Bermuda Schwartz

by Bob Morris

  Fiona closes her eyes, shudders.

  “My brother bled to death?”

  “No,” says Dr. Patterson. “Although the artery was severed, his death was a result of contusions to the medulla oblongata. He died almost instantly.”

  “So, he didn’t suffer?”

  Dr. Patterson considers the question. Her look is grim.

  “I wish I could tell you, no, he didn’t suffer, but …” She stops. “Are you quite certain that you wish to know all the details?”

  Fiona nods.

  “Tell me. Everything.”

  “Very well, then.” Dr. Patterson studies the folder for a moment. “Your brother sustained a significant, although not lethal, loss of blood approximately two hours before his death. This would be consistent with trauma observed in both of the ocular cavities.”

  It takes a moment for the stilted terminology to sink in.

  “His eyes?” Fiona says. “You mean to tell me that whoever did this yanked out my brother’s eyes and then waited two hours to kill him?”

  Dr. Patterson nods.

  “He also received numerous contusions to the upper torso, along with three broken ribs, mostly likely the result of being kicked.”

  Fiona bites her lip, hangs her head.

  “My God,” she says.

  Dr. Patterson gets up from her chair and steps around the desk to comfort Fiona.

  “Can I get you anything? Do you want some time to yourself?”

  Fiona shakes her head.

  “No, I’ll be all right.”

  She reaches for the folder on the desk.

  “There are photographs in there, Ms. McHugh,” Dr. Patterson says. “You might not want to …”

  “I can handle it,” Fiona says.

  She flips though the folder. She flinches a couple of times at what she sees, but remains composed. She puts the folder back on the desk.

  Dr. Patterson reaches out and grips Fiona’s shoulder, offering solace.

  “I realize how difficult this must be,” she says. “If there’s anything I can do …”

  “There is, actually,” Fiona says. “You can tell me about the two other murders.”

  It catches Dr. Patterson by surprise. She pulls back her hand, looks away.

  “I’m not prepared to talk about that,” she says.

  “Did you perform the autopsies on them?”

  Dr. Patterson answers with a reluctant nod.

  “Can I see the files?”

  Dr. Patterson shakes her head, no.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the files are no longer in my possession, Ms. McHugh.”

  “Detective Worley?”

  “That’s right,” says Dr. Patterson.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, exactly when did you give them to him?”

  “It would have been three days ago. Shortly after your brother’s body was discovered.”

  Fiona settles back in her chair, studies the coroner.

  “But I’m guessing you reviewed everything that was in those files before you turned them over to Worley. Didn’t you? Just to refresh your memory.”

  Dr. Patterson meets Fiona’s stare, holds it.

  “I did, yes.”

  “So maybe you don’t need those files to answer my question, do you, Dr. Patterson?”

  Dr. Patterson doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s a very simple question: My brother’s murder and the murders of those other two men—are they connected?”

  Dr. Patterson weighs her response, grappling with how best to proceed.

  “I cannot speak as to how the murders might be connected. I can only offer an objective analysis of the forensic evidence in each case and any similarities that might exist between them.”

  “OK, then,” says Fiona. “Are the murders similar?”

  “You understand that this is unofficial and off the record?”

  “Yes,” Fiona says. “I understand.”

  “You understand that I am only telling you this because I believe that you, as a family member, have the right to know.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Dr. Patterson steps back behind her desk, sits down in her chair.

  “In answer to your question, Ms. McHugh, the murders are more than just similar. They are practically identical,” Dr. Patterson says. “So much so, that I have little doubt they were all committed by the same person.”

  Fiona looks at me, then back at Dr. Patterson.

  “And did you tell that to Detective Worley?”

  Dr. Patterson shakes her head.

  “I didn’t have to tell him. Those other murders? That was his case, too. I’m sure he knew they were connected the moment he saw your brother’s body.”

  32

  “Let me guess,” I say as we leave Dr. Patterson’s office. “Next stop is to see Detective Worley, where you will proceed to cut him a brand-new asshole.”

  “That’s if I’m feeling merciful,” says Fiona. “Which, right now, I’m not.”

  We find Worley’s office, but he isn’t in. No one knows where he is or when he’ll return. Fiona leaves Worley a card with her cell number, the number at Cutfoot Estate, and a message: “Call me ASAP.”

  “So where to now?” I ask her when we step outside.

  Fiona pulls out a sheet of paper on which Dr. Patterson has written down the name of a funeral home that can help arrange the burial at sea.

  “Guess I might as well get this taken care of,” she says.

  We head for the visitor’s parking lot. The Morris Minor is right where I left it, in the shade of a mahogany tree.

  Perched on its hood, smoking a cigarette—Janeen Hill.

  She wears a tight blue dress and a pair of blue glasses that match it. Her abundant hair is pulled together on top of her head, spilling out from a beaded scrunchie. With the plume of cigarette smoke wafting skyward, it looks for all the world like a small volcano is erupting from her skull.

  Janeen slides off the car, straightens her dress as we approach.

  “Heard you got yourself some wheels,” she says. “Saw this thing parked here and thought I’d take a chance.”

  “And I heard you no longer work for the Gazette” I say. “What happened?”

  Janeen shrugs.

  “Just decided the time was right to move on,” she says.

  “So what now?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas,” she says. “One thing for sure—I intend to keep following this story.”

  She looks at Fiona.

  “Are you …?”

  “Sorry, I’m forgetting my manners,” I say. “Janeen Hill, this is Fiona McHugh. And vice versa.”

  The two women shake hands. Janeen cuts straight to the chase.

  “We need to talk,” she says.

  Fiona nods.

  “I’d be happy to, but I have another matter I really should take care of first.”

  “Now is better than later,” Janeen says. “There are some things you need to know. And there are some things that I could learn from you, as well.”

  “You mean, about my brother?”

  “Yes, mostly, but other things, too. Do you mind?”

  “No, I don’t mind. It’s just that …” Fiona looks at me. “What about it, Zack?”

  “It’s your call,” I say.

  Janeen already has Fiona by the arm, leading her away.

  “My apartment is only a few blocks,” she says. “We can walk.”

  33

  We cut down to Front Street, past the cruise ship terminal. The berths are empty, but an incoming arrival is visible on the horizon, a giant wedding cake chugging in from the east.

  We tell Janeen about the autopsy reports. She asks Fiona a few questions about Ned McHugh, learning about his background and his studies in marine archaeology.

  For Janeen, it all amounts to further proof that the murders are somehow linked by what brought Richard Peach and Martin Boyd to Bermuda—the search for the Reliquarium d
e Fratres Crucis. She conducts a miniseminar on the topic as we walk along the busy thoroughfare.

  “You have to understand, there’s no iron-clad evidence that the cross used in Christ’s Crucifixion was ever found in Jerusalem,” she says. “Everything is based on the accounts of Helena Augusta.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “The name’s not ringing any bells.”

  “The mother of Constantine the Great, who was the first Christian emperor of the Roman Empire. She eventually became Saint Helena. When she was in her seventies and a recent convert to Christianity, this would have been sometime in the early part of the fourth century, Helena left Rome and began a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Once there, she commanded workers to begin an excavation that eventually is said to have unearthed the True Cross.”

  Fiona and I share a skeptical look.

  “Yeah, right,” Fiona says. “Out of all the places to dig and all the crosses the Romans executed people on over the years, an old woman shows up and just happens to find the exact same cross they used to crucify Christ.”

  “I’m not saying I buy into it,” Janeen says. “I’m just throwing it out there, OK? Because, in the end, it doesn’t matter if Helena really did find the cross. What matters is that, through the ages, millions upon millions of people have believed that she found it, have believed in the existence of the True Cross. That belief has led them to die for it. Kill for it, too. And even if it’s just a myth, it’s a powerful one. Powerful enough to make guys like Richard Peach devote their lives to sorting it all out.”

  We stop at a corner to let a truck wedge into the traffic on Front Street. Janeen takes the opportunity to light another cigarette. Then we’re walking again.

  “When did you say Helena was supposed to have dug up the cross?” I ask.

  “Somewhere around AD 326.”

  “OK, here’s what I don’t get,” I say. “If the cross was so important, how come the followers of Jesus left it buried for nearly three hundred years after the Crucifixion?”

  “Because those early Christians had other things to worry about. Like their own survival. Besides, it took a few hundred years for Christianity to catch on and for its followers to begin seeing the cross in the same way they see it now. Up until then the cross had been an instrument of death, something they would just as soon leave buried.

  “Then along came Helena. She was a newbie Christian and, perhaps even more important, she was a shrewd politician. Her son had just taken over the throne of the Roman Empire and was trying his damndest to expand his power, while stamping out the last vestiges of paganism. So dear ol Mom provides him with the perfect symbol to solidify his power, something that would not only rally the troops but add to the divine nature of Constantine’s cause. Quite brilliant, really.”

  Janeen steers us off Front Street and onto a narrow, pedestrian-only walkway that runs between a phalanx of office buildings. We can no longer walk three abreast, so I let the two of them take the lead.

  “Let’s pretend Helena really did find the True Cross,” Fiona says. “What happened to it after she dug it up?”

  “That’s where things start to get a little fuzzy,” Janeen says. “What was left of the cross, after all those pieces were hacked off as holy relics, probably remained in Jerusalem for much of that time. Then, around 1100, the Crusader kings began carrying it into battle. They saw the cross as a talisman, a good luck charm that helped ward off their Muslim enemies. That’s how the cross really began its ascendancy as a symbol. It became the Holy of Holies, almost supernatural in its powers, something that had to be defended at all costs. And that’s why its capture became the primary objective of Sultan Saladin.”

  “Someone else I’ve never heard of,” I say.

  “He was a Kurd, from the city of Tikrit, in what is now Iraq. Went on to be king of Egypt. His troops slaughtered the Crusaders at the Battle of the Horns of Hattin, sometime around AD 1180. Saladin’s army supposedly seized the cross, and after that it was never officially seen again.”

  “What do you mean, officially?”

  “Well, there were stories that subsequent Muslim leaders often dragged the cross through the dirt before battle to fire up their armies. That only fueled the passions of true Christian believers who launched forays to get it back. One of Saladin’s successors was even said to have turned down a ransom payment for the cross—forty bags of gold or something like that,” Janeen says. “And over the years, as it endured further degradation, the cross was reduced to just a small piece of wood, no bigger than a book.”

  “So how did the Fratres Crucis get hold of it?” I ask.

  “Hard to say exactly. They were a pretty secretive bunch. Didn’t keep written records. And if any member of the brotherhood talked about their activities to those on the outside—even to a wife or a close friend—they were summarily put to death,” says Janeen. “Best guess is that they just bided their time, waited for the fervor of the Crusades era to die down, waited all the way until the mid-1400s when the Ottomans seized Constantinople and Sultan Mehmed took over the empire. By then, as far as rousing the Muslim troops went, that tiny little piece of the cross had lost its sizzle. The Fratres Crucis didn’t have nearly the manpower to lay siege to Constantinople and take it. But they had money. Lots of money. And most likely they just bribed the sultan or one of his emissaries and got what they wanted.”

  “Either that or the sultan knew a bunch of rubes when he saw them and sold them a worthless chunk of wood,” I say.

  Janeen laughs.

  “Yeah, there’s always that. Still, belief is a powerful thing, you know? The brotherhood believed they had the last remaining piece of the True Cross. And, in the end, that’s what mattered above all else. They returned with it to Portugal and hired a goldsmith to create a reliquary to properly enshrine their treasure. And, not long after that, they built a ship.”

  “A ship?” Fiona says. “What for?”

  “Constantinople fell to the Ottomans in 1453. Things moved a heck of a lot slower back then. The Fratres Cruris didn’t just rush off to see the sultan and zip back home. It could have taken them thirty or forty years to pull everything off. By then it was the fourteen nineties. And we all know what was going on around that time.”

  “In fourteen-hundred-and-ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue,” I say.

  “And so did the Fratres Cruris,” says Janeen. “Well, not exactly. It was a few years later before they set out aboard the Santa Helena”

  “That was the name of their ship?”

  Janeen nods.

  “After Helena Augusta, discoverer of the True Cross. They launched it in November of 1497.”

  “You sound pretty exact about that date, considering what you said about the brotherhood not keeping any records,” Fiona says.

  “As secretive as the Fratres Cruris were, building and launching a ship is pretty hard to hide. There are port logs in the archives of the Museu de Marinha in Lisbon that mention the Santa Helena. They don’t go into any detail about its mission, but that’s not hard to figure out.”

  “I’m guessing they weren’t on the typical let’s-find-India-and-bringback-some-gold cruise, right?”

  “Not by a long shot,” Janeen says. “The Fratres Cruris were out to establish their own Christian kingdom in the New World, one far from the Muslim hordes, and one that would enjoy the power that came from possessing the most holy relic of their religion.”

  “And they planned to do this in Bermuda?” Fiona asks.

  “No, they didn’t even know that Bermuda existed. No one did. It wasn’t even on any maps until 1520 or so. The Santa Helena was probably on a course that would have taken it somewhere near what is now Virginia. Only Bermuda just sort of popped out and surprised them. In any event, the ship was never seen again. And the reliquary was lost with it.”

  We stop at a door near the rear entrance of an office supply store.

  “My place is upstairs, on the second floor,” Janeen says, riffling through her purse
to find a key.

  “You really think this reliquary of theirs could have survived more than five hundred years on the sea bottom?” I ask. “Seems highly doubtful to me.”

  “Well, even though it was made out of precious metal and jewels, it was still a pretty substantial piece of work. It was built to endure.”

  “How do you know that?” Fiona asks.

  “Because the goldsmith who created the reliquary made drawings of his work, several of them, and showed them around, probably just trying to drum up more business. One of them is in the Museu de Marinha.”

  “The brotherhood couldn’t have been too happy about that,” I say.

  “Oh, they were outraged. They killed him.” Janeen unlocks the door and swings it open. “After they plucked out his eyes.”

  34

  Janeen’s apartment is a tiny place—one bedroom with a glimpse of the harbor from a window in the living room/kitchen. Overstuffed sofa draped with blankets. Rattan chairs around a wooden dinner table upon which sits an oldish desktop computer. Piles of books everywhere. And a well-fed black cat lounging on a windowsill.

  “The thing with the eyes,” Fiona says. “Was that like their trademark when they killed people or something?”

  “It came to be,” Janeen says. “Originally, before they gained possession of the cross, members of the brotherhood first cut out the tongues of those who talked out of school about them. And then they killed them. Later, they switched to removing the eyes of the offenders, perhaps to signify that while the victim had seen the Reliquarium de Fratres Crucis, they were no longer worthy of such an honor.”

  Fiona broods, plainly unsettled by the information.

  “How does this relate to my brother?” she asks. “Do you mean to tell me that there are still members of this insane brotherhood out there, plucking out people’s eyes?”

  Janeen holds her gaze for a long moment, then says: “Look, why don’t I make us all some tea? How’s that sound? Then we can sit down and talk.”

  I nose around the apartment while Janeen puts water on to boil.

  A worn copy of The Legend of the Lost Cross, by Richard Peach, sits on the table. I pick up the book. Janeen notices me flipping through it.