The Shroud Codex (38 page)

Monday evening

New York City, 8:00
P.M.

Day 33

Norman Rothschild reserved a private room for dinner with Stephen Castle at his favorite midtown steak house.

Comfortably settled at their table, the two psychiatrists each ordered a single-malt scotch, as Rothschild selected a fine bottle of vintage French Bordeaux to accompany their steak dinners. Castle knew that the wine Rothschild selected would probably cost twice as much as the steak dinners put together.

At seventy-five years old, Rothschild looked younger and more fit than he did more than two decades ago, when he first met Castle. The reduced patient schedule that came with semiretirement permitted Rothschild a lifestyle that included more time for himself. A medium height man at five feet, ten inches, Rothschild followed a daily routine of briskly walking five blocks to get his favorite espresso and croissant each morning, and five blocks back to his midtown Park Avenue apartment. With a full head of silver hair to set off his ocean blue eyes, Rothschild always looked
distinguished, whether he was attired in his jeans and walking shoes in search of his daily morning coffee or in his tweed sport coat and tailored pants, as he was tonight for dinner.

When Castle changed careers to go into psychiatry, Rothschild had helped prepare him for the profession by serving as his analyst. Ever since, Rothschild remained Castle’s dedicated mentor, always ready to meet with Stephen to counsel him not only through difficult psychiatric cases, but also through the expected psychological challenges that confront all human beings in the course of life. Though he had sported a neatly trimmed beard when he was in his fifties, much like Castle’s, Rothschild discarded the beard when he reached seventy, thinking he no longer needed the assistance of a distinguished beard to appear mature for his patients.

Prior to the meeting, Castle emailed Rothschild a summary memo he had written for the file detailing Father Bartholomew’s case history. By giving Rothschild the opportunity to study the memo in advance of the dinner, Castle knew he would save a lot of time explaining the basic facts.

“I declined to be on Ferrar’s television show,” Castle explained as they enjoyed their drinks. “I pleaded doctor-client privilege, but in truth, it’s just too soon for me to talk about any aspects of this case in public.”

“I think that’s wise,” Rothschild said. “Did Ferrar give you any hint on the angle he was going to pursue?”

“Ferrar told me that Canadian law enforcement officials have told the network they can find no record of any Matthew Cassidy working for either the Canadian National or the Canadian Pacific railways. Ferrar also says the Canadian government has no record of ever having issued a passport to Anne Cassidy. I guess I was a fool just to look at Anne’s passport and assume it proved anything.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too severely,” Rothschild said. “You’re
only human and you’re not a trained law enforcement authority. You’re a psychiatrist, not a private investigator.”

“I know,” Castle said, “but I’m afraid I let down my guard, maybe because I liked the woman and wanted to accept her story.”

“I suspected as much, just from how you wrote up the case file,” the senior psychiatrist surmised. “You are usually pretty cool with women, but this time I detected you were on the verge of being romantically interested in her.”

Castle knew better than to try to hide anything from Rothschild. There was not much about him that Rothschild didn’t know, especially since he went into analysis with Rothschild right after Elizabeth had died. “I’ve never really loved any woman except Elizabeth,” he said openly. “I have always thought that no other woman could ever live up to her standard, or maybe it was that I have always been afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid that if I loved another woman, I might lose her, too, just like I lost Elizabeth.”

Rothschild took a sip of his scotch, considering what Castle had just told him. “That’s possible. But I think I sense an important change in you.”

“What’s that?” Castle asked.

“It sounds to me as if you’re getting ready to make space for a woman again in your life; otherwise I doubt Anne or any other woman would have caught your attention.”

Rothschild was probably right, now that he thought about it. “I have to admit I was physically attracted to Anne. She was approaching maturity with a beauty most younger women would envy.”

“Who do you think Anne really was?” Rothschild asked as the appetizers were served.

“Of course, I’ve thought a lot about that,” Castle admitted. “I spoke with Dr. Bucholtz at CERN by phone before I left Rome and she would like me to think Anne was a time traveler. Maybe Dr. Bucholtz is right.”

“Do you have any idea who Paul Bartholomew’s father was?”

“No, not really. Ferrar told me the network’s reporters have tracked down Bartholomew’s birth certificate and the father is listed as ‘unknown,’ just as Anne’s letter said it would be. Maybe Anne was the reincarnation of the Christ’s mother, Mary. Maybe Paul was conceived by virgin birth.”

“You’re being facetious, I take it?” Rothschild asked.

“Yes, in large part I’m being facetious. But I can’t accept Marco Gabrielli’s theory that Father Bartholomew and Anne amount to nothing more than a con-artist team. I saw Bartholomew’s wounds with my own eyes; I watched as some of them were being inflicted. He suffered real pain, even if the injuries healed in record time. All that is consistent with my original diagnosis that Father Bartholomew was suffering from a multiple personality disorder and that his injuries were psychosomatically induced, but not a conclusion that he was a con man. Still, I have to admit that dealing with this case has forced me to face mysteries I can’t explain by sheer reason alone.”

Rothschild agreed. “How about Anne and Father Bartholomew?” he asked. “What have you concluded about them? Were they mother and son, or were they brother and half sister?”

Castle wanted to choose his words carefully. “Try as he will, I don’t think Gabrielli is going to be able to prove Father Bartholomew and Anne Castle were charlatans.” The Anne Cassidy I knew was the Anne Bartholomew I saw in the photographs of that album. They were one and the same person. Father Bartholomew may never have had a half sister, but he had a mother and I believe that mother was both Anne Bartholomew and the woman
we knew as Anne Cassidy. I’m told Ferrar’s television special this Wednesday has a face-recognition expert who’s prepared to say on camera that Anne Bartholomew and Anne Cassidy were the same person.”

Rothschild had suspected Castle would come to that conclusion. Even in death, Anne had somehow found a way not to abandon her only child. As impossible as that seemed, the possibility was what made the events his protégé Dr. Stephen Castle had just experienced so tantalizing.

The steaks were excellent. The Bordeaux was one of the best he had ever tasted. There was good reason this restaurant was one of Rothschild’s favorites.

“What position has the pope taken on what happened last Friday?” Rothschild asked.

“Father Morelli assured me before I left Rome that the pope is planning to issue a statement this week to the effect that the Vatican has agreed to cooperate fully with Italian law enforcement authorities in the missing persons case involving Father Bartholomew and Anne Cassidy,” Castle explained. “The Vatican is preparing to explain that the events surrounding Father Bartholomew are still under investigation. Immediately following that, Morelli told me, the Vatican will issue a second statement affirming that the Shroud of Turin is still regarded by the Catholic Church as a relic worthy of veneration. Morelli said the Vatican also plans to announce a new exposition of the Shroud this spring. Father Bartholomew’s case has obviously renewed interest in the Shroud worldwide.”

“What do you think the pope believes about the Shroud of Turin?” Rothschild asked.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Castle said. “The pope has always played his cards very close to the vest with me. But I may have a clue in how the pope handled himself during the conference with
the Italian physicians who examined Bartholomew for the Vatican. The pope made it clear that his job was to lead the Catholic Church and he wasn’t about to bet his future or the future of the Catholic Church on any relic, regardless of how many millions of Catholics might believe it is authentic. I doubt the pope will change his mind on that.”

This made sense to Rothschild. No mature CEO of any organization, whether the organization was the Catholic Church or one of the largest public corporations in the world, ever rolls the dice on something that is not 100 percent certain, unless they have no choice but to do so. “You respected Marco Vicente when he was a cardinal and I sense you continue to respect him now that he is pope,” Rothschild said.

“Yes, I do.” Castle spoke without hesitation. “I admire how he handled this case. He deferred to Morelli’s judgment, much as a field general would defer to a top lieutenant. He agreed to allow Bartholomew to see the Shroud after Morelli argued it made sense to do so.”

“Do you think Morelli was right?” Rothschild asked.

Castle thought for a moment before answering. He took a sip of the wine. “It’s a tough judgment call, but I do think Morelli was right.”

“How so?” Rothschild asked. “There’s a huge controversy over whether what happened Friday was a miracle or a magic trick.”

“I know,” Castle said. “But I don’t think the pope minds that controversy. It takes the issue off whether the Shroud is a medieval forgery and puts the world’s attention squarely back on figuring out who Bartholomew really was and what he was all about.”

“How about you?” Rothschild asked as he ordered a rare brandy to finish their meal. “Does any of this cause you to doubt your convictions as an atheist?”

“Do you want to know if I came out of this with any glimmer of a belief in God?” Castle asked with a smile.

“Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”

“I’m conflicted, maybe for the first time in my life, if you must know the truth,” Castle said. “There was a lot to what Professor Silver at Princeton and Dr. Bucholtz at CERN said. Modern physics is clearly advancing into scientific areas that used to be reserved for religion.”

Rothschild smiled slightly, expressing a trace of satisfaction. “I’d like to think that all those articles I’ve been sending you over the past few years on the big bang did not entirely escape your attention. The big bang has always sounded to me a lot like the moment of God creating the universe that the Bible describes in Genesis. But then, unlike you, I’m not a professed atheist. I’m Jewish and I’m comfortable with God, as long as nobody holds me to going to synagogue on a weekly basis.”

Castle appreciated his point. “You’re right, of course, in concluding that when physics begins contemplating God, I might have no choice other than to do the same. I’d like to believe there is a dimension where I might someday find Anne again. But I don’t know if those are my emotions, not my head, thinking.”

“Even for a psychiatrist as accomplished as you, telling that difference is sometimes impossible to do,” Rothschild said. “But as to the issue of religion, I’ve fought with you since we first met. You’ve always told me we make up religions to compensate for the unknown—to explain where we came from, or what happens to us when we die. Or that we make up religions to control behavior, to say you will go to Hades if you don’t do exactly what I say. I understand all that. But I’m wondering if you have caught a glimpse of what I always considered the real question.”

“What’s that?”

“The question is whether deep down there is an impulse built into us that compels us to create religions and to believe in God.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can explain it to you in Freudian terms, if you want, but tonight I want to say it simpler than that.”

“Okay, I’m open to that. Say it simply.”

“You can dismiss the religions we create as defective, but you can’t dismiss as a fact the continuing human need to create religions.”

“You could well be right,” Castle said. “I hate to admit it, but you could well be right.”

“Do you think Father Bartholomew had a mission from God, like he claimed?”

“That’s a harder question,” Castle said. “Anne believed he did and I can’t prove that he didn’t. He conveniently escaped treatment before I completed my analysis.”

Rothschild realized Castle had made a point he could not refute. “What are you going to do next?” Rothschild asked, moving on to the future.

“I’m going to take a couple of weeks off,” Castle answered. “I need some time to recover from this experience. Besides, I did my job for the Vatican the best I could and I got paid generously for it.”

“Are you going to go anywhere?”

“Yes, I’m going back to Italy,” Castle said. “I can’t get out of my mind something the pope said in our final conference, just before he agreed to allow Bartholomew to see the Shroud in person.”

“What’s that?”

“The pope said it worried him that there might just be a Leonardo da Vinci codex buried somewhere in the Vatican archives that explains exactly how Leonardo created the Shroud,” Castle
said. “In one our last conferences I think I met just the right person to conduct the search for me.”

“Who’s that?”

“Dottoressa Francesca Coretti, a Vatican Library senior staff researcher. She has a doctorate in medieval art from the University of Milan. She has been specializing in researching the Shroud for years. If the Vatican archives have some long-lost Shroud codex written by Leonardo da Vinci, I have a hunch Dottoressa Coretti might just be the right person to find it.”

“She wouldn’t happen to be attractive, would she?” Rothschild asked slyly.

“As a matter of fact, she is,” Castle said with a knowing smile. “I judge her to be in her forties and attractively thin. She has this elegant black hair that matches her jet-black eyes perfectly.”

“When are you leaving?” Rothschild asked.

“I’m booked for tomorrow, first-class to Rome, departing out of JFK late afternoon,” Castle said, picking up the check.