. ‘So we have Tamara’s killer.’

‘And,’ adds Carter, ‘Édouard Broussard’s.’

Tom qualifies it. ‘Yes. Subject to a fuller DNA test, but that’s really only a formality. Now look at this second profile.’ He slides the transparency from its folder. ‘This is the sample Nic FedExed from Italy — trace from the killer of scientist Mario Sacconi.’ He lays it over the top of the first print. ‘One and the same.’

‘His prints match too,’ adds Carter. ‘We got partials from the sticky tape used on the female victim in Italy — they’re good enough to show a conclusive match. This guy was a pro. A professional assassin.’

Hix produces another three transparencies. ‘Let’s move on to the Creeper case. Here things get even more intriguing. Do you know whose genetic fingerprints these are?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘The first is the DNA profile of the Creeper himself. We’ve had it on file for more than a year. The second is from swabs John James voluntarily gave us yesterday. The third is from hair root samples found on the body of Emma Varley.’ He lays all three on top of each other.

‘Perfect matches,’ announces Carter. ‘If we can get the DA to prosecute, we have an open and closed case on James.’

Carter and Hix exchange looks.

‘What?’ asks Mitzi. ‘This is good news, isn’t it? We got two separate killers and two separate DNA profiles that link them to their crimes. Is there more than that?’

‘Show her,’ says Carter.

The scientist carefully slides a transparency out of a plastic cover. ‘This is DNA from the blood that Nic shipped us and said came from the Shroud of Turin, samples Erica Craxi gave him inside a Saint Christopher locket.’

She looks at the printout. It’s just a mass of shaded boxes but even she can tell it’s not the same as the others. ‘So what? What’s the connection?’

Hix pulls away two of the other transparencies. ‘The one here on the left is the man Nic shot. The one on the right is John James aka the Creeper.’ He pauses and lets Carter and Mitzi take a good long look. ‘The print in my hand is of the DNA from the Shroud.’ He lays it first on top of the left-hand profile, the man Nic killed. ‘Here, you see similarities. Not total matches in all columns, only familial matches. Distant relations, diluted through the generations, maybe even through centuries, but nonetheless matches.’ He lifts it off and then places it over the second profile, the one of the Creeper. ‘Again you see matches. Not a complete match but nonetheless another conclusive indication of distant family links.’

Mitzi’s not sure she understands. ‘You mean the Creeper and the man Nic shot are descendants of the same bloodline as Shroudman?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean.’ Hix places the two profiles over each other. ‘Here, in these boxes, you see it. Distant paternal links, a genetic chain crossing countries and centuries.’

‘The criminal gene.’ Carter scoffs at the idea of it. ‘This is a gift to all the do-gooders who believe cold-blooded murdering bastards like the Creeper simply can’t help themselves — oh no, no, they’re just poor victims of a genetic defect, unavoidably and inevitably passed from father to son — they simply can’t help their urge to kill.’ He lifts a wastebasket from the floor. ‘Our case against James just turned into garbage.’

181

Andreas Pathykos thought he would never see his old friend again. Now here they are face to face. But there is no reason for celebration.

Nabih Hayek drives the papal advisor a short way down Via della Conciliazione before turning into an unlit side street. The two men sit in the battered Fiat that the Lebanese priest has owned for more than a decade. Moonlight falls on their faces as he explains the reason for the hasty liaison. ‘The monk is dead. Shot by a policeman in Los Angeles.’

‘Dear God.’

Hayek determines to tell the rest of it before the questions come. ‘Others were hurt. Two airport guards, a teenage boy and the policeman who killed Ephrem.’ He takes a beat. ‘And I’m afraid an elderly man was shot dead as well.’

Pathykos is grey with shock. ‘How is this so?’

Hayek holds back much of what he knows. ‘It is unclear. I am informed the monk had all but completed his task when the police cornered him at the airport. It seems he had no choice but to fight until his last breath.’

The adviser lowers his head in thought for the dead, the injured and their loved ones. So much pain, so much suffering has been caused. ‘Is this the end of it now, Nabih?’

The face of his friend says it isn’t. ‘Craxi and the scientist, Broussard, are dead but all the DNA taken from the Shroud may not have been destroyed.’

‘What? The whole purpose of the monk’s mission was to eradicate the findings of those sacrilegiously stolen samples.’

‘I know, but it seems the original source was split and a sample has found its way back to the laboratories of the Los Angeles Police department.’

‘Then we must ensure that it is never tested or its results never known. It is our duty to guarantee that any connection to the Holy Shroud is always unverifiable.’

‘I agree — but you must do this, Andreas. You must use the name of the Holy Father and reach out to friends of ours.’

Pathykos nods.

‘But that alone will not be enough. You understand, don’t you?’

‘Don’t lecture me on responsibilities, Nabih. Take me back to the Vatican. I know what has to be done.’

182

The long and awful day ends on an unexpected low — another call to Deke Matthews’s room.

Mitzi feels drained as she drags herself down the long corridors to the captain’s office. All the trauma has left her running on empty. His secretary smiles up from her desk and waves Mitzi through. She opens the door and immediately wishes she hadn’t. Matthews is at the head of his small conference table, next to him is Carter and Tom Hix. Opposite them — beautifully dressed in a black Armani suit — is Deputy District Attorney Maria Sanchez.

Maria is everything one woman can possibly hate in another.

Mitzi can maybe forgive that she’s a cold-hearted, self-centred, egomaniacal bitch who used a child murder last year as a personal publicity platform. But what she can never forgive is the fact that no matter what godawful time of day it is, the raven-haired lawyer — who is almost fifty — always manages to look half her age.

That is beyond forgiveness.

‘Captain.’ Mitzi stands at the far end of the table.

‘Take a seat.’ He gestures to the conference table. ‘We’re discussing the Creeper case and in particular the DNA evidence Tom pulled together.’

‘Been discussing.’ Sanchez shoots Matthews a courtroom look as she emphasises the past tense.

Mitzi just can’t bring herself to sit alongside the lawyer. She takes a place opposite Matthews. ‘How can I help?’

‘We’re not going to prosecute James.’ Matthews pauses to let the point sink in. ‘He’s going to be committed into psychiatric care.’

Sanchez clears her throat. ‘Captain, if your team can properly tie up James’s confessions to the murders of Varley and Bass, Commissioner Bradley will make a public statement about those crimes being linked to James and explain he is not fit for trial. He’ll also state publicly that you’ve now closed the Creeper files and are not looking for anyone else.’

Matthews turns to Carter. ‘Public-wise, it has the same effect as winning at trial. Case closed.’

‘The commissioner would like that,’ Sanchez smiles. ‘It would also be done without any of the risk of improper disclosure or further cost to the taxpayer.’

Carter looks furious. ‘By “improper” you mean Tom’s scientific evidence — science American citizens have a right to know.’

She waves a hand at him. ‘Don’t be immature. Ninety per cent of them wouldn’t understand if he visited them all in person and spent a day explaining it.’

‘Why?’ Mitzi barks. ‘Why are you trying to sweep all these findings under the carpet?’

Sanchez sighs. ‘You really have to think this through.’ She gives Mitzi a condescending stare. ‘Think about the implications of full disclosure. If we go public, we risk arming defence attorneys nationwide with a new plea of genetic mitigation.’

‘Bullshit.’ The word tumbles out of the lieutenant’s mouth. ‘There are examples worldwide of fine, upstanding, law-abiding citizens — men, women and children — who are closely, never mind distantly, related to rapists, murderers and terrorists. They’re not bad people. Their genes don’t possess badness.’

‘Mitzi’s right,’ snaps Carter. ‘Bad people are bad because they make the choice to be bad.’

‘We can’t open this can of worms,’ Sanchez starts to pack her leather document case. ‘We’re done discussing it.’

Silence floats like a poison cloud. Mitzi reaches to the middle of the table, grabs a glass and pours water from a jug. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

No one answers.

She looks at their faces. ‘C’mon, I’m a big girl, I can take it. After all, that’s why I’m in here. You need me to come in line, nod nicely and agree to some other grade-A political horseshit, don’t you?’

Matthews waits until she’s settled down. ‘Mitzi, this whole business with the Shroud is a problem. A real problem. Messy as a dropped wedding cake for both us and the Italians.’

She throws back a gulp of water. ‘You mean the Carabinieri?’

He nods. ‘The commissioner had diplomats on his ass all afternoon. Embassy guys. Ambassadors. They don’t want anything made public about the Shroud being interfered with, about samples being taken illegally.’ He looks across at Hix. ‘Especially about unauthorised tests in foreign countries and links to serial murder cases.’

‘Man, I bet they don’t,’ says Mitzi, her anger rising.

He tries to reason with her. ‘Italian — American relations have always been good — and important to both countries.’

She shakes her head. ‘Are we missing out the Mafia here?’

Maria Sanchez glowers at her. ‘Decisions have been made, Lieutenant. Captain Matthews got you in here out of courtesy, that’s all. The DA and the commissioner have already given assurances that no comment will be made on the Tamara Jacobs case or anything to do with the Shroud of Turin without them approving it.’ She pushes back her chair and readies to leave. ‘Anyone breaks that rule they’ll find themselves jobless and pensionless. Good day to you all.’

Mitzi stares at the floor, heart thumping like she just ran a mile. ‘Hey, Councillor.’

Sanchez stops, her hand on the door handle. ‘What?’

‘When you go to Catholic Mass this Sunday — as I’m sure all good Spanish girls do — I hope to hell the whole church gets up and gives you the huge round of applause you so obviously deserve.’

Matthews’s door slams so hard the glass almost breaks.

183

It is not a problem for Andreas Pathykos to take the key from the pontiff’s antechamber. The Holy Father has been long asleep and the guards at his door are accustomed to admitting the old Greek at late hours to leave documents and carry out chores.

As he enters the darkened room, his mind floods with a disturbing mix of science, religion and history. Over the course of centuries the Church has venerated artefacts presented as the crown of thorns and the lance that pierced the side of Christ. But none have ever produced samples that scientists can reliably attest is blood — the blood of a man, the blood of Jesus Christ, the son of God.

Even the Shroud of Turin had refused to yield biological evidence of life — until, that is, a sample had been stolen and tested with methods more advanced than the Vatican has ever used. And now comparison is possible. Science can use its modern trickery to crush the beliefs and goodness of Christian faith. Worse still, it can open up the old stories of Saladin and reignite the Muslim groups.

Pathykos cannot let that happen. If the police in America are to defy political pressures and disclose the stolen DNA, they must have nothing to compare it with. The pontiff’s most trusted adviser and oldest friend lets himself into the Holy Father’s bedchamber. The room is cool and smells of lavender. He treads gently towards the large bed that holds the divine representation of God on earth. Less than six inches from the sleeping pontiff is a small silver-gilt casket and in it a splinter of wood that has yielded the most precious drop of blood on earth.

Christ’s blood. Taken from the True Cross. Preserved and protected by Holy Knights before the warlord Saladin took the True Cross in the Battle of Hattin.

Pathykos feels his heart beat so fast he thinks he will collapse before he steals his way out of the chambers. Every step from the pontiff’s bed takes an age. Every yard the Greek achieves brings him an agonising pain. Was this how Judas felt in his hour of betrayal? There are tears in his eyes as he makes it to his own chamber. He locks the door and looks out of the window across the Eternal City. Daybreak will come soon. Church bells will ring out across the rooftops and the faithful will make their way to morning prayer.

He will not be among them.

A fire is still burning in the grate. He has sat here many hours, contemplating his life and beliefs, staring into the flames and being comforted by their ephemeral warmth. He takes a poker and stokes the coals, then uses it to break open the casket. Soot smudges his hands and he kneels and places the fragment of blessed wood gently on the flames.

It takes a second for it to catch. The dry wood throws off a bright flame and a crisp crackle. Pathykos feels a stab in his heart. He keeps his hands over the fire and lets the flames scorch his skin. As the cuffs of his robe catch alight he bows his head into the burst of orange light. The last words he manages before the fire engulfs him are ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

184

Sixty-forty is now eighty-twenty. Against.

The doctors give Mitzi the bad news soon after she arrives. There’s a chance he won’t even make it through the night. And if he does, then he could be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life.

Eighty-twenty.

Vegetative state.

Some choice. Some odds.

Mitzi wanders the corridors feeling lost. Right now she’s regretting telling Amy not to come in with her. She sent her home, told her to get some rest, said she’d be all right. She’s not. Most definitely not.

The hospital drink dispenser produces the worst chicken soup she’s ever tasted. But it’s all she can manage. Muffins in Carter’s office were her last meal and that seems weeks ago. She takes the plastic cup back to Nic’s bedside and sits there in a daze. Waiting is something cops do better than most people, but Mitzi’s always struggled to pull it off. Especially when she’s waiting for someone to die.

She stares at his grey face. His eyes used to be bright with adventure and he was just about the cutest of rookie cops she’d ever seen. She’d denied all her natural feelings for him. Thrown water on the fires within, just as soon as they started to flicker into life. She’d been nothing but professional. Shown him the ropes. Wiped his nose. Walked him through his first domestic murder. Stood next to him when he almost hurled at his first autopsy. Got him blind drunk after he lost his first case in court.

She’d done anything and everything except loved him.

She bends her lips to the fingers entwined in hers and kisses the back of his hand. It’s the most meaningful contact they’ve ever had. Until now they never exchanged more than a peck on the cheek. The thought almost makes her laugh and cry at the same time. How had she managed to bury her feelings? Alfie, she supposes.

Alfie and the twins.

She’d been the good wife and mother. Been determined not to be the cop other women pick out as the one having an affair with their partner. She wishes she had. My God she does. She wishes it had been long and mad and passionate. Full of life. That’s what being close to death does for you. It makes you want to live to the fullest — makes you regret every wasted second of your precious time on earth. Mitzi stands up and tugs a tissue from a box on the bedside cabinet. She blows her nose and dabs her eyes. It’s 11 p.m. She’ll stay until midnight, maybe one, then turn in for the night. Even as she thinks it, she knows she’s still likely to be in the same chair in the morning, nursing a stiff neck, wondering how much coffee she’ll need to stay awake through another shift.

Screw them. Tomorrow she might not even go in. Being here is more important than all their political accommodations. She looks round the room for anything to distract her from the monotonous bleep of the machines.

There’s nothing.

She’s read the place dry. Even the signs on the wall — about visiting hours, the importance of hand washing, the danger of infections and all their rules on not using cell phones. Re-reading the last one makes her decide to call the girls.

Tapping in Jade’s number brings back a smile to her face. At least they’re talking again. The rift is healing, the bond is being strengthened.

A loud and intense beep startles her. At first she thinks it’s the phone and almost drops it out of surprise. Then she realises what it is. An alert from a monitor. The door opens and a nurse walks briskly in. The kind of stride cops and medics have when they’re disguising a moment of panic.

This is it. She knows it is. Feels it is.

‘What’s happening?’ Mitzi moves closer to Nic’s bed. ‘What was that noise?’

‘Stand back please.’

She feels a hand on her shoulder. A white-coated doctor eases her out of the way. He guides a stethoscope to his ears and bends over Nic’s body.

He’s dying. Right this minute. Cop instinct makes her look again at her watch — one of the first things she was taught was the importance of keeping track of the time that things happen. The moment everything changes. The precious second that life becomes death. More white coats fill the room. Mitzi drifts back to the wall, out to the periphery of the action, as though thrown there by centrifugal force.

Through the melee of bodies and the forest of arms spread over the bed, she sees Nic’s body spasm.

Death throes.

His feet jerk up and down. He’s being shocked. A last effort to bump-start his broken heart.

Standing and watching, she feels lost. Stranded like a helpless wife or sister. Not like a cop, not like any other professional in the room. The medical talk is all just a meaningless mumble. She’s treading water. Waiting for them to back off and tell her the news.

The bad news.

They shift the crash paddles and study the monitors. Something moves Mitzi’s legs and she becomes a cop again. She walks around the bed and finds a gap. If he’s going to die, it’s not going to be without the touch of a friend, someone who loves him.

A doctor glances at the monitor. Nic’s body heaves again. She takes his hand. Squeezes it. Stays strong.

He coughs.

‘Stable,’ shouts a nurse. ‘Pulse normal.’

Nic coughs again. His eyes flicker open.

She stares at him. The dying often have a last gasp. Body full of fluids and juices, jolted by enough electricity to light up Vegas — the signs are meaningless.

‘Mit-zi.’

The slowly whispered word tears her apart.

Medics shuffle tubes and check fluid bags. The nurse who first came in adjusts a finger-monitor and checks his pulse again.

Mitzi’s eyes are locked on Nic. If she looks away or even blinks, he’ll die. She knows he will.

He can’t force out a smile. His voice is a soft, painful croak. ‘Where am I?’

She lifts his hand and kisses it again. ‘Where’d you think you are? The freakin’ boatyard?’