Carbon-14: The Shroud of Turin (An Amari Johnston Novel)

by Williams, R. A.

  To the right of the foyer was a burnt out confessional booth. A crime scene tech dug into the wall of the confessional with tweezers, just about where a priest’s head might have been. He plucked a slug out of the wall and dropped it into a clear, plastic evidence bag.

  “Hey, Andy, bring that over here a second,” Pete said.

  Andy carefully stepped out of the booth’s remains and handed Pete the bag.

  “What do you think, George?” Pete asked.

  “I think there’s a hot place in hell for anybody who’d kill a priest. Even hotter for those who’d burn down a church.”

  “You got that right. But I’m talking about this slug,” Pete said as he held the bag overhead, inspecting the smashed chunk of lead. “Looks like a .38 to me.”

  “That’d be my guess,” George said.

  “Hey, Andy, you find any shell casings?” Pete asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Probably won’t,” George said. “If it’s a .38 Special, it doesn’t spit out the shells. Looks like he offed the priest in the confessional and then dragged him out here. Or he could have crawled out.”

  “That .38-sized hole in his head says otherwise,” Pete said as he pointed to the victim’s skull.

  “Thanks for pointing that out. I just ate, you know.”

  Pete grimaced. “Give it a few years, George. You been doing this as long as me and you’ll drop crumbs on the body while you’re eating a sausage biscuit.”

  “Man, you’re gross. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “I’ve been called worse than that.”

  A man in navy coveralls stepped over to Pete. “Are you Detective Johnston, from homicide?”

  “That’s right, Pete Johnston. This is my partner, George Sanchez. Are you from Arson? I think we met already. A few months back. An apartment fire up in Vista Del Monte.”

  “That’s right, but you had a different partner. My name’s Jack Hedges.”

  “So, Jack, what’s your take on all this?” Pete asked.

  “Cut and dried. An accelerant was used. Lighter fluid.”

  “Dang, you’re good,” George said. “You can tell it was lighter fluid just by looking?”

  “It’s not rocket science. The can is sitting over by the door. You can still read the label if you look close. I’d say he hosed down the confessional, the body, the shoes, the wall over there, and then the front door. He must have thrown a match in on the way out.”

  “Hold on a sec,” Pete said. “You said shoes?”

  “That’s right. About three yards from the body.” He pointed to a small double mound of burned mush.

  George stroked his bushy mustache as he pondered the shoes. “What do you make of that, Pete?”

  “Heck if I know.”

  “That’s not all,” Jack said. “You notice something strange about the corpse?”

  “Other than it being dead and burned, no,” Pete said.

  “There’s not enough ashes around the body. It looks like the clothes were removed—except for his socks, T-shirt, and boxers.”

  “So you’re saying this psycho killed the priest in the confessional, dragged his body out here, and took off the shoes so he could get the pants off,” Pete said.

  “And that’s why his arms are over his head,” George said. “His arms are up because his shirt was pulled off over his head.”

  “I’ll type up my report and have it on your desk by tomorrow,” Jack said.

  “Thanks. It’s good to see you again.” Pete motioned for George to follow him. “Let’s step outside. There’s some graffiti on the sidewalk we need to look at.”

  They stepped outside and Pete searched the ground around the two bushes that flanked the door.

  “I thought you said graffiti,” George said as he polished his sunglass lenses with his shirt.

  “It is. I’m just looking for a paint can, something else useful.” A bottle cap and a weathered Burger King cup were all he found. Nothing fresh.

  “I don’t see anything recent,” George said. “So where’s the graffiti?”

  “Over on the sidewalk, next to the street.”

  الجهاد 1035 was spray-painted in black on the dirty, chewing-gum-spotted sidewalk.

  “I noticed that when we drove up,” George said. “Graffiti’s like weeds. You sure this wasn’t here before?”

  Pete stooped down and fingered the black paint. He found a thick drop and dug into it with his fingernail. “This is new paint. It’s still rubbery. It’s too clean to have been here long.”

  “You think 1035 is the time of the murder?” George asked. “Maybe he signed his name. It’s too messy, can’t make it out. Like most signatures.”

  “It’s a little early unless the time on his watch was wrong. And there’s no last name.”

  “Maybe this is his last name and he left off the first.”

  “If he wanted us to catch him, he would have hung around,” Pete said, annoyed at the silly assumption. “Why would he sign his name?”

  “It’s Arabic, in case you’re wondering,” came a voice from behind.

  Pete and George turned to see the medical examiner holding his bag. He wore thick glasses with even thicker half circle lenses near the bottom on his bifocals.

  “Oh, hey, Doc,” Pete said and came to his feet. “You speak Arabic?”

  “My name is Qureshi, isn’t it? My father was from Saudi Arabia.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to assume,” Pete said.

  “Of course not. But that scribble you see on the sidewalk is most certainly Arabic. It is a very common word. It says jihad.”

  George raised his sunglasses and squinted at the doctor. “Jihad? You mean like war against the infidels, jihad?”

  “That is what it says.”

  “What about the numbers?” Pete asked. “Any idea what that’s about?”

  “I couldn’t begin to tell you. I’m just here for the corpse,” Dr. Qureshi said as he pointed at the blackened doorway. “That body doesn’t leave until I determine the cause of death.”

  “I know the routine,” Pete said. “It’s just inside that door.”

  Pete looked back at the jihad painted on the sidewalk and scratched the back of his head.

  “Guess we should canvas the street and see if we can find witnesses,” George said.

  Pete frowned. He suddenly recognized that scribble. “You remember that homeless guy we found dead a few weeks ago?”

  “The street preacher? Brimstone Ben is what they called him. Always carried a sign in one hand and a Bible in the other. The sign said ‘Repent’.”

  “That’s the one. The one we found stabbed to death. Something was scrawled across his forehead in black marker. It was smudged so it was hard to read. But don’t it remind you of this? The jihad?”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  “I got a bad feeling about this, George. A real bad feeling.”

  Chapter 3

  August 22, 1988

  Amari Johnston’s mother was a full-blooded Navajo. She had succumbed to breast cancer a year ago. Haseya was her mother’s name. It meant, ‘she rises,’ and Amari knew her mother would rise again. Though her mother was reared on the Navajo reservation just north of Winslow, Arizona, she had been devout in her Christian faith.

  Haseya had been a master at weaving most anything, from rugs, to dresses, to baskets, to that chief blanket that hung on the wall. She was especially gifted on the vertical loom. Several of her rugs and chief’s blankets had sold at auction for over a thousand dollars.

  Amari sat on the floor in the den as she worked to finish the rug her mother had started before cancer took her. Haseya had learned the skill on the reservation from her mother and had passed on what she knew to Amari, her only daughter. For Amari, working her mother’s loom was bittersweet. Finishing this rug her mother had started was like keeping her mother alive, but at the same time, her relative lack of skill served as a reminder that her mother was gone. Her mother’s line
s were straighter, her yarn more taut. Even the colors seemed more vivid on her mother’s bottom half—at least Amari thought so. Still, she was determined to finish the rug. Working the loom taught perseverance. She envisioned her goal, the pattern she imagined in her head, and she labored toward the goal until completion. Never give up, her mother would tell her. Never give up until the job was finished, until you gazed upon the fruit of your labor with satisfaction—and then sold it at auction to the highest bid.

  The loom sat vertically against the den wall of the house her mother once owned. It was a simple loom, just parallel strings called the warp, pulled tight by two wooden dowels at the top and bottom. The yarn was made of wool from the churro sheep, an animal unique to the Navajo Nation. The soft fleece under the overcoat was carded by hand, then spun in a spindle into yarn and dyed vibrant colors. This three by five rug was the typical teec-nos-pos pattern with horizontal stripes of black, white, and two shades of blue. Red and blue triangles were at the four corners and a diamond shape was dead center.

  She had been working this session for more than three hours non-stop. Her back ached from the strain, but she persisted. Over and over, she used her left-hand fingers to lift the warp into a triangular shed. Her right fingers wove over and under in a simple tabby pattern, over the odd strings, under the even strings. When she reached the outer edge, she started back across the loom again, this time over the evens and under the odds.

  “Crap!” She pelted the couch with the wooden comb. Two rows down, she noticed a mistake. Two warp strings skipped instead of one. “I can’t believe this.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to quell her anger. Mother had lectured her about her temper. ‘Quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger’ her mother had repeatedly reminded her.

  She gave a hard sigh and started to unwind the yarn. Her mother was right. She had to learn to control her temper. But the loom could be cruel, unforgiving. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t match her mother’s skill. To her mother, this was a labor of love. Amari enjoyed it enough, but sometimes it was just hard labor—no love to it. There was a tug of war within her, between the artist and the warrior. Her mother had told her she inherited her aggressive side from her grandfather—a descendant of a Native American war chief of the Dine’ people. His real name was Bít'aa'níí, but he was known as ‘Manuelito’ to the Spanish. Manuelito was her great, great grandfather. Manuelito had courageously led attacks against the US Army in the Navajo Wars of 1863-1866.

  Manuelito’s grandson—Amari’s grandfather—had stubbornly refused to allow Haseya to marry a white man, the reason Amari’s parents had to elope against tribal wishes. And it was the reason she seldom visited the reservation and knew shamefully little about the culture that was her other half.

  The doorbell rang and startled her from her thoughts. “Just a minute,” she yelled.

  She went to the door and pressed an eye to the peephole. Some short girl with puffed up blond hair and heavy eye shadow stood out front holding a flyer in her hand. She must have been there about the room.

  The doorbell rang again. She straightened her posture, shoulders back. Look them straight in the eye, firm handshake. Show no weakness. First impressions were crucial. Establish control early, set the tone, and respect would follow. It was her typical pep talk before meeting anyone new. She wasn’t sure why she did that. Maybe it was the warrior within her. Or maybe she was just an insecure girl trying to act tough. Either way, it seemed to work. Nobody liked to mess with her.

  She opened the door and made immediate eye contact.

  “Are you still looking for a roommate?” the girl asked.

  “Oh, you’re here for the room?” Amari played dumb as she sized her up. She seemed nice enough. Clothes were the latest fashion so she could afford rent. She looked like she had some brains behind that eye shadow. Maybe she was a student.

  “If the room’s still available,” the girl said and stretched out her free hand. “I’m Jenny, by the way. Jenny Brenner.”

  Amari gave a firm handshake. “Amari Johnston,” she said in a deeper than natural tone of voice.

  Jenny cringed. “Ouch, that’s quite a grip you got there.”

  “I work out,” Amari said.

  “I can tell.”

  The police scanner squawked from the kitchen counter. “Hold on a sec,” Amari said. She stepped into the kitchen and silenced the radio. “Burglary in progress. Sorry about that. Come on in.”

  Jenny stepped into the den. “You’re in law enforcement?”

  “No, why would you say that?”

  “The radio.”

  “Oh, that’s my dad’s radio.”

  “I see. So what’s all of this?” Jenny asked as she looked around the den.

  “Sorry, I’m kind of a slob.” Magazines were randomly scattered on the coffee table and couch. A Rubik’s Cube sat atop the TV, and her older brother’s Atari and game cartridges sat in the corner collecting dust. The house plants were half dead and she hadn’t vacuumed in a few days either. “I hope you don’t mind. If someone else was living with me, I’d clean up more.”

  “No, not the mess. I’m used to that. You should see my cousin’s apartment. I’m having to stay with him until I find my own place. I’m talking about what you’re working on. Is that a rug?”

  “You like it?” Amari asked.

  Jenny went over to the loom and fingered the fabric. “I love it. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks, but my mother did most of it. I’m trying to finish it. I did that basket over there. There’s a dress in my room. I’ve sold some stuff too.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. My mother was a Navajo Indian. They’re known for their weaving skills.”

  “You’re a Navajo Indian? How exciting. I’ve never met one before.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m only half Navajo. My dad’s not, obviously,” she said, pointing to her face. “He’s Scottish. I mean, he’s from New Hampshire, but Scottish heritage.”

  “I can see the Navajo. The long black hair. Love the braid, by the way. Your skin’s sort of tan, and those cheek bones. All Indian in those cheeks. And that’s a compliment. I’m jealous. You’re very attractive.”

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Well, thanks, but I’m nothing compared to my mother. She was beautiful. Unfortunately, I look too much like my dad.” She narrowed her eyes at the mere thought of her dad. Just before her mother died, it came out that he was having an affair with another woman, a detective he worked with. She could almost understand the affair. He and Mother hadn’t gotten along for years. But what hurt was the fact that he lied about it. For that, there was no forgiveness.

  “You okay?” Jenny asked. “Did I say something to upset you?”

  “I’m sorry, my dad’s a sore subject.”

  “I see. Would you like to talk about it? One of my double majors was psychology. Maybe I can help.”

  “Double major?”

  “Psychology and pre-med. One degree, two majors. That’s why I moved to Tucson. I want to be a psychiatrist. I’ve got to get through medical school first. Go on, let me practice on you.”

  “Well, you’re not licensed yet, so…”

  “Oh, come on, humor me. Tell me more about your dad.”

  “I thought you were here to talk about the room.”

  “I’m sorry, you’re right. What did you say your name was again?”

  “Amari. Amari Johnston. Johnston with a T, not Johnson.”

  “Amari. Sounds like the planet mars. I like that. Is that a Navajo name?”

  “Not really. It’s kind of a dumb story, actually.”

  “I like dumb stories.”

  Amari laughed and relaxed her posture. This girl was harmless. She could drop the tough girl act. “You want something to drink? I’ve got lemonade, or I can make coffee.”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine. Now tell me this dumb story.”
/>   “When I was born my mother wanted to give me a Navajo name. But my dad didn’t like anything she came up with. So he asked some Indian guy he worked with for some ideas. Now, this guy is from India, over in Asia, but my dad being my dad asked him anyway. This Indian man suggested Amari because it means never gives up in the Indian language. When my mother heard the name, she liked it too. She said it fit because my dad wouldn’t stop pestering her until she married him.”

  “That’s not a dumb story. I think it’s a beautiful name. And your mom taught you to do all of this?”

  Amari put her hands on her hips and tilted her head toward a book shelf. “And books. I’ve done a lot of reading.”

  “I see that.” Jenny stepped over to the bookshelf and scanned the titles.

  “You know,” Amari said with a shoulder shrug, “some people play an instrument, some people paint, others write poetry. I’m into this. It’s uh . . . it’s sort of a way to keep my mother with me, you know? It’s part of who she was. So I keep it part of who I am.”

  “I totally get that. And you’re good at it too,” Jenny said. “But I don’t see any books on textiles. I see a lot of Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie, and Nancy Drew.”

  “No, there’s three,” Amari said. “Bottom shelf, to the left.”

  “Oh, I see. Seven Thousand Years of Textiles. A Concise History.”

  “There’s two others.”

  “So the skill came from your mother?”

  “Mostly.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how did your mother die?”

  “Breast cancer. A year ago last week.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. It must be very difficult for you. What about your dad?”

  “After the affair, they divorced in April of ‘87.”

  “He had an affair?”

  “Yeah, that’s why he’s a sore subject. Don’t get me started. Anyway, she was in remission, had been for almost a year. We thought she’d beat it, but I guess with the stress of the divorce and everything, you know . . .”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “To sum it up, she got the house and then she left it to me. And a little life insurance too. But that’s gone.” Amari pointed to the flyer still in Jenny’s hand. “That’s why you’re here. I’m a student too and only work part time. I need help paying the bills.”