The Turin Shroud Secret

by Sam Christer

  ‘Nic, come on!’

  ‘One minute.’

  He lifts a dressing table stool and smashes the mirror. As he picks up the pieces he hears footsteps on the stairs. He quickly salvages the long sliver of broken glass bearing his sample.

  Goria stands aghast in the doorway, cell phone dangling from his left hand. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Never mind. Give me your car keys.’

  110

  SANTA MONICA, LOS ANGELES

  The zombified computer is still playing on Amy Chang’s mind as she finishes her morning jog along the white California sands.

  Hours of labour lost. Dozens of files messed up. She hopes to God some of the documents can be rescued.

  She showers, then dresses in jeans and a pink hoodie. The day is shaping up fine and she pours a glass of OJ, slides open the patio window and sits down in the ribbon of sunshine warming her balcony. Someone infected her Mac with a virus, and the last person who sent her anything was the English professor, Hasting-Smith. That just doesn’t seem right. Cambridge dons don’t send infected mail. Surely their own firewall would pick that kind of thing up? But there’s no denying the fact that her programs all got fried after he sent her his reports. Come Monday she’ll tell security and see what they make of it.

  She drains her juice and remembers she still owes Mitzi the report on the Shroud. She ducks out of the sunshine and fires up her own laptop. Amy spends an hour trying to recall everything she wrote at work before the Mac crashed, then turns her attention to assembling an account of the Shroud’s movements across the later centuries – history and geography always help pathologists know their victims and samples better:

  Thirteenth century

  Ray-sur-Saone, France: Shroud kept in a casket in a château.

  Roussillon, France, 1287: Templar Knights reportedly showed a long, linen cloth imprinted with the image of a man.

  Fourteenth century

  Anthon, Cruseilles, Rumilly and Mornex, France/Geneva 1358–89: Shroud believed to have been kept on various estates.

  Fifteenth century

  Montfort, France, 1418: Kept briefly in the castle of Montbard near Montfort.

  St Hippolyte sur Doubs, France, retained here from 1418 to around 1453.

  Sixteenth century

  Turin, Italy: Held almost continuously in Turin since 1578 (apart from during World War II when it spent seven years at the Abbey of Montevergine in Avellino).

  She reviews the list. In policing terms the chain of custody is dubious, to say the least. The evidence – the Shroud itself – could have been tampered with and contaminated tens of thousands of times. More than anything, the huge absence of details about it before the thirteenth century rings investigative alarm bells with her. No court in the world – except perhaps one inside Vatican City – would rule it to be that of Jesus Christ.

  From her workbag she pulls out a brown Moleskine notebook. Pasted in it is a small photograph of the Shroud. Under it are notes she made based on the assumptions that the marks showing up on the cloth were caused by blood:

  Extensive ‘blood markings’ on skull where a crown of thorns is reputed to have been forced into position. *Note – there are also marks on the back of the skull consistent with puncture wounds caused by deep thorns and also consistent blood flow lines.

  Hard to imagine what could have caused the ring of puncture marks if not a crown/cap of thorns.

  Possible fracture of the nose and damage to the nasal cartilage.

  Dozens of marks across torso and arms, possibly inflicted by extensive scourging. The marks seem large enough to be consistent with flesh being torn from the body.

  Pronounced ‘blood mark’ on left wrist, consistent with a nail being driven through Destot’s Space.

  Thumbs apparently turned in and consistent with damage to median nerve.

  Apparent chest wound between the right fifth and sixth ribs – consistent with penetration by spear.

  Amy looks up and down the bullet points. In her mind there’s no doubt what the marks are saying to her. The victim was whipped horrendously, had some multi-pointed device pressed to his skull that caused numerous wounds and he was crucified. But none of her notes answer the big question.

  Who exactly was he?

  111

  BOYLE HEIGHTS, LOS ANGELES

  Jenny Harrison feels the pain of the hangover before she even opens her eyes. Only when she squints up at the cracked and cobwebbed ceiling do some of last night’s events come rolling back to her. This isn’t her place. She isn’t in bed alone. There’s a naked man next to her. She shifts onto her side and gradually recognises the slab of hairy-backed blubber as a guy in the bar she drank with. They shared a couple of joints, he bought drinks, then she ended up at his place drinking bad white wine and smoking crack.

  Now she’s wondering what price she paid for his generosity and companionship. One look on the floor by the side of the bed tells her. Her clothes are scattered everywhere. She heaves herself off the saggy mattress and just makes it to the bathroom before she’s sick. From the vomit-splattered sink she can see that her strange bedfellow is still out for the count. She runs water and thinks about showering. She’d like to but it will only risk waking the whale and she can’t be doing with talking to him. She puts her mouth to the tap and swills out strange chunks of food, splashes her face and rubs the remains of make-up on his towel.

  Five minutes later she’s outside the apartment block wondering where the hell she is. At first she doesn’t recognise the place, then she remembers. She’d gone round to Kim’s to beat on the door. Feeling depressed and annoyed she’d stopped in a bar close to Hollenbeck Park, a dive she and some of the girls go to when business is slow and they need to round up a bit of cash.

  Jenny starts walking. Takes a different route. One that means she can rap on Kim’s door one last time. She’s feeling exhausted by the time she climbs the stairs at her friend’s place. Knocking seems a waste of time so she gets down on her knees, holds the mail slot open and shouts through it at the top of her voice. Then she slumps with her back against the wall. All kinds of possibilities are flying through her head. The girl might have overdosed. Got pissed and choked on her own vomit. Fallen and whacked her head. Anything could have happened.

  She turns round and screams through the slot again. Two of the three other doors around Bass’s apartment now open.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ bawls Holly Caniffe, a compact woman in a slip and nothing else.

  Jenny collapses into a heap again. ‘She’s in there, I know she is – and something’s wrong.’

  ‘That whore friend of yours is probably sleeping off whatever you got wasted on,’ says Caniffe. ‘Why don’t you vanish and let us all get some rest? I’ve been working nights.’

  ‘Screw you.’ Jenny gives her the bird.

  Caniffe’s husband Keegan appears in the doorway of their apartment, in time-greyed vest and boxers. ‘What’s goin’ on?’

  ‘It’s my friend. I’m worried about her.’

  ‘Whadafuck?’

  ‘I think she’s in there and has hurt herself.’

  ‘Move out the way.’ Keegan Caniffe sizes up the door. ‘Gimme some room.’

  Jenny bum-shuffles out of his way. He fixes his attention on the lock and takes a running kick at it. It holds firm and he bounces off, almost ends up on his ass.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Leave it, doll. She’s probably in a bar somewhere.’ Caniffe motions to Jenny. ‘This crazy bitch has probably got it all wrong.’

  But Keegan isn’t for leaving it. His pride is hurt and it’s not every day you get to smash someone’s front door down without the cops busting you. This time he runs harder and faster. He drives his left shoulder into the door and it bangs open. Keegan tumbles inside. Falls face down on the filthy carpet. His wife races in after him, followed by Jenny and old man Dobbs who’s come out to see what all the noise is about.

  ‘Freakin’ stinks in here.’ Hol
ly Caniffe holds her nose as she helps her husband to his feet.

  Jenny sidesteps them and heads for the lounge. There’s no sign of Kim. She checks the small kitchen and eating area, dumb bitch might be on the floor sleeping off some drug or other. Nothing. She’s starting to feel embarrassed. That smart-assed cow Holly is probably right, Kim has been out clubbing somewhere and is with some guy.

  She pushes open the bedroom door. On the floor is a body. A corpse. Wrapped head to toe in a white sheet from Kim’s bed.

  112

  TURIN

  Two of the Carabinieri’s finest show Fabio Goria through to the interview room and leave him there to stew.

  He’s not under arrest but he knows he so easily could be. Breaking and entering, carrying an unauthorised weapon, withholding evidence, interfering with a crime scene – they’re going to throw the book at him.

  It’s almost thirty minutes before Carlotta Cappelini breaks the room’s suffocating silence with a clunk of iron locks and a steely gaze. She doesn’t speak until she settles in the black, moulded plastic chair opposite him and places a notebook and pen on the bolted down table. ‘Nic Karakandez, where is he?’

  Goria rests on his elbows and stares at her as he sucks up the question. It’s interesting she should start with that. Not what were you doing at Mario Sacconi’s house? Not even what do you know about the two dead bodies upstairs?

  Nic.

  The Arma dei Carabinieri is more interested in the whereabouts of the LAPD cop.

  Why? What are they afraid the American will do or say?

  Goria leans back. ‘I don’t know. He asked for my car keys, I gave them to him and he left.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  Her face shows her annoyance. ‘Why did you give them to him and why did he leave so quickly?’

  ‘I gave them to him because he is a friend of a friend. And he left, I presume, because he did not want to stay.’

  ‘If you continue like this you’re going to make me—’

  ‘What?’ His eyes laugh at her. ‘Charge me?’ He shrugs. ‘We both know you are either going to do that or you’re not. Nothing I say now can alter that.’

  Captain Fusco’s voice comes from the doorway. ‘How about we take away your private investigator’s licence, Fabio?’

  The PI stays poker faced. ‘The people who hire me do not care whether I have a licence or not, Giorgio.’ He smiles. ‘In fact, maybe I get paid more if they know that even when persecuted by the Carabinieri I stay loyal to them.’

  ‘You have a point.’ Fusco sits on the edge of the table and smiles down on the PI. ‘But if we charge you with murder – double murder – then that’s a different thing.’

  ‘It is. That’s a very wrong thing. I didn’t kill Sacconi or the girl and you know the forensics will confirm that. There was rigor in both bodies – I can prove I was at home when they died.’

  ‘How?’ Fusco shrugs. ‘By the time-coded security tapes from your home surveillance system, showing you entering and leaving? I think not. We have already taken those from your house.’

  Goria smiles. He has to remember not to underestimate these people – they’re good operators – among the best in the world. ‘So what now? Where are we going with this?’

  ‘I have a proposition.’ Fusco gets up and paces. ‘The American will contact you. I have no doubt about it. When he does, we will have tapped your phone.’

  ‘He will expect that.’

  ‘Perhaps. No matter. You can even warn him that it is possible. What is important is that from that moment onwards, you take instructions from us. You send him where we want, when we want. There’s a chance that if you do exactly as we tell you then we may forget you were even in Mario Sacconi’s house.’

  113

  BOYLE HEIGHTS, LOS ANGELES

  The fleeting warmth of the November day has passed by the time Amy Chang crosses town and joins the crime-scene personnel at Kim Bass’s apartment.

  She’d hoped for a death-free weekend, her first in three months, but plainly it’s not to be. She parks at the kerb in front of the rundown entrance block, pulls on her whites and slides her case out of the back. Her breath freezes in the air as she locks up and walks the pathway.

  ‘Chang. Doctor Amy Chang,’ she announces as she shows her ID to a rookie logging people in and out of the scene.

  ‘Afternoon, Doc.’ He already sounds like an old-timer as he lets her pass. ‘It’s up on the second floor. The lead officer is Lieutenant Carter, he’s already in there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The stairs are full of other uniforms coming and going. Taking statements from neighbours and probably hanging around a while too long so they don’t catch for another job late on a Saturday afternoon. At the apartment door a photographer is firing off approach shots of the landing and stairs. Two CSIs are dusting walls, a handrail and light switch.

  The seldom-cleaned entrance to the apartment has already been exhaustively printed and photographed and dozens of male and female footprints lifted. More shoe and boot impressions have been taken from the carpet and floor tiles in every room. As usual, the whole interior of the place is bleached white by harsh forensic lights casting monstrously large shadows everywhere. Tyler Carter turns as soon as Amy’s elegant silhouette joins the magic lantern show on the lounge walls. ‘Dr Chang – my apologies for dragging you out at the weekend.’

  ‘Accepted. Where’s the body?’

  ‘In the bedroom. It’s tight in there so I sealed it off until you came.’

  ‘That’s a help. Thanks.’

  Most cops can’t help but tell the ME what they think. Right from the start they fire off their theories on how the victim died, what they might have been doing, what the cause of death could have been and how long the vic had been lying there. Not Carter. Tyler Carter doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t offer a single personal thought on a case until the examiner asks.

  One step into the bedroom is enough to tell Amy what she’s dealing with. Six times now she’s witnessed the same scene. A sheet or quilt drawn over the head and toes of a victim. The work of the Creeper.

  114

  TURIN

  Nic is cursing himself.

  Those couple of hours sleep that he and Goria grabbed have cost a man his life. If they’d gone straight to Mario Sacconi’s house after ensuring Erica Craxi was safe, he’d still be alive and the Tamara Jacobs case might be much closer to being solved. Now all he has to go on is one final name, one last shred of information that Erica gave him: Sacconi’s best friend, Édouard Broussard, a scientist who used to be his boss but is now in private practice. Roberto Craxi made some sizeable payments directly to him at Sacconi’s request. He has to be involved.

  As the detective drives, his eyes scan every lane and road for police cars. It won’t be long before they issue widespread alerts for him. His first stop is a strange one. Certainly not what you’d expect from a man on the run. From the browser on his BlackBerry he’s found a parcel firm out near the airport that will ship overnight to LA. He grabs packaging from them, bubble-wraps the broken mirror from Sacconi’s bedroom and separately, the locket that Erica gave him. He fully understood the importance of it when she handed it over. Even though he said nothing to Goria, he knew it was more than just a good luck image of Saint Christopher.

  He scribbles out a note, adds the envelope with the crime-scene photographs that he believes may have been gone through in his hotel room, seals the box and pays with his credit card. For good measure he gives the guy behind the desk an extra twenty euros in return for a promise his stuff will be on the next plane out of Turin.

  Before he leaves he visits the restroom and cleans up. The journey ahead is long and dangerous. He looks at himself in the sink mirror as he pats the water off with paper towels. If things go wrong, this could be the last time he ever sees his own reflection.

  115

  WALNUT PARK, LOS ANGELES

  The old green school bu
s is heading off and Mitzi is on the sidewalk waving an embarrassing goodbye to its tail lights and her disappearing daughters, when she gets the call from Carter telling her they have a fresh body.

  The guy must be psychic. He said the Creeper was overdue and lo and behold, within twenty-four hours he’s proved right. No wonder they call him the wizard. She fires up the old car and tries to keep Alfie and the girls out of her head as she drives out to Boyle Heights. Worries about the girls and the emotional blow-up in the Italian restaurant are still haunting her. She just hopes Jade forgets it all for a while when she gets out on the slopes. The kid’s filled with so much anger and pain it’s heartbreaking to even think about it. She was always Daddy’s girl – always will be – and that’s going to be hard for everyone to deal with.

  Mitzi wonders if she should let her visit him. Until now it’s something she’d completely ruled out. Just the thought of her daughter passing through prison gates almost makes her heave. But maybe she has to stomach it. If it’s what Jade really wants – and if Alfie consents – then she’ll have to be supportive and see the girl through it.

  Eventually, the lieutenant shrugs off the ghosts of personal horrors and thinks about her work. Carter doesn’t seem as bad as his press makes out. Not a lot of fun, granted, but there can be no doubt about his professionalism. One thing for certain, she’s glad she’s not the lead on the Creeper case. From what she’s read in the files, this guy is grade-A sicko. A 100 per cent sociopath without a care in the world.