The Shroud Conspiracy

by John Heubusch

  Kishan pulled aside the rug that served as a makeshift door to their home and peered within. He heard his sister’s soothing voice before his eyes could adjust to the darkness inside. It was not until Saanvi’s gentle embrace and peck on his cheek that he recognized her familiar profile.

  “Sit down, Kishan. Let me take those bags,” Saanvi said. “Gifts from the gods, aren’t they?”

  She always says that, Kishan thought. If only she knew—and perhaps she did—what sacrifices he’d made over the years to help her. But for her, he was silent. The thought of his cowardice often made him sick.

  “How is the baby?” Kishan asked. “Has it moved about some more? Can I feel it?”

  “I’ve not felt it kick for over a week,” she said. She sounded a little worried. “But we are fine. Everything is fine. I spoke with the Shaman some days ago. He blessed us both. He says everything is fine.”

  Kishan shook his head the moment he heard she’d visited a Shaman. He knew Saanvi needed to see a doctor to ensure her firstborn had the care it needed, but it would take a month’s salary to make that happen. These were the times he needed Ravi. Kishan had his sister sit on the floor. He put his hands on her belly, hoping to feel the child make even the tiniest of kicks. They sat together for twenty minutes, but as they talked, Kishan felt nothing.

  Kishan’s eyes had fully adjusted to the dark now, only to be assaulted by the smoke. It wafted from the large coffee cans in the corner of the room that served as a jury-rigged stove. As he peered through the smoke, he saw that something had moved near the stove. Kishan realized that Parth had been huddled over the cans in the dark to warm his hands. He’d not bothered to greet his houseguest. Kishan didn’t have to wonder why. The last time he had visited his sister, he’d found bruise marks on her arms and her neck. Saanvi claimed she’d had an accident, but Kishan knew better. At sixteen years of age, Parth had a great deal more learning to do.

  But where was he to get it? Kishan thought. Kishan had been one of the very fortunate few—in essence a project of Sehgal’s. Ravi had ensured the orphan had everything a boy might need: a first-rate prep school, tutors at his beck and call, college tuition, and, most valuable of all, at least a Master’s practicum in chemistry and genetics taught to him on a daily basis in labs run by none other than a Nobel Prize winner.

  “Has he touched you again? Has he hurt you?” Kishan whispered.

  “No, Kishan. Not once. Not since you threatened him,” Saanvi said.

  “That’s good,” Kishan said. He glanced over his sister as best he could without making a scene and saw nothing new to be concerned about. “Remember what I said about protecting yourself and the baby. Remember to use it if you must.”

  Kishan knew that Saanvi was certain of exactly what he meant. She glanced over at the small hole in the tin wall where Kishan had placed a crude knife for self-defense. He hated the idea of leaving his sister after such a short visit, but he’d promised Ravi he would prepare the lab just as instructed for the tests to be run once he returned.

  Before he left, he helped Saanvi store the bags of vegetables and fruits in the various cardboard boxes she had assembled to serve as makeshift shelves. Then he opened her hands and slipped into them all of the rupees he could spare. He needed enough to buy a small amount of gas for the ride home, but she would take the rest.

  Kishan used to cry each time he left his sister in this way. But all of the trips over the years had hardened him badly. He knew that as long as his sister remained a captive to these slums, he too would be a prisoner of Dharavi.

  CHAPTER 16

  Turin, Italy

  June 2014

  It was eight o’clock in the evening in the dimly lit laboratory of the Politecnico di Torino, and for Bondurant the moment of truth had come. The usual volt of “Vatican Vultures,” as he called them, was not expected for another two hours. Still annoyed by how they seemed to peer over his shoulder during every moment of the investigation, Bondurant had purposely provided them with an outdated schedule of the day’s lab activities. He would apologize profusely when they arrived, after his work was completed.

  He tried to ignore the splitting headache of forced sobriety that had hounded him for days. Getting only four or five hours of sleep a night had him exhausted, but the adrenaline that coursed through his veins in anticipation of the moment—the world’s first virtual autopsy—had him completely alert.

  The famous Shroud of Turin lay before him, waist high, stretched end-to-end on a long, elevated light table like those used by photographers to examine film negatives. For Bondurant’s session, like all others so far, the Shroud lay inside a specially equipped “clean room” to ensure that not even microscopic traces of dust or airborne microbes could contaminate the exposed relic. It had been carefully transported there by Church officials protected by armed carabinieri. The Vatican’s representatives had painstakingly removed it from its resting place, the vacuum-sealed, bulletproof glass display case in the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist where Bondurant had gotten his first glimpse of the relic.

  He slipped on his headset and stepped toward the precious cloth to record the historic examination. Before he could begin, the familiar sound of the air lock on the door of the dimly lit observation room behind him sounded. A large red light flashed, signaling someone had entered. He had lost his privacy just when he wanted it the most, and he turned to see who had intruded on him so unexpectedly.

  Domenika stood at the doorway alone and wagged her finger at him, as though she had caught him red-handed. Truthfully, she had. He reluctantly waved her into the clean room to join him, knowing there was little he could do to stop her intrusion. The air lock on the door leading from the observation platform sounded and the green light above it began to glow, signaling the room was sealed. Domenika, wearing a lab overcoat and sterile booties, was now inside. He couldn’t help but notice how oblivious she was to her looks, and he felt his heart contract when she came close. Even nearly drowning in the oversized lab garb, like a sterile white bag that completely covered her from head to toe, she was one of the most stunning women he’d ever seen.

  “I thought your observation wasn’t scheduled to start for a few more hours,” she said.

  The suspicion in her voice was obvious, and Bondurant relished his ability to irritate her.

  “It wasn’t,” Bondurant said. “Looks like I fooled everyone but you. I presume you’ll now ask me to delay until everyone else can make it here to gawk from their usual perches?” he said. He could see her struggle to remain calm.

  “No, go ahead,” she said. “I read about your machine. I think you’re attempting the impossible. If you’re going to fall on your face, I figure someone ought to be here to witness it.”

  “Ye of little faith,” he said as he wagged his own finger. He pointed to a nearby stool and asked her to sit. He looked down at his notes on the table beside him, staring at them for more than a minute without comprehending them. He couldn’t focus. He looked up at her, and decided to just say it.

  “Hey, about the other night, I understand you ran into my date at the hotel—”

  Domenika wouldn’t let him finish his thought.

  “Yes, your pretty waitress,” she said. “I hadn’t realized you’d already made such fast friends. What is she? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

  Bondurant looked up at the ceiling, avoiding Domenika’s eyes.

  “I just want to say I’m sorry. I should have told you about her,” he said.

  “Told me?” Domenika said. “What business is that of mine? There’s nothing to apologize for.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You were kind to offer your help that evening. I should have—”

  “How do you turn this silly contraption on?” Domenika asked.

  Bondurant took the hint. The conversation was over. He turned toward the sleek metallic instrument panel beside him and pointed to the small red button in the center of the console.

  “Press it,” he said.
>
  Her eyes lit up as she reached across him and pushed it. Nothing happened. He looked curiously at the control panel and pressed the master control switch and the button himself several more times. He sat back in his chair, confused.

  “I know,” she said. “Let’s try plugging it in.” She pointed to the plug that lay on the floor below the electrical outlet on the wall beside them.

  In his haste to get the equipment set up and his observation under way before anyone arrived, he’d forgotten his most basic setup task. He could feel his face turn a bright red. He bent over, quickly jammed the plug into the outlet, and said nothing, hoping to save himself further embarrassment. He nodded to her to try again.

  She did, and she looked pleased as the network of miniature cameras and laser projectors he had rigged with meticulous precision above the Shroud began to hum and, in rapid succession, blink to life.

  Constructed by Bondurant and two of his ingenious grad students at the Enlightenment Institute, the apparatus could only be described as experimental. It had usually performed in tests he’d conducted in the weeks that led up to his trip, but now he needed it to shine. He watched nervously as the expected large, diffuse blob of blue light about the size of a coffin materialized from the projectors and began to form just above the sacred relic. Domenika’s face, especially her eyes, glowed in the strange hue. In a few more seconds, the system’s high-resolution cameras found their target and zoomed in on the familiar image on the Shroud below. As they reached a focus, the previously diffuse aura of light that floated before them began to slowly concentrate into a more refined, sharper box of light suspended in air.

  Then, as if by magic, the light shrank further in size and began to form something magnificent: a hologram in the distinct shape of a human being. The ghostly three-dimensional image of a lifelike body wobbled back and forth, flickered, and disappeared entirely for a moment. Then it reappeared as quickly as it had left, only now it floated on its back. Domenika took a step backward and looked at Bondurant as though she were looking at a ghost. The object came to rest no more than an inch off the light table, as though it had risen from the fabric of the Shroud itself.

  “Come forth!” Bondurant said, deliberately echoing Jesus’s command when he raised Lazarus from the dead. He looked about quickly to make sure nobody could see or hear him from the glass-paneled observation room next door.

  “My God in heaven,” Domenika said. “This is impossible. It’s sheer genius.”

  “I know,” Bondurant said proudly. “Thank you.”

  He was now actually glad Domenika had interrupted his special moment, as it was an experience that had to be shared to be believed. He reached for the microphone on the headset that was connected to the recorder in his pocket. He could tell she wanted to say more, but he held his forefinger to his lips to silence her. He looked at the clock on the wall.

  “Wednesday, June 11th, 8:03 p.m.,” he said. His tone was sterile. “Forensic anthropologic observations of Shroud of Turin. Investigation of Dr. Jon Bondurant. Subject examination through holography.”

  Even Bondurant was stupefied at what he saw before him. Just as Secondo Pia had brought the figure on the Shroud more fully to life for the world through his photographic negatives a hundred years before, Bondurant had given that same image three-dimensional life through the modern-day technology of holography. While the hologram was only an illusion of light made possible by precision laser projectors and multiple sheets of delicate Mylar-type film, it represented the most lifelike image ever seen of the man who appeared on the Shroud.

  Bondurant passed his hand directly through the midsection of the glowing blue-green light before him and adjusted the tint control on the console. He gently reached for Domenika’s hand and had her place it alongside the image. He asked her to hold it there. He then returned to the control panel and carefully adjusted the skin color of the levitating apparition to match her own until it looked uncannily human.

  “You can move it now,” he said as he pointed to her hand.

  She hurriedly made the sign of the cross and stared at what was before her.

  “Subject is male, approximately five feet seven inches, approximate weight 150 to 160 pounds,” Bondurant said into his microphone.

  It took him only a moment to conclude that the three-dimensional figure that glowed before them revealed details of the image on the famous Shroud that had never been seen before. This is actually going to work, he thought. What once had been a flat, ghostlike figure of a man on cloth now stood out in bold relief and brought Bondurant’s goal, an anthropological autopsy of refracted light, within reach.

  He knelt and stared intently up at the body bathed in light only inches from his face. He scanned the figure from its head to its toes.

  “The image presented appears anatomically correct in all three dimensions,” Bondurant said. He tried to mask his surprise. He pulled a small tape measure from his lab coat and leaned slightly over the body of light.

  “Hold this for me, will you?” he asked Domenika as he handed her one end of the tape. He measured various elements of the luminous figure from end to end and side to side. “I find the lengths of the extremities, both arms and legs, to be in correct proportion to one another. The same is true for the width of the shoulders and thorax. Individual’s muscular and skeletal elements appear to dictate mid- to late thirties in age.”

  He leaned in and observed the several inches that separated the light table and the apparition that floated before him. He shook his head. “Subject shows markings throughout that appear to be signs of a scourge. Evidence of welts and indentations found on the neck, back, buttocks, and rear of legs.”

  Domenika dropped to her knees beside Bondurant to see exactly what he was referring to. Then she held her hand to her heart and quietly began to cry. He saw the tears streaming down her face and, helpless, hadn’t a clue what to do to console her. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently to comfort her, but felt instantly uncomfortable. He removed his hand quickly. Reluctantly, he left her on her knees, stood up, and peered closely at the hands of the hologram, which rested on its abdomen. Then he turned toward the image’s feet. He examined them at close range in silence for several minutes. There appeared to be large indentations in both the wrists and feet of the image. He took a step backward from the figure and folded his arms, deep in thought.

  He reached again for his microphone. “Individual was crucified,” Bondurant concluded reluctantly.

  Opposite him on the other side of the light table, Domenika was whispering the Lord’s Prayer.

  “Entry holes in the wrists,” Bondurant continued, “are approximately two centimeters across and appear to be the result of square-shaped spikes. Judging by the size of the cavities, of which the wound on the left hand is more pronounced, I would estimate a two-centimeter width to be associated with nails approximately twelve to seventeen centimeters long.”

  He grimaced. “Clever,” he said. He looked toward Domenika and pulled her over toward him by the hand. “By all appearances from the holes in his wrists, these spikes were driven directly into Destot’s space. Do you know what that is?”

  She shook her head slowly but couldn’t respond. Bondurant grew concerned by the trancelike state she’d almost reached. He wanted to engage her to keep her present in the moment.

  “It’s between the carpals and radius, transecting the median nerve. They were trying to avoid major arteries and bone fractures,” Bondurant said. “They had no interest in letting this individual bleed to death quickly. The subject was meant to suffer. These are signs of experts executing slow torture.”

  Another tear ran down her cheek.

  Bondurant knew his stoic method of fact-finding was only making matters worse for her.

  “Are you sure you want to remain here through the rest of this?” he asked. It had been a long time since he had felt so sympathetic toward anyone. Actually, he wasn’t sure he ever had. He tried to brush the feel
ing from his mind, like an unwanted cobweb. But he found himself genuinely worried about her, and his examination was only half complete.

  “Yes, yes. Please finish,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”

  He turned from her, stared once again at the holes clearly visible in both of the image’s feet, and, given what he surmised, felt slightly disgusted. He reported his findings rapidly to spare Domenika and to speed up the examination.

  He looked at the clock on the wall again and grew concerned that Domenika’s colleagues might return from their dinner before he was finished.

  “One nail. One large nail,” he said hurriedly. “Both feet were nailed together, one on top of the other, by a single spike, as evidenced by the three-centimeter hole through the intermetatarsal space in the right foot. There is little doubt it punctured the terminal branches of the deep peroneal nerve. A smaller hole, approximately two centimeters in width in the left foot, what would have been the rear foot, received the slimmer, sharp end of the aforementioned spike.”

  Bondurant stopped for a moment, startled. He noticed that his own chest had started to heave back and forth. He figured his symptoms were caused by normal anxiety, considering the astounding nature of the discovery. It was impossible not to feel empathy for the torturous death the victim before them had obviously suffered. After a moment to catch his breath, he resumed his meticulous examination of the image from the upper thighs to the feet. But something bothered him.

  He pulled up a chair, sat on it, leaned in, and looked at the holographic image from the side, slightly confused. He reached into his memory of the Gospels and recalled from Christian folklore that it was the two criminals on either side of Jesus who were shown the “mercy” of having their legs broken by Roman soldiers. According to the Gospels, it was a “favor” to them withheld from Jesus. Unable to use their shattered femurs to push themselves up the length of their crosses while they hung, the thieves would have experienced massive blood loss from the compound fractures and suffered the full weight of their bodies during crucifixion. According to biblical lore, they mercifully died more quickly. The same could not be said for this victim.