I reached for the Ziploc bag, but Miranda stopped me before I could drop the molar in. “Wait. No fair. You haven’t said what you think.”
“Rats. You know how I hate to go out on a limb.” I held up the molar and studied it. It was a dull grayish brown nearly down to the roots; the gum line had receded during the man’s life. A large cavity had burrowed into the center of the tooth’s crown. Could this stained, decaying tooth really be from the man whom millions around the world revered as the Son of God? “It’s clear to me now,” I finally said, “that this guy died six months ago, and that all this is an elaborate hoax to cover up a modern-day murder.” I nearly dropped the tooth when Miranda punched me on the arm, hard. She had a sneaky right cross that way; it wasn’t the first time she’d popped me when she thought I was being insolent.
“You’re no fun,” she said, but her eyes were smiling—maybe at my silliness, maybe at finding an excuse to punch me—and it felt as if we’d finally gotten out of the minefield of last night’s prickly conversation and back onto safe, comfortable ground again.
I tipped the tooth into the small bag. Stefan took the bag from me and was about to seal it when I stopped him. “Should we send them two? The lab said ‘one or two teeth,’ didn’t they?”
“I think one is enough,” he said, “but okay, if you want to send two.” I picked up the mandible again and grasped another molar. “Wait,” he said. I looked up from the jaw. “Not another molar.”
“Why not?”
“No reason. Call it a crazy Frenchman’s superstition. This time…a canine.”
“Okay. I mean, oui, monsieur, you’re the boss.” I shifted my grip to a canine, one of the fanglike “dogteeth.” This one was pegged tightly into its socket; the snug fit and the tooth’s tapered shape made it harder to pull, and I was forced to use pliers. The tooth came free, but the root snapped off in the jaw, giving the tooth an oddly flattened base. I balanced the tooth upright on the table briefly, just for fun, and then slid it into the bag, where it settled against the molar with a slight click.
“So where’s the C-14 lab?” I asked. “In Paris?”
“Non, mon ami. Guess again.”
“Oxford? That’s one of the places that tested the Shroud of Turin, right?”
“Wrong again. I think you will not guess. We send the teeth to Miami.”
“Miami? Florida? Why on earth?”
“Because the world’s biggest C-14 lab is there. Beta Analytic. They have offices in Europe—and Asia and Australia—but they’re just offices. The only lab is in Miami. They have two AMS systems and fifty-two liquid scintillation counters.”
“What’s a liquid scintillation counter?” Before he could answer, I waved my hand. “Never mind—I don’t need to know. How long does it take? A week? A month?”
“Pas du tout—not at all! Days. One or two days, after they get the sample. Last year I sent them a goat bone from a first-century site in Turkey. Four days later, voilà, I get the results.”
“That’s faster than I can grade a batch of test papers,” I said. “Must be expensive.”
“Not so bad. This will cost eight hundred euros. Twelve hundred U.S. dollars. Sure, it’s a lot. But if these are the bones of Christ, that’s a small price to pay to find out, n’est-ce pas?”
“Jesus!” Miranda exclaimed, then laughed at her unintended double entendre. “Just imagine—if the Virgin Mary on toast can fetch thirty thousand bucks…”
“Excuse me?” I felt a step behind her in the conversation. “The Virgin Mary? Toast? What are you talking about?”
“The Sacred Sandwich.” Now I was two steps behind. “Don’t you pay any attention to the world outside the Body Farm?” She rolled her eyes happily; one of her great joys in life was giving me grief. “Some lady in Florida takes a bite out of her grilled cheese sandwich and then she notices the BVM—”
“The what?” Three steps.
“The BVM—the Blessed Virgin Mary. A portrait of Mary’s face was scorched into the bread. So the woman seals the sammy in Tupperware and keeps it on her nightstand for ten years. Then she sells it on eBay. Some online casino buys it for thirty grand.”
“That’s so bizarre,” I said, “on so many levels.” A host of questions popped into my mind: White or whole wheat? Why Tupperware rather than a Baggie? Didn’t Mary mold? But I decided there was no future—no worthwhile future, at least—in delving further into the Sacred Sandwich. “I am amazed, and know not what to say.”
“I say, ‘Praise the Lord and pass the pickles,’” she cracked. “Anyhow, if somebody will pay thirty K for the BVM on loaf bread, think what the bones of Jesus might fetch. Not, of course, that you’d sell him on eBay, right, Stefan?”
“Non, never.” He smiled ironically. “People who shop on eBay can afford a sandwich sacré, maybe, but not the bones of God.”