And just to whet your appetite,
you may read the first two
chapters for free.
Chapter 1
We have all done it. We know we look stupid doing
it, but we do it anyway. That hurried walk down
the hall. The one where you are trying to look like you are not
running but just walking fast. As you pass people on the way
in that awkward gait, you just smile and say “Excuse me” as
you try not to attract attention to yourself.
This time it was Thurston Henry who was looking like
an idiot in his “I’m not running” walk down the hall. Only
this was not just any hall; it was the main hall to the forensic
department at the Vatican in Rome. Thurston had in his
possession two small items that would eventually change not
only the history of the world as we know it, but also its future
as well. They were not big items, but as small as a human
hair; in fact, they were human hair. One single hair in a bottle
marked #816 – Shroud of Turin, and in the other bottle, again,
just a single hair marked #165 – Pile of Scrapings. Yet when
combined, these two seemingly insignificant pieces of the
human body would become more feared by the world rulers
than all the atomic bombs ever manufactured. These hairs
would destroy kingdoms and topple rulers all over the world,
and no army would be able to protect them from their doom.
Mr. Henry, a small, demure man, burst open the main doors
to the forensic lab with such force that each door slammed
violently into the wall behind it. Without stopping, he turned
down a small hall and into the third door on the right. That
was the mummy room, where Dr. James Burk was slowly,
painstakingly removing the three-thousand-year-old burial
cloth from King Amenhotep I, the second king of Egypt’s 18th
dynasty. He had lived in the upper Valley of the Kings near
the ancient city of Thebes. Some noted scholars argue that
he was the king who was on the throne when Moses led the
Israelites out of bondage from Egypt. What the Pope and the
Vatican hoped to learn by having one of the world’s leading
forensic scientists try to determine the cause of death of a three
thousand-year-old Egyptian king was still unclear to Dr. Burk,
but the money was so good that he didn’t really care. Instead,
he wondered, “how many of the poor had to sacrifice so much
of what they had when the collection plate was passed each
Sunday just to pay the enormous salary he has been offered for
this three-month position. “Not my problem; it’s their faith
not mine,” he thought. However, he was beginning to think
that what the Pope really wanted was not information about
King Amenhotep I, but the other project he had so nonchalantly
asked him if it were possible to do.
“Dr. Burk,” the seventy-two-year-old Pope John Paul III
started out in his priestly tone of calm demeanor, “It would
be nice if you could stay on a few more months and help us
finish a project that’s long overdue.” Glancing up and over his
reading glasses, the Pope noticed that Dr. Burk was attentive
and thought, “This is a good sign.” He continued, “Although
of no great significance, it would help us protect the church
in this day and age of science and scientists trying to prove, or
should I say disprove, everything about the faith.”
“This new project that you want,” Dr. Burk started in his,
matter-of-fact tone, “what is it, and how much are you willing
to pay?” Dr. Burk grew up poor in a one-room apartment in
Kansas. No father, just his mother and two younger sisters.
He learned at an early age that money is very important to ones
survival. It was the lack of money that was the main cause
of his little sister’s death. She was only six. She had a simple
chest cold that, for lack of money, went untreated. The family
could not afford even a single doctor’s visit. The cold turned
into pneumonia and the pneumonia turned into a slow, painful
death for the beautiful child. He tried to keep her warm in
their unheated room by cradling her tightly in his arms, but it
was the middle of winter, and despite his efforts, she had passed
from this world. His mother was out scrubbing floors trying to
earn the money for cough syrup, the only medication she could
afford. He was still clutching Faye’s lifeless body four hours
later when his mother returned home.
This experience scarred him so badly that his whole drive in
life was now motivated by money. Eventually, he became the
best in his profession, not out of personal pride, but so he could
command the highest fees for his work. Dr. Burk was probably
the most famous forensic scientist in the world. On numerous
occasions in the last ten years he had been hired to consult on
some of the most notorious murders. His home was in New
York, but he traveled far more than he was at home. He worked
for the prosecution in some cases and the defense in others—
whoever was willing to pay the most! He almost always found
trace elements of DNA that could be used to prove the accused
either guilty or innocent.
So, he was not surprised when he received a call from
the Vatican stating that Pope John Paul III wanted the best
forensic/DNA expert in the world to do some work on an old
mummy. What he was surprised at, even by his standards, was
the amount of money that the Pope would pay for just three
months of his time. He was reminded of the old movie The
Godfather and the line: “He’s making me an offer that I can’t
refuse.” If he only knew how close to reality that statement was,
he would have never come to the Vatican in the first place.
“The job, as you so eloquently put it, is to classify everything
on the Shroud of Turin, both by DNA and carbon dating,”
stated the Pope; his voice changed to a more commanding tone,
while at the same time, there was a slight hint of nervousness.
Dr. Burk took note of the change in both pitch and tone and
asked, “Why now? It’s just an old piece of cloth.”
The Pope responded emphatically, “You may call the Shroud
of Turin ‘just an old piece of cloth,’ but it is the burial shroud
of Jesus! Do you hear me, Dr. Burk? That ‘old piece of cloth’
wrapped the body of our Lord and Savior when He was placed
in the tomb! Don’t ever let me hear you call it ‘an old piece of
cloth’ again, or I swear you will live to regret it!”
After a moment of silence, the Pope regained his stately
manner. Then in his usual tone, he said, “Excuse me. I must
apologize for my rudeness. It’s just that even as we speak,
people are constantly working to cast doubts on the Shroud’s
authenticity, and more importantly, on the faith, trying, as I
say to ‘fleece the flock’ with bits and pieces of voodoo-scientific
reasoning, to get believers to over-analyze simple statements
made hundreds or even thousands of years ago by the church.
It causes some of our followers to question their faith. Now, it
seems the Shroud is getting all the attention. What we need
you to do is to use your forensic ‘magic’ and find a sample of
DNA on the Shroud that will give us scientific proof of its
authenticity. Are you willing to do that for an extra twenty
thousand dollars a month above what we are paying you now?
There will also be a bonus of two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars
if you can find and document the DNA of a two-thousand-yearold
male on the Shroud of Turin.”
It took Dr. Burk all of three seconds to say, “You’ve got a
deal, Padre.” Not his most elegant acceptance speech, but one
that got to the point quickly. “And you said an extra bonus of a
quarter of a million dollars if I can find two-thousand-year-old
DNA, right?”
“Yes, however remember it has to be DNA from a twothousand
year-old male between the ages of twenty-five and
thirty-five,” the Pope further clarified.
“Your Holiness, who is going to collaborate my findings?”
asked Burk.
“No one,” said the Pope. “Aren’t you the best forensic
scientist that money can buy in the world today? Why would
we want someone who is not as skilled as you casting doubts
on your findings and reputation? No, you will be the only one
to examine the Shroud; the only scientific expert to tell the
world there is two-thousand-year-old DNA on the Shroud. The
Shroud of Turin will be established as the true and authentic
burial wrapping of Jesus Christ!”
As Dr. Burk walked out of the Pope’s private chambers, the
words of the Pope kept going over and over in his head, “the best
forensic scientist that money can buy.” It wasn’t so much his
words as the little sneer at the corner of the Pope’s mouth when
he said it, and that bothered Burk. He felt anger rising as he
thought, “If he thinks that I would lie just to get two-hundredfifty-
thousand dollars, then he does not know who he’s dealing
with. In the hundreds of cases where I have been required to
provide evidence, I’ve never, under any circumstances, misled
or tainted my findings in any way. I received plenty of pressure,
at times, from prosecutors to do just that. Still, two hundred
and Fifty thousand dollars! And no one will be allowed to check
my methods or findings.” Dr. Burk shook the thoughts out of
his mind as he walked back to the lab to begin work on the
Shroud. The king will just have to wait. After all, two hundred
and fifty thousand dollars can get you moved to the front of the
line in a lot of places.
Dr. Burk placed the cloth gently on a huge table. The
Shroud is fourteen feet long and three feet wide. From a forensic
scientist’s point of view, the area of the cloth to be examined is
fourteen feet by three feet, times two, since both sides will have
to be carefully examined. Placing the cloth under a grid that was
formed by laser lights made the cloth look like a checkerboard,
and thus it became easy to inspect one small square at a time.
Every single hair, every fiber that was not part of the cloth,
every bloodstain was carefully removed, cataloged, and placed
in a bottle. Dr. Burk took three full months to complete his
study of every inch of the cloth and determined that he had not
missed a single hair. That was an accomplishment in itself.
Hundreds, if not thousands of different people had handled the
two-thousand-year-old piece of linen. When he was finished, he
had accumulated over six thousand jars of different hair, blood,
and cloth fibers. He even found a tiny piece of fingernail. He
reasoned that someone, at some point in time, was very nervous
and biting his nails while standing over the cloth, and a small
fragment had fallen onto it.
“To an untrained man,” Burk thought, “the six thousand
bottles may seem like a lot, but the fact that over a hundred hairs
in just one square inch was possible, it made the number quite
low compared to what he originally assumed he would find.”
“Now for the interesting part,” thought Dr. Burk, “analyzing
each hair and blood drop for its DNA, and then carbon dating
each sample. If I can find what they’re looking for, this effort
will make my pay check quite hefty.”
Dr. Burk walked across the hall from the room where the
Shroud was kept. He was amazed by the sophistication of the
equipment in the Vatican’s DNA lab. It could easily be ranked
the best in the world. All of the latest equipment and computers
and DNA analyzers were the very top of the line. And they
had not one—as most labs do—but two, and sometimes three
of the incredibly expensive machines. The lab assistants they
had provided to work for him were not the usual technicians.
Each one of these men and women were specialist in their own
field and held a doctorate degree from MIT, Harvard, or Yale.
Any one of them could easily head one of the largest research
facilities—seeking cures for cancer or AIDS. They were all that
good! But like him, they’d been hired for a large amount of
money to do just one thing, and that was to evaluate the DNA
found on the Shroud.
It took Dr. Burk and his assistants another two months
to analyze all of the hair fibers. It was only done that quickly
because the Vatican decided to double everyone’s salary if they
would work around the clock—in shifts—so that the machines
never stopped their probing of the distant past. Money was no
object in this project.
Then just as quickly as it started, it was over. All the hairs,
blood, and fibers had been DNA tested. There were over threethousand-
eight-hundred different DNA results found on the
Shroud of Turin. That was to be expected with its age and
the fact that so many people over the past two thousand years
had handled it. What was not expected, however, was that
four hundred and sixty-two of the hair fibers matched; they
came from the same person. The only explanation for such a
large number of hairs from the same person was that they were
from the body that had actually been wrapped and buried in
the Shroud of Turin. For Dr. James Burk, he got to stand up
and yell, “Bingo! Pay me!” The results indicated that the four
hundred and sixty-two traces were all from a thirty- to thirtyfive
year-old male.” But just as importantly, and maybe even
more so, the carbon dating placed the hairs as falling between
25 and 35 AD. Burk said to himself, “Well, my work is done
here; I just made a quarter of a million dollars, and I will be
going back to New York just in time for Christmas.” At least
he thought that was the plan.
The small, delicate paintbrush moved back and forth
with the same careful precision as a brain surgeon
using a scalpel to make the most delicate incision. With each
stroke, only a few grains of sand were removed from what
looked to be just another pile of sand in a vacant lot in the city
of Bethlehem. But Winston Chadaberry III knew better. And
so did the dozen or so archeologists that were gathered around
in a circle, watching him painstakingly remove the last bit of
dirt from what was now taking the shape of a large iron latch.
Winston took a deep breath and pulled ever so slowly on the
latch. He would like to say that it took try after try to finally
get the small door to open, but that wasn’t the case. On his first
pull, the door gave way as if it had been waiting for centuries
for someone to enter. Stale air rushed out that had been kept
prisoner for thousands of years. It was the smell of musky, old,
decaying things that filled the nostrils of those standing there.
They all recognized that smell; it was the smell of success, the
smell of a chamber that no one had visited since the door had
been sealed so very long ago. That aroma was more exciting
to the archeologists standing there than the fragrance of the
finest perfume on a beautiful woman. It truly excited them.
They wanted to hurry down through that small door into the
unknown, like school children running with their flashlights,
laughing with delight at their success.
However, they were not school kids! They were the finest,
most highly respected team of archeologists that had ever been
assembled for one dig. It was more than likely that never again
would such talent ever be in one place at one time. All held
positions in various universities around the world; all were
experts in their own specialized fields of study. If one of them
didn’t know something, someone else did. It was amazing to
watch their minds work. They had studied over and over the
treasure map detailing the location of the hidden room in this
ancient church. It’s no wonder that the room had stayed hidden
for almost two thousand years. A second church had been built
on top of its remains.
Why it had not been found before was understandable —
the first church, for some reason, had been completely buried.
Its flat ceiling was turned into the floor of the second church.
Then, it took decades to build a huge church on top of the
old one. Everyone present knew there was something of great
value down there. None of them tried to guess what it was;
they all had reputations at stake. It was possible that it was
nothing, just an empty room whose treasure had been removed
a thousand years before; but it could be one of the greatest
archeological finds in the modern scientific world. Besides, the
Vatican was financing this expedition, and they would not have
done so if they thought there was nothing to find; they were the
ones who supplied the map in the first place. They had been
in possession of the map for nearly two thousand years, but
for some reason had just now wanted what was in this room.
But things change in two thousand years, and the Vatican’s
own team could not locate the old church, much less the one
underneath it. And it was just waiting for Winston Chadaberry
III to climb down those small steps to what he hoped would be
a brilliant future.
As Winston took his first step, he thought about how
fortunate he was to be here, in this place, at this precise
moment of time. In fact, he thought about how fortunate all
of his team was to be on the threshold of making some sort of
hopefully great discovery. They were provided with every item
they requested. They were all being paid nearly a year’s salary
for what should be three months of work. In effect, Winston
Chadaberry III and his expert team were about to change the
history of archeological findings.
The stone steps went down only about ten feet, and then the
passageway became a tunnel that ran straight for over forty feet
before starting down again. What was most unusual about this
tunnel were the many cutouts on both sides of the wall. Each
was large enough to hold a couple of men and their weapons.
It was designed where they would be able to stand hidden from
anyone who tried to come down the tunnel. They were placed
in such a way that it would have taken only a dozen or so men
in the various cutouts to be able to hold off an entire army
trying to come through the tunnel. Although it looked like
the builders had prepared for a battle, to protect the treasure,
whatever it might have been. It was obvious to Winston that
no battle had taken place. Neatly stacked in each of the cutouts
were bows and arrows, spears, axes, and swords. Winston took
this to be a good sign. And based on that, he felt that whatever
the treasure was, it must still be here.
They went down one more flight of stairs, which led
directly into a fairly large room. It was big enough for all the
archeologists and a dozen or so of the students who were helping
with the dig. He guessed it to be about a hundred feet long,
eighty feet wide with twelve-foot ceilings. Winston moved the
beam of his flashlight slowly around the room, trying to take
in every detail of what he was seeing. It was completely empty
except for what looked like a stone pulpit at the other end.
All the others were standing still, shining their flashlights in
all directions, looking for something, anything that might be
out of the ordinary, but not knowing what it could be. After
almost a minute of complete silence, Winston barked out,
“Bring down the flood lights. There has to be something else—
a hidden passageway or a stone that will pull out, revealing
whatever it is we’re looking for. I want it found.”
A few minutes later they hit the switches and battery powered
floodlights lit up the entire room. They looked everywhere; they
searched high and low. Nothing! There were no cracks in the
walls, no fake ceilings that let down. The stones on the floor
looked to be about a foot thick. The archaeologists covered the
room, tapping carefully on each single stone, but none sounded
hollow. Winston turned to the stone pulpit. “That has to be it
somehow,” he said. “It’s the only thing in the room, and it’s got
to be tied into what we are looking for in some way.”
It would have made it a lot easier if the Vatican had just
told them what it was they were looking for.
Winston thought, “I mean, is it bigger than a breadbox,
or what?”
But the Pope had been quite mum on the subject of what
they should find, only that they should find something, and
Winston felt it would have been rude to push the Pope into
telling when he had just stated that each of them would receive
twenty- thousand-dollars a month and a one-hundred-thousanddollar
bonus if they found what the church was looking for. He
focused his full attention on the pulpit.
Maybe it was sitting over something, he reflected, so they
tried to move it, but it was firmly attached to the floor. Maybe
it had a secret opening or something? No, they all went over it
with a fine-toothed comb, but there were no secret openings, no
nothing. The only difference between the pulpit and the rest of
the stone in the walls and ceilings was that they were cut stone
and the pulpit was poured — an ancient type of cement. Was
the fact that the pulpit was poured cement significant? No
one, including Winston thought it was. So tomorrow then, we
will try again, starting with the cutouts in the side of the walls
to see if any of them have a secret opening.
As they were leaving the chamber and slowly climbing
up the stairs, one of the students remarked that he had seen
something like this once before, a block of poured cement all
by itself in a room. But he stated that the main difference was
that he was part of the pouring of the cement. His high school
did it to encapsulate a time capsule that was not to be opened
for a hundred years or so. Winston stopped in his tracks, nearly
causing all the ones behind him to stumble and fall on the
steps. Staring straight up the stairs and not turning around to
face the group, he asked in a very calm voice, “What did you
say?”
Jake Kelly, the student who had been talking, very meekly
answered, “ Uhh….we poured cement all over a time capsule so
that no one could get it.”
Turning around and walking back down the stairs, Winston
entered the chamber one more time. Quietly looking at the
pulpit he thought, ‘Everything else in here is cut stone. The
pulpit is the only thing out of place, and only because it was
poured. Why pour when it was so much easier in that day and
age just to stack stones to make a pulpit?’ He knew that the
Romans had started using Pozzolana cement in the year 300
BC. They used it to build the Appian Way, the Roman baths,
the Coliseum and Pantheon in Rome, and the Pont du Gard
aqueduct in the south of France. All of these structures still
exist today. They used lime as a bonding material: a mixture
of one part lime to two parts Pozzolana. Then they would add
animal fat and blood as admixtures. These substances were
added to cement to increase the bonding properties.
“Son of a bitch.” Winston looked at the other archeologists
and said, “Out of the mouths of babes.”
He started barking orders like a drill sergeant with a new
crop of recruits, “Bring down the portable x-ray machine! String
lights all around this thing! Run me several extension cords for
power! We’re going to see if Mr. Kelly’s theory is correct.” He
looked at the scared young student and said, “Don’t worry, son,
its just your future reputation in the archeological world that
is riding on this. You do remember Geraldo Rivera and Al
Capone’s vault, don’t you? Made him the laughingstock of the
entire journalism world. This could do the same for you if you
are wrong.”
Kelly just stared at him, too scared to know what to say,
and too confused to know how his future got put on the line
here and not Mr. Chadaberry’s.
It took over an hour and a half to run all the extension
cords and set up the lights. After all of that was done, the x-ray
machine was set up and rolled in front of the pulpit.
“Well,” said Winston, “let’s see if we got anything, and
if Mr. Kelly is going to be famous as a joke, or as a brilliant
archeologist.”
“Mr. Kelly, if you please,” Winston said and gestured toward
the on/off switch. Kelly walked slowly over to the machine, took
a deep breath, let it all out, and then reached down and threw
the switch. A low hum started reverberating throughout the
chamber, and a white glow shown on the screen, but nothing
could be made out of it. This machine was one of the newest
models, and Winston thought it must have cost the Pope a
fortune. He hit the print button, and out came a piece of paper
with the x-ray printed on it. He started to turn the sheet over,
but decided instead to x-ray all four sides first so that he could
have a comprehensive picture of anything that might be inside
the cement structure.
When the first sheet was turned over, everyone was silent
for just a second. Then they all began cheering and slapping
each other on the back. There was something in the pulpit.
The only problem was that no one was sure just what it was.
The best guess was that it was a large wooden box of some
sort. Inside the box, according to the x-rays, was a level of
cloth padding which was the finest packing material of the day.
Then three iron rods about ten inches in length. Another layer
of padding, surrounding an object which no one could make
out and finally a last layer of the cloth padding.
Kelly, feeling a little cocky and proud of himself, said to
everyone, “We need to sleep on this and determine how we will
remove the box tomorrow.”
Winston just smiled and said, “Have you now taken charge
of this dig, Mr. Kelly?”
Kelly could feel himself blushing and offered a meek, “No,
sir.”
“Well, maybe you should; you are doing quite well,” said
Winston. “Everybody! We’ll sleep on it tonight and open it
tomorrow.”
That was one of the longest nights in Winston Chadaberry’s
life. He knew that no one could steal the block of cement;
it must weigh at least two or three tons. And it would take
a jackhammer several hours to make even a dent in the huge
block. Besides, just as soon as someone started, the noise would
be deafening, and everyone in the camp would be down the
stairs and into the chamber in less than two minutes. No, there
was no way that anyone was going to open that block of cement
easily.
It was that last thought that kept Winston up all night.
How would he ever be able to open the stone without destroying
what was inside it?
It was only 6 AM when he walked over to the mess tent,
but Winston was probably the last person up that morning.
Everyone else was already there with all their theories on how
to safely remove the contents encased in the pulpit. Kelly was
there, surrounded by a group of students. He was enjoying the
attention and his fifteen minutes of fame.
“Good for him,” thought Winston. He poured himself a
cup of hot coffee and took a small sip. It was too hot and he
burned his tongue. “Great,” he thought, “what a way to start
what may be the most important day of my life. Or it could just
be a wild goose chase, depending on two things. First, can we
remove the contents without destroying them? And secondly,
are the contents of any archeological significance?” With a knot
in his stomach, he stood up and said, “Let’s go,” and the entire
team, as one, put down their coffee mugs and glasses of juice
and began to walk single-file out of the mess tent.
They remained in single-file all the way: down the stairs,
through the tunnel, down the final flight of stairs, and into
the chamber. They fanned out all around the concrete pulpit.
They all just stared at it, each with the same question in mind:
“How is this going to be possible?” Several suggestions were
put forth by the archeologists in the room, but each suggestion,
when thought carefully through to its conclusion, proved that
it would destroy the box inside the block. Then a little hand
went up in the back of the group of students. Winston thought,
“Good grief! Now I’m back teaching school and answering
students’ questions. I don’t know why I had to bring along any
of these college students on this dig.” A little agitated, he said,
“You in the back, if you have something to contribute, speak
up; if not, put your hand down.”
A small, slender Asian girl made her way through the
other students and stepped slightly out in front of the group.
She had long straight black hair except for the one-inch- wide
bright purple streak going down the left side of her head. She
began speaking, “My true field of study is not archeology,
but gemology,” said the young girl, who did not look to be
over fourteen, though Winston knew she had to be at least
twenty-one to be part of this dig. “You know, the study of gem
stones.”
“I know what gemology is, Miss, but what I don’t know
is how that is going to help us here. Are you suggesting that
we use something hard, like a diamond-tipped drill, to cut this
stone?”
“No, sir; I’m suggesting that you use something that will
cut the rough diamond into a flawless gem. A laser. I have
used a hand-held one many times under the microscope to cut
a diamond to within one thousandth of an inch of tolerance. If
we use a laser here, we could get so close that you could almost
peel the remaining cement off the box, and there would be
no vibration or any other type of disturbance that could cause
damage to the contents.”
Winston looked at the group of archeologists and said,
“Why do I bring you along, when all I need is a bunch of college
kids? Miss, uh, I did not get your name, any special kind of
laser that we need to use?”
“Johnson. My name is Miss Johnson, and, yes! The best
kind for this type of work would be one of the new robotic
lasers. Although they are portable, it will take four men to
carry one down those stairs. Once it’s properly set up, all you
have to do is feed the x-ray photo into the laser machine and
tell it to cut away everything but what is in the photograph.
Then simply hit the start button and stand back while the laser
removes the cement one small slice at a time. Oh, and pray that
the laser does not set the box on fire if it is made of wood. The
laser beam is very, very hot.”
Winston put in a call to the Vatican and requested the laser.
The Pope himself got on the phone and began asking all kinds
of questions about what Winston thought was in the block of
cement, including, “What were the dimensions of the wooden
box that was encased in the pulpit?” He wanted all the x-rays
faxed to him. The Pope then startled Winston by saying that
he was sending a team from the Vatican to take possession of
the wooden box as soon as it was removed from its cement
tomb. Winston started to argue that a trained archeologist
needed to handle the box, that its contents could be damaged
beyond repair by someone who was transporting it if he didn’t
know what he was doing. If the Pope were in that great a hurry
to have the box, then he would personally deliver it to him.
However, with the large amount of money that the Pope was
about to pay Winston and his team, he did not want to rock
the boat. Besides, who knew what was in the box, or if it was
what the Pope had sent them to retrieve in the first place? All
Winston knew was that he was about to open something that
apparently was of great value to the church.
It took only two days for the laser to arrive, and with it
arrived seven new men. These men did not seem to be priestly
in any way. They more nearly resembled bodyguards or Special
Forces types. They were all business. No one spoke except the
lead man, and he did not mince words. He stated that his name
was Mr. Jones, which everyone knew was not his real name.
He also stated that he was now in charge, and nothing was
to be done without his personal approval. Mr. Jones turned
to Winston when they were all in the chamber and said,
“Everybody out except for you, Mr. Chadaberry.” No one will
view the box or its contents but my team. I will need you here
just in case there is some type of emergency. But everyone else
must leave before we start.
“What is so important that no one will be allowed to
view it, even after they find it?” thought Winston. Then his
imagination started running away with him: “What if, after
it is out, they decide that because I viewed the contents that
I have become a liability? What if they arrange for me to fall
down the stairs and break my neck or something?” He felt a
sense of panic, but tried not to show it. I cannot let myself be
alone with these men. I need witnesses! Safety in numbers.
Keep some others down here with me. That way they can’t kill
anyone. Too many witnesses.”
“Everyone can’t leave,” stated Winston in his most
commanding voice. “Miss Johnson is the only one who knows
how to run the laser, and Mr. Kelly is an expert on encased time
capsules. Both are essential parts in removing the box from
this block of cement.” Johnson glanced at Kelly with a “what
the hell” look on her face. Kelly just raised a single eyebrow
as if signaling to go along with whatever was happening. All
Kelly knew was that he was about to be in on something very
big, and he did not want to take a chance of missing out on
such an opportunity. Whatever “bull” Winston was throwing
around he didn’t know, or care about, at the moment.
Mr. Jones thought about it for just a second, started to
say something, and then stopped. Then he calmly said, “Of
course, Mr. Chadaberry. We need all the expert help we can
get.” Winston let his breath out slowly. It was only then he
realized he had been holding it until he heard what Mr. Jones
was going to say.
Now Winston took charge. “Everyone stand back; Miss
Johnson is about to start the laser.” Each man and the onewoman
put on dark glasses to shield their eyes from the bright
red laser beam. She flipped a switch, inserted the x-rays,
adjusted a few of the controls, and hit the green “GO” button.
Instantly, and with great speed, the laser started slicing off
pieces of the cement pulpit. At first it was very fast, taking off
large chunks of cement, but as it neared the wooden box that
had been entombed, it slowed down and began to make very
detailed, precise cuts. It had been slicing off bits of cement for
over two hours now.
Miss Johnson stopped the laser when there was still about
four inches of cement all around the wooden box. “We need to
take more x-rays so that we can fine-tune the laser. We need to
get as close as possible without touching the box,” she said.
“No! Just keep going,” said Mr. Jones.
It was then that Mr. Kelly stated emphatically, “The x-rays
that we were working from were taken through two feet of
solid cement! We could get much better accuracy by x-raying
through just four inches; thus, have a much better chance of not
damaging the box! If the laser is only off ¼ inch, it could fry
the box . . . and everything that’s in it.”
It was the word “fry” that caught Mr. Jones off guard. What
would he tell the Pope if the box was destroyed because he
would not let them take better x-rays before the final cutting?
“Take your x-rays then, but hurry up about it,” he snapped,
trying to sound as if he were in charge, even though everyone
knew that he had given that position up to Mr. Kelly.
They rolled the x-ray machine back into place and began
taking a whole new series of x-rays. They took many more than
they had originally, and many more than they needed. If he
could not see the contents of the box itself, Winston hoped
that he could sneak at least one of the x-rays out without being
discovered.
These x-rays were much clearer than the first set, but they
still could not identify the contents of the box. There was a level
of cloth padding, three rod-like pieces about ten inches long,
another level of padding, and then something that they could
not make out. It seemed to blend with what still appeared to
be a wooden box. The object wasn’t part of it, but it seemed
likely that it was made of a similar, perhaps woody, material.
At the bottom was a final layer of padding.
Mr. Kelly spoke with the authority of a man older and more
experienced than his age: “Miss Johnson, do your thing.”
She wheeled the laser in front of the much smaller block of
cement and fed in the new x-ray photos. Quickly she made a
few last-minute adjustments to the controls. The laser would
now cut much closer to the box but should not touch it. “I
think that I can get it as close as an eighth of an inch to the box
on all sides without hurting anything.” She then hit the green
“GO” button for the second time that night. Very slowly the
laser removed one layer of cement after another, always getting
closer to the box. Twenty minutes later, Miss Johnson stopped
the laser for the final time. “That’s as close as I want to chance
getting to the box,” she said.
They all moved in closer. It still had a very thin layer of
cement on all sides. “What do we do now?” asked Mr. Jones in
a tone that carried a plea for help. He had gotten this close; he
could not go back and tell the Pope that he was sorry, but they
just could not get through the last wafer-thin shell of cement.
“Hand me that rock hammer,” said Mr. Kelly. He took the
small hammer and started to tap the last layer of cement on the
corners.
“Stop!” yelled Mr. Jones. “What are you doing? You’ll
smash the box.”
“Mr. Jones, who is the expert here on removing time
capsules from what they are encased in?” said Mr. Kelly. He
then lightly tapped the corner of the block of cement and it all
just crumbled to the floor. “Just like in high school,” he said.
“High school!” said Jones.
Kelly just looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and
smiled.
Mr. Jones started to reach for the box but Winston grabbed
his arm saying, “We’ve come too far to have it ruined now. Let
an expert handle it.”
Jones hesitated just briefly trying to decide what his best
choice of actions would be.
Winston stated, “It’s not going anywhere -- just let me open
it. I know what I’m doing.” Reluctantly, Mr. Jones agreed to
let Winston proceed.
The box had two metal clasps that held the lid on. Winston
very carefully removed the clasps and opened the lid. Excitement
and anticipation were so thick you could have cut the air with a
knife. It was hard for anyone to breathe. Questions ran through
Winston’s mind: “What would they find? What would it mean
to the world? Why was it so very important to the Pope? But,
most importantly,” thought Winston, “would they get paid if
it were nothing at all?”
He removed the cloth padding one strip at a time until the
first layer was completely out and safely in a sealed container.
After all, everything in this find was almost two thousand years
old, and he was not going to take a chance on ruining any part
of it.
Then he removed one of the iron rods. Just as they had
suspected, they were about ten inches long, fairly heavy and
thick, but tapered to a rugged point. The other two were
virtually the same shape and size. Why they were important he
could not even guess, but somebody, at some time, had thought
they were, or they would not be in the box. He started again,
very slowly, removing the next layer of padding, piece by piece.
He took his time, not wanting to accidentally break or ruin
anything by hurrying.
When the last piece of cloth was removed and he looked
down into the box, everyone heard him gasp. His eyes opened
wide in both fear and wonderment. “Oh, my God! I know
what these iron rods are,” he said. Stammering, Winston tried
his hardest to get the words out, “They’re, they’re . . . they are
spikes.” With trembling hands, he reached into the box and
so very slowly started to remove the remaining artifact. There
was complete silence. Everyone in the room just stared, not
knowing what to say, not knowing whether to believe their
own eyes. Each one knowing that what they were seeing was
real. But it couldn’t be real. It shouldn’t even still exist. In his
gloved hands, Winston held the remaining piece for all to see:
a bloody crown of thorns.
In an almost holy voice, Winston softly said, “These are the
spikes that were used to nail our Lord and Savior to the cross
when He was crucified, and this is the bloody crown of thorns
He wore as He hung there dying.”
Winston just stared at what he held in his hands for two or
three minutes more, processing his thoughts. He tried to let his
mind absorb the significance of what he had just found — to
those present, and to the whole world. Finally, he glanced to
his right and saw that two of Jones’s men were on their knees
making the sign of the cross and speaking in a low tone. Clearly
they were saying prayers. He then looked over at both Kelly
and Johnson to see their reaction to this historic moment, but
they were not looking at the crown of thorns; they both were
staring intensely at something across the room, their faces
growing more ashen and fearful by the second. He turned to
follow their gaze.
He saw Mr. Jones with a pistol in his hand.
“Are you crazy?” Winston said to him. “The crown does not
need protecting from anyone here. We would all die to protect
it from harm. The world will change today when we announce
our discovery.”
