The Turin Shroud Secret

by Sam Christer

  Mitzi spots Amy’s van parked by the old stucco apartment block. It’ll be good to see her friend – even though the circumstances are so wrong. She shows her ID and gets logged through. In the stairwell she suits up in Tyvek overalls and foot covers, then pads upstairs.

  ‘Mitzi Fallon,’ she announces, holding her badge as she walks in. ‘Anyone know where Carter is?’

  A young female CSI looks up from the couch where she’s tweezing off hair strands. ‘Back bedroom with the ME.’

  ‘Gotcha.’

  Carter and Amy are in the far corner of the room near the head of the body when Mitzi walks in. ‘You buy a ticket for Mega Millions this week, Detective? I sure hope so, given your ability to predict the future.’

  He almost smiles. ‘Female, thirty-two, by the name of Kim Bass. Tenant of the house from pictures and paperwork we’ve found. Lived here near on two years. Been dead a couple of days. Dr Chang’s about to get more specific.’

  ‘Hi Mitz.’ Amy gives her a look of genuine warmth. ‘Your lady died from strangulation with a ligature. Pick your way over and see.’

  Mitzi squeezes around the bed and follows her friend’s pointing fingers to the bloated face of the corpse.

  ‘Look at the marks on the neck. You can make out four lines less than two inches wide. I’d say it’s a leather trouser belt rather than the kind of thick strap you’d normally associate with jeans.’ Amy lifts her hands as though holding the ends of the belt in separate fists. ‘The killer was stood behind her, looped the ligature around her neck like this and crossed his hands for extra leverage as he choked her.’ She stops gesticulating. ‘Now look back at Kim’s neck.’

  Mitzi leans over.

  ‘You see these additional marks on and around the windpipe? These are made by fingers and knuckles.’

  ‘I’m willing to bet he flipped her and finished her by hand,’ says Carter. ‘Flesh to flesh.’

  Mitzi gets the picture. ‘He wanted to see her die.’

  ‘Not just that. He wanted to feel her die.’ Carter points at the corpse. ‘At first I wasn’t sure it was our boy, but this face-to-face finale is definitely his work.’

  ‘Any shroud?’ asks Mitzi.

  Carter nods. ‘Covered her head to toe. No mistake about it, the Creeper’s back.’

  116

  TURIN

  Ephrem is driving when his cell phone rings. He’s been expecting the call. Knows it’s going to be unpleasant.

  ‘You’ve left a mess.’ Carlotta Cappelini sounds calm but irritated.

  His mind is filled with flashbacks. The blood on the bed, endless crimson pooling out of the still pumping heart of the scientist. The girlfriend pulling her knees up to protect herself. ‘I had no time to clean up.’

  ‘I understand, but it is not good. Now more people than necessary are interested.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Apologise to God not me. Did you obtain the information you came for?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Va bene. The detective I told you about, he has gone missing.’

  Ephrem remembers the image she sent to him, the voice on the phone he picked up in Craxi’s lodge, the belongings he searched through at the hotel.

  ‘Si. We arrested his partner but Karakandez escaped from the house. He has a car, a blue Fiat Bravo. I will text you the plate. Do not underestimate this American. He is not stupid and he has come a long way.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘Then make sure you are not the one who ends up disappointed. Finish the job and finish it quickly. Arrivederci.’

  He’ll do as she wants, but not yet. First, he has another matter to take care of.

  117

  Nic gets back in the car and makes sure the guy behind the desk sees him heading off towards the airport terminal. He knows the Italian border police will have his description and passport number and there is no chance he will be able to catch a flight out of Turin.

  Five minutes later he pulls into the fly-drive area of a cheap hotel near the airport and pays to leave Goria’s car there for two weeks. The Carabinieri will find it. Maybe even within a couple of hours. That’s long enough not to be a problem. He catches a transit bus to the airport terminal and follows the signs to the rental car returns. He walks quickly to the busiest area, the one where families are losing their tempers because staff are lazy or slow and they’re scared of missing flights. Nic watches the comings and goings and is soon able to identify the worst of companies and even pick out the nationalities of the returning drivers. Italians weave their way back to the bays at speed, confidently navigating lanes and honking horns for people to hurry up. Foreigners make nervous approaches, staring upwards at signs hoping they’ve made the right choice and are not about to be sent on a hugely time-wasting trip outside the airport roads.

  He walks the longest of the backed-up lines and knocks on several drivers’ windows until he finds an American. He shows a bald man in his late fifties his LAPD shield and makes sure his leather jacket is open enough for the kids in the back and Mom in the front to see the Beretta. ‘Could you please step out of the car, sir, and show me your ID?’

  ‘Sure, Officer.’ The good citizen climbs out of his Renault people carrier and is a foot shorter and twenty pounds heavier than the out-of-town cop.

  Nic looks carefully through the documentation of John Henry Watkins then adds, ‘Sir, could you please come around the back of the vehicle with me.’ En route Nic puts his finger in his ear and talks as though he were on a hands-free police radio. He turns his back on the driver, who is by now nervous, until he’s done. Finally, he swings slowly round to give him the bad news. ‘Mr Watkins, I am assigned to an international anti-terrorist unit working with the Carabinieri. We have information that an attack may take place at this airport and we’ve been asked to look out for a vehicle identical to the one you’re driving.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Yes sir, yours. I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate it, move you and your family from the scene and have you questioned.’

  ‘But I have to take it back. We’ve got to get home, we’re going to miss our flight.’

  ‘Not my problem, sir. I’m sure the Italian police will be sympathetic and deal with your case as quickly as they can.’ He looks down the long line of vehicles. ‘Though you may have quite a wait for the senior officer in charge to come over. Things go a little slower over here.’

  Watkins is mortified. Already he is sensing the difficulties of coping with tired children at a foreign airport, not to mention his short-fused wife. ‘Aw c’mon, Officer, can’t you cut us a break? We’re American citizens, I’ve got to return to Chicago, get my family home and get to work.’

  Nic rubs thoughtfully at his chin and looks around. ‘Okay. Listen, I just ran a check on you and I know you’re a law-abiding, family man but I’ve still got to do my job and take this vehicle to the pound for checks. You know how formalities go. You say your flight is leaving soon?’ Watkins nods. ‘I guess I might be able to do something for you. If you give me your documentation, I can drop you, your wife and kids at the main terminal and when we’ve swept the car I’ll take it back to the car pool. But you’d have to agree to keep this between us. It’s the kind of thing that could get my ass fired.’

  ‘I understand completely. And if we do that, we go straight home?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What about our deposit?’

  Nic puts on a suitable grimace. ‘You paid with a card?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll have someone do the paperwork and get it refunded.’

  Watkins looks relieved. ‘That would be great.’

  Nic glances at his watch. ‘So shall we get moving?’

  John Henry Watkins grins broadly, extends his sweaty hand and gratefully passes the detective the keys.

  118

  CARABINIERI HEADQUARTERS, TURIN

  Carlotta Cappelini sits back from the computer screen that takes up most of her de
sk. In front of her, in full shocking HD detail is Ephrem’s handiwork. She’s gone through every still frame, examining – or pretending to examine – the fatal crime scene at Mario Sacconi’s home. The monk is an animal.

  A young female officer turns up at the edge of her desk. ‘For you, ma’am.’ She hands over a single sheet of paper.

  Cappelini sees the young brunette’s eyes snag on the screen, a shot of the knife wound straight through Sacconi’s heart. The Luogotenente uses her mouse to shrink the image out of sight. ‘Grazie. That will be all.’

  The girl gets herself together and walks away.

  Cappelini looks at the document. It’s a trace report on the American’s phone. Turns out he used it several times after fleeing the murder scene. Carried out searches from the Yahoo! browser, located a logistical services parcel delivery company out near the airport and then called it.

  He’s shipping something.

  Something so important it has to cross a border even if he can’t.

  No. Cappelini picks up the untraceable phone she uses to call the monk and dials his number. ‘Listen carefully, I’m going to text you the address of a parcel company near the aeroporto. You need to go there, quickly. Find whatever Nic Karakandez left to be shipped and stop it – at all costs. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  The line goes dead and she sends the SMS. Through the window of her boss’s office she sees Fusco with the Major and the Commander. She knows exactly what they’re saying. And it’s not going to be good news for the LAPD cop.

  119

  CASELLE AIRPORT, TURIN

  The Watkins family wave gratefully from beside their suitcases and Nic waves guiltily back from the driver’s seat of the people carrier as he leaves them at the revolving doors of the terminal.

  He drives away from the drop-off zone and joins the main traffic flow. Once he clears the airport grounds he pulls over on a quiet dirt road to set the satnav for the long journey ahead. The touch screen is tiny and it takes several goes to finger in the address Erica Craxi gave him of Mario Sacconi’s former boss, Édouard Broussard.

  The little computer does its work and automatically announces that the journey is 366 kilometres long, will take just under four hours, involve two major motorways with toll charges and will cost forty euros in fuel.

  He starts up the engine again and hopes the trip doesn’t prove to be a lot costlier than the computer’s promised.

  120

  BOYLE HEIGHTS, LOS ANGELES

  Mitzi parks outside Jenny Harrison’s place and wishes she was anywhere else other than here. Given her own personal problems, the last thing she needs professionally is to be interviewing a young woman about how she discovered the corpse of her best friend.

  She knocks on the busted front door and a uniformed cop jerks it open from the other side. He’s dark-haired, mid-thirties and already carrying too much weight and attitude.

  ‘Lieutenant Fallon.’ Mitzi badges him. ‘You got one Jenny Harrison in here?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ He swings the door open. ‘She’s quite a lady.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘She’s got a real mouth on her.’

  ‘Good. A mouth is what she needs to be able to answer my questions.’ Mitzi rolls her eyes as she walks past him. ‘What happened to the door?’

  He pushes it closed. ‘Says she’s been burglarised. The neighbourhood’s full of junkies and pimps.’

  Mitzi enters a room filled with smoke and struggles not to cough. Her eyes settle on a bleached blonde wreck of a woman chain-smoking on an old brown Dralon two-seater. ‘Jenny, I’m Mitzi Fallon. I’ve just come from your friend’s house. I need to ask you some questions. You want to do it here or downtown?’

  Harrison looks up, ash from her cigarette falling on the arm of the couch. ‘What happened to Kim?’ She sounds doped. ‘What did they do to her?’

  ‘That’s what we need to find out, Jenny.’ She moves closer and sees the girl’s eyes. She’s high as a kite. Probably been burning joints right from the moment she saw her girlfriend’s corpse. Who could blame her? ‘Go have a shower. Get yourself a change of clothes and I’ll take you for some food.’

  ‘Don’t want no shower and I ain’t freakin’ hungry.’

  Mitzi drops down so they’re eye to eye. ‘It’s not an offer, honey. It’s an instruction. I’ve got a murder to clear up and you’re no use to me wasted.’

  Harrison swears under her breath. She heaves herself up from the couch and disappears into the bathroom with a slam of the door. The uniform sidles up to Mitzi. ‘The great unwashed has a temper. This’ll be the first shower she’s taken this year.’

  ‘She might be dirty but you’re an asshole. Ten minutes from now she’ll be clean and you’ll still be an asshole.’

  ‘I was just sayin’.’

  ‘Then don’t. Your first step towards not being an A-hole is shutting the hell up.’

  The uniform drifts off and pretends to inspect the damaged front door.

  Mitzi walks around. There are no framed photographs, no landline, no cooker, just a small old TV, a microwave oven and a kettle. She’s seen jail cells better furnished than this.

  A once-white bed quilt is chequered with coffee stains and cigarette burns. The base sheets look like they’ve never been changed. She lifts the mattress and finds a strange stash – dozens of condoms, a vicious-looking vegetable knife and an ultrasound picture of an unborn baby. It’s a sixteen-week scan, date-stamped two years ago. She guesses Harrison caught pregnant and either lost the child or aborted it. The fact she kept the photo means she harbours thoughts of being a mom.

  Mitzi drops the mattress, brushes her hands clean and checks the kitchen area. On the front of the small fridge are a couple of snaps pinned by fruit-shaped magnets. There’s one of Harrison and the dead girl in a nightclub, both laughing and holding big cocktails complete with straws and lots of greenery. There’s another of them at the beach in bikinis, blowing kisses off their palms at the camera. Harrison looks pretty much as she does now. Mitzi guesses the beach shot was probably summer and the cocktail shot maybe New Year.

  Inside the fridge is a four-stack of TV dinners, a tub of cheap spread, a stack of mouldy cheese slices, four cans of tuna and a quarter bottle of vodka. Two cupboards next to a single-drainer sink are empty bar a few non-matching cups, three bowls and two plates.

  Harrison comes back in the room looking tired but a little less wasted. She’s naked except for a faded green towel that barely covers her modesty. Her bleached hair has turned into brown rats’ tails. Mitzi walks to the front door and opens it for the uniformed cop. ‘Give us five.’

  He’s glad to. Harrison slides open a built-in wardrobe and pulls on a faded pink T-shirt and black jeans. She either doesn’t have clean underwear or doesn’t want to wear any. She pushes bare feet into filthy sneakers then uses the towel to rub her wet head. ‘Dryer’s screwed. I got hair like one of them wiry dogs.’

  ‘You look fine. The cop out there says you were burgled. What they take?’

  ‘Nothing. There wasn’t nothing to take.’ She downs the towel and then realises she’s been too honest for her own good. ‘Shit, that’s not true. They stole some cash I’d been savin’ – vacation money, maybe five hundred dollars, and some jewellery and stuff and my cell phone, a new one.’

  ‘Sure they did. By the time we get downtown I bet you’ll have remembered that fifty-inch 3D plasma they took as well, along with the Valentino dresses and enough Jimmy Choos to fit out a centipede.’

  121

  TURIN

  The noise wakes Roberto Craxi.

  A dull thump. Then another. He has no idea how long he’s been asleep. The air is hot and stale – and he’s weak from lack of water. The ground beneath him shakes. Something heavy has been dropped nearby. There’s another dull thud.

  And another.

  He works out what it is. Someone is moving heavy stones off the slab. In the next few moments he
’ll be free – or dead.

  The noise is clearer now. Stone on stone. Boulders of some kind must have been heaped on the slab to secure it. Those at the top have been moved; now the last of them are being slid away. He summons all his physical and mental strength in preparation for the grand opening of the tomb. Silence.

  He guesses his captor is thinking about how to oslide the lid off the tomb. The man won’t want to lean over it and push it away because that would leave him off-balance and exposed. Nor will he try to pull it towards him and risk it falling on him. No, he’ll probably slide it off from one end – the end above Craxi’s head. It’s the only way to remain positioned directly above him.

  Craxi is right. Ephrem hauls the slab to his left in one powerful movement. The former soldier makes his move. Springs up as fast as he can.

  The monk is knocked back. He’d expected resistance but nothing as swift and powerful as this.

  Craxi’s ankles buckle as soon as his feet hit the ground.

  The monk’s right hand twitches. A split-second movement – but a decisive one. Craxi sees the flash too late. He grabs his abdomen.

  Ephrem watches Craxi struggle with the pointed iron railing he’s impaled him on.

  Craxi holds it with both hands and tries not to fall. He goes dizzy and drops to his knees.

  Ephrem walks towards him. Looks indifferently at the blood blotting into his captive’s shirt and makes a cold calculation.

  It will take a long time for him to die like that. A very long time.

  He circles Roberto. Stands behind him. Takes his head in the crook of his arm and with one violent twist breaks his neck.

  122

  Nic hits crawling traffic as soon as he picks up signs for the Tangenziale Ovest-Sud/Savona/Piacenza. So much for the confident predictions of the satnav. It takes more than an hour to get from the A55 to the A6. He thinks about calling Mitzi and Amy. There are things he has to tell them. Actions that must be carried out. But he has no intention of using the cell phone in his pocket. Save the brief bit of web surfing to find the parcel company, it’s been turned off since he left Fabio and it’s going to stay that way. Sooner or later he’ll find a pay phone. From now on, the cell is for emergencies only.