The Turin Shroud Secret

by Sam Christer

  NICODEMUS

  Indeed it is not pleasure – but it is the dead that have me disturb you at such an irreverent hour –

  (He gestures to his right)

  – this is Joseph of Arimathea. You have heard of him?

  PILATE

  I have.

  PILATE cautiously considers the baby-faced man in rich robes and extends his arm. They grasp each other’s wrists in Roman fashion.

  You are a relation of the man we crucified – Jesus the Nazarene. The uncle of the woman claiming to be both a virgin and his mother.

  JOSEPH (defiantly)

  I am.

  PILATE

  Then I need not explain to you the difficulties I have had – the problems your kin have thrown in my way.

  JOSEPH (pointedly)

  Under Roman law the body of an executed man must be laid in a common grave for a year before the family is permitted to collect it.

  PILATE

  That is the custom.

  JOSEPH glances to NICODEMUS for support.

  JOSEPH

  I wish to break with custom. I wish to take the body now and hold it in my own tomb.

  PILATE (shocked, responds in ironic tone)

  Of course you do. How could I have the audacity to imagine that this man might stop troubling me just because he is dead?

  JOSEPH (ignoring the outburst)

  I have money, power and influence. All of which you know you will need in abundance in the nearest of future. I beg you to reconsider.

  NICODEMUS (touching Pilate’s sleeve)

  You would do well to listen to him. It is nothing to you to give up the corpse of this man.

  PILATE (pacing away)

  It is plenty – and you know it, Nicodemus.

  JOSEPH (following PILATE)

  It is a favour I will never forget – one I will gladly repay.

  PILATE (hand to chin)

  This is what is possible. You may have your crucified Jew, but he must remain in your tomb until a year has passed. Only then may his family take his body.

  ‘Okay – cut. Cut there!’

  The instruction comes from an unseen male with a Scandinavian lilt in his voice. ‘Tack själv – thank you. Stand down, please.’

  Sarah Kenny looks like she’s just witnessed a real-life miracle. ‘I’ll get Mr Svenson now.’ She bounces away, chasing the Swedish echo.

  ‘Look at her, Little Miss Bright Eyes.’ Mitzi’s gaze tracks the assistant. ‘So loved-up it almost hurts.’

  Nic fakes a frown. ‘I thought you were on a quest to get everyone loved-up?’

  She glares at him. ‘Not everyone – just dumb partners who are living too much in the past.’

  17

  DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES

  Twenty-four-year-old Emma Varley stares in the mirror over the row of cracked and filthy sinks in the staff washroom. Like a zillion women before her, she wishes things were different.

  She peers in particular at a thumb-sized strawberry birthmark in the middle of her left cheek. Her mom always told her it looked like a cute dimple. If she ever earns any decent money, she’ll have surgery. Until then she does her best with cheap concealers and powder.

  Now that she’s been tricked into looking at herself, she finds other things to hate. Thick brown hair that won’t grow a decent length without frizzing and eyes that are so damned short-sighted they need itchy contacts or bottle-lens glasses. She wishes her nose were smaller, her chin longer, her cheeks less fat.

  Even retreating from the mirror has its dangers. As she stands back she’s reminded that her breasts are too small, her waist too big and legs too short. Her mom says looks aren’t everything – but in LA it sure as hell feels as though they are.

  The girls at work bully her, make her life unbearable. They’re such douchebags they even make the manager’s life hard. They flirt with him and mock him, tease him with flashes of breasts and legs then ask him about the girlfriend they know he doesn’t have, possibly never has had. They call him Fish Face.

  Emma leaves the washroom the way she always does – angry and depressed. Head down and hand self-consciously over her birthmark, she veers towards the exit and the prospect of some fresh air.

  ‘Hey, watch what you’re doing!’

  She’s barged into Fish Face and made his day as bad as hers. She’s knocked a cup of piping-hot black coffee over his pants and shoes. Now he’s dancing like a scalded cat.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry!’ She takes the cup from his left hand and a soggy clipboard and papers from the other. ‘I’ve got some tissues. Sorry.’ She puts his things down and pulls a wrap pack of Kleenex from her purse. ‘What a mess. I’m so—’

  He turns and walks away. Leaves her hanging. Strides angrily towards the men’s room.

  ‘God almighty!’ Emma stamps her feet. She’d scream the f-word and pull her ugly hair out if it was in her character to do that. But it isn’t. That’s not how she’s been brought up. She takes deep breaths and tries to calm down. If she gets fired, she gets fired. It’s a crappy job anyway.

  18

  ANTERONUS FILMS, CULVER CITY

  When Matthias Svenson appears, Mitzi immediately understands why Sarah Kenny and probably every other female on the film lot has fallen for him. Late thirties, he has a thick mane of sandy hair, stands a good six-three and was undoubtedly a Norse warrior in a previous life. His glacial blue eyes and amazing white teeth have clearly evolved from a stealthy predator, a wolf-like beast with primeval sexual needs that she’s sure he indulges regularly.

  ‘I’m Matthias,’ he extends a warrior hand and well-learned Hollywood smile. ‘I’m the director.’

  Mitzi loses her fingers in his cavernous palm. ‘Lieutenant Fallon – LAPD. This is my partner, Detective Karakandez.’

  Nic just nods.

  Mitzi looks at the director with heightened curiosity. ‘Are you European, Matthias? I couldn’t quite place your accent.’

  He laughs. ‘Most people can’t. I am Swedish but my name is German – it means “Gift of the Lord”.’ He reads her thoughts. ‘It’s not a name born out of vanity. It is because my parents lost several children before birth and had me late in life.’

  Mitzi could warm to this guy. Oh yes. Given a time machine to take her back to a pre-marriage epoch, a chalet in the snow-capped Scandinavian mountains and a rug in front of a log fire, she could warm to him in a very special way. She glances towards Sarah. A sisterly look of approval. Female consent for her to feel free to make a fool of herself in whatever manner she wishes.

  ‘I’m afraid we have some very bad news, Mr Svenson,’ Nic cuts in, anxious to get to the purpose of their visit. ‘Your writer, Tamara Jacobs, is dead.’

  ‘Tammy?’ Svenson looks genuinely shocked. ‘Dead? How?’

  Mitzi adds some detail. ‘Her body was found in the ocean, down on Manhattan Beach.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Do you know if she has any close friends, family?’

  He pauses to think. ‘She and her husband split up some time ago. That’s confidential. Amicable break from what I know.’ He struggles for the words. ‘I think he spends a lot of time out of the country – with his new partner.’

  Nic notes the emphasis. ‘When did you last see her, Mr Svenson?’

  ‘Me?’ He looks puzzled. ‘Wednesday, I think. Yes, I’m fairly sure it was.’ He glances from one cop to the other. ‘I remember now, it was early afternoon and we sat outside the set with a coffee and talked about the script.’

  ‘What time exactly?’

  ‘Of that, I’m not sure.’ He holds out his bare wrists to indicate he doesn’t wear a watch. ‘I’m an artist, I don’t believe in being manacled like that. It was after lunch. Maybe three, four o’clock.’

  ‘We broke for lunch at one,’ says Sarah, eager to assist.

  ‘Then it was nearer four,’ adds Svenson. ‘I was late getting off set. I had lunch with the studio publicist, then I looked at some rushes with the assistant directo
r. After that I met Tammy and we decided to grab coffee outside in the sun and talk about the end.’

  Mitzi needs him to be clearer. ‘The end of what – the movie?’

  ‘That’s right. She still hasn’t delivered the final scenes. We have a fallback of course, but there was an agreement that she could keep the ending secret. All I know is that it is set in the Holy Land.’

  ‘That’s a lot of scenery to build.’

  ‘It is indeed. Thank God for green-screen technology.’

  ‘Were there any on-set problems, Mr Svenson? Arguments between Tamara and any of the characters?’

  ‘The actors, you mean? No – not at all.’ He seems almost amused. ‘Tammy wasn’t interested in actors, just words and screenplay. The only time she came on set was to see me and offer rewrites.’

  ‘Who did she have most contact with?’ asks Nic.

  Svenson nods to the assistant. ‘Me and Sarah. When I wasn’t around she’d pass notes through Sarah and she would help her with much of her admin.’

  ‘There’s lots of it,’ says the assistant with a smile.

  ‘I really have to go now – is that all right?’ Svenson motions to the set behind him.

  ‘Sure.’ Mitzi pulls a contact card from the inside of her jacket. ‘But I need a full copy of the script – or at least the fullest that you’ve got – and please don’t leave town without calling me first.’ She smiles at the delivery of the corny old line.

  Svenson takes the card and crinkles his cool blue eyes. ‘I won’t, Lieutenant. You can bank on it.’

  19

  DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES

  The wall bell rings.

  Clocking-off time. A cheer rolls like a wave across the factory floor. Raucous female voices replace the relentless rumble of old machinery. Emma stays at her machine and keeps her head down as the coven file out.

  ‘Blotchy, hey douchebag.’ The shout comes from Jenny Harrison, the worst witch of all. ‘Bring my limo round the front, I’m ‘bout ready to split.’ She draws giggles from her cronies.

  Varley tries to ignore her. Bullies bully more when they see the pain on your face – she learned the lesson a long time ago.

  ‘Useless bitch, I oughta sack your blotchy ass.’ Harrison clips Emma’s head as she struts past.

  It takes several minutes for the room to empty, the mocking laughter and insults to disappear.

  Silence. Peace. Dignity.

  ‘Emma.’

  She looks up. Her boss is stood there. Fish Face. The man she spilt coffee on.

  ‘Time to go.’

  ‘I hate them.’ She doesn’t mean to speak, the words in her head just tumble out. Her face contorts. ‘I wish Jennifer Freakin’ Harrison would get caught in one of these machines and—’

  ‘She’s not worth it.’ Fish Face walks past her. ‘Forget about her and go home.’ He starts to check all the machinery has been turned off.

  Emma clears her things and heads to the door. A thought hits her. She turns around and walks back to him. ‘I just wanted to say sorry again for this morning.’ Her eyes drift down to the dark stain on his trousers. ‘I’ll pay for cleaning – if they need it.’

  He looks away from her. ‘They don’t.’

  ‘Okay. Well, if they do – if you change your mind – then I’ll pay. You can dock it from my money.’

  He turns off the banks of strip lights covering the factory floor. ‘They won’t.’

  ‘Right. Goodnight, then.’ She still feels bad as she visits the restroom. It’s a long way home, two buses and a twenty-minute walk. She doesn’t want to get caught short. She hates the winter months. It’s dark at six when she leaves and dark at six when she gets up. One day she’ll have enough money for a car – like her mom says, only the poor in LA have to walk. She clocks out at the front door and fastens her coat against the chill.

  ‘Hey, hold up.’

  She turns on the steps and sees Fish Face behind her, door keys in hand.

  ‘You want a lift? I go right past your place.’

  Normally she’d say no. Most nights she’d be too shy to accept. Tonight she’s exhausted and needs the company. ‘That’d be great. Thanks.’

  He smiles and finishes locking the door.

  Maybe spilling coffee on him wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  20

  GARDENA, LOS ANGELES

  Away from the snarl of rush-hour traffic, Emma’s boss takes Harbor Freeway south until the Gardena junction then the western slip to Artesia Boulevard. She doesn’t say much and neither does he. Mostly they listen to the radio channels he keeps switching between.

  She breaks one of several awkward silences. ‘You like to listen to the news and talk stations?’

  ‘Sometimes. Good to know what’s happening in the world.’

  ‘Bad stuff. That’s all you hear on the news.’

  He almost argues the point but instead hits search on the radio again. It rolls off the news and parks in the middle of a talk show.

  ‘KKLA 99.5. This is a Christian station.’ There’s a laugh in her voice. ‘I come across it sometimes. You’ll find this funny, but late at night, when I find it, I leave it on. It’s just nice to hear folk talking kindly to each other rather than shoutin’ and swearin’ like shock jocks.’

  ‘You just like the station or are you Christian as well?’

  ‘I’m not sure how to answer that.’ She gives him a quizzical look. ‘Suppose I am. Let’s put it this way, I ain’t a Muslim or Jew, so I guess I must be Christian.’ She points through the windshield. ‘You need to pull a right here, straight after the warehouse store on the corner.’

  He flicks on the indicators and turns the Explorer into South Normandie Avenue.

  ‘You can drop me here, if you like. I’m only a couple of blocks down.’

  ‘It’s not a problem.’ He smiles at her. ‘Would be unchristian not to take you to your door.’

  She smiles back. ‘Thanks, it’s West 169th. You’ll see it coming up on your left.’

  There’s a line of working trucks, old motor homes and campers parked out on the blacktop, early signs of the kind of neighbourhood he’s driving into. She’s obviously dirt poor and from dirt-poor stock. These days it’s tough to own anything but clapboard unless someone’s given you a headstart up the ladder.

  ‘I’m just after the telegraph pole.’

  He slows and pulls over outside a wooden throw-up that’s more shack than house. A scrub of weeds and bald lawn lie in shame behind a tiny fence of rotting, bare wood.

  Emma can read his face. ‘Not much but it’s still home. I rent it. No point spending money on what’s not yours, right?’

  ‘Right. Mine’s the same. Needs paint and money that I haven’t got.’

  She unbuckles and grabs her bag from beneath her feet. ‘Thanks for the ride …’ She almost calls him Fish Face ‘… Mr James. You wanna come in?’

  Instinctively he scans the street. Out of sight, somewhere else, he can hear the siren of an LAPD cruiser.

  A bad sign.

  ‘Not tonight, maybe some other time?’

  Emma is disappointed. He seems a nice guy. Would be good to have a friend at work, especially one who’s your boss. ‘Then thanks again. See you tomorrow.’ She leaves him with a smile and swings the door closed.

  ‘Sleep well,’ he says to her retreating back.

  He watches her through the gate and smiles when she looks back and waves at him. The houses around are all jammed in tight – there must be a hundred windows for people to watch from. She’s safe here.

  For now.

  21

  77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

  By 11 p.m. the Homicide and Robbery squad room is close to deserted. Only the dregs remain. Nightshift rookies working their way up and weathered old wasters who’ve fallen so far down they’re stuck in the sediment of the system.

  Nic Karakandez is stuck too. Stuck in front of footage from the security camera at Manhattan Beach. It’s his turn at
the monitors. Not much of an ordeal really. He’d rather be here than home alone with the memories that won’t go away.

  He drinks cold coffee and watches the speeded-up images as noise boils in the corridors around him. Women’s voices. Coarse. Shouting. Swearing. Hookers pulled in by vice being milked before being processed then cut loose to start all over again. He’s seen it all during his time here – the girls get arrested and fined then returned to the streets where they have to turn tricks to earn the money to pay off the fines. The proverbial vice circle. He heard someone once worked out that if the women all got handouts of $500 a week, they wouldn’t need to sell themselves, could avoid pimps and the state of California would be more than a million dollars a year better off. He doesn’t know if it’s true or not but he wouldn’t be too surprised to find out that it was.

  He glances at his watch. Another hour and he’ll call it quits. Leave just after midnight, maybe by then he’ll be tired enough to sleep a little when he gets home. The screen in front of him shows the black of night at the beach, faint ocean waves crashing unheard on the silent footage. Yellow security lights vaguely illuminate part of the aquarium and marine lab where he and Mitzi looked around. He watches a few couples walk down the approach and lean against the rails to fool around a little. A couple of drunks turn up to light a cigarette and one takes a leak in the ocean. The other is so wasted he curls up in the lab doorway and starts to sleep.