“What if it’s medieval but also genuine, Dr. B? What if all the bloodstains, all the wounds, are real?” She pointed at the image, moving her hand up and down as if she were doing a scan. “What if this piece of cloth documents actual trauma, but fourteenth-century trauma? Not the scourging and crucifixion of Jesus, but the scourging and crucifixion of a guy in Avignon—a guy killed specifically to create…this!” Her hand stopped scanning; her finger pointed accusingly at the face. “This could be the world’s first snuff film. A snuff Shroud. Created expressly, deliberately, in order to document the very murder it depicts.”
The idea was startling; stunning, even. Could she possibly be right? Could the Shroud depict a deliberately staged fourteenth-century murder? And could the bones of Avignon—our “zhondo,” as Elisabeth called him—be the bones of the victim?
I looked at the image again in this new light. Yes, it looked like our zhondo’s face. But not our zhondo’s stature. I had a tape measure in my overnight bag, but for starters, I lay down on the floor alongside the Shroud, side by side with the man’s image. “So, who’s taller?”
“He is. He’s got a couple inches on you, maybe more. How tall are you?”
“Five-ten.”
“So he’s a six-footer,” she said. “That’s pretty damn tall, whether he was first century or fourteenth. Most guys back then were, like, five feet, five five, right?”
She was right. During the twentieth century, the average stature of adult males had increased by six inches or more—in developed countries, though not in Third World countries—as a result of better diet and health care. “Yeah, little bitty guys,” I agreed. “I’ve seen suits of armor my twelve-year-old grandson couldn’t fit into.” My heart sank as I realized the implications. “Damn. It’s not our zhondo, is it, Miranda? Can’t be.”
“’Fraid not,” she said. “This guy’s half a head taller than our guy. Sorry, Dr. B; I know the facial reconstruction got you all excited about connecting the dots.”
“Oh well,” I said breezily. “It was an interesting possibility. But so’s your snuff-Shroud theory. Wouldn’t that be ironic, if somebody was killed to make a ‘holy’ relic? Anyhow, we’ve still got a medieval murder on our hands in Avignon, right?” I nodded at the Shroud. “And now maybe we’ve got two medieval murder cases. Twice the bodies, twice the fun, right?”
She didn’t find my little pep talk any more convincing than I did.
Slipping my shoes back on, I rolled up the Shroud and tucked it under my arm. “I’m pooped,” I said, heading for my room, which was at the end of the hall—right where the foot of the Shroud had been moments before. “Sorry I brought you on a wild-goose chase.” I stepped through the doorway.
“Dr. B?” I stopped and leaned my head back into the hallway, just far enough to see her smiling at me. “Just for the record? I love chasing wild geese. Good night, Dr. B. Sleep well.”
I HAD A DREAM, AND IN MY DREAM, I WENT BACK TO the chapel in Turin Cathedral; went back to make one final attempt to see the Shroud.
As I walked down the center aisle, I saw a man dressed as a high priest—a bishop or cardinal, perhaps even a pope—behind the chapel’s glass wall. The black curtain hiding the Shroud had been opened, and I hurried forward, eager to see the relic at last. But above the altar, behind the curtain, was nothing but a blank wall.
Astonished, I stared at the priest. Beside him, in the shadows, stood another man. This man, his face in shadow, was holding a small bundle, which I recognized as the Shroud, folded like a bedsheet. The man handed something to the priest; it was a thick bundle of money, I realized. The priest bowed, and the man disappeared through a dark doorway in the back of the chapel. Then the priest turned and saw me. He pointed a finger at me, and then reached for a golden cord hanging from the ceiling. He pulled the cord, and a heavy black drape slid shut, hiding not only the blank wall and the empty altar, but the entire chapel from my view.
CHAPTER 13
I AWOKE AT DAYBREAK, DISTURBED BY THE DREAM, and trudged back to the cathedral, where again I was confronted by the maddening curtain that shrouded the Shroud. Was it possible that my dream was actually true—that the wall behind the black drape was indeed blank? Could the Shroud be elsewhere—locked in an underground Vatican vault for safekeeping? Rented out to some devout billionaire who paid a fortune to possess it during the long intervals between public exhibitions?