Carbon-14: The Shroud of Turin (An Amari Johnston Novel)
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Carbon-14
The Shroud of Turin
An Amari Johnston novel: Volume 1
R.A. Williams
Copyright© 2017 by R.A. Williams.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
All scripture quoted was taken from the following two versions of the Bible:
Holy Bible: New International Version. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2005. Print.
King James Bible. Nashville, TN: Holman Bible, 1973. Print.
Cover designed by www.ebooklaunch.com
The characters and events in this novel are fictitious. Whereas some members of the Shroud of Turin Research Project are mentioned by name, any other similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional. In no way does the author imply that the AMS laboratory at the University of Arizona, nor the team that participated in the sampling process in Italy, were involved in any conspiracy to report misleading results from the carbon date performed on the Shroud of Turin in 1988.
Although this is a work of fiction, it was, however, inspired by a discovery that M. Sue Benford made in 2000. To learn more about her story, you can view the Discovery Channel documentary called Unwrapping the Shroud. For more detailed information, read Wrapped Up in The Shroud, written by her husband, Joseph. G. Marino.
Visit my website at www.rawilliams.us
ISBN: 978-1-522-03185-7
Every fact mentioned about the Shroud of Turin in this novel is scientifically verifiable truth. The following books and documentaries were used for research:
Antonacci, Mark. Test the Shroud: At the Atomic and Molecular Levels. LE Press, LLC, 2016. Print.
Garza-Valdes, Leoncio A. The DNA of God? New York: Berkley, 2001. Print.
Grant, Jeffrey R., Dr. Jesus: The Great Debate. Toronto: Frontier Research Publications, 1999. Print.
Heller, John H. Report on the Shroud of Turin. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1984. Print.
Marino, Joseph G. Wrapped up in the Shroud: Chronicle of a Passion: A Former Monk's Life-changing Odyssey into the Enigma of Christianity's Most Revered Relic. St. Louis, MO: Cradle, 2011. Print.
The Real Face of Jesus. Dir. Trey Nelson. A & E Television Networks, 2011. DVD.
Unwrapping the Shroud. Prod. Michael Epstein. Discovery Channel, 2008. DVD.
Mr. Antonacci’s book, Test the Shroud: At the Atomic and Molecular Levels, is in this author’s opinion the most comprehensive reference available about the Shroud of Turin. It is highly recommended for anyone who wants detailed scientific and historical information about the Shroud.
http://testtheshroud.org
To my editor, Carla Rossi. If there is the thinnest of a romantic thread in this novel, it’s thanks to you. http://carlarossi.com/
Thanks to Candace Sorondo for all your encouragement over the years and for giving this novel a final proofread.
Thanks also to my dad, Ted Williams, a former NASA engineer with attention to detail. His input was invaluable, and without his encouragement to write, this book would never have been written.
A very special thanks to my wife and daughter for their love, patience, and encouragement.
And most of all, thanks to God, through whom all things were made.
So Joseph bought some linen cloth, took down the body, wrapped it in the linen, and placed it in a tomb cut out of rock. Then he rolled a stone against the entrance of the tomb. (Mark 15:46)
He bent over and looked in at the strips of linen lying there but did not go in. Then Simon Peter came along behind him and went straight into the tomb. He saw the strips of linen lying there, as well as the cloth that had been wrapped around Jesus’ head. The cloth was still lying in its place, separate from the linen. Finally the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went inside. He saw and believed. (John 20:5-8)
Chapter 1
August 17, 1988—Tucson, Arizona
Father Hinton hurried to the old chapel, buttoning his shirt and adjusting his collar as he went. A man had an urgent confession. It could not wait until morning. The priest feared the penitent was suicidal. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d talked a parishioner down from the ledge late at night.
The priest reached the thick wooden door of the chapel, jingled keys as he worked the lock, and pushed through the heavy doors and into the foyer. He stepped over to the ornate wooden confessional booth to the right side of the foyer. He pulled back the curtain, lowered himself to the wooden bench, closed the curtain, and waited. Moments later, the foyer doors whined open.
“I’m in the booth already,” Father Hinton said. “Come through the curtain on your right and I will hear your confession.”
The doors clapped shut and a quiet stillness returned to the foyer. The silence endured. Father Hinton sensed a presence, but there were no words. No movement. Only the faint, rhythmic whistle of air pressed through congested nostrils.
“I’m over here, in the confessional booth,” Father Hinton repeated. “You may enter the confessional by the curtain, the one on your right.”
Father Hinton suffered another several seconds of eerie silence. Finally, boot steps approached. The curtain snapped open. A figure of a man entered the booth. A mesh screen separated priest from penitent. Father Hinton could see a silhouette of a man, but the face was obscured. Finally, the man lowered himself to the bench, releasing a distinctive clunk of a metal can with the slosh of fluid inside.
“Are you Father Timothy Hinton?” the man asked.
“Yes, I am Father Hinton. I told you that on the phone.”
“I needed to be certain.”
“You also said you had an urgent confession.”
“I have not come to seek forgiveness.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I have no need for a savior.”
“We all need God’s saving grace.”
The man’s voice rose in anger. “I . . . am the savior.”
Father Hinton shifted nervously in his seat. This was a mistake. He needed to learn to say no. No normal person calls a priest out of his pajamas for something like this. “Listen, sir, it’s getting late. I have to say eight o’clock mass in the morning. You said on the phone you had an urgent confession.”
“I do have a confession.”
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“I have committed murder.”
Father Hinton tensed. Something in the man’s voice said he wasn’t joking. He slid his hand into his pant pocket and rubbed his thumb over the rosary beads, a nervous reflex. “I’m sorry, did you say you murdered somebody?”
“Yes, I killed a man.”
“I see. Can you tell me who you murdered?”
“Religion is a virus. It invades the minds of the naïve. It multiplies and destroys. My fire is a sterilizing fire.”
Father Hinton let the menacing words sink. He fumbled for a reply. Finally, he settled on a rehearsed response he often used to defend the faith. “Sir, you are mistaken. Religion isn’t a virus. It is a seed. It grows like a flower. It gives hope to the hopeless, meaning for those who crave it. It provides a moral compass so society can flourish. If you don’t believe that, then why are you here? This is a Catholic confessional.”
“You see, your kind cannot be reasoned with.”
Father Hinton was losing patience. Apprehension turned to anger. “Is this some kind of prank? Did you really commit murder?”
“You cannot tell anybody.”
“Everything said in this booth is confidential. I am bound by oath not to tell.”
“Your oath is not the reason you can’t tell.”
“I really need to get back inside.”
“You cannot tell because you are the victim.”
“What’s that?” Through the mesh, he thought he saw the silver glint of something metal. He heard a click—like the cocking of a revolver.
A menacing voice boiled from the man’s throat. “If thine eye offends thee . . . pluck it out.”
****
Detective Pete Johnston parked his department issued, unmarked, white Ford LTD at the curb and walked with the slightest limp toward the crime scene. The limp came from a 7-Eleven shootout back in ‘83. He stood on the wet sidewalk, next to a muddy puddle of fire hose water. Headlights from two police cruisers illuminated the scene, casting white beams through smoke that seeped from within the charred doors. It was a small, Spanish-style chapel that once served as the main sanctuary before Holy Ghost Catholic Church built a larger sanctuary a few years back. The building looked mostly intact. Firefighters had found a body in the church and there was a report of gunfire. That’s why Pete got called out of bed at two in the morning.
Patrolman Chadwick held a clipboard against his black uniform shirt. Anyone who got close to a crime scene showed ID first and then signed the clipboard. When Chadwick noticed Pete, he straightened his posture, gave his head a quick shake, and flashed his eyes wide.
“Wake up, Chadwick,” Pete said with a grin. “Don’t you know night shift is for rookies?”
“One of those rookies called out sick,” Chadwick said.
“It happens. So what we got here?”
Chadwick gestured to a priest leaning against a squad car with his arms folded over his chest. “Father Harris over there claims his roommate got a call about an urgent confession. The next thing he knows, he hears what he thinks is a shot. Then he sees the fire. Fire fighters say there’s a body on the floor. It’s burned up so we can’t make an ID. Plus the fire chief says it’s not safe. Says the roof may fall in.”
“When can we get in there?” Pete asked.
“Once they make sure the trusses will hold. He says maybe 10:00 in the morning.”
“All right, but keep this place secure. I want two patrolmen here until we can sweep the scene.”
“Yes, sir,” Chadwick said and yawned. “Nobody gets in.”
Pete thumbed over at the priest by the squad car. “He the only witness?”
“Just the priest so far.”
“We’ll comb the streets in the morning and see if anybody else saw something.”
The priest came off the car when Pete approached.
“Hi, Father, I’m detective Johnston.” He pulled his sports coat back to reveal the gold detective badge hooked to his belt. “I understand you can shed some light on what we’ve got here.”
“I can try,” he said. Blue lights flashed on his troubled face.
“It’s okay, Father. I know you’re shaken up. Just give me what you can.”
“Well . . .Father Hinton was already in his pajamas,” he said, his voice strained. “The phone rang and he answered. I was already in bed, but I heard everything. After he hung up, he came to my room and said he was heading down to the chapel to take a confession. I asked him why this couldn’t wait till morning, and he said it was urgent. He was afraid this man could be suicidal. You’d be surprised how often people come to us when they have suicidal thoughts. Father Hinton had to go. So he got dressed and I heard the door shut.”
“And that’s it?” Pete asked. “That’s all you know?”
“Well, I was just about to fade off when I heard a muffled thump. I think it was a gunshot, but I couldn’t swear to it. I got up and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything. The next thing I know I hear a motorcycle rev its engine and fly down the street. Now I’m concerned, so I threw my clothes back on and came down to check on Father Hinton. The door was already on fire so I couldn’t get in. That’s when I called 911.”
Detective Johnston pulled a spiral note pad and pen from his pocket and jotted a couple of notes. He glanced back to the priest. “So that’s it? That’s all you know? Try to think of anything. Is there someone who might want to hurt Father Hinton? Anything unusual happen lately?”
“No, not that I can think of.”
“Okay, so what about this motorcycle. Can you describe the sound? Was it deep, like one of those chopper bikes or was it more like a chain saw?”
Father Harris bit his lower lip and considered the question. “It was sort of in between.”
Pete jotted that down. “Are you sure there’s nothing else? Anything exciting happen in his life? Good or bad?”
Father Harris forced a smile as he remembered something. “He was very proud of an article he got printed in the Tucson Times.”
Pete hiked his brows. “You don’t say. What was it about?”
“Have you heard of the Shroud of Turin?”
“It rings a bell. Enlighten me.”
“It is the burial cloth of Jesus Christ. It bears his blood and crucified image. The miracle of the resurrection caused the image.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re talking about. Some think it’s a hoax.”
“Some say it is, but Father Hinton didn’t think so.”
“Okay, so…” Pete held his pen to paper, coaxing the priest for more words.
“You see, Father Hinton wrote an article for the paper. He said no matter what the carbon date showed, all the other evidence suggests that the Shroud is authentic. He said there’s more than enough evidence to prove the point. Any carbon date result that says otherwise would be erroneous. Some say the carbon date will invalidate the other evidence, but Father Hinton insisted the other evidence will invalidate the carbon date.”
“Okay, so, why does the Tucson Times think this is worthy of their paper? I mean, it’s just his opinion, right?”
“The reason they’re interested is because the University of Arizona did a carbon date on the Shroud this summer. There were two other labs involved. They haven’t released the results yet, but it should be soon.”
“So this is a big deal. The eyes of the world are on Tucson.”
“That’s right.”
“And Father Hinton just wanted to put the word out ahead of time so nobody would believe the results.”
“He didn’t want the faithful to be discouraged.”
“And that’s all you’ve got? Just the article?”
“At this moment, it’s all I can think of.”
“Listen, I know you’re shaken up by all this. Please accept my condolences. I’ll do all I can to find who did this.” He reached into his coat pocket and flipped a business card to the priest. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
“Absolutely, Detective. I will.”
Detective Johnston strolled back to Officer Chadwick. “Remember, keep this scene secure until the fire chief gives us the go-ahead.” He slid his watch out from under his sleeve. It read 3:05 a.m. “I’m going to try to get some more shut eye.”
Pete ambled toward his car but froze his advance when he spotted something scrawled on the ground. It was some kind of gibberish with the numbers 1035 in front. “Hey, Chadwick, how old you think this graffiti is?”
Chadwick stepped over. “I go up and down this street all the time. First time I’ve seen it.”
“Could be our killer wrote this,” Pete said. “Some kind of clue?”
“Could be,” Chadwick said.
“I can read the numbers, but what do you think that scribble next to it says?”
“I have no idea, Detective Johnston. None whatsoever.”
Chapter 2
Pete pulled his car up to the curb next to the crime scene at 10:15 the next morning. His partner, Detective Jorge Sanchez, sat next to him in the passenger seat. Jorge was thirty-seven, sevent
een years younger than Pete, with two young kids and a wife at home. His face was acne pitted and he wore a thick mustache on his lip like Magnum P.I. Jorge was a Puerto Rican from New York—a Nuyorican—who had moved to Tucson a few years ago. This was only his first year working homicide. Most Anglos called him George because they didn’t realize the J and G are pronounced like H in Spanish. Pete knew the difference but called him George anyway.
Pete and George got out of the car and went to the edge of the yellow crime tape. The fire chief had given the all clear. The debris had cooled and the structure was stable. Two different day shift officers stood sentry with their clipboard.
“Morning officers,” Pete said and held out his ID. “We clear to head in?”
“Sure, go ahead.” The patrolman jotted Pete and George down on the clipboard. He then lifted the yellow tape and let them through.
Inside the chapel foyer, a flood light mixed with sunlight to give a better view. Only a slight haze of smoke hung in the air, but it still managed to burn Pete’s eyes. It stank of burnt wood and charbroiled human flesh—an acrid, metallic odor from iron-rich blood, a smell you’d never forget but only wished you could.
A doored entryway separated the foyer from the sanctuary and appeared to spare the rest of the chapel from the fire. Only the ceiling of the inner chapel had slight fire damage. Fire fighters must have put it out quickly.
Crime scene techs snapped photos of a human sized mound of ash and burnt flesh lying face down on the red tile floor. The victim’s arms were splayed overhead. Skull and bone could be seen between gaps of charred meat. Forensics would need to make a positive ID, but since Father Hinton never returned to the rectory, it was safe to say this was the priest.