The Turin Shroud Secret

by Sam Christer

  Nic lodges his objection. ‘We really don’t have time to linger. We need to get to Geneva and then to the airport.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Édouard, dismissively. ‘We have to eat.’

  ‘And drink,’ adds Ursula, now fully awake. ‘Sunday lunch is not lunch without a glass of wine or two.’

  141

  77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

  Carter calls Mitzi and tells her to come straight in, then heads down to the bookings desk where Jimmy Berg’s waiting to show him surveillance footage from the main reception area.

  ‘Disk just came down from the video unit,’ says the sergeant. ‘I’ve cued it at the point your guy comes up the front steps.’

  ‘Okay. Let it play.’

  Berg sets it going and points a finger to the screen and a black officer manning the front desk. ‘Look at Howie out for the count, sleeping his ass off.’ He snorts out a laugh. ‘Damn near soils his pants when your fruitcake leans on the buzzer.’

  Carter watches the big old officer jerk awake. It’s just like Jimmy said and it makes him smile for a second. The shot is wide-angled and covers the desk right of frame and the public door on the left. There’s an electronic clunk and the door opens. A man walks in. He’s barefoot and wearing what looks like a cream cape and underpants. A ridiculous sight. A kind of kick-ass superhero. Carter suddenly realises what he’s got on. It’s not a cape, it’s a sheet. A bed sheet, like the ones the victims were covered with. He turns to the custody sergeant.

  Berg answers the question before it’s even asked. ‘Already bagged and tagged with his other stuff.’

  ‘We got a name for this fool?’

  He nods to the footage and smiles. ‘He’s just about to tell you.’

  Carter’s attention swings back to the monitor. The man has his arms spread wide as he approaches an astonished Howie. ‘I am God’s helper, I am Deliverance, the carrier of souls.’

  Deliverance.

  The detective’s spirits sink. The guy is a shrink’s wet dream. A good lawyer is going to dust off a big medico-legal casebook lying on a shelf in his rich private practice law firm and whip up an insanity plea. He just knows it.

  ‘I am a vessel of the Lord, a messenger of the Almighty. God has sent me.’

  Howie eases his sleepy ass up and out of the chair. ‘Sure he has, brother, but right now the good Lord wants you to go straight home and sleep off whatever’s got you buzzed.’ Howie spots the cuts as the guy closes on the desk. ‘Man, what you done to yourself?’

  ‘My work is over. His work is done. Dominus vobiscum.’

  ‘Shit, are you okay?’ Howie presses a button under the desk to summon back-up.

  ‘I praise the souls I have delivered.’ The man falls to his knees. ‘The holy souls of Kathleen Higgins, Stephanie Hayes, Lisa Griffin, Lucy Bryant, Shelly Hughes, Louise Perry, Krissy Patterson, Kylie Gray, Sally-Ann Ward, Maria Gonzales, Kim Bass and—’

  Carter leans closer to the screen. He missed the last few words. Another name. ‘Rewind Jimmy, does he say something there.’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ The sergeant spools back.

  They watch the footage again. Carter still can’t hear anything. It’s like the guy stops himself naming someone.

  Why?

  Right now it doesn’t matter. The crazeball in a cape just listed all eleven victims in the serial killer case Carter’s spent years working. Including the newest kill – Kim Bass.

  142

  FRANCE

  Ephrem follows them off the A7.

  He wonders for a moment if there’s an airport nearby, whether they’ve booked a private plane. He’d be left stranded. His fears are abated as he watches the BMW cruise down the Route de Marseille and pick up signs marked Montelimar-Centre.

  Within fifteen minutes the open countryside of southeastern France has gone and they’re enfolded in the concrete arms of a big city. The Broussards’ limousine cruises gracefully to a roundabout and takes the first exit onto Rue Saint-Gaucher. It’s a tight narrow street with tourist shops and shuttered homes leaning over a line of asphalt barely wide enough for cars to pass.

  Ephrem is closer than he would like to be – just three cars away. Traffic stops while a courier pushes a tall sack trolley loaded high with bottled water from one pavement to the other. Once he’s gone the BMW veers right and Ephrem follows into Place du Marche. It’s a modern, paved square with cafés and shops set around a slightly recessed and pedestrianised area. There’s no place to park.

  To his surprise the limo pulls up outside a red-canopied restaurant and blocks the road. Édouard Broussard steps from the driver’s seat and opens the door for his wife. She holds his hand as he helps her out. He closes the door, then they both enter the restaurant, leaving the car there. The two drivers in front of the monk palm their horns in objection.

  The restaurant door reopens and a black-suited waiter hurries to the BMW and slides into the driver’s seat. The rear door opens almost instantly and a tall, dark-haired man in black leather jacket and jeans steps out.

  Karakandez.

  The cop’s eyes sweep the street as he stretches off several hundred miles of rear seat travelling. Ephrem wants to study him, wants to take in his size, his weight, how he walks, how he holds himself – wants to see a visible weakness in his adversary. But he knows better than to be caught staring. He looks down at the radio and plays with the tuner dial. Through his open driver’s window he can hear the motorists shouting their disbelief that the rich man and his wife just left their car at the restaurant door for a waiter to park. Most Lebanese have good French and the warrior monk is no exception. He hears the sound of engines accelerating and looks up.

  Karakandez has gone. A fleeting glimpse, that’s all he got of the man he suspects he’ll have to kill.

  143

  77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

  Tyler Carter is pacing impatiently when at last the cell door opens and Doctor Jenkins emerges with a worried look on his face. ‘He’s all yours but you’ll need to tread carefully.’

  ‘Is he going to need surgery?’

  ‘No. It’s not the physical wounds I’m worried about – they stitched up fine. It’s his mental condition.’

  Carter nods. ‘Did he give you any details about himself – his name and address?’

  ‘I asked but he didn’t make sense. Didn’t seem to be listening to me. He just kept praying, asking God for forgiveness.’ Jenkins tries to remember some of the words. ‘“Oh my God, I am sorry for having offended you” – something like that.’

  ‘It’s the Catholic Act of Contrition.’

  ‘You’re a Catholic?’

  ‘Lapsed. I learned it at school.’

  The doctor starts to leave.

  ‘You want to sit in on the interview? I’ve no trouble with that. At the moment he’s here of his own volition and can walk any time he likes.’

  Jenkins shakes his head. ‘You do your stuff, I’ll do mine. I’m going to wash up and grab some coffee. I’ll be back in half an hour or so to look in on him.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Oh, and given the mess he’s made of himself, you best treat him as at-risk.’ The medic nods towards the bookings desk. ‘I already told the sergeant back there, this is a suicide waiting to happen.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Carter stands for a moment and looks in through the cell eyepiece. The guy’s just as he’d imagined the Creeper would be. Slight. Insignificant. Cowardly-looking. Anyone who would kill someone in their sleep was bound to lack strength – both physically and mentally.

  The door behind him bangs open and he turns around. Mitzi Fallon walks in, hair looking like badly spun cotton candy. No make-up. Pupils as small and dark as rabbit droppings.

  ‘Don’t say anything. No smart cracks. I know I look like Joan Rivers on a bad day. I’m here, that should be enough for you.’

  ‘It is. Thanks.’

  She leans forward, looks through the peephole, then turn
s to Carter. ‘This scrap of nothing did all that killing?’

  ‘Seems that way. He turned up in reception, recited all the victims in chronological order, including Kim Bass.’

  ‘Bastard. He got a name?’

  ‘Deliverance.’

  ‘Oh shit. A fruitcake. You got me out of bed and publicly humiliated me for someone who’s been banging his head on an idiot-stick?’

  ‘I haven’t yet met a serial killer I’d call sane.’

  ‘Sure, but not many call themselves Deliverance and turn themselves in during the middle of the night.’

  Carter grows quiet. Mitzi sees a strange look on his face, like he’s just remembered something important he should have done. Then she realises the enormity of the moment. Carter is stepping off a ledge. One he’s been standing on for two years. He makes the right step and the guy on the other side of the metal door goes to death row and his career resumes an unstoppable upward trajectory. He makes the wrong step and the nutjob known as Deliverance gets plead down to a psych case while Tyler Carter’s chance of glory is unceremonially flushed down the pan.

  ‘You want to grab some coffee? Maybe an early breakfast?’

  Mitzi looks startled. ‘Say what?’

  Carter smiles. ‘I just decided I’m not ready to interview him.’ He waves a hand at the cell. ‘He’s shown himself now. What’s he going to do, ask to go home and pretend this never happened? At least if he does, we’ll get to know where Deliverance lives. No, before we go in there and start laying down charges, I want to know who he is, what he’s made of and what made him like he is. Now shall we get that coffee?’

  144

  FRANCE

  Édouard and the stout old restaurant owner clearly go back some.

  After the hugging, smiling and handshaking is over, the proprietor settles his guests at a table and has the maitre d’ bring over the menus. But the feeling in Nic’s gut is one more of worry than hunger. Stopping for lunch is insane. He can’t believe that he agreed to it. At least the scientist and his wife look relaxed. Maybe an hour spent eating is better than a cardiac arrest later today.

  ‘I told Jean-Paul that we are in a hurry,’ says Édouard. ‘He has promised us two of his finest dishes in less than the hour.’

  The owner is as good as his word. Saumon d’Ecosse Tériyaki is the best fish the cop has ever tasted. The Ravioles de Roman et son émulsion de Foie-Gras Maison would convert even the most hardened vegetarian.

  Édouard Broussard leaves a generous tip and after more embraces they step into a glint of sunshine. The owner hands Édouard the keys and tells him his car is parked five metres away, just around the corner in Rue Bouverie. He walks them to the corner and more embraces follow.

  Nic’s eyes don’t leave the street and his hand doesn’t stray more than an inch from Goria’s Beretta.

  ‘Would you mind?’ The Frenchman offers Nic the keys. ‘Could you drive for an hour?’ He pats his stomach. ‘I have had maybe a little too much food and wine.’

  Nic’s cop instincts say no. One hand on the wheel and the other on a gun is no way to fight a battle. Then again it might be safer than being driven by a drunk. ‘Sure, but you’ll need to direct me.’

  ‘There is a navigation system in the dash. It is set for our destination.’

  Nic takes the keys and the Broussards slip in the back looking more than pleased to be together and chauffeured. The car is an automatic and after gliding the seat back, Nic gets comfortable behind the wheel. A rear-view parking camera and over-sensitive front and back sensors usher him out from between two other parked cars. The satnav guides him out through a maze of tight streets onto the Route de Valence, where the computer diligently pings out a warning that speed cameras are coming up in three kilometres.

  The big car’s V12 six-litre engine is begging to be opened up but he keeps faithfully to the limit. Édouard has to help out with loose change as they join the A7 and hit a quick succession of tolls, then the Frenchman sits back and takes his wife’s hand on his lap. Through the rear-view mirror Nic sees them dozing. No harm in that, they’ve still got two hours and around two hundred kilometres to go. Sleep well, sleep long – he just wishes he could do the same

  The miles flash past and after more than an hour it’s clear the Broussards look like they’re going to snooze most of the way.

  The traffic is light and Nic gets round to enjoying the big limousine. Unless he someday gets a job as a driver this is probably the last time he’ll be in charge of such an expensive car.

  As the first signs for Switzerland appear he starts to feel seriously tired. A tweak of the climate control directs a stream of cool air into his face and it seems to do the trick. The passing scenery is subtly altering behind the thin leafless trees that line the highways. Tantalising glimpses of forests, lakes and mountains give a feeling more of the cool ruggedness of Switzerland than the lush, green countryside of France.

  Red tail lights suddenly blink on ahead. The traffic bunches for some reason. Probably Sunday drivers not used to the open road. Nic eases his foot off the accelerator and touches the brake. It goes soft. Nothing happens. He pumps it hard. There’s a hiss of air then it flattens to the floor. The car isn’t slowing. The brakes aren’t working.

  145

  77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

  Mitzi watches the recording of Deliverance while she sits at her desk and drinks canteen coffee. ‘He could just be a hoaxer. You thought about that?’

  ‘He’s not.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Forget that he’s weird and looks like a blind guy who tried to shave with a switchblade. All he’s done is reel off the names of the Creeper’s victims. Names that have all been printed.’

  ‘Not Bass. That’s not in the papers yet.’

  ‘It’s on the local radio, though. I heard it this morning.’

  ‘Trust me, he’s our guy.’

  ‘Why? Because he’s a religious nut? Let’s do a sweep of LA churches and temples – I bet I can raise you a dozen by lunch.’

  ‘Okay, listen – we have DNA from the Creeper case. Next step is we take swabs from Deliverance and see if they match. No match and he walks.’

  ‘Logical.’ Mitzi picks up the phone.

  Carter stops her. ‘Remember, this fruitcake came wrapped in a sheet. A bed sheet. As in the kind he covered his corpses with. We’ll get that tested as well and I know we’re going to find more than our boy’s traces all over it. You make the Lab and Records calls. I’ll get us some more manpower – and more coffee?’

  ‘Just the manpower,’ Mitzi hits a pre-dial. ‘My tooth enamel won’t survive a refill.’

  Carter heads back to his office and pounds the phone. He manages to persuade a secretary, an admin guy and two old hands – Libowicz and Amis – to give up their Sunday lie-ins. He’ll use the detectives to carry out any secondary actions that he and Fallon produce.

  Mitzi finally gets through to Hix, the one forensic scientist she knows will drop whatever he’s doing to help her. ‘Tom, we might have a break on the Creeper case. We got a guy in central holding came in wrapped in a cloth that needs a rush job. We also need his DNA and a quick blood match.’

  ‘Elimination screen?’

  ‘Yep, though Carter’s sure he has his man.’

  Tom Hix has seen a dozen detectives assert they have their man only to be reduced to drink at the end of the day. ‘I’ll come right in.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She remembers Nic’s call last night. ‘Oh, if you check your in-tray you might find a parcel from Nic Karakandez in Italy.’

  ‘Italy?’

  ‘The Tamara Jacobs case. I sent him there to chase some leads. He’s rushed samples to you from a crime scene in Turin, wants to know if there’s a match to anything from the writer’s house.’

  ‘Sounds like I have a busy day. Actually, I was going to call you about the Jacobs case. We’ve completed the analysis on the cat and the carpets. You remember we had them both vacuumed?’

  ‘Sure.�
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  ‘Well, we got a human DNA profile from the cat’s paw – but that’s not the good news.’ He sounds animated. ‘On the carpet pile we found particles of Glyptobothrus lebanicus and Pogonocherus ehdenensis.’

  His enthusiasm is lost on her. ‘Tom, it’s early on a Sunday and I don’t speak alien. What did you just say?’

  He lets out a sigh of disappointment. If only she understood the rarity of his discovery. ‘The Glypto is a grasshopper and the Pogo is a longhorned beetle. What they have in common is they don’t come from America. The species is endemic to Mount Lebanon and the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.’

  ‘Lebanon?’

  ‘As in the Middle East. The vacuuming also produced traces of Lithosols – rocky, skeletal soils that you would certainly find on steep mountain landscapes.’

  ‘I’m not sure where that takes us. I guess you’re saying the killer must have been there recently or comes from there?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Okay. Will you send the genetic fingerprints over when you come in?’

  ‘Sure. I’m on my way now.’

  Mitzi puts down the phone and sees a red light flashing on the base. Missed calls. Her heart jumps a beat. Maybe her girls. She picks up again and triggers the answerphone. The automated voice says the message was left at five o’clock yesterday. She was dealing with Jenny Harrison at the time. She hopes Amber and Jade are all right, crosses her fingers that they haven’t had an accident out on the slopes.

  ‘Hi Lieutenant Fallon, it’s Sarah Kenny from Anteronus Films. You said to call if I found anything new of Tamara’s. Well, I don’t know if this is important but I might have something. You’ve got my numbers, ring any time. Have a good day.’

  It’s only 8 a.m. but Mitzi takes her at her word and rings.

  She gets a pre-recorded message. ‘This is Sarah – I can’t take your call, leave your message and if I’m not out filming with Scorsese or the Coen brothers I’ll get back to you. Ciao, darlings.’