The Turin Shroud Secret (45 page)

Mitzi’s not sure she understands. ‘You mean the Creeper and the man Nic shot are descendants of the same bloodline as Shroudman?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean.’ Hix places the two profiles over each other. ‘Here, in these boxes, you see it. Distant paternal
links, a genetic chain crossing countries and centuries.’

‘The
criminal
gene.’ Carter scoffs at the idea of it. ‘This is a gift to all the do-gooders who believe cold-blooded murdering bastards
like the Creeper simply can’t help themselves – oh no, no, they’re just poor victims of a genetic defect, unavoidably and
inevitably passed from father to son – they simply can’t help their urge to kill.’ He lifts a wastebasket from the floor.
‘Our case against James just turned into garbage.’

ROME

Andreas Pathykos thought he would never see his old friend again. Now here they are face to face. But there is no reason for
celebration.

Nabih Hayek drives the papal advisor a short way down Via della Conciliazione before turning into an unlit side street. The
two men sit in the battered Fiat that the Lebanese priest has owned for more than a decade. Moonlight falls on
their faces as he explains the reason for the hasty liaison. ‘The monk is dead. Shot by a policeman in Los Angeles.’

‘Dear God.’

Hayek determines to tell the rest of it before the questions come. ‘Others were hurt. Two airport guards, a teenage boy and
the policeman who killed Ephrem.’ He takes a beat. ‘And I’m afraid an elderly man was shot dead as well.’

Pathykos is grey with shock. ‘How is this so?’

Hayek holds back much of what he knows. ‘It is unclear. I am informed the monk had all but completed his task when the police
cornered him at the airport. It seems he had no choice but to fight until his last breath.’

The adviser lowers his head in thought for the dead, the injured and their loved ones. So much pain, so much suffering has
been caused. ‘Is this the end of it now, Nabih?’

The face of his friend says it isn’t. ‘Craxi and the scientist, Broussard, are dead but all the DNA taken from the Shroud
may not have been destroyed.’

‘What? The whole purpose of the monk’s mission was to eradicate the findings of those sacrilegiously stolen samples.’

‘I know, but it seems the original source was split and a sample has found its way back to the laboratories of the Los Angeles
Police department.’

‘Then we must ensure that it is never tested or its results never known. It is our duty to guarantee that any connection to
the Holy Shroud is always unverifiable.’

‘I agree – but
you
must do this, Andreas. You must use the name of the Holy Father and reach out to friends of ours.’

Pathykos nods.

‘But that alone will not be enough. You understand, don’t you?’

‘Don’t lecture me on responsibilities, Nabih. Take me back to the Vatican. I know what has to be done.’

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

The long and awful day ends on an unexpected low – another call to Deke Matthews’s room.

Mitzi feels drained as she drags herself down the long corridors to the captain’s office. All the trauma has left her running
on empty. His secretary smiles up from her desk and waves Mitzi through. She opens the door and immediately wishes she hadn’t.
Matthews is at the head of his small conference table, next to him is Carter and Tom Hix. Opposite them – beautifully dressed
in a black Armani suit – is Deputy District Attorney Maria Sanchez.

Maria is everything one woman can possibly hate in another.

Mitzi can maybe forgive that she’s a cold-hearted, self-centred, egomaniacal bitch who used a child murder last year as a
personal publicity platform. But what she can
never
forgive is the fact that no matter what godawful time of day it
is, the raven-haired lawyer – who is almost fifty – always manages to look half her age.

That
is beyond forgiveness.

‘Captain.’ Mitzi stands at the far end of the table.

‘Take a seat.’ He gestures to the conference table. ‘We’re discussing the Creeper case and in particular the DNA evidence
Tom pulled together.’

‘Been
discussing.’ Sanchez shoots Matthews a courtroom look as she emphasises the past tense.

Mitzi just can’t bring herself to sit alongside the lawyer. She takes a place opposite Matthews. ‘How can I help?’

‘We’re not going to prosecute James.’ Matthews pauses to let the point sink in. ‘He’s going to be committed into psychiatric
care.’

Sanchez clears her throat. ‘Captain, if your team can properly tie up James’s confessions to the murders of Varley and Bass,
Commissioner Bradley will make a public statement about those crimes being linked to James and explain he is not fit for trial.
He’ll also state publicly that you’ve now closed the Creeper files and are not looking for anyone else.’

Matthews turns to Carter. ‘Public-wise, it has the same effect as winning at trial. Case closed.’

‘The commissioner would like that,’ Sanchez smiles. ‘It would also be done without any of the risk of
improper
disclosure or further cost to the taxpayer.’

Carter looks furious. ‘By “improper” you mean Tom’s scientific evidence – science American citizens have a right to know.’

She waves a hand at him. ‘Don’t be immature. Ninety per cent of them wouldn’t understand if he visited them all in person
and spent a day explaining it.’

‘Why?’ Mitzi barks. ‘Why are you trying to sweep all these findings under the carpet?’

Sanchez sighs. ‘You really have to think this through.’ She gives Mitzi a condescending stare. ‘Think about the implications
of full disclosure. If we go public, we risk arming defence attorneys nationwide with a new plea of genetic mitigation.’

‘Bullshit.’ The word tumbles out of the lieutenant’s mouth. ‘There are examples worldwide of fine, upstanding, law-abiding
citizens – men, women and children – who are closely, never mind
distantly,
related to rapists, murderers and terrorists. They’re not
bad
people. Their genes don’t possess badness.’

‘Mitzi’s right,’ snaps Carter. ‘Bad people are bad because they make the choice to be bad.’

‘We can’t open this can of worms,’ Sanchez starts to pack her leather document case. ‘We’re done discussing it.’

Silence floats like a poison cloud. Mitzi reaches to the middle of the table, grabs a glass and pours water from a jug. ‘There’s
something else, isn’t there?’

No one answers.

She looks at their faces. ‘C’mon, I’m a big girl, I can take it. After all, that’s why I’m in here. You need me to come in
line, nod nicely and agree to some other grade-A political horseshit, don’t you?’

Matthews waits until she’s settled down. ‘Mitzi, this whole business with the Shroud is a problem. A real problem. Messy as
a dropped wedding cake for both us and the Italians.’

She throws back a gulp of water. ‘You mean the Carabinieri?’

He nods. ‘The commissioner had diplomats on his ass all afternoon. Embassy guys. Ambassadors. They don’t want anything made
public about the Shroud being interfered with, about samples being taken illegally.’ He looks across at Hix. ‘Especially about
unauthorised tests in foreign countries and links to serial murder cases.’

‘Man, I bet they don’t,’ says Mitzi, her anger rising.

He tries to reason with her. ‘Italian—American relations have always been good – and important to both countries.’

She shakes her head. ‘Are we missing out the Mafia here?’

Maria Sanchez glowers at her. ‘Decisions have been made, Lieutenant. Captain Matthews got you in here out of courtesy, that’s
all. The DA and the commissioner have already given assurances that no comment will be made on the Tamara Jacobs case or anything
to do with the Shroud of Turin without them approving it.’ She pushes back her chair and readies to leave. ‘Anyone breaks
that rule they’ll find themselves jobless and pensionless. Good day to you all.’

Mitzi stares at the floor, heart thumping like she just ran a mile. ‘Hey, Councillor.’

Sanchez stops, her hand on the door handle. ‘What?’

‘When you go to Catholic Mass this Sunday – as I’m sure
all good Spanish girls do – I hope to hell the whole church gets up and gives you the huge round of applause you so obviously
deserve.’

Matthews’s door slams so hard the glass almost breaks.

ROME

It is not a problem for Andreas Pathykos to take the key from the pontiff’s antechamber. The Holy Father has been long asleep
and the guards at his door are accustomed to admitting the old Greek at late hours to leave documents and carry out chores.

As he enters the darkened room, his mind floods with a disturbing mix of science, religion and history. Over the course of
centuries the Church has venerated artefacts presented as the crown of thorns and the lance that pierced the side of Christ.
But none have ever produced samples that scientists can reliably attest is blood – the blood of a man, the blood of Jesus
Christ, the son of God.

Even the Shroud of Turin had refused to yield biological evidence of life – until, that is, a sample had been stolen and tested
with methods more advanced than the Vatican has ever used. And now comparison is possible. Science can use its modern trickery
to crush the beliefs and goodness of
Christian faith. Worse still, it can open up the old stories of Saladin and reignite the Muslim groups.

Pathykos cannot let that happen. If the police in America are to defy political pressures and disclose the stolen DNA, they
must have nothing to compare it with. The pontiff’s most trusted adviser and oldest friend lets himself into the Holy Father’s
bedchamber. The room is cool and smells of lavender. He treads gently towards the large bed that holds the divine representation
of God on earth. Less than six inches from the sleeping pontiff is a small silver-gilt casket and in it a splinter of wood
that has yielded the most precious drop of blood on earth.

Christ’s blood. Taken from the True Cross. Preserved and protected by Holy Knights before the warlord Saladin took the True
Cross in the Battle of Hattin.

Pathykos feels his heart beat so fast he thinks he will collapse before he steals his way out of the chambers. Every step
from the pontiff’s bed takes an age. Every yard the Greek achieves brings him an agonising pain. Was this how Judas felt in
his hour of betrayal? There are tears in his eyes as he makes it to his own chamber. He locks the door and looks out of the
window across the Eternal City. Daybreak will come soon. Church bells will ring out across the rooftops and the faithful will
make their way to morning prayer.

He will not be among them.

A fire is still burning in the grate. He has sat here many hours, contemplating his life and beliefs, staring into the flames
and being comforted by their ephemeral warmth.
He takes a poker and stokes the coals, then uses it to break open the casket. Soot smudges his hands and he kneels and places
the fragment of blessed wood gently on the flames.

It takes a second for it to catch. The dry wood throws off a bright flame and a crisp crackle. Pathykos feels a stab in his
heart. He keeps his hands over the fire and lets the flames scorch his skin. As the cuffs of his robe catch alight he bows
his head into the burst of orange light. The last words he manages before the fire engulfs him are ‘Bless me, Father, for
I have sinned.’

COUNTY HOSPITAL, LOS ANGELES

Sixty-forty is now eighty-twenty. Against.

The doctors give Mitzi the bad news soon after she arrives. There’s a chance he won’t even make it through the night. And
if he does, then he could be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life.

Eighty-twenty.

Vegetative state.

Some choice. Some odds.

Mitzi wanders the corridors feeling lost. Right now she’s regretting telling Amy not to come in with her. She sent her
home, told her to get some rest, said she’d be all right. She’s not. Most definitely not.

The hospital drink dispenser produces the worst chicken soup she’s ever tasted. But it’s all she can manage. Muffins in Carter’s
office were her last meal and that seems weeks ago. She takes the plastic cup back to Nic’s bedside and sits there in a daze.
Waiting is something cops do better than most people, but Mitzi’s always struggled to pull it off. Especially when she’s waiting
for someone to die.

She stares at his grey face. His eyes used to be bright with adventure and he was just about the cutest of rookie cops she’d
ever seen. She’d denied all her natural feelings for him. Thrown water on the fires within, just as soon as they started to
flicker into life. She’d been nothing but professional. Shown him the ropes. Wiped his nose. Walked him through his first
domestic murder. Stood next to him when he almost hurled at his first autopsy. Got him blind drunk after he lost his first
case in court.

She’d done anything and everything except loved him.

She bends her lips to the fingers entwined in hers and kisses the back of his hand. It’s the most meaningful contact they’ve
ever had. Until now they never exchanged more than a peck on the cheek. The thought almost makes her laugh and cry at the
same time. How had she managed to bury her feelings?
Alfie,
she supposes.

Alfie and the twins.

She’d been the good wife and mother. Been determined not to be the cop other women pick out as the one having
an affair with their partner. She wishes she had. My God she does. She wishes it had been long and mad and passionate. Full
of life. That’s what being close to death does for you. It makes you want to live to the fullest – makes you regret every
wasted second of your precious time on earth. Mitzi stands up and tugs a tissue from a box on the bedside cabinet. She blows
her nose and dabs her eyes. It’s 11 p.m. She’ll stay until midnight, maybe one, then turn in for the night. Even as she thinks
it, she knows she’s still likely to be in the same chair in the morning, nursing a stiff neck, wondering how much coffee she’ll
need to stay awake through another shift.