“All channels. ABC, CBS, and NBC. Kevin said this was headline news.”
“So is he still worried about it? I mean, if his lab’s results were way off from the other two labs, wouldn’t that make him look like an idiot in front of the whole world?”
“I asked him about that. He said if the numbers were way off, they would be sweeping this under the rug rather than announcing it on the news. Scientists like to credit themselves, not discredit themselves. He said they typically only publish the stuff that agrees with their hypothesis.”
“That seems a little dishonest, don’t you think?”
“I think that’s just the way the world works, Amari. Everyone’s out for their own best interest.”
Amari finished the casserole and put it in the oven. She went to the den, flipped on the television, and pushed the record button on her VCR. She went to the couch and hugged a throw pillow tight to her chest.
Jenny sat beside her.
“I’m taping over China Beach,” Amari said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Like I have time for TV. I just hope they don’t ramble on about Bush and Dukakis. I’m so tired of politics.”
A short burst of violin music played as horizontal blue lines came together to form a world map. CBS EVENING NEWS WITH DAN RATHER flashed on the screen next. “This is the CBS evening news, Dan Rather reporting.” Amari turned up the volume and made sure her VCR was recording.
Finally, Dan came to the Shroud. It was a press conference at the British Museum. Michael Tite of the British Museum stood with large round glasses next to the director of the Oxford University’s carbon dating lab, Edward Hall. Edward stood there with a smug look on his face, arms folded across his chest. Behind them, numbers scrawled on a chalkboard said 1260-1390! The exclamation point felt like a slap. An arrogant insult. A blatant lie.
The screen shot switched to the Shroud of Turin as Dan Rather spoke. The camera panned down to the section that was sampled for the carbon date tests—the bottom left corner.
Amari’s mouth fell open. She came off the couch and jutted an accusing finger at the screen. “That’s where they did the test? On the bottom corner?”
“What’s wrong with there?”
“That’s the worst possible place to take it.”
“Did you want them to take if from Jesus’ face?”
“No, but anywhere else but there. Do you know how many times over the last two thousand years they must have handled the Shroud? They would stretch it out for everyone to see. And that corner is the place they would grab, over, and over again, maybe hundreds of times. In fact, one of those books has a painting of some guy holding it right there on the corner where they did the carbon date.”
“Well, I’m sure they washed it off before they did the test.”
“You don’t get it. There’s no way that corner couldn’t have been damaged from all that handling. At some point, it would have started to tear, or at least unravel. At some point, somebody must have fixed it.”
“Rewind that. I want to see that again.”
“Me too,” Amari said and switched the TV to VCR mode. She rewound the tape and played the scene again.
“Well, it’s kind of fuzzy, but I don’t see any patch.”
“And you wouldn’t, either. It was probably done by French reweavers. They were experts at weaving new cloth into old. They would dye the new fabric to match the old. Then they twisted the fibers together until you could hardly see a difference.”
Amari gasped as a thought occurred.
“Are you okay?”
“I bet they did that on purpose. Because they knew it was a patch.”
“You’re being silly. Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. Still, I’d love to get a better look.”
“Are you ready for me to set you up with my cousin? I think he’s got some close-up pictures.”
“You think he’d talk to me?”
“I already asked him. He said anytime you’re ready.”
The warrior in Amari came to the surface. Any doubts she had about proceeding with her investigation had vanished when she saw where the sample was taken. God was forcing her hand now, his will made clear. “Okay, but let me get some notes together. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
Amari hit rewind and watched the press conference again.
Chapter 11
It was Pete’s day off. He drove down East Harvey Street in his personal 82 Buick Regal. The road was so gray and sun-cracked it looked more like the skin of an elderly elephant than asphalt. To his right, the semi-barren Santa Catalina Mountains were partially obscured by power lines. To his left, tall, spindly palm trees were painted against a blue, cloudless sky. He continued past the Free Will Christian Church, with its red brick walls and A-frame roof. The little congregation of just over three hundred members had been home to his family for years.
That was before the affair. The shame of his sin—that despicable moment of weakness during a law enforcement conference up in Phoenix two years earlier—would forever haunt him. Sure, alcohol was a factor. He drank to numb the horror he witnessed daily at his job. It helped him ignore the guilt he felt for letting his marriage turn stale over the years, the broken promises he’d made to his young Navajo princess, promises he used to bribe her away from the reservation and a family she loved. The sight of her frail, emaciated body under the red bandana she used to cover her chemotherapy-ravaged-hair only fueled his guilt, especially on the days he couldn’t bear to see her in that condition, those nights he volunteered for all night stakeouts that could have been done by rookies instead.
Detective Sikes knew about Haseya. She knew Pete had grown apart from his wife, had been deprived of marital benefits for some time. She used his deprivation as an excuse, a way to rationalize the behavior. Haseya would want this, she’d had the gall to suggest. Of course, she was drunk and so was he. Nothing clouds rational thought more than alcohol. It all came together to cause the biggest mistake of his life, much worse than the decision to take on a 7-eleven armed robber without backup, the one that put three slugs in his body and left chronic pain in his right hip. How was he to know Detective Sikes wouldn’t keep her mouth shut? Why did she insist on making it more than it was, just a moment of weakness? Pete wanted nothing else to do with her. Just as he wanted nothing else to do with alcohol. But she wouldn’t let it rest until she’d wrecked his marriage and ruined his relationship with his best friend, his spunky little girl named Amari.
He rounded the corner and drove past low-roofed, brick, ranch style homes with gravel front yards and cactus gardens. They were comfortable but nothing to brag about. It’s all they could afford on the salary of a police detective whose wife had made money by weaving rugs and blankets in her den. Half of that money went to her parents on the reservation.
He parked his car along the curb of what used to be his house before the divorce. Now he lived in a single-room furnished efficiency apartment several blocks from the police station.
He and his Navajo princess, Haseya, had raised their two children in this home. Haseya had reluctantly agreed to become his wife in 1959, a time when mixed relationships between Indian and the white man were scandalous, at least amongst the Navajo people. But Haseya defied the will of her people and followed the man she loved.
If his Haseya had to die, he wished she could have died in his arms, the arms of a good and loyal husband. After the divorce, he’d tried to visit, but it never went well. He needed to hug her, to console her, but how could she benefit from the comfort of a man who’d promised her so much only to betray her at the time she needed him most? He’d meant to come more often, to somehow make amends, and then before he could muster the courage, she was gone. She was in heaven with a God he’d also disappointed, a God he’d begged for forgiveness every day since the affair. And maybe God did forgive him—just as promised after the sacrifice of his own son. If only Amari could see things the way God did
.
He noticed another car in the driveway, parked partly on the brown, crushed stone yard to allow Amari’s car to pull out from under the carport. It was a sensible car, a white VW Rabbit. The car a person drives speaks volumes about the driver.
Obviously, Amari had moved on. Was that a new boyfriend’s car? She hadn’t dated in so long. Not all men were like her last date. Not all men were scumbag rapists.
A smile crept onto his lips. “That’s my girl,” he said to himself. Nobody messes with Amari. Not unless they want a broken windpipe and a groin that would never be the same. That boy wanted to press charges against her for assault. The judge thought otherwise and sent him away for ten years when two other girls from the college came forward. Pete half suspected Amari was working undercover to expose this guy. He wouldn’t put it past her, but she never admitted to it. But that was three years ago, and she’d been a little gun-shy ever since. If she’d dated since then, he didn’t know anything about it. Of course, he knew next to nothing about what she had done since the divorce. Only that now she wanted to be an artist like her mother instead of a cop like her dad.
He grabbed the toolbox and a hand-held pipe snake from the passenger seat. When he rang the bell, a short, twenty-something girl answered the door. She had a pointy beak of a nose, her eyes were the color of blueberries, set under heavy eye shadow of a similar color, and her blonde hair was teased up like steel wool. He sensed this girl was sizing him up just as much as he was doing the same to her.
“Is Amari home?” he asked. “Her car’s here, so I assume she is.”
“May I ask who’s inquiring?” The girl asked. She had a pitchy squeak of a voice, yet somehow intimidating at the same time, like the mean little school teacher he had in third grade.
“I’m her father, young lady. The guy who paid for the house. Can I come in?”
“It’s okay, Jenny,” Amari called from behind. “That’s my dad. You can let him in.” It saddened him when he heard the reluctance in her voice.
Magazines were neatly stacked on the coffee table, the floor was clean with fresh vacuum tracks, and there was a flowery smell in the air. “Place looks great,” Pete said.
“I’m what some people would call a neat freak,” Jenny said.
“I can see that.”
There was Haseya’s loom against the wall. It looked like Amari was trying to finish the rug Haseya had started before she died. Amari was good at weaving too. You could hardly tell the difference from where Haseya left off and Amari took over.
Amari came into the den and stood with her hands on her hips. She looked good. It had been weeks since he’d seen her. She had his square jaw and dark brown, wide crescent eyes, but she had her mother’s Navajo skin, only a couple of shades lighter. Her deep brown hair was pulled into a braided ponytail and dropped down just above her hips. She was beautiful, yet bold. Just like her mother.
Pete set the heavy toolbox on the parquet floor landing in front of the door. “So how’s it goin’, kiddo?”
Amari looked at him with weary eyes. “Jason told you about the shower, didn’t he?”
“He called collect from Spain. You should have told me. Nobody knows the pipes in this house better than your dad.”
Amari folded her arms across her chest and averted her eyes to the kitchen.
“That good, huh?”
She brought her eyes back around and focused on his bruise. “So what happened to your head?”
He reached up and felt the knot. “Had a run-in with a synagogue door.”
Amari perked up. “That was you?”
“In the flesh.”
“The scanner radio went wild over that one. Are you the one who put out the fire?”
“It wasn’t that big of a fire. But it was me.” He picked up the toolbox and started down the hall. “So which bathroom is it?”
“It’s the one in your old bedroom. You’re limping again.”
“Yeah, door knocked me over. It’s better than it was.”
She followed him to the bedroom. “Dad, you’re fifty-four years old. You need to let the younger guys take care of things like that. You’re going to get hurt.”
“It hurt like. . . holy cow, Amari, what’s all this?”
Two large photos of the Shroud of Turin were thumbtacked to the drywall, one a black and white photo negative, and the other one regular. Papers and sticky notes were stuck to the sliding glass door that led to the fenced back yard. Books and papers were spread all over a card table.
She moved between him and the pictures on the wall. “It’s an art project. The bathroom’s over here,” she said as she pointed to the master bath.
“I know where the bathroom is. I showered in it for sixteen years.”
“Well, I can’t shower in it now. I’ve tried drain cleaner, but I can’t get it unplugged.”
“What kind of art class are you taking?”
“It’s a paper for medieval art. Since the news said the Shroud is a forgery, then it must be a painting, right?” She folded her arms across her chest again. “That makes it medieval art.”
“That’s an awful lot of work for a class paper. It reminds me more of my desk at work. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were on a case.”
She folded her arms even tighter. “I take my schoolwork seriously.”
“I know that. You made straight A’s in criminal justice. Why are you still doing this? I thought you’d take art one semester and get it out of your system.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
“What are you supposed to do with an art degree?”
“Maybe I can teach art.”
“But all you can do is weave.”
“Then I’ll teach underwater basket weaving. Are you going to fix the drain or do I need to call a plumber?”
“Doesn’t look like you can afford a plumber. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have a roommate.”
“How do you know she’s my roommate? I never told you that.”
“You never kept the house this neat. I’m not blind, Amari. You’ve run through your mother’s life insurance, haven’t you?”
“It wasn’t that much.” She reached for her dad’s tools. “Just give me that pipe snake and I’ll fix the drain myself.”
He rubbed at the knot on his head. Was this ever going to end? “Fine, fine, give me a second and I’ll have it fixed. In the bathroom, he pulled a screwdriver out, popped the top to the drain, fed the snake in, and pulled out a big soapy chunk of her hair. He turned on the water to check his work. Satisfied, he packed his tools and went back into the bedroom. She sat at the card table with her nose in a book.
“The Shroud of Turin, huh?”
“You’ve heard of it,” she said without looking up.
“It was in the news. Carbon date says it’s a fake.”
“Well, it’s not.”
“What do you mean, it’s not? Science geeks don’t lie. The carbon date says it’s from 1390.”
“That’s because they’re idiots,” she said, never looking up from the book.
“What’s gotten into you? Get your nose out of that book and talk to me.”
She glanced up at him with a pout of mock sincerity. “Is this better?”
“You hear about that priest that was murdered?”
She sat up straight in her chair. Now she was listening. “I did. Are you on that case?”
“First on the scene. Well, after the uniformed guys. The perp offed him in the confessional.”
“He shot a priest in the confessional? What kind of monster would do that?”
“The worst kind. That’s why we’ve got to catch him. Anyone who would kill a man of the cloth the way he did is capable of anything.”
“Well, tell me what you’ve got so far. Maybe I can help.”
He saw her gears were turning now. These were the first civil words they’d had since the affair broke. He knew he’d better run with it. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much. Trajectory of the bullet say
s he was fairly short. He started the fire with lighter fluid, then sped out of there like a bat out of hell on a motorcycle. I’d put money it’s the same guy we ran into at the synagogue. M.O. is exactly the same. He had a black motorcycle helmet with a tinted face shield on the whole time, even when he came running out of the church. Couldn’t make him but he wasn’t tall and a little on the thin side.”
“Any prints? Witnesses? What about tire tracks? Could you get anything on the bike?”
“They got some tracks at the synagogue. Pretty generic tire. Not much help. You know, the funny thing is, this Shroud of Turin thing you’re working on may have something to do with this. There may be a link.”
She stood and put the book on the card table. “Really? What kind of link?”
“This priest wrote an article for the newspaper. He was trying to say it didn’t matter what the carbon date said about the Shroud. All the other evidence proved the Shroud was authentic. Of course, this was before the carbon date came out on the news. But apparently, he suspected what the results would be, so that’s why he wrote the article.”
She paced to the bedroom door, spun round, and paced back as she worked the details in her head. “So you think that’s why he was targeted?”
“Who knows?”
“So why the synagogue? Surely Jews don’t want the Shroud to be real.”
“You’re right. It’s probably nothing,” he said and lifted up one of the papers on the table. There was some science jargon on top he couldn’t begin to pronounce. “Amari, this isn’t an art project. Why is this so important to you?”
“It started out as an art project. But I’m telling you, Dad, that’s not a painting. The Shroud of Turin is no forgery. I don’t care what the carbon date said.”
“How can you say that?”
Her cheeks flushed red like they always did when she was getting mad. “Because the evidence says that. Detectives go with the evidence and with their gut. Both say this is real. It’s not a forgery.”
He knew from experience he’d better diffuse the situation. Just go along. “Okay, so it’s not then. I believe in Jesus. I got no problem with that. I mean, it looks like Jesus to me. So why not just let it go? It’s a matter of faith, isn’t it?”
Carbon-14: The Shroud of Turin (An Amari Johnston Novel) Page 6
