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

by Williams, R. A.

  “I noticed you didn’t seem all that surprised.”

  “Now you see why I got this job. I knew over a year ago the Shroud sample was coming to Arizona. I worked hard to get my position. I pulled strings, made phone calls, and called in favors. It’s no coincidence I’m here. The thought of being in the same room with a piece of the Shroud thrilled me, especially the thought of experimenting with it.”

  “Okay, Kevin. I forgive you. I’m not mad. But I am hungry. Buy me dinner and all’s forgiven.”

  “Actually, I’m not done.”

  “Somehow, I didn’t think you were.”

  He pulled a box from under his bed. “I keep all this in a fire safe. Just in case.” He took his keys from his pocket and opened the thick, insulated door. Stacks of journals filled the inside. He pulled the top one out and handed it to her. “That’s what you’re going to be mad about.”

  She flipped through it. Math calculations, statements, and diagrams painted the pages. In between the pages were various photos of the Shroud, shot from different angles and even different wavelengths. Still more calculations and atomic symbols covered the last few pages.

  “That’s my latest volume. Earlier drafts and theories are in those other journals. I’ve got a ton of other stuff on my Mac.”

  She fanned the pages. “So what exactly is this?”

  “I’ve been working on this since last June, day and night, ever since we did the carbon date.”

  “I still don’t get it. Why is this stuff supposed to make me mad?”

  “Because this is my theory as to why the carbon date is wrong. You’re going to be mad because it doesn’t agree with yours.”

  There it was, the anger he had feared. She felt it in her cheeks first, then her jaws tensed. “Kevin, you saw the fluorescent photos,” she said sternly. “You saw the cotton. You agreed with me. The carbon date was done on a patch.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe! What do you mean, maybe?”

  “Hold on now, Amari. Hear me out.”

  “You were just toying with me?”

  “No, that’s not it at all. I do think that section was fixed. The evidence clearly shows that. What I can’t believe is that those few contaminating fibers could throw the date off as much as it did.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but she did pinky promise him. She wouldn’t get mad. “Okay, fine. You half believe me then. So what’s your theory?”

  “Okay, now we’ve settled the fact that radiation of some kind caused that image. It’s the only way it could have been formed. Now, there’s different kinds of radiation. One kind is proton radiation. It’s non-penetrating radiation. I think that’s what caused the cellulose in that linen to denature. But another kind of radiation is neutron radiation. Neutron radiation is much more penetrating. It passes right through things. In the process, it messes with the atomic structure.”

  “This isn’t helping much. Keep it simple.”

  “You took chemistry, right?”

  “General Chemistry.”

  “Okay, you remember how Nitrogen has seven neutrons and seven protons. It’s called Nitrogen-14. When Nitrogen-14 gets hit by neutron radiation, sometimes a neutron is added to the nucleus so now it has eight neutrons. This causes instability in the atom, so it ejects one of its protons. The result is carbon-14, with six protons and eight neutrons. And the closer to the source of neutron radiation, in this case, the body of Jesus, the more carbon-14 you’ll find. Don’t you get it?”

  “Still don’t get it, Kevin.”

  “Neutron radiation is what caused the wrong carbon date. Human blood has much more nitrogen than cellulose. If you sampled a portion of the blood, so much carbon-14 would be created, it would date into the future.”

  She felt her heart sink as he kept yammering. She moved to his bed, sat down, and cupped her hand over her forehead.

  “You are mad, aren’t you?”

  She pulled her hand away and looked at him. “No, Kevin, I’m not mad. I just realized that I do get it. I see what you’re saying. I had no business taking this so far,” she said and looked out the window. “I’m just an amateur. Some kid whose mother taught her about weaving, some criminal justice major who thought she had a hot lead that would change the world. But look at you. You’ve spent your life preparing for this. God hasn’t called me for this, he called you.”

  He sat next to her and gripped her knee. “No, Amari, not just me. Us. He pulled us together for a reason.”

  She knocked his hand off her knee. “Don’t touch me. I’m mad at you.”

  “Listen to me, Amari. Finish hearing what I have to say and maybe you won’t be so mad.”

  “Fine, Kevin, I’m listening.”

  “Okay, all you have to do is look at the condition of the Shroud and you know it was hit by neutron radiation. Haven’t you ever been curious why the Shroud is in such good shape after two thousand years?”

  “I just figured God preserved it.”

  “Yes, he did—with neutron radiation. Neutron radiation would cause molecular bonds in the linen to break and reform in the non-crystalline parts of the linen’s cellulose. That makes the molecules cross-link, which makes the Shroud more durable. It’s less soluble and more resistant to oxygenation.”

  Amari gave him a blank stare. “Now you’re just showing off.”

  “I know this may be over your head but hear me out. I can prove carbon-14 cannot be used to date the Shroud. Not only that, but I can prove the image was made with proton radiation, and that is not natural. It’s supernatural. All I need to do is figure out how to measure the ratio of chloride 36 to chloride 35, and maybe even calcium 41 to calcium 40—if I can get enough sample. And I can do all that from the burned pieces of Shroud. That way I don’t have to damage it anymore. But perfecting my tests is going to take time and money. A lot of money. I can’t do that on my own.”

  “So get an investor. I can’t help you with that. I can’t even pay my own tuition.”

  “Nobody’s going to throw that kind of money at me when they’re convinced the carbon date is right. That’s where you come in. Your theory is so simple and easy to prove. All we need to do is get our hands on those tape samples at Los Alamos and we’ll prove it. If we publish those findings, the Vatican may authorize another sampling of the Shroud. Then maybe somebody will fund my experiments. But none of that is going to happen unless we can prove the carbon date is wrong.”

  Time seemed to stop as realization dawned. Kevin didn’t really care for her. She was just a means to his goal. She stepped away and gave a slow, disbelieving shake of her head.

  “Amari, what’s wrong?”

  “You’re using me. All this time, I thought you cared about me. But you were just using me.” Hurt swelled from her core and pressure built in her eyes.

  “No, I do care for you, I really do.”

  “No you don’t, you said it yourself. You were just using me!” she said and headed for the front door.

  “But what about dinner?” he called after her.

  “I’ll go to a drive-thru,” she yelled back and slammed the door behind her.

  Chapter 30

  Amari cranked her ignition and revved her Camaro’s engine. The passenger door came open and Kevin plopped into the seat next to her.

  “Kevin, get out of my car. I’m serious.”

  “Then you need to learn to lock your doors. What if I was that lunatic who tried to run us off the road?”

  She pointed at the door. “Out.”

  “You promised me you wouldn’t get mad. I trusted you.”

  She turned off the ignition and stared out the driver window. “Just give me some time.”

  “Look, maybe I was utilizing you to get what I wanted.”

  “You mean using me.”

  “All right, but no more than you’ve been using me. Why did you come into my lab that day? Because you thought I’d be fun to hang out with? No, you needed something from me. You still do. And
you offer something I need. That’s not using each other, that’s called teamwork. We help each other. That’s what teams do. They count on each other. I need you, and you need me. Together we can go to the Vatican. Together, we can prove this is the authentic burial Shroud of Jesus Christ.”

  “Okay, Kevin, I get it. I know we need each other for that. But I thought I was more than just your business partner. I thought you cared about me. About me, not what I could do for you.”

  “Rahal is my business partner. You see me going to movies with him? You see me eating lunch with him every day? You see me sleeping in the same room with him? Give me a break. If all I wanted was a business relationship with you, I would have said so.”

  Amari turned to face him. “You mean that?”

  Kevin put his hand on her shoulder. “Heck, yeah, I do. You’re like my best friend.”

  “So you keep reminding me. I’m your best bud.”

  “I told you I was afraid you’d be mad.”

  She looked into his oblivious eyes. “Anger isn’t the emotion I’m feeling right now.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t think you would understand. You know, you’re great at physics and everything, but I wonder if Jenny was right about you.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That you’re not wired like other guys. And I think she’s right. If you were, then you would know why I’m upset. But you really don’t have a clue.”

  He just sat there watching her in silence, the gears in his head turning.

  “I really need to check in with my dad.”

  “But what about dinner?”

  “Fine, Kevin, you can take me to dinner. Maybe I’ll feel better once I eat.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Are you buying?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then somewhere expensive.”

  “Fine, it’s the least I can do.”

  “You got that right.”

  ****

  The gun sounded, then again. Pop, pop, pop, pop. Amari unloaded the rest of her clip at the target. She holstered her weapon, removed her earplugs, and waited for her dad’s reaction.

  “Not bad,” Dad said, eyeing the holes in the concentric circle on the paper target at the end of the range. “Not as good as Kevin here, but not bad at all. Reload and try again. But this time I want you to try it with the gun in your purse with the safety on. When I say go, pull it out and unload another clip. When you’re done with that, I want you to try it again with your purse on the ground, like it’s been knocked out of your hand. When you’re done with that, we can call it a day. Then I want you back out here again next week, then again, a week later. Practice makes perfect.”

  Amari drove Kevin home from the firing range in her Camaro. His car was in the repair shop, but it didn’t go until after the police worked to lift forensic evidence from it. Even a flake of paint from the navy-blue Town Car would be helpful. The truck driver involved was also interviewed. Unfortunately, there was a glare on the Town Car’s windshield so the driver couldn’t help with a description.

  Kevin inspected her license to carry paperwork. “Pretty much the same as in Tennessee. You know, I was afraid your dad would be upset with me for taking you up to Los Alamos and almost getting you killed.”

  “Actually, he thinks you’re a hero. Since you told him why you acted suspicious during his interrogation, he’s completely changed his tune about you. He thinks risking your career for your faith was brave. And he said your fast thinking with the car saved my life.”

  “That’s good. I wouldn’t want to be in his crosshairs. That’s why I fessed up to him about being a Christian. Did you tell him about the Mercedes?”

  “I did. He doesn’t know what to think. It could be a coincidence. A lot of people drive those.”

  They pulled into his apartment complex and headed toward his unit. “Hey, stop here and let me check my mail,” he said. He got the mail, hopped back in, and sorted the envelopes. “Yes!”

  “What is it?” she asked as she parked in front of his unit.

  “This envelope is from Jeffery in Los Alamos. If it’s what I think it is . . .” he said and tore it open. “It is!” He pulled out several Polaroid pictures and a typed letter.

  She gasped. “Oh, my gosh, those are pictures of the tape samples!”

  She leaned over and they inspected them together. He held the first one. Just linen, no cotton. He flipped to the next one. Same thing. Then the next one, nothing but linen. The next one, only linen. “That looks nothing like the photos I took,” she said.

  He held out the letter and read, mumbling the words to himself until he started reading out loud. “After careful examination of every tape sample, although pollen and other artifacts were noted, I could find absolutely no evidence of cotton fibers, nor any other textile fiber, other than linen.”

  She clenched her fists in victory. “Thank you, Jeffery.”

  “Well, there you have it. I think we have all we need. It’s time to talk to the bishop.”

  Chapter 31

  Friday, December 23, 1988

  Pete and George had checked with Dr. Rahal and the student dormitory on three different occasions over the past week. Unfortunately, Anwar Rahal was nowhere to be found. The fourth attempt was on the Friday before Christmas. George had taken off to be with his family, so Pete made the call by himself.

  Pete stood at the front desk of the Coronado Residence hall, over in the Park District. He waited for his turn at the house phone so he could call Anwar’s room. The hall was mostly deserted for Christmas. A few students remained, two sitting on a couch watching the communal projection TV in the lobby. Most of them looked foreign. They either didn’t celebrate Christmas or couldn’t afford to fly home.

  But he didn’t kid himself. The only connection Anwar had to the arsons and murder of the priest was his religion and the fact that he rode a motorcycle. The only reason Anwar’s religion was a factor was because of the word jihad painted on the sidewalk. And the only reason Anwar might be after Amari was because of the way she had disrespected his father. He was a long shot, but it was all he had.

  Unfortunately, anyone could be behind it because the crime against the priest and Amari had a common thread. The priest had written an article in support of the Shroud of Turin’s authenticity. Amari had declared her belief in the Shroud on national television. They were both public statements made in support of the Shroud’s authenticity. The coincidence was impossible to ignore. That meant that anyone with a newspaper or a television was a potential suspect.

  Still, Anwar had to be eliminated as a suspect first. And if Anwar wasn’t guilty, maybe he could suggest other suspects. The Muslim community in Tucson was relatively small compared to big cities. And in small communities, people talk. If Anwar wasn’t there this time, he’d ask some of these students if they knew his whereabouts. But for all he knew, Anwar had gone to Mexico for vacation. Classes were out, so why not?

  The girl on the phone hung up and he reached for it but hesitated. If Anwar was guilty, what were the odds he would stick around knowing a cop was in the lobby? He could flee down the stairs and Pete would never catch him with his bad hip. He scanned the directory, and instead of looking for his phone extension, he looked for his room number.

  Pete went up to Room 428 and put his ear to the door. He heard a television, then a toilet flush. He reached inside his sport coat and pulled back the Velcro strap that held the gun secure in his holster.

  He knocked twice. “Anwar Rahal?”

  Light showed through the peephole, then was blocked by a shadow. Pete stepped to the side, away from the door, just in case a high caliber bullet decided to come through. “May I help you?” a voice came from within.

  “Anwar Rahal?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Detective Pete Johnston, from the Tucson Police department. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “I can’t see you throu
gh the peephole. How do I know you’re really from the police?”

  Pete pulled out his ID and held it to the peephole. A moment later, the lock snapped open, and the door swung inward. Anwar stepped out into the hall. He was unarmed.

  Pete let go of his revolver. “Anwar Rahal?”

  “Yes, I spoke to my father. He told me you might want to speak with me.” Anwar was early twenties with dark Middle Eastern features. He had heavy black eyebrows and a long face that was made to look even longer with the three-inch beard that spread from his ears down. The mustache part of his beard was little more than an afternoon shadow. He wore a white tunic that cut off just below his pant pockets and a white cap on his head that clearly had religious significance.

  “Do you mind if I come in?” Pete asked.

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “No, I just have a few questions.”

  “We can speak in the hall. I have nothing to hide.”

  Pete glanced around Anwar and into the room, but the kid closed the door before he could lock eyes on anything.

  “You act like you have something to hide.”

  “My room is a mess. I’m embarrassed. You said you had questions.”

  “You’re a short fella, just like your father. How tall are you?”

  “I’m five foot six. Why do you ask?”

  “More like five-five if you ask me. I always exaggerate my height too.”

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “You can start by telling me where you were this last week. Neither me nor your father could find you.”

  “After I took my last final, I joined my brothers in a retreat.”

  “Like a religious retreat?”

  “Yes, in Tempe.”

  “Can you provide witnesses to verify this?”

  “You can call the imam. He will confirm it.”

  “You didn’t happen to drive a navy-blue Lincoln Town car up that way, did you?”

  “I rode with a friend, in a Pontiac Fiero. Why do you ask?”

  “Are you familiar with a student named Amari Johnston?”