Read Online The Inquisitor's Key by Jefferson Bass - Free Book Online
Authors: Jefferson Bass
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dinner-table conversation had taken, I gave her a grudging half smile for that. “In London,” she added, “a team of scientists is trying to reconstruct the entire DNA sequence of the plague bacterium. They’re getting snippets from known plague victims—bones from a fourteenth-century plague cemetery—but they’re having a hard time piecing the genome together. Bottom line? Plague doesn’t survive for centuries, and this guy’s not contagious.”
“Okay, okay, I’m convinced. But I’d still rather pull a tooth than butcher a bone.”
“Let’s send a molar,” Stefan suggested.
Holding the mandible with my left hand, I gripped one of the eighteen-year molars, a wisdom tooth, pinching it firmly between my right thumb and forefinger. I wiggled it gently and felt a slight grating as the tooth wobbled in the dry socket. Wiggling a bit harder, I began to tug, and with a rasp and a faint crunch, it pulled free of the jaw. “What do you think?” I asked, holding out the tooth for Miranda and Stefan to inspect. “First century or fourteenth?”
Miranda weighed in first. “I say it’s him. With a capital H: Him .”
“Jesus? Really?” I pointed toward the fringe of osteoarthritis on the spine. “But he’s ancient,” I reminded her. “ My age; maybe older.”
“Nah, not older,” she shot back. “Just harder working. Wore out his spine.”
“You surprise me, Miranda. I had you pegged as a doubter.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes I like to play the long shot. Makes life more interesting.”
I looked at Stefan. “What about you? How do you vote?”
He shrugged, looking bored. “Oh, of course it would be interesting if Miranda was right, but that’s unlikely. I think probably fourteenth century.” He said it in a monotone, but his eyes flickered, and I wondered if he was more hopeful than he was admitting.
I reached for the Ziploc bag, but Miranda stopped me before I could drop the molar in. “Wait. No fair. You haven’t said what you think.”
“Rats. You know how I hate to go out on a limb.” I held up the molar and studied it. It was a dull grayish brown nearly down to the roots; the gum line had receded during the man’s life. A large cavity had burrowed into the center of the tooth’s crown. Could this stained, decaying tooth really be from the man whom millions around the world revered as the Son of God? “It’s clearto me now,” I finally said, “that this guy died six months ago, and that all this is an elaborate hoax to cover up a modern-day murder.” I nearly dropped the tooth when Miranda punched me on the arm, hard. She had a sneaky right cross that way; it wasn’t the first time she’d popped me when she thought I was being insolent.
“You’re no fun,” she said, but her eyes were smiling—maybe at my silliness, maybe at finding an excuse to punch me—and it felt as if we’d finally gotten out of the minefield of last night’s prickly conversation and back onto safe, comfortable ground again.
I tipped the tooth into the small bag. Stefan took the bag from me and was about to seal it when I stopped him. “Should we send them two? The lab said ‘one or two teeth,’ didn’t they?”
“I think one is enough,” he said, “but okay, if you want to send two.” I picked up the mandible again and grasped another molar. “Wait,” he said. I looked up from the jaw. “Not another molar.”
“Why not?”
“No reason. Call it a crazy Frenchman’s superstition. This time…a canine.”
“Okay. I mean, oui, monsieur, you’re the boss.” I shifted my grip to a canine, one of the fanglike “dogteeth.” This one was pegged tightly into its socket; the snug fit and the tooth’s tapered shape made it harder to pull, and I was forced to use pliers. The tooth came free, but the root snapped off in the jaw, giving the tooth an oddly flattened base. I balanced the tooth upright on the table briefly, just for fun, and then slid it into the bag, where it settled
“Okay, okay, I’m convinced. But I’d still rather pull a tooth than butcher a bone.”
“Let’s send a molar,” Stefan suggested.
Holding the mandible with my left hand, I gripped one of the eighteen-year molars, a wisdom tooth, pinching it firmly between my right thumb and forefinger. I wiggled it gently and felt a slight grating as the tooth wobbled in the dry socket. Wiggling a bit harder, I began to tug, and with a rasp and a faint crunch, it pulled free of the jaw. “What do you think?” I asked, holding out the tooth for Miranda and Stefan to inspect. “First century or fourteenth?”
Miranda weighed in first. “I say it’s him. With a capital H: Him .”
“Jesus? Really?” I pointed toward the fringe of osteoarthritis on the spine. “But he’s ancient,” I reminded her. “ My age; maybe older.”
“Nah, not older,” she shot back. “Just harder working. Wore out his spine.”
“You surprise me, Miranda. I had you pegged as a doubter.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes I like to play the long shot. Makes life more interesting.”
I looked at Stefan. “What about you? How do you vote?”
He shrugged, looking bored. “Oh, of course it would be interesting if Miranda was right, but that’s unlikely. I think probably fourteenth century.” He said it in a monotone, but his eyes flickered, and I wondered if he was more hopeful than he was admitting.
I reached for the Ziploc bag, but Miranda stopped me before I could drop the molar in. “Wait. No fair. You haven’t said what you think.”
“Rats. You know how I hate to go out on a limb.” I held up the molar and studied it. It was a dull grayish brown nearly down to the roots; the gum line had receded during the man’s life. A large cavity had burrowed into the center of the tooth’s crown. Could this stained, decaying tooth really be from the man whom millions around the world revered as the Son of God? “It’s clearto me now,” I finally said, “that this guy died six months ago, and that all this is an elaborate hoax to cover up a modern-day murder.” I nearly dropped the tooth when Miranda punched me on the arm, hard. She had a sneaky right cross that way; it wasn’t the first time she’d popped me when she thought I was being insolent.
“You’re no fun,” she said, but her eyes were smiling—maybe at my silliness, maybe at finding an excuse to punch me—and it felt as if we’d finally gotten out of the minefield of last night’s prickly conversation and back onto safe, comfortable ground again.
I tipped the tooth into the small bag. Stefan took the bag from me and was about to seal it when I stopped him. “Should we send them two? The lab said ‘one or two teeth,’ didn’t they?”
“I think one is enough,” he said, “but okay, if you want to send two.” I picked up the mandible again and grasped another molar. “Wait,” he said. I looked up from the jaw. “Not another molar.”
“Why not?”
“No reason. Call it a crazy Frenchman’s superstition. This time…a canine.”
“Okay. I mean, oui, monsieur, you’re the boss.” I shifted my grip to a canine, one of the fanglike “dogteeth.” This one was pegged tightly into its socket; the snug fit and the tooth’s tapered shape made it harder to pull, and I was forced to use pliers. The tooth came free, but the root snapped off in the jaw, giving the tooth an oddly flattened base. I balanced the tooth upright on the table briefly, just for fun, and then slid it into the bag, where it settled
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