Kathy Reichs - Cross bones

Kick-ass or not, the place was deserted.

Jake led me through several exhibit halls to a flight of stairs, our steps ricocheting hollowly off the stone walls. The air was heavy with the smell of disinfectant.

Upstairs, we passed through several arched openings and turned right into a recessed alcove. A plaque announced the office of Esther Getz.

Jake knocked softly, then cracked the door.

Across the room I saw a woman of about my age, robust, with a jaw that could have opened the iced-up St. Lawrence in spring. Seeing us, the woman left her scope and swept forward.

Jake made introductions.

I smiled and offered my hand. Getz shook it as though I might be contagious.

“You’ve brought the shroud?”

Jake nodded.

Getz made space on a table. Jake centered the two Tupperware containers on it.

“You’re not going to belie-”

Getz cut him off. “Refresh me on provenance.”

Jake described the tomb, without mentioning its specific location.

“Anything I say today will be strictly preliminary.”

“Of course,” Jake said.

Getz pried free one lid and studied the shroud, repeated with the second tub. Then she gloved and gently removed each remnant. Fifteen minutes later she’d managed to unroll the smaller swatch.

We spotted it simultaneously. Like kids in chem class, we all leaned in.

“Hair.” Getz wasn’t talking to us, she was thinking out loud.

Another fifteen minutes and she’d tweezed most strands into a vial, placed a half dozen others under a magnifying scope.

“Freshly cut. Some sheen. No signs of lice or casings.”

Getz exchanged the hair for the larger segment of cloth.

“Simple one-to-one plain weave.”

“Typical first century.” Jake pumped an arm.

Getz repositioned the remnant, refocused. “The fibers are degraded, but I don’t see the flatness and variation I would expect with flax.”

“Wool?” Jake asked.

“Based on this, I’d have to say yes.”

Getz moved the remnant back and forth. “No weaving faults. No holes. No mending.” Pause. “Odd.”

“What?” Jake’s arm froze.

“This yarn was spun in the opposite direction from that typical of first-century Israel.”

“Meaning?”

“It was imported.”

“From?”

“My guess would be Italy or Greece.”

Another half hour and Getz was scoping the smaller scrap.

“Linen.” Getz straightened. “Why were the two remnants packaged separately?”

Jake turned to me.

I fielded the question.

“The small remnant came from the deepest end of the loculus, and was associated with cranial fragments. The larger came from a position closer to the opening, and was associated with postcranial fragments.”

“One wrapping for the head, another for the body,” Jake said. “That’s exactly what Simon Peter describes in John 20:6-7. ‘And seeth the linen clothes lie, and the napkin, that was about His head, not lying with the linen clothes, but wrapped together in a place by itself.’”

Getz glanced at her watch.

“You realize, of course, that the IAA must take custody. You may leave the specimens with me.” Not subtle.

“Of course. Our find is fully documented.” Emphasis on the “our.” Jake wasn’t being subtle, either. “I’ll be requesting carbon-fourteen dating.” Jake beamed Getz his most winning smile. “In the meantime, I’ll be on pins and needles awaiting your report.”

Against all odds, Getz managed to resist Jake’s charm.

“Isn’t everyone,” she said, gesturing toward the door. We were being dismissed.

Trailing Jake into the corridor, I was sure of one thing: Esther Getz had never been dubbed the Getzster. No nicknames for this chick.

Next stop, Tovya Blotnik.

The IAA director’s office was four alcoves down from Getz’s. Blotnik stood when we entered, but didn’t come around his desk.

It’s funny. Telephone voices conjure images. Sometimes those images are dead-on. Sometimes, they’re way off.

The IAA director was a short, wiry man with a gray goatee and hair that tufted around a blue silk yarmulke. I’d pictured Santa. He looked more like a Jewish elf.

Jake introduced me.

Blotnik looked surprised, recovered, and leaned forward to shake hands.

“Shabbat shalom.”Jittery smile. Santa voice. “Please, sit.”

The choices were limited since all but two chairs were stacked with papers and books. Jake and I took them.

Blotnik sat behind his desk. For the first time he seemed to notice my face.

“You’ve been injured?” American English. Maybe New York.

“It’s nothing,” I said.

Blotnik opened his mouth, closed it, unsure what to say. Then, “But you’ve survived your jet lag?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

Blotnik bobbed his head and spread both hands on the desktop. All his movements were sharp and hummingbird quick.

“This is extraordinarily kind, bringing the skeleton to me. Truly above and beyond.” Full-blown elf smile. “You have it with you?”

“Not exactly,” Jake said.

Blotnik looked at him.

Jake described the incident with the Hevrat Kadisha, omitting all detail concerning the tomb.

Blotnik’s face sagged. “Such absurdity.”

“Yes.” Glacial. “You know the Hevrat Kadisha.”

“Not really.”

Jake’s brows dipped, but he said nothing.

“Where is this tomb?” Blotnik steepled his fingers. Two perfect palm prints remained on the blotter.

“In the Kidron.”

“This is the source of the textiles Esther mentioned?”

“Yes.”

Blotnik asked several more questions about the tomb. Jake replied in vague, icy terms.

Blotnik stood.

“I’m sorry, but you caught me on my way out.” Blotnik gave what I’m sure he considered a sheepish grin. “Shabbat. Slipping off early.”

“Shabbat shalom,”I said.

“Shabbat shalom,”Blotnik said. “And thank you so much for trying, Dr. Brennan. The IAA is deeply indebted. Such a long trip. Such a loss. Your gesture is truly remarkable.”

We were in the hall.

Driving to Hebrew University, Jake and I discussed our encounter with Blotnik.

“You really don’t like the guy,” I said.

“He’s a self-promoting, egotistical fraud.”

“Don’t hold back, Jake.”

“And I don’t trust him.”

“Why?”

“He’s professionally dishonest.”

“How?”

“Uses the work of others, publishes, doesn’t give proper credit. Want me to go on?”

Jake abhorred senior scientists who exploited junior colleagues or students. I’d heard the rant. I let it go.

“Getz told Blotnik about the shroud.”

“I figured she would, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Esther’s the best there is with ancient textiles, and I need her authentication of the thing. Besides, by going through Getz, it makes it impossible for Blotnik to piggyback onto the find.”

“But you don’t trust either of them with the bones.”

“No way anyone sees those bones until I’ve got them fully documented.”

“Blotnik didn’t seem all that upset about the Masada skeleton,” I said. “And he didn’t seem as surprised to see me as I’d expected.”

Jake glanced at me.

“When I called from Montreal, I never mentioned the date I was coming.”

“No?”

Jake made a left.

“And what about the jet lag comment?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“It’s as though Blotnik knows exactly how long I’ve been here.”

Jake started to speak. I cut him off.

“And wouldn’t anyone in archaeology in Israel know about the Hevrat Kadisha?”

“Duh!” Jake snorted. “You caught that, too?”