The Artifact (23 page)

“The only news tape in history of this kind of horrendous event,” Smith intoned, “is the infamous Zapruder film depicting the assassination of President John F. Kennedy in 1963.”

The right side of the split screen went to slow motion as Hannah’s body jolted from the impact of the bullet that struck her, coursed through her body, leaving a Rorschach splash of maroon staining the front of her white parka before she crumpled heavily to the roof of the van, rolling off the edge, onto the ground.

The video cut to full screen as Smith began questioning their visibly shaken and teary-eyed female reporter on the scene, relating that deputy sheriffs had corralled the hundred-or-so aggressive protesters within a circumference of yellow tape for questioning, and were searching the surrounding brush-covered hills on foot. She was forced to raise her voice to compete with the brash, stuttering noise of the two helicopters swooping over the area at tree-level, the police aircraft searching for the shooter, an NBC chopper recording video to supplement the on-site images of the cameras below.

Andrea was shocked and subdued as Sammy surfed around the network channels to pick up

whatever additional information on the attempted murder, evidently committed by some religious fanatic. NNC was rerunning her interview with Hannah Ogie less than a month ago, as the reporter recalled the logic and sincerity of the holy woman’s persona with sadness and an amalgam of other conflicting emotions. Andrea slumped into a feeling of gloom and ennui at the murder of an apparently sincere, well-meaning woman with whom she had spent almost two hours, which came on the heels of the equally senseless killing of a disturbed army officer whose mind had apparently blocked out any memory of the disputed encounter with Nomads in the Syrian Desert almost two years ago. Andrea asked Sammy to lift her into bed and close the door, acknowledging with little enthusiasm his intention to continue their attempts to contact General Callaghan.

Rand Duncan berated Steve Sarno for half an hour, but restrained from firing the hapless cameraman because of his history of past success and his personal involvement in the artifact story that no one in any news organization possessed except his erstwhile maverick correspondent Andrea Madigan.

Retaining his job, however, did little to reduce the self-flagellation with which the conscientious cameraman castigated himself for missing the photo opportunity of the decade. He had covered the Preacher Lady sermon in Nevada on the day she had been shot, but seconds prior to her murder had tired of recording redundant footage of the woman speaking from the roof of her vehicle and had swung his camcorder out over the crowd to emphasize the growing magnitude of the woman’s audience.

Back in the post-production cubby, Sarno could not stop reviewing the damning footage of his galling ten-second pan of the audience. Seated before one of the monitors, he reran the sequence for the hundredth time, his stomach churning near the end of the sequence when the sound of the shot had impelled him to swing his lens back to capture the Preacher tumbling off her van onto the ground.

Maybe, he thought, there was something in her fall he could salvage as partial redemption for missing that critical moment captured by almost every other camera present. He rewound the tape to start, zoomed in to max close-up and ran it again. Nothing. He was about to give up when he decided to give it one more try, then file the damn thing in the archives and forget it. As the sequence began panning the crowd for the nth time, Steve turned the speed knob to ultra-slow motion, leaning back in his chair with arms folded and little expectation.

Toward the end of the sequence, at the same instant as the sound of the rifle shot on the audio, he noticed a minute flash on the crest of a low incline above the crowd that brought him bolt upright, fingers flying over the console to increase the video clarity as he reran that three-second segment of tape again and again.

In the bowels of Walter Reed Army Hospital, Washington, DC, pathologist Dr. Joseph DeMarco stood on a sturdy, foot-high wooden box specially constructed to elevate his five-foot frame to a level comparable to assistants who usually attended him. He raised his plastic face guard, peering down on the waist-high stainless steel table on which the corpse of the Preacher Lady lay scrubbed and naked awaiting the postmortem procedure that would splay it from throat to pudendum with the classic ‘Y’ incision, its bloody inner organs exposed for removal and analysis.

During his seven years dissecting the bodies of deceased military personnel with questionable causes of death, he had never seen anything remotely similar to the jagged, patchwork seams covering the outer, nonvascular layer of cells covering the woman’s entire true skin or corium. Almost indiscernible, the faint lines on the epidermis suggested a three dimensional indication of penetration to her internal organs such as liver, kidneys, spleen, intestines, veins, heart, muscles and every other physical component of the human structure, that when revealed, would resemble a completed jigsaw puzzle. Reminiscent of the children’s poem translated from English to Italian his mother had recited to him, his brothers and sisters forty-five years ago in Ventimiglia, Italy: “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty together again.”

Dr. DeMarco pulled his gaze from the strange pattern somehow imposed on the otherwise unblemished olive skin, otherwise without mark or defect except for the neat, black hole of the entry site of the bullet that pierced her chest above her left breast. He glanced at the large wall clock and looked around the white and stainless steel room to assure himself that at 2230 hours, the rest of the pathology staff had long departed for home or refreshment—neither one of which was he ever asked by coworkers to participate. Assured that he was in fact alone in the brightly lit, sterile autopsy chamber, his first reaction had been one of elation that he had stumbled across a unique medical dilemma he would report to Dr. Anna Caruthers, his department head, with the hope of leading an investigative team of doctors and biologists to qualify and research the causes of his findings. He had adjusted the hanging microphone for his enhanced stature to best capture his running commentary on his planned autopsy procedure.

That thought quickly evaporated, however, as he reviewed his status on the bottom rung of the department ladder, stuck there for the foreseeable future, apparently, as the result of his poor English language skills and low matriculation percentile from the Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore in his native Italy. Several unfortunate medical errors made during his tenure at Reed—stemming from mistakes of transcription ignorant secretaries, he averred, had also clouded his record. Since he had no idea what the aberration on the Preacher Lady’s organs were, bringing his finding to his department head could result in the revelation of a rare but commonly accepted explanation unknown to him, and add another unflattering entry in his personal performance file. He could look it up online or in medical texts, but the immediacy of the autopsy of the assassinated woman was evidently a political requirement rather than a medical one. Everyone knew, and thousands had witnessed her murder, so there was no need to establish cause of death or any other medical facts. The Powers That Be were determined to get this embarrassing incident behind them, and wanted all bases covered before planting the woman in the ground as quickly as possible. No time for research before he submitted his report—and what would be the point afterwards? If the anomaly was significant, a top research team led by one of the star pathologists would take over, and Joseph would be left out in the cold. What did he have to gain by reporting his discovery? Ridicule or abandonment. The only way to avoid both, he decided, was to say nothing. The body would be placed in a coffin by hospital orderlies, who would never scrutinize the corpse closely enough to detect the anomaly. He pulled the plastic shield down over his face and began dictating.

“Case 6453789, pathologist Dr. Joseph DeMarco, #6673421, 9 November 2004. Subject feminine, twenty-seven age of years, Caucasian, 275.5 kilos 28.32 centimeters, black hair, brown eye, no scar visible or abnormals. Cause of death a bullet fired into chest passing thorough. Epidermis and internal organs apparently intact from external observation, not around wound, damage surrounding.”

Dr. DeMarco picked up a scalpel from the stainless steel instrument tray, poised it above the throat of the corpse and plunged it into the thin layers of epidermis, dermis, melanocyte, sebaceous gland and muscle as the double doors of the room swung open, followed by a gruff order to, “Stop what you’re doing right now, Doc!”

Startled by the surprise entry and harsh command, DeMarco’s hand jerked the scalpel sideways, cutting a shallow incision toward the left shoulder of the corpse. “Who are you? What do you….”

Major Charles Geoff marched across the room in starched, pressed camos, web utility belt and sidearm, the sound of his polished jump boots and those of the two similarly attired non-com troopers behind him slamming against the waxed tile floor, reverberating in the otherwise placid atmosphere of sterile chamber. Geoff stopped on the opposite side of the autopsy table over which a wide-eyed DeMarco held his bloody knife above The Preacher Lady’s throat.

“You cannot come here,” the pathologist stuttered.

“Well, seems like that is just not true, Doc,” Geoff countered, extracting a single sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his utility jacket, offering it across the body to the physician.

DeMarco took the paper with a latex-gloved hand, frowning. “What is this?”

“Orders, Doc. Authorization for you to release the body of The Preacher Lady here, to me and my men. Forthwith.” Geoff turned to his men. “Alvarez, grab that gurney there, and load the woman on it.”

“Impossible!” DeMarco shouted. I will call my superior, security!”

“Calm down, buster, read the whole order,” Geoff said. “It’s also a release for you to turn the body over to me, so you’re off the hook.”

DeMarco jumped down from his box, ran to a wall phone and began dialing.

“The order’s signed by Brigadier General Clyde Callaghan,” the major pointed out calmly. Unless you’re calling somebody higher up, you’re little Eye-talian ass is gonna end up in a deep pot of
pasta fagioli
. Or maybe you wanna call my boss and interrupt his precious seven hours of beauty sleep?”

“He screwed us,” Kevin Harrington told the forty special agents assembled before him, the declaration curling the corners of his lips downward. They were grouped together in auditorium seats in a room designed to hold three times their number, men and women from regional field offices across the country. None, including Special Agent Paula Najarian, seated on the raised platform beside the podium at which Harrington spoke, possessed the temerity to question, respond or comment on Deputy Director Harrington’s controlled anger or the substance of his briefing.

“General Callaghan not only claimed to have the situation under control,” Harrington continued, “but misled people in the highest levels of the administration, lulling them into patiently awaiting his final report.”

Harrington paused for effect as he scanned the attentive faces of his handpicked agents. “Clyde Callaghan and his sidekick Charles Geoff by their deceit and omissions have been declared traitors to their country. Your assignment is to obtain the artifact document at all costs and apprehend every one of the perpetrators of this heinous deception. You are to prevent the dissemination of any details concerning the artifact to the public and thwart any attempt of Callaghan or his coconspirators to speak to the press.

“You will be backed by all state and local police departments,” Harrington told them. “Every branch of the armed forces and national guards are on alert to your call even as I speak. You forty agents will spearhead special teams in this undertaking, each in the specific disciplines previously assigned. All reports will be forwarded to Special Agent Najarian. Questions?”

There were none. The Deputy Director had been speaking for over an hour. He turned to nod at Paula Najarian, who stood and moved to the lectern that Harrington ceded, waiting until he had stalked from the room before speaking.

When new recruits in the Agency heard old-timers refer to Paula Najarian as ‘Chair Leg,’ the seasoned agents explained her nickname with humor tinged with respect. Most of the newbies were familiar with the tired joke about several female applicants who were given a final test for commitment and obedience. It consisted of being issued a loaded pistol and instructions to kill the man seated behind a closed door in a tiny windowless room. The intended victim was always the husband or lover of the candidate. The trainee invariably refused to pull the trigger, although was subsequently relieved to learn that the gun had been loaded with blanks. Except for the last trainee whose entry behind the door was followed by six shots and the sounds of an extended scuffle. Upon emerging from the room, the woman apologized for the length of time it took her to complete her task, explaining that some idiot had put blanks in her pistol, which had forced her to beat her husband to death with the leg of his chair.

During her nineteen years as a Federal operative, Najarian had earned the sobriquet as a highly disciplined, successful, and sometimes ruthless field agent. Now, near the early retirement age of fifty-two, she was one of the most perceptive and creative minds in the anti-terrorist division of Homeland Security. The never-married, graying brunette had maintained her curvaceous figure and allure despite her unremarkable features that had lent themselves to numerous disguises, and her short-styled hair that was thinning and brittle from countless color changes. Bi-sexual by necessity if not preference, she had never experienced the all-consuming emotion called love, yet even now chose her infrequent bedmates for her pleasure or some bona fide gain.

“It looks like they were asshole buddies in more ways than one,” she began. “Neither had any other close friends on the base or any place else.”