Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1)

by Gary Williams

  “I have no desire to spend my days in the pokey. We’re after information purely for academic reasons, not for publication. If we confirm anything, I promise to share the information with you first.”

  She took a long sip. “Okay, the down and dirty is that we don’t know a thing. The manner of death of Subject X has been labeled ‘Undetermined,’ and the man’s identity is still a mystery. Fingerprints don’t match any on file. We’ve even run them through Interpol’s international database.”

  Marvin frowned. “I only have perfunctory knowledge of forensics, but how can the manner of death be labeled as ‘Undetermined’? He died from a gunshot wound.”

  “That’s what common sense would dictate.”

  “Dr. Burke, I was in attendance. I witnessed the police officer shooting the man in the head.”

  “That’s very true, and one of the troubling aspects of this case. Frankly, Marvin, nothing about Subject X makes sense.” She leaned in and checked to make sure no one could overhear her. “The autopsy revealed the man’s heart, lungs and stomach were inoperable pre-mortem.”

  “Before he died?”

  “Yes, the organs had atrophied and fused to surrounding organs as if they hadn’t been used in an extraordinarily long time. All the other organs appeared normal. It’s unheard of. I’ve never seen anything even remotely similar in humans or animals.”

  Marvin shook his head trying to digest the thought. “So you’re saying he was clinically dead before he came out of the gunpowder magazine?”

  “That’s what the autopsy suggests.”

  “A reflex reaction maybe?” Marvin said. “Like when the tail of a snake is cut off, yet it still wiggles?”

  “I can only speculate. We’re dealing in uncharted territory here, and it gets worse…or should I say weirder.” Her brow furrowed. “Let’s assume for a moment that somehow the man had gotten into the gunpowder magazine and died. As I said, the deterioration of the heart and lungs suggests the man had been deceased for a long time. Yet if he had been dead for any length of time, Subject X’s bones would have disarticulated within months, if not weeks, given the warm environment. Obviously the skeleton was whole; still affixed at all the joints. How in God’s name the tendons and ligaments were still holding the skeletal structure together is beyond me.

  “That raises another glaring contradiction. Only one amino acid, proline, was found in the remains.”

  Marvin did not attempt to suppress his bewilderment. He screwed his face in a puzzled expression. “Out of a possible 15, you only found one amino acid? Even hydroxyproline had already dissipated from the body? It takes centuries for that many amino acids to disappear from a human cadaver.”

  “Correct.”

  “That would suggest Subject X died...”

  “400 to 500 years ago.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Marvin exclaimed looking at his coffee, his thoughts piling up. “I now understand the reluctance to release the results.”

  “That’s not all,” she smiled almost whimsically. “He was blind…and not from any genetic or heredity trait. It was a causal condition. You see, proteins are constantly synthesized and metabolized for the eyes to function and detect light. If the eyes don’t need to detect light, the body considers it a waste of cellular resources to maintain, and in essence, the body allows the eyes to become nonfunctional. As you can imagine, this has never happened with a human; only in certain lab experiments with animals.”

  Marvin was speechless.

  “Another thing that suggests he’d been inside that room a long time: remember the marks on the walls of the gunpowder magazine?”

  Marvin nodded.

  “As you probably know, Subject X was missing a finger on his right hand, and the pattern of striations on the walls matched the five fingers on one hand and four fingers on the other where the man had clawed the surface. The marks were extensive. The scratches were very deep. Odd thing is, with the exception of the missing finger, all of the other metacarpals appeared normal with no wear at the tips.”

  “I’m not following you,” Marvin said.

  Dr. Burke leaned forward again. “This means that the vast numbers of striations made on the interior walls were done strictly with fingernails, and none were a result of the victim grinding his fingers into the walls after the nails had worn down. With the coquina walls, the nails would have worn down very quickly or, more likely, broken off after only a few scrapes. To get the number and depth of the marks on the walls, the man’s nails would have to have grown back many, many times over the course of his time in the gunpowder magazine.”

  A look of revelation burst across Marvin’s face. “That means he had to be alive in the room for an extremely long time; enough for his fingernails to keep growing back again and again.”

  “An unimaginable number of years,” Dr. Burke added taking another sip of her coffee.

  “But if he was trapped in the room, it obviously wasn’t airtight or he would have suffocated.”

  “Except, as I mentioned, his lungs were inoperable. Extensive investigation was performed on the walls and ceiling. The coquina was solid, and several feet thick. Until the entrance was reopened, it was airtight, all right. Curiously, a layer of dirt was found on the stone floors, but it was probably tracked inside.”

  For a moment Marvin was quiet, his mind trying to digest everything Dr. Burke had said. He had two more questions Curt had specifically wanted him to ask. “Is there anything you can tell me about his origin? Subject X’s nationality?”

  “Based on facial features, the probability is he was European, but that’s the best that can be determined.”

  European, as in French, Marvin thought. He felt an odd sense of elation and confusion. The facts seemed to correlate to the Bolivian monk’s story. Outwardly, he kept a poker face.

  “I’m mad at myself for not paying attention to the language he spoke in the melee that ensued when he attacked the police officer. If he was European, I’m sure I could have picked up on the nationality.”

  Dr. Burke shook her head from side to side. “It would have been difficult. His tongue had been cut out, so his speech would have been impeded. It had been done some time ago, but, of course, we don’t know why or by whom.”

  Mentally connecting Curt’s findings from the audio clip and the news Dr. Burke just shared caused Marvin’s mind to race.

  “Are you okay?” Dr. Burke asked.

  Marvin realized his expression must have been one of absolute dismay.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he recovered. “Now I really understand the reticence to release the autopsy results.”

  She forced a small laugh. “As you can now see, nothing about Subject X is rational, but if I see any of this in print, expect a knock at the door.” She paused. “I need to get back to the office, Professor Sellon.”

  “Please, call me Marvin. Oh, one more question. Was the triton-shaped mark underneath Subject X’s jawbone natural?”

  “As opposed to manmade...like a tattoo?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was a birthmark, Marvin; a most unique birthmark at that. Probably never see another one like it in a million years. So now it’s your turn to share some information. Tell me about the man in Bolivia.”

  “Oh, him. He’s a monk. He claims Subject X is a 500-year-old French Huguenot originally from the Fort Caroline settlement in Jacksonville who was sealed alive in the Castillo by the Spanish soon after its construction in 1695.”

  Dr. Massey Burke stared at him a moment. Then she rolled her eyes, stood, and walked away leaving the rest of her coffee on the table.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Monday, August 15, 10:25 a.m. – Jacksonville, Florida

  After leaving the airport, Scott returned to his house. Although he had been unable to take vacation for the entire week, he was able to barter with his boss for inter
mittent time between his speaking obligations at the conference in downtown Jacksonville on Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. He planned to use today to catch up on the chores he had deferred from Friday.

  Scott was changing into old blue jeans and a tee shirt in preparation for yard work when his phone rang.

  “Scott, it’s Curt. I tried your office, but they said you were off. I need you to come to St. Augustine. Pronto.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “Meet me in the Castillo parking lot. I just got insight into Subject X’s autopsy results. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “But—”

  There was a click, and Curt was gone.

  Scott considered calling him back, but there was something in Curt’s tone, an air of excitement and fascination. Instead, he finished dressing and was out the door several minutes later.

  ****

  Scott passed underneath the St. Augustine Historical District sign and veered off onto A1A. The street, which parallels Matanzas Bay, runs along a three-quarter-mile stretch robust with tourist attractions, including famous destinations such as The Old Jail, The Fountain of Youth Archaeological Park, Nuestra Señora de la Leche shrine and cemetery, and Ripley’s Believe-it-or-Not.

  The two-lane road was generally congested with tourism traffic, and today was no exception as vehicles plodded along. The road’s one redeeming feature was the quaint shops and eclectic stores which helped to soften the tourist-clogged veneer.

  Scott steered his Chevrolet Tahoe past the Nuestra Señora de la Leche shrine and cemetery. Not far ahead, a road on the right led to a parking area and Welcome Center. A short distance beyond, St. George Street, a paved, narrow street for foot traffic only, paralleled A1A with a plethora of attractions, restaurants, and shops.

  Across the way on the left, a large grassy area rose toward the massive sprawling gray structure of the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument sitting majestically in defiance of time. In a small town where the streets were crowded with shops and stores crammed in every nook and cranny of real estate, the voluminous Castillo stood in stark contrast, a huge stone garrison isolated upon a vast field on the edge of Matanzas Bay. Acres of green carpeted the earth to the north, west, and south, where a glacis slope ramped up and abutted the lower covered way and moat. A replica of the palisades that once surrounded the land sides of the Castillo extended from the west wall to the street. The eastern curtain wall on the far side was bordered by the bay where a high bulkhead ensured it stayed dry.

  Tourists speckled the grounds in every direction, walking the ramparts or the perimeter walls or edging along the dry moat that bordered the Castillo on the three land sides.

  Scott turned left into the Castillo’s busy parking lot and came to a stop in the first available spot. Along the sidewalk, tourists were thick, moving in droves toward the Castillo ticket office a short distance away. Of all the attractions and historic structures, the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument was the cornerstone fixture of the historic town. It always amazed Scott to think that a town of 11,000 residents saw more than six million visitors annually. The Castillo ranked as one of the main attractions.

  He gazed at the aged garrison, admiring its grandeur. Built in the late 1600s as protection from pirate attacks and to defend Spanish territory from assault by the English at Charles Town in South Carolina, its design was surprisingly simple yet effective: a hollow square with diamond-shaped bastions on all four corners and a triangular ravelin opposite the sally port along the southern wall. Once complete, in its 300-plus years in existence, the Castillo was never conquered, despite numerous attempts.

  Scott waited in his running car with the air conditioner blasting when Curt arrived eight minutes later.

  “What are we doing? You didn’t book us on a flight to Somalia, did you?” Scott asked, rising from his vehicle and stepping into the sweltering heat.

  Curt stepped close to Scott. “I spoke to Marvin. He talked to a contact within the police department and got some fascinating information. Let’s get inside the Castillo.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ll explain.” Curt said, leading them up the sidewalk toward the admissions booth. To their right, a beautiful blue sky served as a backdrop over the calm bay. The surface sparkled from the late-morning sun. Across the way, the tree line of Anastasia Island bordered the far side of the waterway.

  “Remember how absurd Father En’s story was when we heard it on Saturday? Well, it’s still absurd, but Marvin gleaned information that supports what the monk told us.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “The autopsy of Subject X revealed an assortment of conflicting data. Most startling is the evidence suggests the man was dead, and had been, for 400 to 500 years, which puts him in the period when the French settled Fort Caroline on the St. Johns River in Jacksonville; in the exact time period Father En said that Guillaume and Pinot LeFlore were there in 1565.”

  “But Subject X wasn’t dead. We both saw him alive.”

  “The autopsy apparently suggests otherwise. His heart and lungs had been gone so long that they had practically disintegrated, yet the other organs were still in working order. There were other forensic indicators that the man had died long ago yet had also been alive in that sealed room for a long, long time.”

  “None of what you just said makes sense.”

  “This is exactly why officials haven’t released the autopsy to the public. Plus they don’t know who he is. I did some research on the Internet last night and discovered a Lucienne LeFlore in France in the 1540s who gave birth to Guillaume and Pinot and also a daughter, Sabine. So we know part of Father En’s story is accurate. The brothers did exist. Maybe, by some way we can’t conceive of, the man in the gunpowder magazine was Pinot LeFlore.”

  Curt continued, “But there’s more. I analyzed the audio from the news video when Subject X appeared in the Courtyard. I was able to screen each sound, each voice. I can clearly hear Subject X shout, ‘Mur iers! Mur iers!’ moments before he was shot.”

  “Mur iers? What does that mean?”

  “I didn’t know. But Marvin also found out Subject X had had his tongue cut out.”

  “Interesting.” Scott thought for a moment. “So the man couldn’t speak very well.”

  “Exactly. He would be unable to enunciate any words requiring the use of his tongue.”

  Scott understood. “You think ‘Mur iers’ is an incomplete word.”

  Curt nodded. “I considered letters that he would be unable to speak without a tongue. I reasoned that the missing letters between the two sets of letters is ‘tr.’ Actually, I backed into it, because with a slightly different spelling, and adding a ‘tr,’ the word becomes ‘meurtriers.’ Meurtriers is French for ‘murderers.’ It’s exactly what a French Huguenot from Fort Caroline would call the Spanish conquistadors in the Castillo given that his fellow French countrymen were ruthlessly massacred by the Spanish on the beach south of St. Augustine in October 1565 when their ships wrecked in a storm.”

  “Curt, you’re asking me to buy a story that a man who had no heart or lungs survived for 500 years inside a sealed room?”

  “Marvin’s source also confirmed the triton-shaped mark on Subject X’s jawbone was a birthmark and not a tattoo. The odds of two identical birthmarks with such an intricate shape are nearly incalculable.”

  Scott looked at Curt wondering if his friend was serious. “So now you believe the monk’s story?”

  “What I believe is that the autopsy revealed anomalies which can’t be explained.”

  “Okay, I hear you,” Scott exhaled. “Now will you tell me why are we going inside the Castillo?”

  They reached the admissions booth. Curt spoke in a low voice so as not to be overheard by others standing in line. “You know me, Scott. I’m an archaeologist. I deal strictly in empirical facts. Well, the autopsy sa
ys the man was 500 years old. So assuming this data is accurate, let’s refocus on what we know. Let’s say Father En is being 100 percent truthful. According to him, Guillaume and Pinot LeFlore left Fort Caroline in 1565 and eventually, Guillaume wound up in Bolivia, never knowing what happened to Pinot. How would Pinot have wound up in the gunpowder magazine?”

  Scott thought for a moment and replied, “Well, the French and Spanish were enemies, and given that the LeFlores went south from Fort Caroline, they may have come close to St. Augustine, where Pinot was captured by the Spanish. Then, for whatever reason, he was sealed alive in the gunpowder magazine.”

  “Exactly, and the Spaniards cut out his tongue so he couldn’t scream for help and be an annoyance,” Curt added.

  “That still doesn’t explain why we’re going inside.”

  “I want to examine the gunpowder magazine again.”

  “Didn’t an archaeological team go through it in detail before they opened it up to the public several weeks ago?”

  “Of course, I was part of the team.”

  “Then what are you hoping to find?”

  “I want to be absolutely positive that we didn’t miss anything. Now that we have at least a sliver of supporting proof Subject X was Pinot LeFlore, I want another look.”

  They paid for their tickets and moved up the walkway gazing at the austere edifice before them. The southern scarp lifted at an angle away, rising nearly two dozen feet where cannons peeked out through embrasures on the gun deck above.

  Curt began, “One of the most interesting, yet overlooked, facts of the discovery of the gunpowder magazine was a thin layer of dirt found across a section of the stone-tiled flooring.”

  “And?” Scott prodded.

  “And it’s a coquina fort. There shouldn’t have been any dirt in the room.”

  “Tracked in, maybe?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So why do we care?”

  “It’s another curious fact, that’s all.”