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

by Williams, R. A.

  Jenny folded the flyer in two and set it on the coffee table. “So what’s your major?”

  “Art.”

  “You’re an art major?”

  “Last semester I was. Before that I was in criminal justice.”

  “Wow, that’s a big change.”

  “Shift in priorities, I guess. You know, after Mother died. Art seemed like a good choice at the time.”

  “A way to keep her alive a little longer.”

  “Something like that.”

  “So do you speak Navajo?”

  “A few words. Mother spoke perfect English. It’s all we talked at home, and I went to high school here, so, you know how it goes. I’ve only been out to the reservation maybe three or four times in my whole life.”

  “Yeah, I know how it goes. I’ve got cousins in Kentucky I never see either. It’s just three hours away, but we hardly ever made it up there.”

  “I hear the accent.”

  “Do you really? I didn’t think it was that bad. “

  “It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

  “That’s because I’m from Tennessee. Knoxville. Well, Farragut, actually. It’s about twenty miles west of Knoxville.”

  “A hillbilly in the desert, huh?”

  “Oh, come on, Amari, it’s not that bad.”

  “I’m just teasing. It’s hardly noticeable,” Amari said and rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, stop it. If you think mine’s bad, you should hear my cousin Kevin’s accent. He’s from Oak Ridge. I grew up with a lot of transplants. My best friend was from right here in Arizona. But Kevin grew up with locals. And it shows.”

  “You said you were staying at your cousin’s for now. So is that why you came out here? Because of your cousin?”

  “Partly. That and the fact that the University of Arizona has a great medical school. Kevin pulled some strings for me here. He’s a genius, did I mention that? He’s ten times smarter than me. He works at the university. At the WMS laboratory. Weiss Mass Spectrometry lab,” Jenny said slowly so she wouldn’t fumble the words.

  “So why don’t you just stay with him?”

  “His couch is killing my back. It’s one of those fold-out beds. There’s this steel rod that digs into my spine. Besides, I need my own bedroom, my own bathroom. You’re a girl. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

  “I most certainly can.”

  “Plus, he’s got, well, issues.”

  “Issues?”

  “I think he’s borderline obsessive-compulsive.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s very functional, don’t get me wrong. But he tends to obsess over things.”

  “Hey, I do that too. Once I set my teeth into something, my jaw will break before I let go. So what’s he so obsessed over?”

  “The Shroud of Turin. His lab is one of the first labs to run a carbon date on it.”

  “The shroud of what?”

  “The Shroud of Turin. Jesus was supposed to be buried in it? His face and blood are on it?”

  “That’s right, I think I have heard of that. When I was a kid, I read something about it in National Geographic. Can’t remember much.”

  “You’re going to hear a lot more about it soon. I’m not sure this in common knowledge, but they tested a piece of it in my cousin’s lab to see how old it is. They want to see if it’s old enough to really belong to Jesus. And Kevin’s right in the middle of it. He keeps mumbling about inconsistencies, sampling issues, and, quote, ‘those idiots in Italy.’ Apparently, his reputation is at stake. He’s afraid if he gets this wrong, he’ll never work again.”

  Amari gazed out the window, pondering the subject. “The Shroud of Turin, huh? A forgery?”

  “It showed up during the medieval period. I overheard Kevin say it dated to the 1300s. So it must be a forgery.”

  “Huh. Interesting,” Amari said. “And your cousin’s right in the middle of this?”

  “His name’s all over it.”

  “That’s pretty cool. He’ll be, like, sort of famous or something. At least with the other science nerds he will be.”

  “Or infamous, if he screws this up.”

  “You said he was super-smart. He’ll be fine. So when do you want to move in?”

  “Tomorrow works for me.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  The next day, Amari led Jenny through the den and into the bedroom on the right. She set a suitcase down on the floor. “I hope this is okay,” Amari said. “I’m in my parents’ old room, so you can have this one. It was mine when I was a kid.”

  “This is great. The mattress looks a lot better than Kevin’s couch.”

  “The bathroom’s across the hall. I use the one in my parents’ old room, so it’s all yours.”

  “This is perfect.”

  “There’s a desk in my brother’s old room if you want to use it for school.”

  “You’ve got a brother?”

  “An older one. He’s actually a Catholic priest. He’s awesome. He let me keep everything when Mother died. He had no use for it. He was doing missionary work in Guatemala, but he just got transferred to Spain. Some town called Oviedo.”

  “Really? So then you must be Catholic.”

  “Me? No, I was raised non-denominational. I haven’t been much of anything for the last year. Hey, listen, tell me more about this Shroud of Turin.”

  Jenny set her suitcase on the bed. “I’m all Southern Baptist, in case you’re wondering.” She pulled out clothes and folded them into stacks on the dresser. “How does your brother become a Catholic priest when he was raised protestant?”

  “My mother wanted us to keep an open mind about Christianity, so we chose not to commit. That’s why we were non-denominational.”

  “And your brother?”

  “He got a scholarship to Notre Dame. It’s one of the best Catholic universities. I guess he decided to commit. So tell me more about this Shroud of Turin.”

  “Your brother must be very smart.”

  “He is very smart. Now tell me more about the Shroud.”

  “You got extra hangers in the closet?”

  “I think there’s some. If not, I’ve got some in my room. So tell me more about this. You’ve got my curiosity going. I told you I was an art major, right? If this thing is a forgery, then it was painted. I’ve never heard of the Shroud being a piece of art. Who says it’s a forgery?”

  Jenny kept unpacking her case.

  “Jenny?”

  She draped a blouse over her forearm and turned to face Amari. “I wish I hadn’t mentioned that. I wasn’t supposed to say anything. I think Kevin may have some kind of confidentiality agreement, and he’s not supposed to talk about the results until the big announcement in October. I just know about it because I’ve heard him talk on the phone.”

  “I promise, I won’t tell anybody. I’m a cop’s kid. You can trust me.”

  “Well . . . I guess I’ve already spilled some of the beans. Might as well empty the whole can.”

  “Might as well.”

  “Like I told you yesterday, his lab carbon dated the Shroud. And if I remember right, his lab dated the Shroud to around 1300 give or take a few years. They tested it three times, actually, and got three different numbers, but they were close enough.”

  “If it dates from 1300, then it’s definitely a forgery. Jesus was crucified around 30 A.D.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean, maybe? If it dates at 1300, then it’s a medieval forgery.”

  “By maybe I mean Kevin isn’t sure if his results will match up with the two other labs they sent pieces too. One lab was in England, Oxford, I think. I can’t remember the other one.” Jenny pulled two cans of hairspray out of her bag and placed them on the dresser. “That’s why he’s so worried. He’s afraid the other labs will get different results, and it’ll make him look bad. And I mean bad in front of the whole world. He could lose his job over this. He might have trouble
finding another one if he gets the blame.”

  “If he’s the genius you said he is, then I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

  “I think so. There’s other scientists working there too. I’m sure they check each other’s work. It’s not like he’s doing all the work himself.”

  “So it’s medieval, huh?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Then it’s perfect. I’m taking an art history class this semester. I got the syllabus yesterday. I’ve got a report due in November and it has to be on medieval art. And since this just so happens to be a piece of art on a woven fabric—and you know I like weaving—this is perfect.”

  Chapter 5

  As one of Tucson Police Department’s senior detectives, Pete had earned his own office. It had an L-shaped desk. Crime scene photos and notes filled every inch of a bulletin board that hung on the wall over the desk. Stacks of papers laid scattered over the other arm of the desk that faced the door.

  “I think I’d know if it was here,” Pete said into the receiver. He held the phone with one hand and sifted through papers with the other. “When did you send it?”

  George stepped into the office and tossed a manila folder onto Pete’s desk. “This what you’re looking for?”

  “Never mind. George has it. Thanks anyway, Harry,” Pete said and hung up.

  Pete’s reading glasses rested in the nest of his army-issue flattop haircut. He slid the glasses down to the bridge of his nose, opened the envelope, pulled out the papers, and read silently to himself.

  “What’s it say?” George asked.

  “It’s like I thought. Dental reports confirmed it. The deceased is Father Hinton. Coroner said the priest died from a gunshot wound to the head. In the front and out the back. That slug did come from a .38. He also confirms that no clothes were on the corpse, except for T-shirt, underwear, and socks.” Pete flipped to the second page and read some more. “Accelerant analysis confirms charcoal lighter fluid. There were no discernible prints on the door. If there was, the fire ate them off.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “Hold on, there’s more. The trajectory of the bullet says the killer was between 5 foot 3 and 5 foot 7, assuming he was sitting on the bench when he pulled the trigger. And they confirmed what the medical examiner told us. The writing did say jihad in Arabic. The handwriting guy says it matches what we found on the street preacher’s head.”

  “Looks like we got us a serial killer. Should we bring in the FBI?”

  “I guess we should. I’ll leave that up to the chief.”

  “I went back to that street last night and found a couple more witnesses,” George said. “They were at work when we first checked, so I went back when I knew they’d be home. Three said they heard a motorcycle race down the street. Nobody heard the gun shot and nobody saw anything.”

  Pete tossed the papers onto his desk. “We’re still where we were the other day then.”

  “This case is going cold. There’s got to be something else.”

  “There is, I just can’t find it,” Pete said and shuffled through his inbox file. “Ah, here it is.” He pulled out another sheet and scanned the page. “Bingo. Phone records say a call came into the church rectory at 11:15 at night. Call came from a payphone on Speedway.”

  “Let me see that.”

  Pete pointed to the right line. “Right there.”

  “I know that address. It’s right across the street from the mosque. You know, that white one with the guard tower looking thing.”

  “And it’s just a few streets over from Holy Ghost. He could have made the call and been at the church in less than five minutes. Let’s head over there and nose around, see if anybody saw something. Maybe one of their members has been acting a little crazy lately.”

  “Let’s go,” George said. “There’s another mosque on Bellevue. We can check that one out too.”

  ****

  Bishop McClure, from the St. Augustine Cathedral, had been the one who’d finally convinced Amari’s bother to become a priest. He had been very accommodating when she showed up in his office looking for help with the Shroud of Turin. He had a library full of books on Catholic stuff, and several were about the Shroud of Turin, which, as she had learned, was the most studied artifact on the planet. When she explained her project to the bishop, he kindly allowed her to take some books and reports home with her. She got copies of twenty-six research papers and two of them were written this year. He even gave her enlarged pictures of the Shroud. After that, she got more books from the university library, and then more from the city library.

  When she got home, she scooped the books and folders out of the passenger seat of her white, 1976 Camaro. It was fast and paid for, but the transmission job last month had put her eight hundred dollars in the hole. She’d thought her dad was exaggerating about changing the oil every three thousand miles, but apparently not.

  She pulled the books closer to her chest and kicked the car door closed. She came out from under the carport and squinted as the punishing desert sun shined down on her. She came to the front door and kicked it twice. “Jenny, it’s me,” she yelled. “Can you open the door?”

  A moment later, Jenny came to the door. “Let me help you,” she said and grabbed half the books.

  “Just put them on the kitchen table.”

  They set the books, papers, and photos in the kitchen. Jenny eyed some of the titles. “These don’t look like textbooks to me. What about school? Don’t you need textbooks for your art classes?”

  Amari sat at the table, let out a deep breath, and wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “I’ll buy it tomorrow.”

  “It? What about your other classes?”

  “I couldn’t afford full tuition, so I’m just taking this one class. It’s okay. I’ll be able to work a lot more this semester and save money for next year.”

  “You do what you gotta do, I guess.” Jenny sorted through the books and folders on the table. “Where in the world did you find all this?”

  “The university library had this book on ancient textiles. It’s by a Swiss textile expert named Mechthild Flury-Lemberg. It came out this year. I’m surprised the library had it. And I found these two other books on medieval art. I want to see if there was anything else like the Shroud from that period.”

  “Looks boring,” Jenny said.

  “It gets better. I found these two books about the Shroud of Turin at the university library, these other two at the city library, and my brother, Jason—you know, the priest. He knows the bishop at the cathedral, so Bishop McClure loaned me these three other books and some research papers.”

  Jenny started picking up books and reading their spines. “Report on the Shroud of Turin, by John H. Heller.”

  “That guy was on STURP.”

  “You say that like I should know what that is.”

  “Bishop McClure told me all about it. It’s the Shroud of Turin Research Project. Back in 1978, a team of forty scientists were allowed to study the Shroud. They did a bunch of scientific tests. That book talks about what they did over in Turin.”

  “I see,” Jenny said and picked up another book. “The Holy Shroud, by Monsignor Giulio Ricci.”

  “That’s a Catholic priest in Italy.”

  Jenny lifted a manila envelope and pulled out a thin stack of papers that were stapled together. “Quantitative Photography of the Shroud of Turin,” she said and then pulled out another stapled group of papers. “Examination of the Turin Shroud for Image Distortions. Where did you get these?”

  “That’s the best part. The bishop had twenty-six research papers published by STURP. He let me photocopy them. He even gave me these four enlarged photos of the Shroud. Two of them are negative photos, one from the front and one of the back. That’s the part Jesus was lying on.”

  “Was supposed to be lying on,” Jenny said. “Remember, this is a forgery.”

  “Well, anyway, he also gave me two front and back regular pictur
es so you can see what it really looks like, not the black and white negative version.”

  “He just gave you those?”

  “He said he had others. He’s the one who convinced my brother to become a priest. That’s the only reason he was so nice to me. He’s like a friend of the family.”

  “It’s good to have friends in high places.”

  “I guess so.”

  “So you’ve got ten books and twenty-six research papers to study. This sounds more like a master’s thesis than an art report.”

  “I like to be thorough. I’m going to be pretty busy.”

  Jenny stared at Amari with a doubtful smirk on her face, nodding her head in disbelief.

  “What? Why are you looking at me that way?”

  Jenny tapped on the stack of books with her middle finger for audible effect. “You’re not an artist, Amari. I’ve seen your sketches. They’re awful.”

  “Hey, my water colors aren’t half bad.”

  “I don’t see them on display like I do your rugs or baskets. You’re not that proud of them.”

  “It takes practice. You don’t get good at something overnight.”

  “You see, you’re not even offended when I say that. Get mad or something. I insult your painting and I get nothing from you. Just a puny ‘hey.’ Look at you. Look at all these books and papers.” Jenny picked up one of the research papers and tossed it back on the table. “You’re not an artist. You’re a detective. Just like your father. And a darn good one.”

  Amari ignored the comments and started sorting the research papers.

  Jenny pulled out a chair and sat.

  “You know I’m studying to be a psychiatrist, right?”

  Amari glanced up at her, wondering where this was going. “Of course, it’s all you talk about.”

  “Then can I make an observation?”

  “I guess.”

  “I don’t think you’re really interested in the Shroud of Turin because you think it’s a piece of art.”

  “Then why would I research it for an art class?”