The Turin Shroud Secret

by Sam Christer

  Nic thinks ahead to Thursday – by then the LAPD should have secured assurances from the French police that they’ll protect Édouard and Ursula Broussard and the scientist could be heading back home. Friday night he’ll be lifting a cold beer in a noisy bar and bidding a fond farewell to the LAPD.

  The Broussards come into sight and shake him from his thoughts. They look like something’s wrong.

  ‘There is a strike.’ Édouard gives a resigned shrug. ‘French air traffic controllers.’

  ‘Lightning action,’ explains Ursula. ‘All planes are grounded for twenty-four hours.’

  Nic buries his head in his hands. ‘We can’t stay here. We can’t just sit and wait for a day – that’s inviting trouble.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Édouard, turning to his wife. ‘We will drive you to Geneva and fly from there.’

  Nic has no idea how far away Switzerland is. ‘How long will that take?’

  Édouard shrugs. ‘It is Sunday, so traffic will be light. I would guess six, maybe seven hours depending upon whether we stop.’

  ‘I will have to stop,’ insists Ursula. ‘Such a journey is unthinkable without stopping.’

  Nic gets to his feet. ‘Then let’s do it. The sooner we get going the better.’

  ‘I’ll get the car brought round.’ Édouard starts across the reception floor. ‘We can wait outside for it.’

  ‘No.’ Nic shakes his head. ‘Inside. We wait inside until the very last moment.’

  Édouard looks shocked. ‘As you wish.’

  Ursula Broussard moves closer to Nic as her husband heads to the valet stand. ‘He is not a well man. He will not want to speak of it, but it is true.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She puts her hand to her chest. ‘Last year he had a heart scare. Arrhythmia.’

  ‘That’s an irregular beat, right?’

  ‘Oui. He has PVC – premature ventricular contractions. His doctor says it is stress-related, maybe also a little too much caffeine and cigarettes. I have made him quit the smoking but the coffee he cannot give up.’

  ‘I’d be the same.’ He tries to give her a reassuring smile. ‘Madame Broussard, I’m not going to lie to you, you’re not out of danger yet. I’ll do everything I can to protect you and your husband, but I’m not sure I can take the stress out of things.’

  ‘I understand. I just wanted you to be aware of his condition.’

  Édouard is heading back their way.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll keep an eye out for him.’

  ‘Merci.’

  ‘The car is here,’ announces the scientist with a calm smile. ‘We can go.’

  134

  CARSON, LOS ANGELES

  John James stands naked in his candlelit bedroom. A thin razor blade is pinched between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. His mind is aching from the inner storm of emotion and doubt still raging.

  His eyes fix on the long thin wardrobe mirror. Without flinching he cuts from his left shoulder straight down three inches. Before the blood flows he slices horizontally across the cut, an incision of two inches. He watches as a perfect cruciform of red appears.

  Normally, from the first cut he can feel the pain. Outer pain matching inner pain. The perfect balance. It is a sign God is forgiving him, a signal his soul is being cleansed by the letting of blood. Just as Jesus suffered, just as the Lord bled for mankind, he must bleed for Jesus.

  But in the early hours of this Sabbath day, he feels nothing. He cuts again. Still nothing. Tears fill his eyes. He is being forsaken. The rush of adrenalin that comes from the cuts, the sacrifice, the focus – they all help him to control himself, to direct himself. They subdue him. But not tonight. There is only emptiness. As though God has deserted him. He must try harder. Must prove himself more worthy.

  JJ covers his entire breast in razored crosses. As the blood streams down, he works on his ribcage and abdomen. In the mirror he sees not a reflection of himself but a fleshy canvas – a portrait of his love for God. Thin rivers of red now surge from collarbone to hipbone.

  It is not enough. Not nearly enough. He switches hands. He repeats the cruciform cuts across his right breast. Not as accurate with his left hand, he clumsily slices into the tender bumpy area around the nipple – the areola. At last there is a rush of endorphins, a sign of God’s pleasure. The Lord expects more of him. Jesus is asking he step up and prove himself.

  He cuts deeper into the pink circle with its proud fleshy monument and steps closer to the mirror. His eyes fix on those gazing back at him from the candlelit glass. He feels like he’s outside his own body. Disembodied. Separated from reality.

  The razor slashes back and forth until the pain hits him. Rushes him like a shock of electricity. God is pleased. JJ tilts his head back in proud delirium. His eyes are closed but his fingers and blade find his hanging nipple and slice off the last hinge of flesh.

  135

  FRANCE

  They head north from the airport then after a mile join the fast-flowing river of traffic moving west. Through the BMW’s tinted glass Nic sees signs to places he’s only ever heard about: the ancient port of Antibes, a place dating back five centuries before Christ; Cannes, the home of the international film festival; Saint-Tropez, the jet-set playground of the world’s richest people.

  Édouard passes time by adding colour to the towns they’re skirting. ‘Do you know how Saint-Tropez got its name?’

  Nic takes an educated guess. ‘Some saint founded the place or took shelter there?’

  ‘Trés bon. A martyr named Saint Torpes was beheaded in Pisa during the reign of Nero. His body was placed in a rotten boat – along with a rooster and a dog – and it washed up here.’

  Nic pulls a face. ‘A rooster and a dog? I’d hoped for something a little more romantic than that.’

  ‘Saint-Tropez has romance,’ insists Ursula. ‘Coco Chanel, Elsa Schiaparelli – much glamour has made its home here. And, of course, Brigitte Bardot.’

  Édouard’s face lights up. ‘Ah, Brigitte. Proof that God created Woman.’

  Nic watches husband and wife reach across the seats and hold each other’s hands. For a second he thinks of Carolina. It was the kind of thing she’d do when he was driving, then they’d both peek over the seats and look at Max in his tilted-back baby seat and they’d say how beautiful he was and they’d imagine what he was going to grow up and do. ‘How did you guys meet?’ He asks the question more to break his own chain of thought than anything.

  ‘Us?’ Édouard laughs and whispers something in French.

  Nic watches their hands tighten.

  ‘Okay,’ Édouard says with a smile. ‘My wife consents that I tell you. I saw her breasts and then I fell in love with her.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Nic’s eyes widen.

  ‘My father ran a cosmetic clinic in Nice and Ursula was a patient. I saw the photographs of her and I knew I wanted that beautiful woman to be part of my life.’

  ‘So medicine runs in the family.’

  ‘Only from my father. He ran the practice in Nice and even though my mother divorced him, he always looked after us and I stayed in touch. He was my inspiration.’

  ‘But your mother brought you up?’

  ‘Oui. We were very close. Papa was at work all the time, I barely saw him. She was Italian. Unfortunately, she is dead now, God bless her soul. So when they split she took me back to Rome where she was born and had family. I lived there from seven years old.’

  Nic finds himself warming to the scientist. ‘Do you consider yourself more French or Italian?’

  Broussard laughs. ‘French, of course, though I have a deep love for Italy. I had wonderful years at La Sapienza University in Rome and I won a place in the training school of the Arma dei Carabinieri, quite an achievement for a French boy – though by then I had dual citizenship. Back in those days speaking French and Italian made you very popular with the girls.’

  ‘I imagine it still does.’

  ‘I think so too.’ They bo
th laugh. ‘I mastered in biological sciences and then won a scholarship to Oxford.’

  ‘Oxford, England?’

  ‘Oui. Though the English girls were not so impressed with me. Young men studying genome mapping were not nearly as interesting to them as those studying arts.’

  Ursula interjects. ‘You know that the English and French are not easy bedfellows?’

  ‘I thought Europe was one big happy family.’

  ‘Not at all. The French hate the English – we think they are vulgar. The English hate the French – they think we are arrogant. The Dutch hate the Belgians because they believe they should own their country; the Belgians loathe the Dutch because they are so blunt and make such bad food – and everyone hates the Germans.’

  They all laugh now.

  Édouard picks up his story. ‘Most of my life was in the scientific investigations wing of the Carabinieri but I would come home and spend time with my father. It was on a visit that I met Ursula and I knew then I should spend the rest of my life with her.’

  ‘We lived in Italy for a while,’ she explains, ‘but I am French and Nice is always home.’

  ‘For me too. When my father died he left his house and business to me and we moved back.’

  ‘So you now do cosmetic surgery?’

  He looks aghast. ‘No. I would be disastrous. We employ many good surgeons to do that. I just expanded the clinic to include DNA profiling for French celebrities and VIPS – the ones who are looking to avoid costly paternity cases.’

  The car slows as they approach another toll.

  ‘And you?’ Ursula asks. ‘What made you the man you are?’

  ‘Death,’ says Nic. ‘Death of my parents. Death of my wife and child. Death shaped me more than anything else in life.’

  136

  OAKWOOD, LOS ANGELES

  It’s 3.45 a.m. and insomniac Tyler Carter is watching crap on the box, a rerun of the latest Conan show. The guy’s nowhere near as funny as he was.

  He’s actually pleased when his cell phone rings. Anything to break the dullness of the dead hours between midnight and sunrise. ‘Carter.’

  The call takes less than a minute but by the time he hangs up he knows it’s going to change every second of his life for the foreseeable future.

  It’s the call he’s been dreaming about. He scribbles notes on a pad he keeps next to the bed and then rushes for the shower. Ten minutes later he’s dressed, in his car and breaking the speed limit to get to the precinct.

  137

  CARABINIERI HEADQUARTERS, TURIN

  It’s mid-morning when Luogotenente Cappelini gets called to Giorgio Fusco’s office. The forty-five-year-old is facing the wall, his hands clasped, his thoughts troubling him.

  ‘Capitano?’

  He turns and looks stern-faced. ‘Sit down.’

  She takes a chair on the other side of his desk.

  ‘The body of Roberto Craxi has just been found.’

  ‘Where?’ Her voice is flat.

  ‘In an old church on the east of the city. A couple of kids found it. It is being brought in to patologia.’ He looks away, his eyes catching on the Carabinieri crest hung on the wall behind his desk. ‘I’m told he had an iron railing sticking out of his stomach and his neck had been broken.’ He looks back to her. ‘This man, whatever you think of him, was once one of Italy’s bravest and most trusted soldiers.’

  She flinches. ‘Si, Capitano, I understand. What of his wife?’

  ‘No news.’ Fusco starts pacing. ‘Tell Fabio Goria about Craxi and see if that silent mouth of his can now find words for us.’

  She nods.

  ‘The officer at the church says an old tomb had been opened and the remains removed. Craxi’s clothing was covered in dirt and mould that matches debris from inside the tomb. Someone kept him in there. Held him in that place, then let him out to kill him.’

  She says nothing.

  ‘Luogotenente, is there something about this case that I don’t know? Something you should be telling me?’

  ‘No, Capitano.’

  He’s not sure he believes her. ‘You asked for resources some time ago, because you thought Craxi was involved in an international fraud – selling secret information, perhaps about illegal DNA samples taken from the Shroud of Turin – but now we have a murder in America and three murders here in Italy.’ He moves around the desk so he is close to her. ‘Carlotta, I respect that you want to protect the good name of the Arma – that is why I sanctioned your case – but I will not respect you holding back information that could prevent people from being murdered.’

  She shrugs innocently. ‘Capitano, I know nothing more than I have told you. There may be much more behind Craxi’s activities than I have discovered, but so far my inquiries have not revealed anything beyond his links to Mario Sacconi.’

  He stares at her. Cappelini is a flyer. One of the few female lieutenants in the Carabinieri and tipped for great things. He has to give her the benefit of the doubt. ‘Any news of the American detective?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Not yet. He will surface.’

  ‘The Commandante spoke to his superior officer about the interference in the murder scene – do you know what he said?’

  She stays silent.

  ‘He said Karakandez would have had good reason. Said he was an excellent detective – one of his best.’ Fusco tilts his head inquisitively. ‘So why would he do that, Carlotta? Why would one of Los Angeles’s most excellent detectives take evidence from a crime scene in Turin? Could it be because he didn’t trust the local officer he was working with?’

  ‘I hope not, sir.’

  ‘Me also. Me also.’ He waves her out of the office. ‘Go back to work and don’t end the day without bringing me good news.’

  138

  FRANCE

  The monk has the luxurious black limousine in sight. He’s five cars back. The optimal distance for surveillance. He’s able to see any deviation from the main freeway in plenty of time but not easily be seen.

  Ephrem has been behind the big car ever since it slipped out of the Sheraton Hotel valet line two hours ago. Édouard Broussard is the perfect driver to follow. He keeps an even speed – ninety – with the odd burst over a hundred when he needs to overtake.

  The monk imagines how they’re all sitting. Madame Broussard will be in the passenger seat, the American in the rear – jumpy and edgy like all cops are. And armed most probably. A small pistol. A gift from the Italian PI. Americans like guns. No doubt he will know how to use it.

  Thoughts of the weapon make him decide against ambushing them on the open road. He’s sure he could kill the cop – easily – but the scientist and his wife might make a run for it and out in public that could end up messy.

  No, he’ll be patient. They’ll stop. They’ll rest. They’ll make mistakes. People like them always do.

  139

  77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

  ‘Where is he?’ The wolf-like glare in Tyler Carter’s eyes conveys his anxiety.

  The desk sergeant looks up and sees a detective who seems to have forgotten his manners. ‘Good morning to you too, Officer. And how are you? It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.’

  ‘Don’t mess with me, Jim, you know how much I want this guy.’

  ‘He’s in a single, down in lock-up. I’ll take you through.’ Jimmy Berg lifts the gate separating his desk from the thoroughfare where cops book in prisoners. ‘Doctor Jenkins is with him right now.’

  ‘Jim, I said no one was to go near him.’

  ‘I know you did, but my dear hot-shot friend, it’s my pension on the line if the guy dies in here, and believe me, this fruitcake needed to be looked over by the doc.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll see for yourself.’ They walk the line of cells until they reach the one Berg wants. He opens the metal door and stands back. A broad smile breaks across his face as Carter pushes past him.

  Carl Jenkins, the duty police surgeon
, is bent over a man lying flat out on a low bunk.

  ‘I’m Detective Carter, the principal investigating officer.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ The middle-aged medic holds up a suture needle. ‘But unless you also have a degree in medicine or your hobby is needlecraft, step outside for a while and let me finish my job.’

  Carter gets his first clear look at the patient. ‘Holy shit, what happened to him?’

  Berg shakes his head. ‘Outside, Detective.’

  Carter is rooted to the spot. The guy on the bed is covered in wounds. His chest is a sticky mass of clotted blood. The cuts form crucifixes and they’re all over his body, his head, his face, eyelids and cheeks – even down the bridge of his nose. Carter can’t believe what he sees. The crazy son of a bitch has cut off his own nipples and ear lobes.

  140

  FRANCE

  Five hours after leaving Nice, Édouard Broussard flicks down the indicator and guides the BMW off the A7. His wife is sleeping so he speaks quietly to Nic. ‘This is Malataverne. We’ll stop for a quick break in Montelimar.’

  ‘How far have we come?’

  ‘About three hundred and fifty kilometres.’

  ‘What’s that – halfway?’

  ‘A little further, but it is taking longer than I hoped. The road works around Aix-en-Provence delayed us badly.’

  Ursula stirs. Her face is stuck to the leather seat where she cosied down. ‘Are we there?’

  ‘No, my love. We are going into Montelimar. We’ll take a break for lunch.’

  ‘Oh good.’

  Nic nearly protests. He’d rather they just used a restroom in a service station and got going again.

  ‘I know a perfect little restaurant there.’ Édouard’s hand comes off the wheel and finds his wife’s. ‘By the Palais des Bonbons et du Nougat. For ten years it has held a Michelin star.’