by Sam Christer
She looks across the tubes, the blood and plasma bags and the beeping monitors to Amy Chang. ‘Can you go talk to them – you know, doctor to doctor? Tell me what his chances really are?’
‘Of course.’ The ME heads out.
Mitzi stares at Nic. Shit, he really looks dead. ‘Four days, you dope.’ She takes his hand in hers. ‘Four freakin’ days. How can you go screw things up with just four days to go? I should kick your ass. Fact is, when I get you outta here I will kick your ass.’
She studies the monitor then locks his fingers between both her hands and just holds on. Amy opens the door and the movement makes her turn.
‘Good and bad news, Mitz. The gut wound was a through-and-through. He bled out badly but no vital organs were hit. That’s a big plus. Bad news is he cracked his head going down and that caused intracerebral haemorrhaging and edema that they didn’t find until they CT-scanned him. Add the shoulder wound, major blood loss and trauma and you can see why he flatlined. Paramedics did an incredible job bringing him round and keeping him ticking until they got him in surgery.’
‘What are his chances, Amy?’
‘Really hard to say.’
‘Don’t doctorise me. Friend to friend. Are we booking a party or fixing for a funeral?’
Amy pushes out a smile. ‘The next few hours will tell us.’
180
Sixty-forty against.
The odds roll like dice in Mitzi’s head. Surely Nic’s beaten stats worse than that out on the street? She bites at a nail and stares out of the passenger window as Amy drives back to the precinct. If she hadn’t sent him to Italy, none of this would have happened. But she knows there’s no use beating herself up – it ain’t gonna make him better. She pulls off the last of the hangnail and turns to her friend. ‘The guy Nic shot, did you do the exam on him?’
‘Terri Jones got him. I was still finishing up on Emma Varley when they called it in.’
‘You see him at all? See what he looked like?’ She knows why she’s asking. ‘Just a glimpse. He was nothing out of the ordinary. Arabic. Athletic. Late-thirties, I guess. I didn’t pay too much attention.’
Mitzi can’t help but ask. ‘Where’d Nic shoot him?’
‘Head.’ She taps a finger just above her nose.
‘Shame. Bastard would have died quick from that.’
They park up and swipe themselves in. ‘I’ll call you later,’ says Amy. ‘I’ve still got stuff to do. I finished that report on the Shroud. Let me know if or when you want it.’
‘Thanks. It doesn’t seem important right now.’
‘It isn’t. Anyway, I’ll stick it in the internal mail for you.’
‘Thanks.’ Mitzi smiles. ‘What do you think? Faked or not?’
‘Ignoring what all the sceptics and nutjobs claim – and believe me, there are hundreds of them who’ve written on this – I’d say the marks on the Shroud are consistent with someone crucified and stabbed.’
‘You’d stand up in court and say that?’
‘Probably would – but I’d want a big fat fee to do so.’
They both laugh. Amy waves as she turns away. ‘Don’t go home without calling me.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Mitzi walks back into Homicide and through to Carter’s office. She’s going to keep busy. Stay involved. Not think about those monitors, tubes and unfavourable odds.
Carter is with Tom Hix, hands on his desk, bent over folders, papers and transparencies. He looks up as soon as Mitzi walks in. ‘What’s the latest?’
‘They say he’s stable but still critical.’
‘Out of the coma?’
‘No. Amy Chang reckons the next couple of hours will be decisive.’
Hix nods. ‘We used to think that all the brain damage came at the moment of injury. Now we know the time afterwards is even more dangerous. You’re talking brain swelling and complications like spastic hemiplegia, hyper-refiexia, quadrispasticity—’
‘No, we’re not, Tom.’ Carter interrupts. ‘We’re absolutely not talking that kind of trash.’
‘Sorry, Tyler, I wasn’t thinking.’
Mitzi gestures to the desk. ‘What you looking at?’
Carter takes a beat. ‘Tom’s discovered something unusual. Unusual and disturbing.’ He spreads out three sets of DNA codes. ‘You’re the scientist, you explain it.’
Hix is keen to do so. ‘The first transparent printout is the DNA of the offender who left trace at Tamara Jacobs’s house and in the rented Lexus. We’ve already blood-matched it to the man Nic shot dead last night. It’s one and the same.’
Mitzi looks pleased. ‘So we have Tamara’s killer.’
‘And,’ adds Carter, ‘Édouard Broussard’s.’
Tom qualifies it. ‘Yes. Subject to a fuller DNA test, but that’s really only a formality. Now look at this second profile.’ He slides the transparency from its folder. ‘This is the sample Nic FedExed from Italy – trace from the killer of scientist Mario Sacconi.’ He lays it over the top of the first print. ‘One and the same.’
‘His prints match too,’ adds Carter. ‘We got partials from the sticky tape used on the female victim in Italy – they’re good enough to show a conclusive match. This guy was a pro. A professional assassin.’
Hix produces another three transparencies. ‘Let’s move on to the Creeper case. Here things get even more intriguing. Do you know whose genetic fingerprints these are?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘The first is the DNA profile of the Creeper himself. We’ve had it on file for more than a year. The second is from swabs John James voluntarily gave us yesterday. The third is from hair root samples found on the body of Emma Varley.’ He lays all three on top of each other.
‘Perfect matches,’ announces Carter. ‘If we can get the DA to prosecute, we have an open and closed case on James.’
Carter and Hix exchange looks.
‘What?’ asks Mitzi. ‘This is good news, isn’t it? We got two separate killers and two separate DNA profiles that link them to their crimes. Is there more than that?’
‘Show her,’ says Carter.
The scientist carefully slides a transparency out of a plastic cover. ‘This is DNA from the blood that Nic shipped us and said came from the Shroud of Turin, samples Erica Craxi gave him inside a Saint Christopher locket.’
She looks at the printout. It’s just a mass of shaded boxes but even she can tell it’s not the same as the others. ‘So what? What’s the connection?’
Hix pulls away two of the other transparencies. ‘The one here on the left is the man Nic shot. The one on the right is John James aka the Creeper.’ He pauses and lets Carter and Mitzi take a good long look. ‘The print in my hand is of the DNA from the Shroud.’ He lays it first on top of the left-hand profile, the man Nic killed. ‘Here, you see similarities. Not total matches in all columns, only familial matches. Distant relations, diluted through the generations, maybe even through centuries, but nonetheless matches.’ He lifts it off and then places it over the second profile, the one of the Creeper. ‘Again you see matches. Not a complete match but nonetheless another conclusive indication of distant family links.’
Mitzi’s not sure she understands. ‘You mean the Creeper and the man Nic shot are descendants of the same bloodline as Shroudman?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’ Hix places the two profiles over each other. ‘Here, in these boxes, you see it. Distant paternal links, a genetic chain crossing countries and centuries.’
‘The criminal gene.’ Carter scoffs at the idea of it. ‘This is a gift to all the do-gooders who believe cold-blooded murdering bastards like the Creeper simply can’t help themselves – oh no, no, they’re just poor victims of a genetic defect, unavoidably and inevitably passed from father to son – they simply can’t help their urge to kill.’ He lifts a wastebasket from the floor. ‘Our case against James just turned into garbage.’
181
ROME
Andreas Pathykos thought he would never see his old
friend again. Now here they are face to face. But there is no reason for celebration.
Nabih Hayek drives the papal advisor a short way down Via della Conciliazione before turning into an unlit side street. The two men sit in the battered Fiat that the Lebanese priest has owned for more than a decade. Moonlight falls on their faces as he explains the reason for the hasty liaison. ‘The monk is dead. Shot by a policeman in Los Angeles.’
‘Dear God.’
Hayek determines to tell the rest of it before the questions come. ‘Others were hurt. Two airport guards, a teenage boy and the policeman who killed Ephrem.’ He takes a beat. ‘And I’m afraid an elderly man was shot dead as well.’
Pathykos is grey with shock. ‘How is this so?’
Hayek holds back much of what he knows. ‘It is unclear. I am informed the monk had all but completed his task when the police cornered him at the airport. It seems he had no choice but to fight until his last breath.’
The adviser lowers his head in thought for the dead, the injured and their loved ones. So much pain, so much suffering has been caused. ‘Is this the end of it now, Nabih?’
The face of his friend says it isn’t. ‘Craxi and the scientist, Broussard, are dead but all the DNA taken from the Shroud may not have been destroyed.’
‘What? The whole purpose of the monk’s mission was to eradicate the findings of those sacrilegiously stolen samples.’
‘I know, but it seems the original source was split and a sample has found its way back to the laboratories of the Los Angeles Police department.’
‘Then we must ensure that it is never tested or its results never known. It is our duty to guarantee that any connection to the Holy Shroud is always unverifiable.’
‘I agree – but you must do this, Andreas. You must use the name of the Holy Father and reach out to friends of ours.’
Pathykos nods.
‘But that alone will not be enough. You understand, don’t you?’
‘Don’t lecture me on responsibilities, Nabih. Take me back to the Vatican. I know what has to be done.’
182
77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
The long and awful day ends on an unexpected low – another call to Deke Matthews’s room.
Mitzi feels drained as she drags herself down the long corridors to the captain’s office. All the trauma has left her running on empty. His secretary smiles up from her desk and waves Mitzi through. She opens the door and immediately wishes she hadn’t. Matthews is at the head of his small conference table, next to him is Carter and Tom Hix. Opposite them – beautifully dressed in a black Armani suit – is Deputy District Attorney Maria Sanchez.
Maria is everything one woman can possibly hate in another.
Mitzi can maybe forgive that she’s a cold-hearted, self-centred, egomaniacal bitch who used a child murder last year as a personal publicity platform. But what she can never forgive is the fact that no matter what godawful time of day it is, the raven-haired lawyer – who is almost fifty – always manages to look half her age.
That is beyond forgiveness.
‘Captain.’ Mitzi stands at the far end of the table.
‘Take a seat.’ He gestures to the conference table. ‘We’re discussing the Creeper case and in particular the DNA evidence Tom pulled together.’
‘Been discussing.’ Sanchez shoots Matthews a courtroom look as she emphasises the past tense.
Mitzi just can’t bring herself to sit alongside the lawyer. She takes a place opposite Matthews. ‘How can I help?’
‘We’re not going to prosecute James.’ Matthews pauses to let the point sink in. ‘He’s going to be committed into psychiatric care.’
Sanchez clears her throat. ‘Captain, if your team can properly tie up James’s confessions to the murders of Varley and Bass, Commissioner Bradley will make a public statement about those crimes being linked to James and explain he is not fit for trial. He’ll also state publicly that you’ve now closed the Creeper files and are not looking for anyone else.’
Matthews turns to Carter. ‘Public-wise, it has the same effect as winning at trial. Case closed.’
‘The commissioner would like that,’ Sanchez smiles. ‘It would also be done without any of the risk of improper disclosure or further cost to the taxpayer.’
Carter looks furious. ‘By “improper” you mean Tom’s scientific evidence – science American citizens have a right to know.’
She waves a hand at him. ‘Don’t be immature. Ninety per cent of them wouldn’t understand if he visited them all in person and spent a day explaining it.’
‘Why?’ Mitzi barks. ‘Why are you trying to sweep all these findings under the carpet?’
Sanchez sighs. ‘You really have to think this through.’ She gives Mitzi a condescending stare. ‘Think about the implications of full disclosure. If we go public, we risk arming defence attorneys nationwide with a new plea of genetic mitigation.’
‘Bullshit.’ The word tumbles out of the lieutenant’s mouth. ‘There are examples worldwide of fine, upstanding, law-abiding citizens – men, women and children – who are closely, never mind distantly, related to rapists, murderers and terrorists. They’re not bad people. Their genes don’t possess badness.’
‘Mitzi’s right,’ snaps Carter. ‘Bad people are bad because they make the choice to be bad.’
‘We can’t open this can of worms,’ Sanchez starts to pack her leather document case. ‘We’re done discussing it.’
Silence floats like a poison cloud. Mitzi reaches to the middle of the table, grabs a glass and pours water from a jug. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
No one answers.
She looks at their faces. ‘C’mon, I’m a big girl, I can take it. After all, that’s why I’m in here. You need me to come in line, nod nicely and agree to some other grade-A political horseshit, don’t you?’
Matthews waits until she’s settled down. ‘Mitzi, this whole business with the Shroud is a problem. A real problem. Messy as a dropped wedding cake for both us and the Italians.’
She throws back a gulp of water. ‘You mean the Carabinieri?’
He nods. ‘The commissioner had diplomats on his ass all afternoon. Embassy guys. Ambassadors. They don’t want anything made public about the Shroud being interfered with, about samples being taken illegally.’ He looks across at Hix. ‘Especially about unauthorised tests in foreign countries and links to serial murder cases.’
‘Man, I bet they don’t,’ says Mitzi, her anger rising.
He tries to reason with her. ‘Italian—American relations have always been good – and important to both countries.’
She shakes her head. ‘Are we missing out the Mafia here?’
Maria Sanchez glowers at her. ‘Decisions have been made, Lieutenant. Captain Matthews got you in here out of courtesy, that’s all. The DA and the commissioner have already given assurances that no comment will be made on the Tamara Jacobs case or anything to do with the Shroud of Turin without them approving it.’ She pushes back her chair and readies to leave. ‘Anyone breaks that rule they’ll find themselves jobless and pensionless. Good day to you all.’
Mitzi stares at the floor, heart thumping like she just ran a mile. ‘Hey, Councillor.’
Sanchez stops, her hand on the door handle. ‘What?’
‘When you go to Catholic Mass this Sunday – as I’m sure all good Spanish girls do – I hope to hell the whole church gets up and gives you the huge round of applause you so obviously deserve.’
Matthews’s door slams so hard the glass almost breaks.
183
ROME
It is not a problem for Andreas Pathykos to take the key from the pontiff’s antechamber. The Holy Father has been long asleep and the guards at his door are accustomed to admitting the old Greek at late hours to leave documents and carry out chores.
As he enters the darkened room, his mind floods with a disturbing mix of science, religion and history. Over the course of ce
nturies the Church has venerated artefacts presented as the crown of thorns and the lance that pierced the side of Christ. But none have ever produced samples that scientists can reliably attest is blood – the blood of a man, the blood of Jesus Christ, the son of God.
Even the Shroud of Turin had refused to yield biological evidence of life – until, that is, a sample had been stolen and tested with methods more advanced than the Vatican has ever used. And now comparison is possible. Science can use its modern trickery to crush the beliefs and goodness of Christian faith. Worse still, it can open up the old stories of Saladin and reignite the Muslim groups.
Pathykos cannot let that happen. If the police in America are to defy political pressures and disclose the stolen DNA, they must have nothing to compare it with. The pontiff’s most trusted adviser and oldest friend lets himself into the Holy Father’s bedchamber. The room is cool and smells of lavender. He treads gently towards the large bed that holds the divine representation of God on earth. Less than six inches from the sleeping pontiff is a small silver-gilt casket and in it a splinter of wood that has yielded the most precious drop of blood on earth.
Christ’s blood. Taken from the True Cross. Preserved and protected by Holy Knights before the warlord Saladin took the True Cross in the Battle of Hattin.
Pathykos feels his heart beat so fast he thinks he will collapse before he steals his way out of the chambers. Every step from the pontiff’s bed takes an age. Every yard the Greek achieves brings him an agonising pain. Was this how Judas felt in his hour of betrayal? There are tears in his eyes as he makes it to his own chamber. He locks the door and looks out of the window across the Eternal City. Daybreak will come soon. Church bells will ring out across the rooftops and the faithful will make their way to morning prayer.
He will not be among them.
A fire is still burning in the grate. He has sat here many hours, contemplating his life and beliefs, staring into the flames and being comforted by their ephemeral warmth. He takes a poker and stokes the coals, then uses it to break open the casket. Soot smudges his hands and he kneels and places the fragment of blessed wood gently on the flames.