“Oh, no!” she cried. “The damn thing is from the Dark Ages!”
Shawn smiled slyly. “Are you sure?” he asked teasingly.
Confused, she looked back at the Roman numerals and again translated them into numbers. It still came out to 815. She was going to have to convince Shawn that they had failed. As she’d said the artifact was obviously from the Dark Ages.
Then Shawn pointed at the Roman numerals and asked, “Can you see the Latin letters that follow the Roman numerals?”
Sana looked back at the date. After peering at the maze of scratches, three letters emerged. “Yes, I see them. It looks like AUC.”
“It is exactly AUC,” Shawn said triumphantly. “It stands for ab urbe condita, referring to the supposed founding of Rome in 753 BC, according to the Gregorian calendar, which wasn’t introduced until AD 1582.”
“I’m confused,” Sana said.
“Don’t be. Romans didn’t use BC or AD. They used AUC. To convert from the ancient Roman calendar to our Gregorian, you have to subtract seven hundred fifty-three years.”
Sana did the subtraction in her head. “Then the date is AD 62.”
“Correct. What I’m guessing is Simon Magus believed the Virgin Mary died in AD 62.”
“I suppose that’s a reasonable possibility,” Sana said, nodding her head while thinking back to her catechism.
“I would say so,” Shawn said. “Assuming Mary had her first child, Jesus, in 4 BC, and that she was about fifteen years old, then she would have been eighty-four at her death. That’s certainly long-lived for the first century, but it is possible. Look, there’s also a name.”
“I don’t see one,” Sana said, returning her gaze to the tangle of scratches around the date.
“Here. It’s in Aramaic, just above the Roman numerals.”
“I truly cannot see any letters.”
“I’ll draw them for you when we get back to the hotel.”
“Great! But what is the name?”
“It’s Maryam.”
“Good Lord!” Sana whispered. Something she never thought might come to pass was seemingly happening.
“Good choice of words,” Shawn said happily. “Let’s get this thing back to the hotel so we can celebrate.” He gradually worked the box out to the area beneath the glass deck. It was difficult because he couldn’t stand upright.
“What about the tools and the buckets?” Sana asked. “If I carry them, I’m not going to be able to help you carry the ossuary.”
Shawn scratched his head and nodded. The ossuary had to weigh forty to fifty pounds, which he could certainly manage, but he’d need to rest, especially going up the multiple flights of stairs. “I know,” he said. “Let’s give some future archaeologist something to find in its place. Let’s entomb everything except our helmets in the ossuary’s former resting spot. After all, we have to get rid of the dirt.”
“Good idea,” Sana said, but as Shawn started crawling back toward the tunnel, she stopped him by grabbing his arm. “Before you do that, can I ask you a big favor?”
“What?” Shawn demanded. Despite their apparent success, he wasn’t in the mood for largesse.
“Can we lift the glass panel? It will make me feel a lot less panicky. Then, while you’re burying the tools, I’ll get the ossuary over in the corner under the access panel.”
Shawn looked back and forth from the tunnel to the ossuary. He even briefly glanced at his watch, knowing he wanted to be exiting the Scavi office by eleven. “Oh, all right!” he said, as if making a big concession. A few minutes later, he was back in the tunnel, busily sealing their equipment in the hole vacated by the ossuary by shoveling the dirt in with his hands and packing it in. He wasn’t able to return the wall of the tunnel completely to its original state, but he did his best, and when he was through it looked better than he’d expected.
After smoothing out the dirt floor and making sure he wasn’t leaving anything lying around, he beat a fast retreat to where Sana was waiting for him at the exit in the far corner of the glass deck. With the two of them working together, they got the ossuary up to Shawn’s chest height and then laterally over onto the deck’s surface.
With much effort, they made the long walk though the necropolis toward the exit, stopping repeatedly to catch their breath, Shawn urging them onward. At one of their rest stops near the necropolis entrance door, Sana said, “You know what I’m most excited about?”
“Tell me!” Shawn said, massaging the aching muscles of his upper arms.
“The fact that the top of the ossuary is still sealed all the way around.”
Shawn bent down and looked. “I think you’re right.”
“If that box had been sealed in Qumran, and Qumran is as dry as you said, I think I’ve got a good chance of finding some first-century mitochondrial DNA.”
“And a rather special DNA sample at that. Come on, let’s get this thing in the trunk of the car.”
The last portion of the trip was the most nerve-wracking. As close to eleven as it had become, there was the small but definite risk of running into security between the Scavi office and the Piazza del Protomartiri Romani, where the car was waiting. Luckily it didn’t happen. Once outside, Shawn carried the ossuary himself so Sana could hold the umbrella. She didn’t want to risk even getting the outside of the ossuary wet.
With the relic safely ensconced in the trunk of the car, there was some mild concern as they bore down on the Swiss Guards’ shacks under the Arco delle Campane. But the concern was unnecessary. Perhaps because of the rain the guards didn’t even come out of their guardhouses as Shawn and Sana zipped by, heading out into the dark, wet city.
“Well, that was easy,” Shawn said as he settled back into his seat. Sana had her construction helmet on her head with the headlamp illuminated. On her lap was a hotel map with which she hoped to guide them back to the hotel.
“I don’t think I’d describe it as easy,” she said, not realizing Shawn was joking. She shuddered at the memory of her panic attack. She had never before experienced such anxiety.
“My only regret is allowing myself to be talked into leaving the masonry hammer and chisel behind,” Shawn added, continuing his attempt to be humorous. He knew full well it had been his idea to leave all the tools behind.
Sana looked over at the silhouette of her husband and fumed, as she completely missed the fact that he was trying to be funny. How could he be so insensitive? she marveled. Why would he take the risk of hurting her feelings like that? It didn’t make sense, especially since they’d found what they were looking for and managed to snatch it from beneath everyone’s nose.
“It would come in handy to open the ossuary.”
Sana’s irritation at Shawn instantly shifted to concern about Shawn’s intentions. “When are you planning on opening it?” she asked, afraid to hear his response.
“I don’t know exactly,” Shawn said. He glanced at his wife, surprised at her tone and the fact that she was staring at him so intently. “I might allow myself to have a drink first, but I want to know if there are any documents inside, and I want to know sooner rather than later.”
Sana didn’t laugh or even smile at what she now sensed was a feeble attempt at humor. There was nothing funny about opening the ossuary prematurely. In fact, she was afraid his impatience might put her interest in the ossuary in jeopardy.
“Why the long face?” he asked, while shielding his eyes from Sana’s headlamp.
“You can’t open the ossuary until I can stabilize the relics biologically,” Sana blurted, as she turned off her headlamp and tossed the helmet in the backseat. “Otherwise, we’ll be taking a risk of lessening the chances of isolating any mitochondrial DNA.”
“Oh, really?” Shawn questioned mockingly. He was shocked that his wife could think it was her position to preempt what was sure to be his premier archaeological find. “I’m opening the damn ossuary tonight! We’ll worry about your DNA stuff when the time comes.”
“Yo
u could be cutting off your nose to spite your face,” Sana replied with emotion. “Your impatience could be costly. Remember, this thing’s been sealed for nearly two thousand years. If there are documents in it, you’d better be prepared to conserve them immediately or you might lose them, along with any biological material.”
“Okay, maybe you are right,” Shawn reluctantly admitted, “at least about the documents. But really, except for vague scientific interest, what would knowing the Virgin Mary’s mitochondrial DNA sequence mean, anyhow?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that. We might be able to trace her genealogy quite a ways back because we’d already be two thousand years back before we start. But more important, because mitochondrial DNA is inherited solely from the mother, with no recombination involved, you will be ultimately responsible for learning the mitochondrial DNA sequence of Jesus Christ.”
“Really!” Shawn repeated, suddenly awed.
“Really!” Sana echoed. “You would be included in that rarified group of scientists who have made extraordinary contributions to knowledge, probably more than any documents could provide.”
“My word,” Shawn said, visualizing the accolades.
“So, can I have your word we won’t open the ossuary until we get to New York? You’ll only have to wait a few days.”
“You have my word.”
Sana took in a deep breath and let it out in a huff. She was relieved. She was also a little embarrassed at her stooping so low as to manipulate Shawn with his own vanity. Yet she wasn’t embarrassed enough to admit to it. She was intent on maximizing the chances of isolating Mary’s DNA, because she, as the molecular biologist, rather than Shawn, as the archaeologist, would ultimately be credited with having deciphered Jesus Christ’s mitochondrial DNA sequence.
15
10:06 A.M., FRIDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2008
NEW YORK CITY
Well, there’s no question what killed him,” Jack said. He had just sliced open the heart of a sixty-two-year-old African-American male named Leonard Harris. A large, sausage-shaped blood clot completely filled the right atrium.
“Did that clot come from the legs?” Vinnie asked.
“We’ll just have to check that out,” Jack answered.
The autopsy room was in full swing, with all eight tables in use. Jack and Vinnie were already deep into their third case, while most of the other MEs were still doing their first.
Jack’s first case had been a teenager shot in Central Park. There was a question of whether it was a suicide or a homicide. Unfortunately, there had been a mistake made by the OCME medicolegal investigator, George Sullivan, who had been bullied by the detective in charge to rush his investigation. The result was that he’d forgotten to bag the victim’s hands, possibly causing a loss of critical evidence. Since the victim was the son of a politically connected lawyer, Calvin had been called in, ordering Jack on the case.
Jack’s other two cases were a bit more straightforward, but just. The second case was a drug overdose of a college freshman. But the third case, the one he was on, presented a surprise challenge. Jack was confident the cause of death was a pulmonary embolism, but the manner of death was not necessarily natural.
“Vinnie, my friend, do you know—” Jack began as he sliced open the rest of the heart, looking for more blood clots, particularly at the tricuspid and pulmonary valves.
“No!” Vinnie interrupted, without even letting Jack finish his sentence. “When you start a question by being nice to me, I know you have something on your mind that I want no part of.”
“Am I that bad?” Jack asked, as he moved up to the bifurcation of the pulmonary artery looking for more clots.
“You’re wicked bad!” Vinnie declared.
“Sorry you feel that way,” Jack said. “But let me finish my sentence. Do you know what is particularly special about this case?”
Vinnie looked down at the large, dark clot and then over at the flayed-open corpse, trying to come up with something humorous. When he couldn’t, he fell back on the truth: “No!” he said.
“This case is a perfect example of just how important the medicolegal investigators are in forensic pathology. Because Janice asked all the right questions, this case will be viewed in a different light. I would have been certain it was a natural death, but because she asked the wife if he’d been taking any medication, she learned something the ER docs didn’t know: that he’d been taking an herbal remedy on his own, PC-SPES, made of Chinese herbs, which was supposed to be taken off the market but which is still available. Janice Googled the drug and learned that it was an FDA-unapproved medication that had often been contaminated with female hormones and was therefore associated with clotting problems and fatal pulmonary emboli.”
“So, the herbal remedy killed the man.”
“Possibly,” Jack said.
“Will you be able to prove it?”
“Perhaps. Let toxicology have a go at the samples we’ve taken and see if we can get some of the medication he’s been taking from the wife.”
“Hey, keep working!” Vinnie complained. Jack had stopped while he was talking.
“Do you take any herbal medicine, Vinnie?” Jack asked, going back to work.
“Sometimes. There’s a Chinese aphrodisiac called Tiger Stamina I use once in a while. And occasionally my acupuncturist gives me something for some minor complaints I have.”
Jack stopped working and stared at his favorite mortuary tech.
“What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“As the saying goes, I knew you were dumb, but I didn’t think you were stupid.”
“Why? What are you talking about?”
“I had no idea you were a user of alternative medicine. Why?”
Vinnie shrugged. “I guess because it’s natural.”
“Natural, my ass,” Jack said scornfully. “The worst poison known to man comes from a tree frog in South America. You cannot imagine how small an amount would be necessary to kill you, and it’s natural. Calling something natural is a meaningless marketing ploy.”
“All right, calm down! Maybe I like alternative medicine because it’s been in use for more than six thousand years. After all that time, they have to know what they’re doing.”
“You mean the wacky idea that somehow in the distant past people had more scientific wisdom than they do today? That’s both crazy and counterintuitive. Six thousand years ago people thought thunder was a bunch of gods moving around furniture.”
“All right,” Vinnie repeated, with a touch of irritation. “I like alternative medicine because it treats my whole body, not just my arm or spleen or whatever.”
“Ah!” Jack said, his voice rising and tinged with more scorn than when he spoke about the “natural” fable. “The holistic myth or the more-holistic-than-thou nonsense is just as crazy as everything else you’ve said. Regular medicine is a thousand times more holistic than alternative medicine. With conventional medicine, they’re even taking into account individual genetic profiles. How much more holistic can you be than that?”
“How about we get this autopsy over with,” Vinnie suggested. “And maybe you should stop yelling.”
Just as he had a few days ago in Ronald Newhouse’s office, Jack suddenly came to his senses. Again, he’d allowed his emotions to get the best of him. The room had gone silent, and everyone was staring at him. When he glanced down at his hands, he realized one hand was still grasping the heart and lungs he’d been examining while the other hand still held the butcher knife. As suddenly as the buzz of conversation stopped it now resumed.
“Wow!” Vinnie murmured. “You’re getting awfully touchy in your old age.”
“I’ve been looking into alternative medicine since our case of vertebral artery dissection on Monday, and I’ve become a touch emotional about what I’ve been learning.”
“A touch?” Vinnie questioned mockingly. “I’d say it’s over the top, but I tell you what I’ll do: I’ll give up on
the acupuncture if it will make you feel better.”
“It would,” Jack said, “especially if you ditch the herbs as well.”
Vinnie leaned toward Jack and squinted. “Are you pulling my leg now or what?” He wasn’t certain.
“Half and half,” Jack said. “Meanwhile, let’s knock out this autopsy.”
They completed the pulmonary embolism case in near record time, too uncomfortable to talk. When they did finish, Jack said, “Sorry, my friend. I was definitely out of line.”
“You’re forgiven. To pay me back, you can promise me we won’t start autopsies until everyone else does.”
“Dreamer,” Jack said, snapping off his gloves and heading for the washroom.
Jack cleaned up and returned upstairs to his desk. Still feeling uncomfortable about his mini-blowup in the autopsy room, he closed his office door. For a while, at least, he didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. Forcing himself to work, he dictated all three autopsies he’d just completed so he was sure not to forget any of the details, using his scribbled notes to remind him of specific important points.
With the dictation out of the way, Jack looked at his crowded inbox, but, like many days of late, he couldn’t find the motivation to start. Instead, he opened up his center drawer and pulled out a large envelope where he’d been storing all his alternative-medicine data. As of that moment, he had a total of twelve cases from his colleagues. Keara Abelard made thirteen, and his herbal case that morning made a grand total of fourteen.
Jack should have been pleased with his progress, but he wasn’t. He’d come to the conclusion that the number of cases he was going to find, no matter what he did, was going to be seriously lower than the true number, for a complex of reasons. One problem was the lack of digitalization of the OCME records, meaning a search was not possible. Even if the records were digitalized, there would be no coding for alternative medicine in general, nor for specific types of alternative medicine in particular. On top of that, even if he was able to find VAD cases, there was no guarantee that the records would say anything about chiropractic, even if chiropractic therapy was involved in the cause of death.