****
Monday, January 9, 1989
The airplane was big as a ship. Amari couldn’t believe such a huge chunk of metal could make it off the ground. Yet the plane taxied down the runway nonetheless. It rounded a corner and paused momentarily. Suddenly, the engines screamed to life. An unseen forced pulled her back into her seat. Faster, faster, and she sank deeper, deeper into her seat. The faster the plane accelerated, the harder she squeezed Kevin’s hand.
“That kind of hurts,” Kevin said over the noise. “Relax.”
“Sorry, I’ve never flown before,” she said, cringing.
The plane drove faster still down the runway. Seat tops in front of her bumped and vibrated, the overhead carry-on bins rattling. Suddenly, the cabin hushed and she sensed the plane rising upward, feeling the lift in her stomach. She chanced a look out the window and watched Tucson drift away as the plane rose higher. A noisy rumble came from below her.
Kevin uttered something to her, but she couldn’t hear over the muffled roar of the jet engines, the rush of wind over metal. She tapped at her earlobe so he’d know she couldn’t hear him.
“That’s just the landing gear going up,” he reassured her in a louder voice.
Once the unnerving process of getting off the ground subsided, her heart rate slowed and she felt an odd peace overtake her, a slight easing of her anxiety. She was out of Tucson now. Nobody was trying to kill her at 30,000 feet. Feeling strangely reassured, she loosened her grip on his hand, but held it gently instead, comforted by its soft warmth. Before long, she would present her case to the Catholic Church. She was still nervous about that, but at least the church didn’t want her dead.
Kevin had helped her type out a formal paper that explained how and why a repair might have been carried out, and why such a patch would seem invisible to the naked eye. She included photographic evidence to prove her point. Then he would offer his theory as well, show them all his postulations and calculations about how neutron radiation had formed the extra carbon-14 that made the results invalid. Then he would inappropriately ask for cash to fund his research on chloride isotopes, or whatever he was talking about. It was over her head. Maybe he would ask for breakfast with Pope John Paul the next day. She wouldn’t put it past him. Hopefully, they would know he was kidding. But either way, whatever the church decided to do with the information, whether they agreed to further tests or simply chose to keep the Shroud locked away and leave well enough alone, she could rest, knowing that she had done everything in her power. The rest was up to the Vatican—and to God.
****
It was two in the morning, New York time, and for the third time in eight hours, Amari felt the pull in her stomach as the air lifted the plane skyward. First out of Tucson, connecting in Salt Lake City, and now out of JFK. In another eight hours, they should be in Milan, four in the afternoon Italy time. They would meet the limo driver and two hours later they would be in Turin.
Kevin sat next to her, reading Popular Science from the tiny spotlight that shown from the base of the carry-on storage. She had the window seat and watched a billion lights that made up New York City fade into the distance. There was no turning back now.
****
Pete stood next to George, looking down into the ravine. It was a few hundred yards past a hairpin hilltop curve on Gates Pass road, just west of Tucson. A squad car blocked the right lane, and officers waved motorists past as cars took turns using the lane next to the mountain bank. The sun beat down on Pete as he watched the rescue squad rappel over sand, rock, and flat-leafed, prickly pear cactus. Slender Saguaro cactus stretched for the sky and Creosote bushes sprouted like weeds.
A truck driver had spotted it yesterday morning and thought it was a white garbage bag reflecting in the sun. On the way home last evening, he noticed the vultures. Bobcats and coyotes don’t wear white, so he called the police. When police arrived, binoculars confirmed the dead body. The crime scene guys had gone down with ropes earlier to collect evidence, and now the rescue squad was pulling the body up the hill in an orange emergency basket.
When the basket came to the top, Pete stared down at the blanket-covered body with dread. He had a bad feeling about who laid underneath. George pulled the blanket back and revealed the face. A wave of nausea hit Pete when he saw the swollen, decomposing, vulture-plucked face of Anwar Rahal. He wore the same white tunic he had on when Pete arrested him the other day. He couldn’t help but wonder if this kid would be alive if he hadn’t brought the media’s attention to him. Guilt added fuel to his nausea.
“I’ve seen enough,” Pete said to George. “I think you should drive this time.”
Chapter 41
Pete sat at his desk and massaged his jaw muscles to release the tension. One of the hardest things about his job was notifying family about the murder of a loved one. He had just completed that grim task with Dr. Rahal. Even though Rahal was the jerk who had mistreated his daughter, it was still an emotional drain to tell him his son was dead.
From what they knew so far, Anwar Rahal was shot in the back. He probably never knew what hit him. The reason he was shot was hypothetical, but it may be so Anwar would disappear after the last church fire and murder. Then the public would pin the crime on him, and by association, on Islam itself. If they had brought Anwar back in for questioning and he came up with another alibi or passed another lie detector test, the public would know it was a setup and, if anything, find sympathy for the falsely accused Muslim community. As it turned out, Anwar did not have an alibi for the time of the Christ Chapel murder. He had gone missing several hours earlier.
Pete leaned back in his chair. He wondered about Amari and Kevin. She’d called from the Milan airport and left a message on his answering machine around nine, but he had been out at Anwar’s crime scene and missed the call. Everything was fine, she had said. Don’t worry, she’d told him. But he did worry. After the Town Car tried to run his daughter down three days ago, he knew for certain the real killer wasn’t sitting in that cell refusing to talk. The real killer was still out there. Fortunately, the news never broke about her trip. As far as he knew, the public at large was unaware that they were in Turin. And if the public didn’t know, chances are the killer didn’t know either—not unless he had other sources of information.
George rattled a piece of paper, startling Pete from his thoughts. “We got him!” George said. “FBI matched his prints with a green card application. We got an ID.”
Pete and George hurried to the interrogation room and waited. Finally, two officers brought the prisoner in. Pete’s anger swelled at the sight of him. Now that he wasn’t weak from the flu, he suppressed the deep desire to beat the truth out of him with a police baton. But that approach was frowned upon by the department. “Sit him down,” Pete said, a fake pleasant smile on his face. “And take the cuffs off. We may be here a while and I want him to be comfortable.”
“You sure about this, detective?” the officer said. “He could be dangerous.”
“You two can stay in here unless you got other business. I think he’ll behave, won’t you, Hasan?”
The prisoner closed his eyes and he let out a deep breath. He’d been caught. Game over.
“Go on,” Pete said to the officers.
An officer removed the cuffs and set the prisoner in a chair on the other side of a table. He went back around the table and joined two other officers standing sentry by the door.
“Want some coffee?” Pete asked Hasan.
The prisoner rubbed the red handcuff marks on his wrists. “I take water,” he finally said.
“Good, you can speak English,” Pete said. “More than just ‘jihad.’” He motioned for one of the officers to get some water. He held up his report and read it as he spoke. “FBI says your name is Hasan Ghaffari. Says you emigrated from Iraq two years ago. You live in a trailer next to your brother and two cousins off West Curtis Road. You know, your brother turned in a missing person’s report. You should have called him.
I bet he was worried.”
The officer set a Styrofoam cup of water in front of Hasan. “Thank you,” he said and drank the entire contents.
“You want some more?” George asked.
“No,” Hasan said.
“So you emigrated from Iraq in ‘86. You’ve been working odd jobs, mostly painting. A 1974 Dodge van is titled to you, which I presume you use for your painting jobs.”
“Yes.”
“So how did you get here? One day you’re painting houses, the next day you’re trying to kill my daughter. It doesn’t make any sense. The FBI report says they interviewed your brother. He says you believe in God, but you’re no radical. So if your motives aren’t religious, then it must be money.”
Hasan broke pieces off the top of the Styrofoam cup, rolled them in his fingers, then dropped them into the cup. He did this for several more seconds, saying nothing.
“You’re going away for a long, long, time,” George said. “If you talk to us we can work a deal. Come on, man, just give us something.”
“He’s right,” Pete said. “We can talk to the prosecutor. If you give us who hired you, maybe you’ll be free in two years.”
“Then I deport back to Iraq,” Hasan said and kept working on the cup. “Saddam men, they torture and kill me if I return. I take prison.”
“We can work on that too,” Pete said. “Maybe you do three years and you can stay. Who knows? We’ll never find out if you don’t give us anything. You gotta give us something to work with here.”
Hasan pushed the cup aside. His eyes grew tense and his nostrils flared. “Saddam Hussein. He torment my family. I had to get out, or I die. I come to United States. My brother, he help me. My wife, she die after Saddam men rape and torture her. My daughter, she still in Iraq. She twelve when I leave. She stay with uncle. He tell me she sick, tumor in head. She die in year if no remove it. We are Shia Muslim. Doctor in Iraq no operate. Even if willing, he no have knowledge. He kill her if he try.”
“I see,” Pete said. “So you were trying to make money to bring her here?”
“Saddam men say they free her for government fee. In American money, it five thousand dollars. I save one thousand. It enough for plane ticket, no more.”
“This is good,” George said.
“What’s good about his dying daughter?” Pete asked.
“No, the prosecutor’s daughter had some kind of cancer,” George said. “I think he’d feel sorry for Hasan.”
“That’s a good point, George. What do you say, Hasan? You tell us who hired you and we cut your sentence and maybe give you political asylum.”
“He say, if I arrest, he give money for daughter anyway. I only need to say I am terrorist. Say I am on jihad. If he get arrest, then he no help me.”
“And you believe him?”
“If he no pay, I help police. He know this. It was deal.”
“This guy is a brutal murderer. You can’t trust him,” Pete said. “Can’t you see that? He’s playing you for a fool.”
“He is only hope to save my daughter.”
Pete slammed his fist against the table. “What about my daughter? Tell me who hired you!”
Hasan’s eyes fell back to the table. “You give me money. I tell you.”
“You got it,” Pete said without a moment’s thought. “You give me who hired you, and I’ll give you six thousand. But you got to tell me today.”
“Pete,” George said. “Isn’t that against the rules? Can you do that?”
“I don’t give a crap about the rules. I want this guy off my daughter. I’ll give both my kidneys and one of yours if I have to.” He focused back on Hasan. “I’ll have to borrow against my retirement. It may take a few days, but I promise, I will give you six thousand dollars if you give this guy up.”
Hasan locked his eyes on Pete’s intense stare. “Are you Christian?”
“Devout,” Pete said.
“Swear to Jesus you pay me, and I help you.”
“I swear to Jesus, God the Father, the Holy Spirit, and to your Allah. Tell me who hired you and your daughter will live.”
Hasan held out his hand. “Shake first.”
A grin spread on Pete’s face and he shook Hasan’s hand. “Deal.”
George mashed Play on the tape recorder and nodded for Hasan to begin.
“I no want to kill your daughter.”
“I know that,” Pete said.
“When I see her in house, when I point gun to her, and I see fear in her eye, I see Sabeen. My own daughter. The fear I see in your daughter eye, it is same fear I see in my daughter eye when Saddam’s men come to house. I could not kill her. My Sabeen would not want me to.”
“Is that why you wanted her to close her eyes?”
“I see Sabeen in her eyes. I prefer to take my own life.”
“I saw that. Let me help, Hasan.”
“At first, he say, just scare her. Tell her be silent about Turin Shroud. Maybe slap her, give her warning.”
“That was at the library. But she said you never said anything to her.”
Hasan pointed at the dent in his head. “She no give me chance. Head still hurt.”
“That’s what you get when you mess with Amari,” Pete said. “Now go on.”
“Then he say, she no listen. Follow them to Los Alamos. Kill her there. Both if you can. But I refuse.”
“Okay, hold on a second,” Pete said. “How did he know they were going to Los Alamos?”
“I do not know. I will not do it, so he say, he do it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. If he’s not afraid to draw his own blood, why does he even need to hire you in the first place?”
“He is small man. He say she recognize him. If he fail, he go to jail.”
“And since he only wanted her roughed up, he had to use a big guy like you.”
“Your daughter kill him, with bare hands. She almost kill me.”
Pete cracked a smile. “I spent a lot of money on self-defense classes. I see it paid off.”
“It did.”
“So from what you’re saying, if Amari would recognize him, then she knows him. Was he an Arab looking guy? Did his eyes look funny, like they were looking in two different directions?”
“He have beard, black glasses. I no see his eyes.”
“Then it could still be Rahal,” George said.
“Could be,” Pete said, “but let him talk before we jump to any conclusions. So what next, Hasan? If he gave up on you, then how did you get back into the picture?”
“He contact me again. Say he have another job. But I refuse. Then he say if I no do job, he tell police I attack your daughter in library. He say, your daughter recognize me and I go to jail, then I deport to Iraq. Then Saddam kill me. And my daughter die.”
“All right, I understand,” Pete said. “You did what you had to do. Just tell me about the job.”
“He give me three hundred dollars. He say buy three grenade from man selling. Then he say take grenade that make fire and burn her car. I watch long time before chance in parking garage.”
“She loved that car, you know that?” Pete said.
“He make me do it.”
“We’ll have time for that later. Just tell me the rest.”
“Then he say, police gone from house. Go now, before it too late. Or you go to jail. He give me gun and I go.”
“Okay, Hasan. I think from what you told me we can work a deal with the prosecutor. But you still haven’t told me who he is.”
“He drives big, blue car. He has long beard. I think it not real. And he wear black glasses.”
“Is that it?”
“No, he is Catholic priest.”
“A priest? Are you sure?”
“I do not think he really priest. His clothes . . . not fit good. He pretend to be priest.”
“That’s our guy!” George said. “From the fire at Holy Ghost. It’s the same guy the imam saw outside his mosque. That’s why he stole the uniform be
fore he torched the body. He wanted it for a disguise.”
“Okay, I get it, George. Is that all you can tell me? Where did you first meet this priest? And better yet, who knew you were desperate for money?”
“I tell people.”
“Then who was the last person you told before you were hired?”
Hasan pondered the question for a moment before he spoke. “I work painting a house. I tell the owner. He say if I do good job, he give me extra two hundred. I tell him I can use money and tell him about daughter.”
“So this guy knew you were desperate. When were you approached by the priest?”
“Next week, after I finish painting, I am on way home and stop for gas. The priest talk to me there.”
“And that’s all you know?”
“I no see his face. He have black glasses and beard. I recognize his voice if you find him.”
“All right, so tell me about your last job then. The guy who knew you needed money.”
“He live in house near Silver Bell Road. His name is . . . Weiss. He is old man. I think he teach at college. He tell me, call him Albert.”
“Albert Weiss. Do you remember the address?”
“I have it in home.”
“Never mind, we’ll use the phone book,” Pete said. “Officers, you can take him back now.” Pete started to leave, but turned back and said, “Thanks, Hasan. You did the right thing. If this pans out, check’s in the mail.”
Chapter 42
Amari and Kevin stepped off the plane and stretched their limbs as they stood in the crowded concourse gate. The Italian language yammered all around them as they contemplated their next move. Adrenaline-fueled excitement masked the exhaustion she felt from the sixteen-hour flight. This was Italy—where the Roman Empire began. It was a big deal for a girl who’d never been farther than Disneyland in California.
Carbon-14: The Shroud of Turin (An Amari Johnston Novel) Page 24
