THE AGNUS DEI

My wife Kelley plays 16-inch softball in Grant Park. She’s the social one. Me? I powerlift at the “Y”. We troglodytes don’t talk much –just grunt and scratch.

The only people who watch 16-inch games are the significant others, and most of them are drunk. But It’s the thought that counts. So, I perch in a lawn chair and quaff a few Old Styles, while my wife imitates Roy Hobbs.

Kelley’s on a team of U of Chicago profs. Needless to say, an infield made up of future Nobel Laurates isn’t going to light up the Chicago beer leagues. But my Kelley’s more competitive than Ty Cobb. So, she plays the game with all the ferocity of a caged wolverine.

The rules require four women and six men. The men play bare handed. The women wear gloves. Kelley would normally insist on going bare-handed. But she’s the first baseman and the glove gives her that little extra edge in case the throw’s off. Like I said, she’s competitive.

Hitting a ball that’s the size of a harvest moon doesn’t interest me. I mean seriously??! It would be hard to miss something that big. Still, watching my wife bamboozle a team full of macho-man lawyers, or hedge-fund managers, never fails to entertain.

Kelley bats cleanup. There’s a method to that madness. The guys on the other side see a drop-dead gorgeous redhead in tight polyester baseball pants. So, they walk in a few steps. That’s a mistake.

Hitting a mush ball any distance is like trying to put zip on a cantaloupe. The physics simply aren’t there. It’s the reason why 16-inch is so popular in those dense old Chicago neighborhoods. The ball never travels very far.

But baseball is a fast-twitch leverage sport where the emphasis is on eye hand coordination and proper mechanics. Kelley’s reflexes are lightning fast, and she has the powerful, disciplined body of a dancer. So, the ball is always dead center on the barrel of a bat that is traveling at an uncanny rate of speed.

So, watching my wife drive a frozen rope ten feet over the startled left-fielder’s head certainly lays rest the old saw about girls and baseball. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been to one of Kelley’s games where the first inning score wasn’t whoever was on base at the time, plus my wife.

It was an exceptionally shitty July evening, even by Chicago standards, stifling heat, and humidity. You could sense the coming storm. Chicago gets the benefit of the lake. But on evenings like this, the hot muggy air and the cool Lake Michigan water don’t play well together.

The atmosphere had that tingly feeling that you get just before life becomes extremely interesting. The big greenish-black clouds were building overhead. The wind began to rise, and the whole world went dead silent. Then, there was a blinding flash and a series of rolling thunderclaps.

All I could hear was my wife loudly arguing with the guy who had just called-off the game. Her team was down two runs in the bottom of the seventh and she was coming to bat with two on. I mean really?!! If Mighty Casey was willing to risk getting struck by lightning, then the rest of those pussies ought to stand out there while she finished off the hapless foe.

I was hotfooting it through the formal garden between Upper Hutchinson and South Michigan when Kelley caught up with me. I needed the head start. Kelley’s extremely fast.

We make quite a contrast. She’s, lithe and sleek and pantherish, in a maroon U of C tee, and tight baseball pants. Moi? I look like a hairy rhinoceros in an ancient aloha shirt, old-fashioned Bermuda shorts and floppy red Chuckies.

Kelley had a woman in tow. That was Isobel, the right fielder, and her BFF from the good old days at Hyde Park. Kelley is a woman of infinite contrast. She’s Celtic beauty incarnate, flat-out gorgeous, in a healthy Sports Illustrated cover model way. But it’s not her beauty that amazes. It’s her intelligence. That’s’ where she and Isobel connect.

Right this second however, it looked like my genius wife was going to get us drowned. We had gone about 200 feet down Michigan Avenue, headed for the parking lot over on Wabash, when God hit us with a bucket of water.

I zagged right and into the Hilton. We could all dry off at 720 South. The restaurant is expensive. But it has a nice collection of Irish whiskey and it’s a proven fact that Jameson’s can dry wet clothing. Just ask the Irish. It rains a lot over there, and they drink gallons of it, even babies.

The restaurant was a bit upscale for the way we looked. So, the host hesitated for a second. Then he caught sight of Kelley in a drenched t-shirt. That opened his eyes so-to-speak. He discretely escorted us to a little alcove at the far end of the bar. We squished our way into the banquette seating and the waiter appeared.

The waiter looked me over with the usual disdain. I could easily pass for a mob enforcer; glittering black eyes, buzz cut, eternal five o’clock shadow, no neck and about 240 pounds of bulky muscle.

Then his eyes shifted to Isobel. Isobel’s presence will answer any questions about your pedigree. It’s something in the way she holds herself. She’s not consciously trying to project superiority. In fact, she is a very humble little woman. But the power is unmistakably “there.”

Physically, Isobel is a tiny woodland creature, slight of frame, brown hair, brown eyes, and brown skin. You might look past her once. But you won’t do it twice. It’s almost an alien intelligence and it’s intimidating.

The waiter coughed and said, “May I take your order?” I ordered three shots of Redbreast 21 and handed him an American Express Black. That convinced him that I was mobbed up. He hustled away like he thought I was going to kneecap him.

Isobel is Kelley’s best friend. They’ve been buds since they were undergraduates over in that southside ivory tower. Which is ironic because Isobel is a sparrow and Kelley’s a hawk.

My wife is, and always has been, an eye magnet. She radiates the soul of the Irish; abundantly thick copper hair, huge emerald eyes, jaunty spirit, wholesome beauty and sparkling good humor. While, Isobel isn’t, “of this world.”

Isobel’s the prototypical nerd. Everything she wears is slightly out of kilter. That includes her Pam Grier 1970s Afro. But she is also one of the top geneticists at the University of Chicago’s Institute for Genetics and Genomes. That’s where Kelley hangs out.

Let me stop you right there!! I know what you’re thinking. So, I’m going to put you straight. I don’t suffer a shred of jealousy over my wife’s eggheadedness, or that of any of her eggheaded friends. It takes nothing off me. It’s just who she is, and I love her.

I am who I am. Nobody’d ever mistake me for an intellectual. I’ve got a different kind of smarts and that’s always gotten me by. We’re two sides of the same coin, Kelley, and me, and we’re inseparable.

Right this second though, my wife and her friend were engaged in an animated conversation that included words like “nucleotide”,” adenine”, and “parallelized epigenome characterization”. I knew none of those words. So, I said jokingly, “Could you clue a poor Army cop in on what you two women are talking about.”

Isobel looked embarrassed. The last thing she wanted to do was exclude me. Kelley laughed and said, “We’re talking about Isobel’s latest project at IGG.”

John enjoyed the self-scourging. It was his favorite way to debase himself. Just as the Master had taught, “If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross.” Bearing that cross was John’s only interest.

He DID have one other interest. That was killing. It was expected of all the Apostles. and John was the most ardent of the group. The Apostles had unique access to absolute truths, beliefs so perfect that they viewed it as their duty to impose them on everyone else. That was John’s mission.

The Apostles traced their lineage back to the Sicarii. The Sicarii predated the Hashshashin of Almut, from which the word “assassin” was derived. So, it might be said that the Sicarii were the first organized terror group.

The Sicarii were originally Jewish zealots who were supposedly wiped out at Masada. That was a myth fostered by the Romans so that they could sleep at night. In fact, most of the Sicarii joined the diaspora after Titus’s destruction of the temple in 70 AD. In return, it was one of the Sicarii who arranged Titus’s untimely demise.

Every subversive sect needs a purpose. For the Sicarii, that was ensuring the dominion of the spirit over the flesh. It wasn’t religion. It was a deep-seated obsession with the most absolute form of corporeal independence – death.

After Rome fell, the Sicarii settled into a mountaintop castellum near Melago in the Italian Alps. That valley was perhaps the remotest place in the known world. Centuries passed, and the Sicarii morphed into an inbred group of mystic absolutists whose single precept was the triumph of the immortal soul.

It might have even been admirable, in a backward sort of way, if it weren’t for the methods. The Apostles were born as assassins and that was their defining characteristic. In many ways it was pure pragmatism. If you disagreed with them, then you were eliminated; quick, efficient, and effective.

That had been the fate of the Templars. They were the Apostle’s only real competition for ownership of the spiritual agenda back in the day. The problem was that the Templars got too rich and worldly. So, it was easy to engineer their downfall. The King of France was just the means to that end.

The Brotherhood was restricted to twelve Apostles. Those twelve men were privy to the mysteries of Apostolicism. But there was always a thirteenth. Judas Iscariot had been treasurer of the Brotherhood before his betrayal and excommunication. Hence, one Brother named Judas stayed in exile and served as the Apostle’s catspaw in the wicked world.

De Nogaret was the Judas in the Templar era. He was advisor to Philip the Fair. It was De Nogaret, through Philip, who eliminated the Templars.

Of course, there were many levels within the order, from novice to enlightened. But there were never more than a dozen Apostles as the Scripture demanded. These men were replaced as the incumbents died.

John was always the youngest, just as the original had been, and he was “beloved.” He in turn, was the most fanatical of the Brotherhood.

John channeled his zeal into utter dedication to the purposes of the group. That meant endless days perfecting himself. The result was a chiseled six-foot specimen who could move like a striking snake.

Nobody bested John in physical combat. He particularly enjoyed killing with a sword. It was just so deliciously intimate. His weapon of choice was a Fujiwara Kanenaga masterpiece forged in the 17th Century.

John’s self-discipline was legendary. He had trained himself to lie motionless for hours in the snow of the Brotherhood’s Alpine lair, wearing nothing but a white Shinobi Shizoku. He was adept at every form of covert death. John could poison you with handy household items or kill you with everyday things.

But his unique talent was his chameleon-like ability. John loathed the physical world. Still, he had made himself adept at every nuance of the realm of the body. He could hide in many forms, humble peasant to ultra-sophisticated man of the world. He was a master of sex, even though the act repulsed him, and he particularly hated the sounds and smells. It was a sacrifice he made for the Brotherhood.

John DID love technology. The irony of furthering spiritual ends through virtual means was totally lost on him. But in cyberspace, he could leave his bodily limitations and glide through cyberspace, like an all-seeing god. It was the only pleasure that he allowed himself in a world of relentless self-abnegation.

As John lay naked on the cold stone of his cell, he eagerly contemplated his next assignment. This would be the time of reckoning, the final battle between science and the spirit. The struggle would begin tomorrow, and he was relishing his first moves.

“You’re doing what?!!” I thought I’d just heard Isobel say that her group was sequencing the DNA of Jesus Christ.

Kelley laughed merrily and said, “What Isobel said was that the IGG is planning to sequence DNA taken from the Shroud of Turin.”

I said puzzled, “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Isobel said, without an ounce of condescension, “Nobody knows whether the Shroud is even authentic, let alone who was buried in it.”

She continued offhandedly, “The Shroud’s embedded in Catholic lore but it has never been dated to Christ’s time. The earliest mention of it is from a letter written in 1390 by a Bishop in Lirey, France. That’s also the period that the radiocarbon dating sets it.”

Kelley added, “There are blood stains in the cloth that are located at the parts of the body that coincide with the reported wounds that Christ got at his crucifixion.”

Isobel piped up happily, “The dried blood is still viable. An Italian forensic pathologist did an analysis back in the ‘80s. It’s type AB positive, only four-percent of the world’s population has it.”

Kelley said, “We’ve had the capability to sequence the DNA from the Shroud for a long time. But without anything to compare it to, the only thing we’d be able to tell you are the basic geographic and ethnographic features of the person who was wrapped in it and we already know that.”

Isobel added eagerly, “Then a few bones of John the Baptist were dug up in a church in Bulgaria.”

I gave her a “please” look and said incredulously, “Seriously??!! Bulgaria??!!”

Kelley laughed and said, “You don’t know where Bulgaria is, do you?”

I shook my head meekly, “No.”

Kelley said, “It’s on the Black Sea just a hop-skip-and-a-jump by ship from Istanbul, which was Constantinople back in Roman times.”

I looked baffled. She clarified, “Constantine the Great is the guy the city is named after. He made it his capitol and named it after himself.”

I continued to look bewildered. Kelley smiled and added meaningfully, “He’s the one who made Christianity the official religion of the Roman Empire.”

I said cynically, “So what?”

Kelley laughed and continued, “Constantine’s mother was Helena, now known as St. Helena. She was a prostitute when she met Constantine’s dad, the Emperor Constantius.” Kelly was smiling as she said it. It WAS a little ironic.

She said wryly, “Helena’s technique must have been impressive. Because Constantius promptly married her, and Constantine was the result.” Kelley ought to know. She’s a master of the bedroom arts.

I said doubtfully, “So???”

Kelley added in her usual long-suffering tone, “Helena is a Christian saint because she did a tour of the Holy-Land when she was eighty years old. While she was visiting the place, she grabbed every religious artifact she could lay hands on; from the “True Cross,” to the “Holy Lance.”

Then Kelley paused for dramatic effect and said, “The bones she brought back have traditionally been attributed to John the Baptist and they have been carbon-dated to Jesus’s time. So, they’re clearly one of the souvenirs that Helena acquired in her travels. Since Bulgaria is right next door to Constantinople, it doesn’t seem odd that they would end-up there.”

Isobel chimed in excitedly, “John the Baptist was Jesus’s second cousin. That gives us the genetic markers in the mitochondrial DNA. If we get a DNA match, that will confirm that the Shroud is indeed authentic, and the occupant was you-know-who.”

Then she got an exalted look and said, “Once we sequence Jesus Christ’s DNA, we will be able to tell the world exactly who he really was.”

I ducked my head and glanced around like there might be Jesuits with torches waiting to light the tinder at my feet. I said horrified, “Don’t you think that the Christians would view that as a bit sacrilegious??!!” Isobel shrugged and said matter of fact, “It’s just science.”

I’m as pagan as the day is long. But Kelley is an Irish Catholic. I looked at her questioningly and said, “What do you think Babe?”

Her emerald eyes were blazing. She said, “I’m a Catholic and a scientist. I believe in truth. Jesus’s divinity is an article of faith to me. But the evidence is right there. It would be criminal not to test it.”

The first-class attendant on the Alitalia flight from Fiumicino, to O’Hare, was getting nervous. She’d even contemplated passing a 7500, potential hijack, code to the pilots. The man sitting in seat one-Lima was THAT scary.

He had almost angelic beauty. But he just sat there, like he was a statue. Normally the international players in first-class hit on her. She was a stunning blond. But this guy refused the breakfast and lunch service, and he didn’t even look at her when she asked him if he needed anything.

John was experiencing rapture. He always felt that way when he was about to kill for the faith. He reviewed the plan and method carefully in his head.

His flight had left Italy at seven-twenty in the morning and with the westbound time difference he would be on a CTA train shortly before noon Chicago time. One of the Brotherhood’s novitiates would pick John up at the Loop and bring him to the place of execution.

The speed limit on U.S. 41 is posted at 45 miles an hour. But Chicago drivers are so aggressive. that anybody traveling at that speed would get rear-ended, even by the little old ladies.

The light changed and the black SUV made the turn off of 57th and started northbound on South Lake Shore. It was traveling at sixty-miles-an-hour when it appeared that the driver made the conscious decision to hit the center abutment of the walkway to Regent’s Park.

The car accelerated, swerved hard left and climbed the center divider. It must have been doing 90 miles an hour at that point, because the frame skidded sideways for several yards along the retaining wall and then hairpinned around the cement stantion of the overpass.

John and the Acolyte had been sitting leisurely on the big rocks in front of the lake. Once the target came into range, John used a laptop and a small portable GSM antenna to “evil twin” the nearby AT&T 850 MHz LTE cell tower and wirelessly connect to the vehicle’s OBD-II port.

The vehicle’s CAN-bus is wide open to that port and the CAN commands the embedded controls for the accelerator, brakes, and steering. The first hint that the occupant got that he was going to die was the sudden uncontrolled acceleration. Pumping the brakes did nothing. The steering wheel swerved, there was a tremendous crash, and the occupant was DOA.

Kelly got the call around 3:30 in the afternoon. She looked concerned. She did the usual mysterious, “Uh-Huh, uh-huh,” and said, “We’ll be right there.”

We met Isobel in the lobby of the University of Chicago Medical Center. She was beside herself with grief. Her boss, Dr. Atkinson had been brought there, after the jaws of life had pried him out of his crushed vehicle. He was thoroughly dead, and Isobel was a hot mess.

We walked her out of the South Ellis side of the Medical Center and through the little park into the Rockefeller Chapel. The chapel isn’t exactly cozy. It was built by John D himself. So, it’s like somebody dropped Winchester Cathedral on the Midway. However, it’s relatively private.

We found a pew off a side aisle, in the main body of that cavernous building. Kelly does sympathy a lot better than I do. She slid in next to Isobel. I stood in the aisle facing her. Kelly said, “I’m so sorry Isobel. I know that Fred was a friend and mentor. What happened?”

Isobel looked at her with misery in her eyes and said, “They say it was suicide. But I know they killed him. It was because of the project.”

I said puzzled, “What happened?”

Isobel said weepily, “He supposedly rammed the abutment on the footbridge over South Lakeshore down by the park. He would NEVER do that. He was very excited about the blood sample. We just got it today.”

Kelly was tracking better than I was. She said, “So the sample from the shroud arrived. Did he have it in his possession?”

Isobel grimaced and said, “Of course not. It is in a controlled environment in the Human Genetics lab.” A thought began to hatch in my suspicious cop mind. I said, “Is it guarded?”

Isobel looked puzzled and said, “Just the University Police? Why?” I looked at Kelly. She saw what I saw. I said to Isobel, “Take us to that sample as fast as you can!”

Isobel and Kelly arrived at the Department of Human Genetics several seconds before I did. I’m not built for speed.

They were surveying the carnage when I arrived. I was puffing like a steam train. Benches and equipment were overturned, and a male and female were laid out on the floor, clearly dead. Nobody’s head belongs at that angle.

Kelly was calling 911. Isobel was frozen in sheer anguish. I charged past them in the direction of the cleanrooms. I was hoping whoever did it was still on the premises.

There was one door hanging by its hinges. That seemed a likely place to start. I slowed and stopped just outside the entrance. There was the sound of systematic ransacking going on inside. I thought to myself, “Aha!!” and stepped into the room. Then I stepped right back out.

The axe they’d appropriated from the fire cabinet missed me by a fraction of an inch. There were two of them. The one who had swung the axe was a big guy. Well, so am I. The other one looked like the Archangel Gabriel himself. He was so beautiful that he was almost non- human. That guy was in the process of removing something from the safe-storage locker.

I knew what he was after. But I had to deal with the other dude first, since he was the one with the sharp object. I turned to face him. He was smart enough not to raise the axe over his head. If he’d opened his body, I would have taken him out easily. Instead he backswung the axe at me.

I’m bulky but I’m not muscle bound. I work on quickness and agility more than I do strength, because that’s what it takes to win fights. I bowed myself away from the axe head as it swished past and stepped into the guy with a huge right hook.

That clearly broke a couple of ribs. He went, “ooofff” and the axe flew. He started to double over which was convenient since I was already in the process of grabbing the back of his head and ramming his face onto my swiftly rising kneecap. There was a crack and he hit the floor.

In the meantime, my angelic friend had whisked out the door headed for the exit. I heard Kelly make a loud effort noise and there was some crashing and banging. Then there was silence.

I grabbed my unconscious victim and dragged his limp body out into the main room. Then I dropped him and kicked him a couple more times. That produced a moan of sheer agony.

The stranger had become the object of my wrath because Kelley was lying splayed out against one wall looking as dead as the other two corpses. Isobel was bending over her wringing her hands in misery.

It took me two micro-seconds to get to my wife. She had a rapidly developing bruise on one of her marvelous cheekbones. But I could see she was breathing. Isobel said distressed, “She tried to stop him. She hit him with one of those martial arts kicks. But he just swept her aside like he was swatting a fly.”

At that point Kelley opened her eyes. My wife is no shrinking violet. Her Irish was up, even though she had just been sent to la-la land, and she was looking for somebody to kill. She began struggle to her feet. I held her back saying hastily, “It’s okay, he’s gone. We’ll get him later.”

She slumped back looking concussed. I said to Isobel, “Take her across the street to the medical center and have her looked at. I have a few questions that I want to ask my friend before the cops show up.”

I helped Kelley to her feet and the two of them shuffled out of the lab. Kelley was getting her usual feline grace back. But it was clear she had been rocked.

Meanwhile, I only had a short window to get the answers. That was because, it was a good bet that I’d be spread-eagled on the floor next to my victim when the cops showed up; at least until Isobel and Kelley sorted things out.

The dude was an accessory to a murder. So, he wasn’t going anywhere except downtown. The cops didn’t have the same interest in him that I had. So, I needed to act fast. I hauled him into a sitting position. He groaned in pain. I said grimly, “If you think that hurt you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

He looked at me with hatred and said, “I’ll tell you nothing HERETIC!!”

I’ve been called a lot of things. But that was a new one. I said amused, “And what makes me a heretic?”

He spat at me and said in a voice dripping with fanatic loathing, “The Apostles have taken back the sacred blood of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. You will never defile Him with your profane hands.”

That was promising. I thought, “The convenient part about the real nut-jobs is that you don’t have to beat it out of them. They’ll go out of their way to tell you everything. All you have to do is let them talk.”

I said sneering, “Oh yeah? and who are these Apostles, a motorcycle gang? Did your old lady have to pull a train to get you in the club?”

He got the beatific look that all good Christian martyrs get and said, “We are the Holy Apostles. We do God’s work, and He will protect us.”

At that point, a loud voice said,” Get down on the ground NOW! Put your hands over your head!! You are under arrest!!”

John was feeing the ecstasy. He always experienced rapture after he had done God’s work. He had cut the head off the blasphemous serpent. Then, it was just a matter of wringing the necks of the infidel unbelievers in its lair.

John didn’t need Timothy. But the fool had insisted on accompanying him. Now, John realized that he’d committed a grave error. He had sacrificed Timothy to enable his getaway. But at the same time Timothy also knew too much. Hence, he had to be silenced before John could return to the Citadel with the precious prize.

The demon who had materialized in the clean room had been brutal and alarmingly capable. The red-headed she-devil had dealt him a punishing blow. He did not want to contend with those two again. Yet, John had to follow the acolyte to the place where the authorities took him. That was his duty.

John watched in the shadows as both men were led into the building. The authorities had also brought the heathen beast with them. He knew that Timothy would ask for a lawyer. John would be there to give him one.

I told the cops that the guy I was sitting on was the perpetrator. But of course, they didn’t believe me. They put us in separate cars and hauled us both down to Cottage Grove. When we got there, they tossed us into adjoining holding cells.

I had seen Isobel hurrying back toward the building. So, I expected to be released as soon as she and Kelly straightened things out with the cops. It was just a matter of waiting.

Fanatical and stupid are a bad combination. That is, if you want to keep secrets. Of course, the latter is probably a prerequisite for the former, but I digress.

I could see the dumb shit slumped in the cell next to me. I thought I’d poke him some more, just to find out what he’d spill. I shouted across, “Hey man, you’re gonna do life in Joliet. Do you think Jesus is going to come down off his godforsaken mountaintop and save you?

He snarled back at me, “Blasphemer!! Melago is God’s home on earth.”

I thought to myself, “This guy is too stupid to live.”

Then it dawned on me, “And I’ll bet somebody’s on his way to do something about that.”

I said contemptuously, “Maybe I’ll drop by Melago someday and kick all of your asses.”

He sneered, “The Citadel is pure and protected by God. HE would never tolerate your profane presence.”

At that point, a turnkey showed up to escort the dipshit up to an interview room. His lawyer must have arrived. I had everything I needed so I sat back on the cement ledge to wait. It had been informative.

I was still cooling my heels when utter chaos broke out upstairs. There was a gunfire then one of Chicago’s finest came rushing downstairs wild-eyed. He took a quick look at me and said into his shoulder mic, “The other one’s still here.” Then he turned and bolted back upstairs.

Another half-hour passed and the same dude appeared again. This time he opened my door and simply said, “You’re free to go.” He looked a little green.

I could see why when I walked into the hall next to the squad room. The door to an interview room was wide open and the Coroner’s people were just lifting the body of my former cellmate onto a stretcher. He had about an inch of something sticking out of its neck just below the jaw line. There was blood everywhere, painted up the walls and pooled all over the linoleum floor.

Two detectives were being looked at by the EMTs and a uniform was lying sprawled face down on the floor. His neck was sitting at the same odd angle as the two in the Genetics Lab.

My guess was that my angelic friend had paid them a visit. The cop noticed where I was looking and said, shaken, “He said he was his lawyer.”