The Turin Shroud Secret

by Sam Christer

  161

  77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

  ‘You look like shit, Jenny. What the hell have you been taking?’ Mitzi holds the door of the interview room for the uniform to leave. ‘Thanks,’ she says, as he escapes into the corridor.

  Harrison looks up sulky-faced from the interview room table. ‘I ain’t taken nothin’ – that’s why I look like shit.’

  Mitzi pulls up a chair. ‘Where you been today?’

  ‘Walkin’. Tryin’ to get my head straight. I didn’t sleep none last night.’

  Mitzi’s not surprised. The kid’s world is upside down and she knows how sleep is the first thing that goes out of the window when that happens. ‘I’ll get you coffee and a smoke.’

  ‘Coffee and cigarettes?’ she says, disparagingly. ‘Big freakin deal.’

  ‘Hey, watch your tongue. I’m trying to help.’

  Mitzi ducks out and bums a couple of Marlboro Ultra Lites and a box of matches from a traffic cop near the vending machine. On the way back she grabs two mugs of black crap that might be coffee and returns to the interview room. ‘Here you go, best I can do.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Harrison’s face says she’s thought about behaving better. ‘Sorry I snapped.’

  ‘You should be. Today I feel almost as bad as you do.’ She slides across the matches. ‘You’re not supposed to smoke in here – then again people aren’t supposed to be in police stations on Sundays, so what the hell.’

  Harrison lights up. Pulls hard and draws in a big hit of nicotine.

  Mitzi watches her fingers shake. The girl’s in a bad way. She waits until she’s exhaled and taken a second drag. ‘We’ve got a guy in a holding cell down the corridor. I want you to take a look at him.’

  Harrison’s eyes pulse wide. ‘You got him? Kim’s killer?’

  ‘Calm down. I just want you to look and tell me if you recognise him.’

  Harrison bangs her fist on the table. ‘I want to kill the fucking bastard.’

  ‘Hey. I said calm down. Now cool it. This guy isn’t even under arrest. He came in here voluntarily.’

  ‘It ain’t him?’

  ‘I just want you to take a look, Jenny. Can you do that?’

  She is close to tears. Anger. Sorrow. Rage. Grief. Her emotions are about as mixed as they can be. ‘Yeah.’ She pinches the end of the cigarette. ‘I can do it.’

  ‘You can bring your coffee.’

  Harrison picks up the paper mug and follows the lieutenant into the grey corridor.

  Mitzi leads the way into the holding area. Jimmy Berg has gone home and a new sergeant is now working the desk. ‘Witness in the Bass case,’ shouts Mitzi to the officer, who looks like a bald Tiger Woods. ‘I need her to take an unofficial squint at our guy in cell one.’

  ‘Be my guest.’ He waves them through.

  Mitzi uses her ID pass to swipe an electronic plate. She pulls open a heavy door of iron bars, lets Harrison through and bangs it shut again. ‘Don’t say anything. Just put your eye to the peep hole. Take a long look then step away and tell me if you recognise the man in there.’ She nods to a grey door to her right.

  Harrison steps forward. She rests her cheek against the cold metal and peers through the thick glass into the bright ugly light of the room. At first she doesn’t see anything. Then she spots the man in orange detention clothes lying down. It’s hard to see his face. He rolls over. Adjusts a pillow on the bunk.

  Her heart thunders. She steps away from the door.

  Mitzi reads the shock on her face. ‘Do you recognise him, Jenny?’

  She nods but can’t speak.

  Mitzi takes her by the hand and guides her from the door. ‘Who is it?’

  Harrison takes a breath. ‘Fish … it’s Fish Face.’ ‘The guy from the factory, the supervisor?’ She nods. ‘Yeah. Mr James. Emma’s friend.’

  162

  GENEVA-NEW YORK

  Nic reads the passenger manifest as he walks into the first of the business-class cabins. It’s made up of nine rows of seats, configured in three sets of two. All the usual corporate suspects are hanging out. Lean and mean-looking ladder-climbers with iPads and MacBooks already open. A couple of middle-aged senior execs with grey hair and spreading waistlines have passed out through too much free champagne and fatty food. A chic, long-legged woman is in the process of dropping her seat and curling up beneath a blanket. Their eyes briefly catch. Passing ships. A moment gone.

  Emergency exits divide the next two rows of three, then there are four main economy-class sections. Nic takes a long slow look down the endless aisle and then tries to match male faces to his list of those connecting to LAX. Reto Ruhr and Stefan Sauber sound Swiss. They’re both young-looking guys, slim and of average build. Nic shifts to one side and takes a closer look.

  They’re holding hands. Reto puts his head on his friend’s shoulder.

  Nic ticks them off his list. Not because of their homosexuality, but because hitmen don’t mix business with pleasure.

  A couple of young kids break from their seats and paw their way from one side of the plane to the other. Looks like they’re swapping Mom and Dad’s laps for those of Grandpa and Grandma. Nic can’t help but think of himself, Carolina and his son doing a trip like this. Squashed up, full up, loved-up, heading home after a couple of weeks of showing Max Europe. They never got to take him on a plane. Never got further than messing in the sand at Point Dume.

  He forces himself to concentrate. Give or take an empty seat or two, the plane’s carrying about three hundred men, women and children. He takes it slow. Real slow.

  A guy travelling alone in 24A interests him. Thirty to forty, short dark hair, dressed in blue track pants and grey hoodie. He’s slim, fit and relaxed, with three-day stubble and a look that says he travels light and is ready for anything life throws at him. His eyes lock on Nic and for a second the two mentally interrogate each other. Nic checks the manifest. Steve Bryant. He looks down at the list and sees Kelly Bryant occupies 24B. Man and wife. Another write-off.

  Painstakingly, he works his way to the back, relentlessly checking men’s looks against listed names, filtering out the fat senior citizens, the weedy teenagers and physically disabled. Midway through the return leg, he stops and sits in a spare seat next to a guy called Rico Aguero. Rico’s mixed race, broad-shouldered and somewhere in his thirties. Looks like he could handle himself in a skirmish. After five minutes of chat he discovers Rico’s a systems analyst from Manhattan and could bore a saint to death.

  It takes close to forty minutes for the detective to complete his tour and make it back to his seat. ‘Anything to worry about?’ asks Brookes, the air marshal, as he gets up and swaps places with Nic.

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  Gerry nods to Broussard. ‘Old guy’s been sleeping like a baby. Give me a shout if you need any help.’

  ‘I think we’re good now.’ Nic shakes his hand.

  The scientist is out for the count, snoring peacefully. The poor guy must be beat. Nic opens the courtesy blanket, reclines his seat and settles down. Finally, he can relax.

  163

  77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

  Mitzi leaves Harrison in the interview room and heads to Carter’s office to update him.

  He’s hunched over stacks of paperwork and looks like an accountant chasing year-end. ‘You ever think about knocking?’

  ‘Nope, nasty habit. Harrison’s ID’d your fruitcake. She’s a hundred per cent certain he is John James, her supervisor.’ She perches on the edge of his desk and frowns at all the Excel sheets. ‘On top of that, she says that very recently said fruitcake has been close with a co-worker called Emma Varley.’

  ‘It happens.’ He pulls the papers out from under her leg. ‘Stay open-minded, Mitzi. Many people – even fruitcakes – meet future spouses at work.’

  ‘Or future victims. Varley went missing last week. She just didn’t turn up one day.’

  Now she has his attention. ‘No reason?’

&nbs
p; ‘None that he mentioned. James told the factory floor she simply handed in her notice.’

  ‘You get an address for Varley?’

  ‘Not exactly. Harrison didn’t know it but says she lives out Gardena way.’

  ‘I’ll get Dan to pin it down and take a ride out there.’ Carter’s desk phone rings. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Boss, it’s Kris. I’m in James’s house in Carson and I can tell you it’s seriously weird.’

  ‘Whatcha got?’ He switches it to speakerphone so Mitzi can hear.

  ‘There’s no furniture. No carpets. Newspaper sheets all over the floor. It’s like nothing human’s ever been here. Ain’t no lights in the place either.’ He works his way through with a flashlight. ‘It’s more of a squat than a home. I’m just going in the bedroom and man it stinks in here.’ The beam plays over the ceiling, down the walls and across the floor. ‘There are burned-out candles all over the place. It feels ritualistic, you know. Satanic. Scrub that, there’s a holy big Jeez-us crucifix on the wall.’ The light pools in the far corner on a stack of white cloth.

  ‘He’s got linen sheets here.’

  ‘Check them out,’ says Carter. ‘But don’t touch them.’

  Libowicz bends over the stack. ‘I ain’t no bed expert – as Mrs L will testify – but this looks strange stuff.’ He runs the light up and down the cloth. ‘There are freakin’ yards of sheet here, enough to wind round a mummy.’

  ‘Probably took it from the factory where he works,’ says Mitzi.

  Something glints in the beam of the cop’s flashlight. ‘Man, there are hundreds of blades here – the old double-edged types that you screw down.’ He leans in close. ‘Lots of blood on them too and a bottle of disinfectant and an old handkerchief by the look of it.’

  ‘He’s a self-cutter,’ explains Carter. ‘That’s his kit. Don’t touch the things, he may well be Positive.’

  ‘No intention of doing so, Boss.’ Libowicz goes quiet for a second. He stands up and shines the beam across the far wall. Dull marks appear. He steps forward and takes a closer look.

  Blood.

  He moves the light around, then turns and sees behind him. ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘What?’ asks Carter.

  ‘He’s scrawled something on the wall. In blood. It says, ‘I AM THE WAR THAT WILL NEVER END. DELIVERANCE..’

  164

  JFK AIRPORT, NEW YORK

  During the changeover to the LAX plane, Nic charms the desk crew into an upgrade for him and Broussard and asks for a fresh manifest and details of any late bookings made at Geneva. No last-minuters come up on the terminal screens – not even him or Broussard. Seems data systems the world over let you down just when you need them most.

  By the time the plane takes off Nic’s met the new steward and the air marshal, a tough-looking former soldier called Ike, who has settled into a seat across the aisle from him and Édouard. The scientist is more relaxed this time, as the belts-free signal pings down the aisles and Nic gets up to do another sweep.

  Glenda, the attendant on the first leg, was right then and is right now – people are all over the place. At times no one seems to match the manifest. Women are sitting in men’s seats. Kids are missing. Queues trail from all the bathrooms and kitchen galleys. By the time Nic makes it back to his seat he thinks there are more than a dozen male names he’s not managed to put faces to – about twice as many as on the Geneva leg. As he muses over the missing men, Broussard eases himself into the aisle.

  ‘I need the toilette,’ he explains, reading the critical look on his companion’s face.

  Nic doesn’t take his eyes off the Frenchman. He tells himself he’s being stupid. He should relax. They left any threat back on the freeway near Geneva. But old police habits die hard and he can’t help but watch the washroom door and wait for the scientist to reappear. His nerves twitch when a young guy in a cream T-shirt and blue jeans crosses from the other side of the plane and tries the locked cubicle. He’s lean and a shade under six feet, tanned and fit. The backs of his arms show grazes and bruises. There’s a healing cut on his jaw below the right ear.

  He gives the door a second rattle. Nic doesn’t recognise the face – not from Geneva and not from his latest round of checks. The detective gets out of his seat and nods to Ike. The big air marshal drops his book and circles down the other end of the aisle. Nic scans the stranger for any sign of a gun and prays one isn’t going to be drawn up here in the sky. A flight attendant points the man to another restroom down near the far curtain.

  Nic follows. He studies every inch of him as he approaches. Looks at the fall of his denims; any chance a concealed weapon – or explosives – are stuffed in a sock or shin strap. The stranger pulls up and tries the washroom door. There are raw cuts and some swelling on his right knuckles, like a punch has been thrown within the last few days. Nic checks Ike is parallel with him over the other side of the aisle and then clumsily stumbles into the guy in front of him.

  The man turns around and flat-hands the detective. ‘Hey man, look where you’re going.’

  ‘Sorry there. I was just trying to reset my watch and didn’t see you. Did you catch how many hours the attendant said New York was behind Switzerland?’

  The guy checks him over. ‘Six.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Nic adjusts his timepiece. ‘You heading to LA for work or fun?’

  ‘Fun. And right now you’re ruining it.’ He turns away.

  Ike edges through the galley curtain and comes round so he is close to Nic, with the stranger caught between the two of them.

  Nic turns him back again. His eyes show he’s not afraid of any repercussions. ‘I’m not finished talking to you.’

  The guy glares at him. ‘What are you, a cop?’

  ‘Matter of fact I am.’ Nic flips out his ID. ‘What’s your name and seat number?’

  The marshal leans against a wall and slips his hand round the back of his belt and feels for the Taser tucked beneath his jacket.

  ‘Manton. Jimmy D.’ He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a ticket stub.

  Nic takes it and checks it again the manifest. It tallies. He passes it back and nods at the guy’s grazed hand. ‘You been in a fight recently?’

  He touches his grazed knuckles. ‘No way. I ain’t hit anyone since high school. I knocked myself up skateboarding. It’s what I do. Fun and work. I skate and surf. Get pretty well paid for it too. Any laws against that?’

  ‘Not yet. I know a little about surfing, but educate me, Mr Manton, who do you think are the best boarders?’

  The guy’s eyes light up. ‘For me Mick Fanning – all the way. Though I like that Hawaiian, Torrey Meister. My style’s more like his.’

  Nic looks again at the manifest. He’s convinced the guy’s who he says he is – another cocksure idiot who can earn a living getting sponsorship deals out in Malibu.

  Down the aisle, Édouard appears from the restroom and returns to his seat. Ike catches the cop’s eye and drifts away to cover the scientist.

  Nic’s done asking questions. ‘Enjoy yourself in California, Jimmy D. and stay safe.’ He playfully punches him on the arm and wanders back to Broussard.

  165

  GARDENA, LOS ANGELES

  Dan Amis still has a handkerchief to his mouth as he walks out of the shadows and stench of the old clapboard house. He takes a long, clear breath of early evening air and calls in what he just saw. ‘We need the ME, boss. Body of a white female laid out Creeper-style in the bedroom of Emma Varley’s house. Our guy’s been here.’

  Carter is listening on the speakerphone with Mitzi. He covers his head with his hands. Another death – another killing he failed to prevent. ‘You think it’s her?’

  ‘Yeah. Decomp has already made a mess but there’s a picture of her in the living room – looks enough like her.’

  ‘Okay. Stay there. Act as primary on that scene. I’ll turn out forensics as well.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Carter calls Amy Chang’s cell. She’s wo
rked all the previous Creeper bodies, so he wants her on this one too.

  She picks up after a couple of rings. ‘Dr Chang.’

  ‘Hi, this is Tyler Carter. Sorry to screw up your Sunday night but we’ve got another Creeper killing. Might even have the perp as well.’

  ‘I’ll get my kit.’

  ‘Vic is a woman by the name of Emma Varley. Twenty-something. Found in her home over in Gardena. I’ll have Mitzi email you details. Amis is out there – says she’s already started to ripen.’

  ‘Tell Mitzi not to mail me – my desk computer fried the other night and I’m having trouble logging on through the external VPN link. Text me the address.’

  ‘I’ll do it myself. Thanks.’ He puts down the desk phone, picks up his own cell, thumbs in the crime scene’s address and hits send. ‘Mitzi, will you get Tom to send the CSIs out there?’

  ‘Sure. Can I share something with you?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘A couple things been playing on my mind.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Jenny Harrison’s break-in and her missing phone.’

  ‘You’re thinking what?’

  ‘Maybe the Creeper killed Kim Bass and was planning to kill Jenny too. Only luckily for Jenny, she wasn’t there that night. She was out getting high and ended up in a strange man’s bed.’

  ‘A moment of sexual promiscuity that for once bettered her life?’

  ‘Maybe even the Harrisons of this world get a break some time.’

  ‘A search team is going out to meet Kris at James’s house. I’ll have him look for the phone.’

  Mitzi’s still thinking things through. ‘If James did go to Harrison’s house, then he might have left prints and DNA. There’s so much soil and dog shit over the path, you might even still be able to get boot prints.’

  ‘Matthews said your legendary right hook was merely a distraction from a brilliant brain.’