Carbon-14: The Shroud of Turin (An Amari Johnston Novel)

by Williams, R. A.

  “I know, Dad.” She held out her hand to shake. He took it and she squeezed it firmly, just like he had taught her. She held his gaze and said with a tone of finality, “We’re square.”

  His shoulders went limp and he pulled her in for a hug. “I owe you more than a hand shake, baby. Thank you.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy, we all make mistakes.”

  He let go and met her eyes. “Daddy? You haven’t called me that since you were a little kid.”

  “You’ll always be my daddy. Nothing will ever change that.”

  “And I pray to God nothing ever will.” He then pulled the sunglasses from his shirt pocket and cleaned smudges off the lenses with his shirt. “So what’s this you say about the Shroud of Turin?” He inspected the lenses and slid the glasses over his eyes. “You said you had a case for me?”

  “Back at the house,” she said. “I’ve got it all set up for you.”

  ****

  They went to Roslyn’s Diner after church, just like they used to, and talked about the good times, avoiding talk of Mother’s cancer or the affair. They talked about her brother, Jason, and how surprised they were he’d become a Catholic priest. Then they talked about adventures in Girl Scouts, the hikes at Ventana Canyon and Finger Rock trail, the trips to Disneyland, and Amari’s favorite, the Junior Detective program in which kids shadowed detectives in a sanitized version of the profession.

  When they finished eating, they went to the house, and she showed him the kitchen table. Post-It notes covered in blue ink dotted the boundary of the poster-board she had made with the positive and negative images of the Shroud affixed to the front and back. There were also hand-written notes on the poster board with arrows pointing to the areas of interest.

  “I see you finished your research,” Dad said. “I’m impressed. You’re such a good investigator. Are you sure you won’t reconsider and change your major?”

  “It’s done already. I turned in my change of major form to admissions last Thursday. I start back where I left off in January.”

  “That’s my girl. I knew you’d come around. This is in your blood.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. Have you seen my paintings?”

  “I’m sure they weren’t that bad.”

  She pointed at a watercolor painting hung on the refrigerator with a magnet.

  “Oh, well, hey it looks like modern art.”

  “It’s supposed to be a self-portrait.”

  “You’re right. God wants you to be a detective.”

  “Apparently so. And I think this is my first big case.”

  “So let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “Okay, like I told you on the phone, at first I thought this was a forgery. That’s what the carbon date said, so that’s what I believed. When I started the investigation, it was a six-hundred-year-old crime. So I’m reading all these books and I realize there’s no way this could be a forgery. And if it’s not a forgery, then it must be the authentic burial cloth of Christ.”

  “How do you know it belonged to Jesus? Maybe it covered someone else who was crucified.”

  “Okay, good question. First of all, this is by far the most studied relic in history. We know a lot about it so you might want to sit down.”

  The chair scuffed against the floor as her dad pulled out the chair and sat.

  She pointed at the feet of the image, near the bottom of the poster. “I’ll start with the feet and work my way up. The blood on the feet is consistent with being nailed on a cross.” She pointed to the image of the underside of the body. “Every rocky soil has a unique mineral fingerprint. The dirt on the heel of this image matches the mineral fingerprint of Jerusalem. Whoever this man was, he walked those streets barefoot, just as Jesus would have if he walked to Golgotha.”

  Her dad scooted the chair closer. “Somebody could have planted that dirt on the feet.”

  “Okay, but back then they didn’t have a microscope or knowledge of mineral fingerprints. Why bother? It wouldn’t make it more realistic to the eye.”

  “You have a point. Go, on. I’m listening.”

  She pointed to the back of the image. “There’s over a hundred scourge marks, on the back and on the legs. Mostly on the back. These are clearly from the Roman flagellum. Lead pellets and sometimes bone are stuck on the end of leather straps to make a whip. The pattern of injuries match exactly to historical records of what the flagellum looked like. In fact, I even have a picture of one in this book. Want to see it?”

  “I believe you, go on.”

  “The gospels say that the hands were pierced by the nails. All old paintings show the nails through the hands. But the Shroud has the blood flowing from the wrists. Medical professionals have proven that the palms could not withstand the weight during crucifixion because the flesh would tear. Also, when you drive a nail into the wrist the thumb contracts inward because of injury to the medial nerve. This is seen in the Shroud. Notice you don’t see the thumb? And the blood flows down the arms, which shows that the arms were elevated at an angle consistent with crucifixion.”

  “It’s possible a forger could know about the wrists. I’m sure they tortured each other all the time back then. They may have known the hands wouldn’t hold.”

  “Did they have X-rays back then?”

  “Now what kind of crazy question is that?”

  She pointed at one of the hands. “Notice anything funny?”

  “He’s got awfully long fingers.”

  “That is an X-ray of the bones on the hand. What you see is the bones in the top of the hands merging into the finger bones, so it just looks like he has long fingers.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “It doesn’t if it’s a forgery. But you have to think about how the image was formed. There are no pigments or dyes, not a single stroke mark on the whole Shroud. The image you see is caused by oxidized, dehydrated cellulose.” She said the words carefully just as she had rehearsed. “Cellulose is a natural material found in all plants and fibers. Linen will yellow or darken when exposed to radiation. There are tiny radiation burns, or darkened areas, that are only on the topmost fibers. It’s a very faint image. So why would a forger go to the trouble of making a forgery you could barely see?”

  “I don’t know, Amari. You’re making my head spin. What about the bones? You were going to explain why we see bones.”

  “That’s easy. The bones are visible because radiation came from within the body. As the radiation came out, it happened to make an imprint of the bones. Special scanning of the Shroud also shows other bones. The teeth are visible if you look closely and so are the bones of the skull. It’s hard to see with the eye, but hi-tech scanners picked it up. Radiation coming from the body would cause that. It would also explain the negative image I’m showing you now. Before 1898, all anybody knew about was the positive image, the one visible to the naked eye. But in that year, a man named Secondo Pia took the first photograph of the Shroud and discovered that the negative image clearly revealed much more detail than the positive image, which is opposite of the way it should be. The positive image looks fuzzy, you can’t make out many details, but the negative image shows everything. How does a medieval forger know to make the image visible with a negative image if they didn’t even have cameras back then? And why would he do it?”

  “I need some water.”

  She got a glass and filled it from the sink.

  He took a long gulp. “Are we finished?”

  “Not even close.” She pointed to the next Post-It note, midway up the image. “On the right side of the chest there is a large pool of blood that coincides with the gospel account that Jesus was pierced by a spear to make sure he was dead. The size of the wound is consistent with the Roman lancet of the period. Medical professions also have proven this blood was post-mortem because there is no swelling in the area and it pooled rather than being pumped by a heart. Also, there’s evidence of a watery fluid which would have come from the pleural cavity in the chest
. The Gospel of John said there was a sudden flow of blood and water.”

  She then pointed at the shoulders. “Abrasions from a rough object such as a beam of wood are seen on the shoulders. This is consistent with the Gospel account that Jesus carried his own cross beam. The knees show signs of injury like you would expect if someone fell carrying such a heavy beam, a fall mentioned in the Gospels. He wouldn’t be able to break his fall if he was carrying that beam.”

  “It’s like reading the Gospel account play by play,” Dad said. “All the forensic evidence is right here.”

  “There’s more.”

  “I’m sure there is. Let’s hear it then.”

  “The hair and beard are consistent with Jewish traditions of the period. The cheeks appear swollen as if he was beaten.” She pointed to the eyes. “Now this is very interesting. Archaeologists now know that there was a tradition around the time of Christ to put coins over the eyes during burial. In fact, they’ve found skulls from the period with coins still inside them. And if you look very closely—you really can only see it well if the picture is enlarged and you use a microscope. But anyway, there is an imprint of a coin over the eye. You know what the imprint says?”

  “Now how would I know that?”

  “It has the Greek letters UCAI, the inscription for Tiberius Caesar. This is consistent with the Pontius Pilate lepton minted between 27 and 32 AD. This not only nails down the time but the geographic region.”

  “Then case closed,” Dad said. “No judge in his right mind would rule this a forgery.”

  “Oh, but I’m not done yet.”

  “I’m sure you’re not. How many hours did you spend digging all of this up?”

  “I lost count. But let me finish.”

  “I’ve got all afternoon.”

  “Okay, there are pollen grains all over the Shroud, pollen from plants that only grow around Israel. If this was forged in Europe, then how did the pollen get there? But the really interesting thing is the pollen found around the head. It was . . .” She snatched up the sticky note she had by the head so she could read it. “Gundelia tournefortii,” she said with satisfaction.

  “I’m no botanist. What does that mean?”

  “It’s pollen from a thorn bush—a bush that grows in the hills around Jerusalem. They used that bush to make the crown of thorns. And if there is pollen, that means the plant was in bloom. Do you know when that bush blooms?”

  “No, but I’m sure you do.”

  “Between March and May. Easter. That plant only blooms during Easter, the time of the crucifixion. So now tell me. Do you still think this is a forgery?”

  Dad sat, eyes transfixed on the image of the Shroud. “You know I always wondered what Jesus looked like. And now I know. It’s like looking at a primitive photograph. It’s like he left this on purpose, for everyone to see long after he was gone. For everyone to see the proof that he existed and the gospel account was true.”

  “So you don’t think it’s a forgery either.”

  “I never said it was a forgery. Heck, I had hardly heard of the thing until the other day.”

  Amari sat down at the table and folded her hands into each other.

  Her dad had that scowl on his face that signified he was pondering a case. “Remember we were talking about the priest that was burned up at Holy Ghost the other day?”

  “Of course. You said it was your case.”

  “It is.”

  “So what does it have to do with the Shroud of Turin?”

  “I don’t know that it does have anything to do with the Shroud. It may just be a coincidence. See, the only thing unusual that happened in the priest’s life lately was that he had an article published in the newspaper. It said that no matter what the carbon date showed, the vast amount of the evidence that proves the Shroud is real would be enough to prove the carbon date was invalid—assuming the carbon date didn’t agree with the time of Jesus. He wrote this article before the news broke about the date.”

  “So you think he knew something? Do you think someone was trying to shut him up?”

  “There’s no way for us to tell. We searched what few possessions he had, questioned friends, family, and coworkers, but there’s no evidence anyone was out to get him. The case went cold after a week.”

  “Maybe there’s some sort of cover-up.”

  “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Dad, one of the reasons I called you here is to tell you about what happened at the university the other day.”

  “You seemed pretty mad on the phone. What gives?”

  “You know Jenny, my roommate?”

  “Yeah, I know her. She’s a sharp kid. You think it’s an accident I showed up at church today? She called and made the suggestion.”

  “I can’t believe she did that. No, wait, yes, I can believe it.”

  “I’m glad she did.”

  “I am too, Dad.”

  “So what about Jenny?”

  “Her cousin is a genius. He’s only twenty-five years old and he’s already got a Ph.D. in physics. He’s doing post-doc work at the WMS lab. That’s where they did the carbon date. It’s at the university.”

  “I’m familiar with it.”

  “So I have this theory that the corner they did the carbon date on was repaired at some point, and the repair fibers were mixed in with the old fibers. And that’s what gave a young carbon date age.”

  “You came up with that?”

  “I know a little about weaving.”

  “Your mother saw to that. She was amazing with a piece of string.”

  “The point is, I went over to the lab and talked to Jenny’s cousin. His name is Dr. Kevin Brenner. He likes to be called Kevin. So Kevin showed me these pictures that clearly show there was a repair done. At least to me, it was clear. He said that in order to prove this case scientifically we would have to look at it under a microscope first. And it turns out they still have a piece of the Shroud left.”

  “So why don’t you ask to look at it?”

  “I did. I begged, but Dr. Rahal wouldn’t let me.”

  “You got ugly with him, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “I warned you about that temper of yours. It’s going to get you in trouble someday.”

  “The point is he refused to let me see it. Even the Emirate Professor, the guy who started the lab, asked Dr. Rahal to show it to me and he refused. He kicked me out of the lab. I tried to apologize and he called security on me.”

  “Why is he being so stubborn?”

  “I don’t know. I think he’s hiding something. I was hoping you could, you know, apply some leverage. Maybe you could get him to show it to me.”

  “No can do, Amari. He hasn’t committed a crime. I can’t just march down there and tell him to show it to my daughter because she thinks he’s hiding something.”

  “I guess you’re right. Any suggestions then? He won’t listen to reason.”

  “Why don’t you talk to the dean? Maybe they can force him into letting you see it.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “But then again, if I can somehow tie this to the case with the priest.”

  “Then we could tie it to a crime.”

  “It’s a long shot, but maybe so. I still need more information. I know what happened after the Shroud piece got here. But what about before? If there is some kind of cover-up, then they’re covering up something that happened before it got here.”

  “You need to talk to Kevin. I bet he knows everything you would want to know about how the sample was collected and how it got here.”

  “Can you set something up?”

  “I bet I can. Let me talk to him and I’ll get back to you.”

  Chapter 19

  Pete and George pulled into the parking lot of the mosque on Speedway Blvd. After the murder of the priest, they had interviewed the imam of the two mosques in town. They had hoped someone knew something. Maybe they knew a member that was ac
ting funny lately, maybe a member that might want to kill a priest, burn the place down, and write jihad on the sidewalk. Or a member who would want to burn a synagogue down. Maybe someone was new in town they didn’t know so well. Anything they had was useful. Unfortunately, they came up empty, but Pete had told them to call if anything odd should occur. He got the call that morning. It was their first lead in three months.

  Pete parked the car and they went to the front door. It was a small, white building with a domed peak and a thin Arabian-looking prayer tower. It didn’t feel appropriate to barge into another faith’s house of prayer, so he knocked at the door.

  A moment later, the imam answered. He had a short black beard, a black cloak that fit snuggly around his neck, and a white cylindrical cap on his head. “Good afternoon, Detective Johnston,” the imam said.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Sadiq,” Pete said. “I understand you have some information for me.”

  “I am not certain you will find it useful, but I did notice something peculiar Friday, during our congregational prayer.”

  “So one of your members said something? They act strange?”

  “No, it was not a member of our congregation. Not a Muslim at all. It was a Catholic priest.”

  “A priest? At a Muslim church?”

  “He did not come inside. He stood across the street, on that sidewalk. He watched as our members left.”

  “He just stood there. Watching?”

  “Until he noticed that I was watching him. Then he walked away.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “He went that way, toward Helen Street.”

  “So you called us out here because a priest stopped to watch your congregation and then kept on his evening walk?”

  “I called you because I don’t believe he was really a priest. Do you notice how snuggly my collar is around my neck? Clergy have their clothing specially tailored. It is no different in the Catholic faith. But this priest’s clothes did not seem to fit. They were too loose. The pants almost dragged against the ground.”

  Alarms went off. He started to speak, but George beat him to it.