“In my WWJJD mode I realized that Laura wasn’t the only one obsessed,” he said.
“There are other women obsessed with me?”
He shook his head. “All other women obsessed with me,” he said. “But there was a cat obsessed with Laura.”
“Fritz,” I said.
“You good at WWJJD,” he said.
I laughed.
“He killed her?”
“Looped back around after we chased his ass,” he said. “He’s hoping for a little gratitude, maybe he finally get to tap that ass like she been hinting and what does he see but you two back together. He follows the two of you, his rage building. At the landing he finds you passed out and her asleep and decides to collect on what she owes him. Says he didn’t mean to kill her, that she hit her head on a cypress knee, but I ain’t buying that.”
“You’re truly amazing,” I said. “I know I don’t mention it too much.”
“Can’t mention it too much,” he said.
“I’ll step it up,” I said.
“I remember him saying he was her best friend,” he said. “He covered by saying he meant he was until you came along, but he already knew she was dead ’cause it was his fast ass self that killed her.”
I thought about Merrill being in his CO uniform the first time we met with Fritz. “Did he really think you were a detective?”
He nodded. “Told him my CO uniform was a deputy uniform,” he said. “And that I had just been promoted to plainclothes detective.”
“He confess to you?”
“I brought him into one of the conference rooms, made sure it was being recorded,” he said. “Acted like I knew just what the fuck I was doin’. Felt like Denzel playin’ a cop—’cept I look better. Told him we had his DNA—blood, semen, saliva—then I laid all the crime scene photos out on the table in front of him and sympathized with him about what a faithless slut she was and how she had no taste in men, and pretty soon I couldn’t get him to shut up. Hell, I thought he was gonna confess to being the gunman on the grassy knoll.”
I smiled. “You’re a good cop,” I said. “Dad could partner you and Jake up and—”
“I just saved your life,” he said.
“You really did,” I said.
“You’ve done it for me a time or two in the past,” he said.
“Did he say how I got the scratches on my neck and the blood on my hands?”
“Say she was grabbing for you as he pullin’ her out the car,” he said.
My heart ached, my stomach sank as I thought about Laura reaching out to me for help. I had been unable to help her only because I had gotten drunk.
“When he put her back in the car he grabbed your arms rubbed your hands in her blood,” he continued. “Tryin’ to set you up.”
We were quiet a moment as I thought about everything.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m really—”
“Once is enough,” he said. “Don’t mention it again.”
“That’ll be difficult,” I said.
“Your dad said to tell you he’ll come by your place later,” he said. “He’s booking Fritz and givin’ Scott hell for messin’ with his son.”
We got in his truck.
“Come on,” he said. “I’m droppin’ your ass off at a meeting while I go get some WWJJD bracelets printed up.”
Image of Blood
My mother had drunk herself to death. She just wasn’t dead yet.
As if a metaphor of her life, the room Mom was spending her final days in was dark and depressingly empty, and she had resisted all attempts on my part to change it.
“There’s something I need you to do for me,” she said.
Her pale, once beautiful face flickered in the light from a cable channel on an old television at the end of her bed.
“Anything,” I said.
“I want you to solve a mystery for me,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“I just watched a special on the Shroud of Turin,” she said. “I’ve got to know if it’s real. I want you to investigate it for me.”
For a moment, I didn’t say anything, her request so bizarre as to render me speechless. “What?” I asked. “Why?”
“A woman in Turin was healed as she gazed upon it,” she said.
“The shroud?”
“Yeah.”
I shook my head.
I thought we were past this. Over the past several months, I had witnessed my mom, in nearly textbook fashion, pass from denial to anger to bargaining to depression to what I thought was a place of acceptance. Either I had been wrong about where she was, or she was reverting to an earlier stage.
“If it’s real,” she said. “I mean really the burial cloth of Christ, then I believe I can be healed by gazing into Jesus’s face at the moment of his resurrection. It’s being displayed next month. If you find out it’s real, I want you to take me to see it.”
I found myself still unable to respond.
Never particularly religious before, lately Mom had become increasingly and desperately superstitious. It depressed me to think that I had failed to help her, finding myself awkward and impotent with her where I was usually confident and helpful with others.
“Do you know anything about it?” she asked.
“Just what makes the headlines.”
“Don’t you want to know?” she said. “Why haven’t you ever studied it?”
I shrugged.
“Really,” she said. “I want to know.”
“I’m not sure,” I said, though I was. “I guess I’ve just always assumed it wasn’t real, but even if it is, it’s not really relevant to my faith.”
She shook her head in incomprehension. “What does that mean?”
“I’m always very leery of anything that claims to prove—especially scientifically—matters of faith. Matters that by their very nature cannot be proven.”
“But still,” she said. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to know if it’s real.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to know,” I said. “It’s—I guess I really think we can’t know. But like I said, either way, it’s not relevant to what I believe. If it’s real, it won’t increase my faith. If it’s not, it won’t decrease it.”
Talking about faith reminded me of just how much I had been questioning mine lately—not from a belief or doctrinal perspective, but from one of meaning and usefulness. I was finding it increasingly difficult to feel fulfilled in my work as a prison chaplain and wondered if I might make a greater contribution by doing something else with my life.
“Not everyone has faith as strong as yours, John,” she said.
I laughed. “Nothing about me is strong,” I said. “Especially my faith.”
“You can’t really believe that,” she said. “You’re so strong. So ... you help so many people.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but you’re obviously looking through the eyes of love.”
“They’re the only ones I have,” she said.
We were silent a moment, I, wondering if I could really do what she was asking of me.
“Will you investigate the shroud for me?”
I nodded. “I’m not sure what I can do,” I said, “but I’ll look into it and let you know.”
“And if it’s authentic, will you take me to Italy to see it?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, believing I was merely making an empty promise to a desperate and dying woman.
On my way home, I stopped by the public library and checked out the only three books they had on the Shroud of Turin. When I got home, I looked it up on the internet as I ate the pizza I had ordered from Sal’s.
I was surprised to find so much information and interest about the shroud online, but I guess I shouldn’t have been. It seemed that in the past several years, interest in the shroud had increased and intensified. There were hundreds of books, journals, and articles, many of them new, and thousands of web sites. There would be no lack of evid
ence in this case, no shortage of clues.
As I read, I was surprised and a little amused to find that I was almost immediately caught up in the mystery of the most studied relic in human history, and the more I learned, the more the enigmatic image on the shroud began to haunt me.
Was I looking into the face of God?
Was I a fool even to ask such a question?
When I finished my preliminary reading, I knew a lot more about the world’s most famous textile.
The Shroud of Turin is a well-preserved oblong linen cloth over fourteen feet long and nearly four feet wide. One side of the cloth bears the front and back images of a man appearing to be laid out in death. The fact that there are two views, both front and back, seems to indicate that the man of the shroud was laid upon it, his head coming roughly to the center. Then it was folded to cover the front of his body. The faint sepia image appears to be scorched or lightly burned onto the surface of the off-white linen.
In addition to the scorched images, brownish and carmine-colored marks throughout, said to be blood stains, are heaviest at the wrists, feet, and a wound on the right side of the body. There are also many smaller stains covering the front and back of the image believed by many to be evidence of blood resulting from the beating, whipping, and thorn-piercing of the body.
According to the gospels, Jesus was removed from the cross and placed in a tomb, where he was wrapped in cloth in accordance with Jewish custom. But few, if any, records exist from that time to detail the burial cloth’s whereabouts.
The Shroud of Turin became public in 1349, when a French knight named Geoffrey de Charny was said to have acquired it in Constantinople and brought it to the attention of Pope Clement VI. The shroud was held in a church in Lirey, France, and was first shown publicly in 1355.
Since that first exhibition, many have questioned the shroud’s authenticity, since forging religious artifacts was big business during medieval times.
After reading a description of the shroud, I carefully examined the best picture I could find of it.
I recalled reading a headline several years ago about the carbon-dating tests administered on the shroud, but decided to treat this like any other investigation—taking the evidence as it came and maintaining an open mind.
I decided to start with the substance on the shroud. Was it paint or blood? Even if blood were present, it still might not be the blood of Jesus, but if it weren’t blood, then all other questions and evidence were irrelevant.
My next question was about the body image—not only how it was made, but also if there was any dimensionality to it, and were the wounds it depicted anatomically correct?
A whole pizza and most of a book later, I looked up and punched in a number I hadn’t used in a very long time.
“I need to know about the Shroud of Turin,” I said into the receiver.
If the Shroud of Turin had paint instead of blood and drawing marks rather than unique scorch marks on it, my investigation would be complete, my life less complicated. Still, I wasn’t sure that’s what I wanted to hear—and not just for Mom. I, too, was beginning to feel the powerful pull of the irresistible icon.
“John Jordan?” Paul asked. “It couldn’t be. I heard he was dead. Who is this?”
Paul Roberts and I had gone to seminary together at Candler and after graduation, he had remained behind to work on a Ph.D. He was now a full professor and noted scholar. He was also an expert on the Shroud of Turin.
“The rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated,” I said.
He laughed.
After catching up for a few minutes, he said, “What do you need to know?”
“Is it real?”
“Of course it’s real,” he said. “Haven’t you seen the pictures?”
Same old Paul.
“But is it authentic?” I asked.
“Ah, now that is the question, isn’t it? Are you asking if it’s really a burial shroud, or the burial shroud of Jesus?”
“Tell you what, Professor,” I said, “I’ll ask the questions and you answer them, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you harass your students like this?”
“Is that one of your questions?” he asked.
“It depends on how many I get.”
“Well, I’m a very important academician and I have to give a speech at a dinner in about an hour,” he said. “You do the math.”
“Okay, I’ll just ask you a few questions about the image of the body and the stains of blood and call you back as I continue my study.”
“You promise?” he said.
“I’m glad you decided not to become a pastor,” I said.
“Bedside manner is overrated,” he said. “You want a doctor who knows what he’s doing or one that’s nice to you?”
“You think the same is true of clergy?” I asked.
“How the hell would I know?” he said. “I didn’t go into pastoral ministry. You tell me.”
“Tell me about the shroud first,” I said.
“Whatta you wanna know?”
“Is it a painting?”
“You’re asking does it have paint on it, or is it a painting?” he said.
“What’s the difference?”
“It has paint on it,” he said. “It’s not a painting. In 1978, the Shroud of Turin Research Project, or STURP, examined the shroud with the most sophisticated equipment available at the time. They discovered that there are no pigments, paints, or dyes present in the formation of the image. They also found that there are no brush stokes or directionality of any type that would be characteristic of an artist’s painting.”
“But—”
“I’m not finished,” he said. “Also, renowned artist Lisa Picket of San Francisco said that ‘the practiced arts come to the conclusion that the shroud is definitely not a painting or the result of manipulation by a medieval artist. While the technology of our own age has mastered outer space exploration, we are still at a loss to explain the image on the shroud or make another Turin Shroud. It is not the result of invention.’”
“I’m impressed,” I said. “Was that all off the top of your head?”
“I give over a hundred presentations on the shroud a year,” he said. “My wife says I say this stuff in my sleep.”
“How exciting for her,” I said. “Now, can I have a straight answer? Is there paint present or not?”
“There is an incidental amount of artists’ pigments on the surface.”
“And?”
“And, this led some, including Dr. William McDaniel, to conclude that the shroud was a forgery made with paint,” he said.
“But you don’t think so?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I agree with McDaniel’s fellow members of the STURP, Holt and Allen, who said that it had nothing to do with the body image.”
“Then how’d it get there?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“But you have a theory,” I said.
“We’re talkin’ about the most holy icon in history,” he said. “Think about it. There’s only one. It can only be in one place at a time—until, presto-copyo, they traced and copied it.”
“So the paint came from attempts to reproduce it.”
“That or some senile old monk used it for a drop cloth when he was redoing his abbey.”
“What?”
“I’m saying it’s the most widely recognized and reasonable theory. The truth is we’re talking about somethin’ that could potentially be several centuries to thousands of years old. It’s come in contact with everything imaginable during that time, so a little paint shouldn’t surprise anyone. The bottom line is the image is not paint.”
“But is it blood?”
“No.”
“No?”
“It’s scorch or burn marks of the body and some blood stains.”
“I’m amazed you’re not a literalist,” I said.
“Just tryin’ to be precise.”
&
nbsp; “Tell me about the scorch marks,” I said. “What made them?”
“We don’t know,” he said. “There’s nothing else like it in the world. No other body has ever left such a mark on anything. And if it were a painting, then it’s the first outline-less painting in existence. Every artist uses an outline—especially when working on something fourteen feet long, but there’s not one on the shroud. And another thing, the color of the image is nearly indistinguishable. I mean it’s one color, yet the image is almost three dimensional, and the closer you get to it, the more the image disappears into the cloth. You really have to be at least six feet away from it to see it, so if an artist did it, he’d have to have used a six-foot brush.”
“What about—”
“I’m not finished,” he said. “The image seems not to be the result of something being added to the linen, but something being taken away. It’s a chemical change. The marks seem to be the result of those areas aging faster. Like a newspaper yellowing in the sunlight. The STURP concluded that they were created by a phenomenon, as yet unknown, or a momentous event that caused a rapid cellulose degradation oxidation of the very top linen fibrils of the cellulose fibers of the shroud, thereby creating a straw-colored image similar to that of a scorch. And one last thing, when STURP flooded the shroud with transmitted light from behind, the blood stains showed up very well—presumably because they’re substantial and solid, but the body image barely showed up at all.”
“So there is blood on the shroud?” I asked. “Not paint or pigment or dye?”
“Yes,” he said. “The late Dr. Joseph Hellen identified the blood on the shroud as being mammalian, primate, and probably human. Dr. Peter Lowenstein, professor of forensic medicine at the Turin University, has stated that the blood on the shroud is human with characteristics appearing to belong to type AB.”
“So, there’s scientific evidence that there’s actual blood on it,” I said, excitement filling my voice.
“Yeah,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s the blood of Jesus.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s true.”
“But it is a shroud that wrapped a real human body that had undergone a real-life crucifixion. There are blood stains and postmortem blood spillage to indicate injuries caused by severe whipping, various incidental abuse, such as a crown of thorns and beatings, piercings of the feet and wrists, and a bladed weapon being driven through the side of the chest. Ring any bells?”
Six John Jordan Mysteries Page 60
