The Turin Shroud Secret Read Online Free PDF Page A

He’s
     just finished a full day of hard work. Factory work. Good honest labour. His place of graft is ten miles from his last kill
     site – his home even more miles in a different direction. He thinks of these things and is comforted by them as he starts
     the engine and heads off for a long drive before turning in for the night.
    Driving is good. He likes to get to know new neighbourhoods – study the unkilled walking around with their children, dogs
     and loved ones as he cruises past.
    He imagines what their lives are like. What their deaths would be like. How sweet and merciful he could be to them – given
     the chance. Some years back a cop on the TV news described him as a reptile, a cold-blooded killer withno feelings, no emotions and no morals. The cop couldn’t have been more wrong. What he does is out of love. God’s love.
    He turns on the radio and tunes in to the news as he drives. Listens out for himself. There’s nothing. He’s relieved. It means
     no manhunt, no interference in his work. Anonymity is his protective shield, God’s way of showing approval – a blessing, if
     you like. He puts it down to his MO. Modus Operandi – his
method of operating.
Strange how Latin phrases still exist in the modern day. Fragments of a past civilisation blown across the centuries and
     continents, turning up on the blood-soaked streets of the City of the Angels.
    The young man slows as he passes his local church and makes the sign of the cross. Instinctively, he mutters more Latin:
‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.’
The rhythm of the words comforts him. He turns them over and over like a fascinated child might with a smooth stone in his
     palm. And then his favourite,
Dominus vobiscum –
the Lord be with you. He says the phrase differently.
    The words have to be pronounced softly, clearly, slowly, reverently. After all – they’re the last his victims ever hear.

12
    77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
    When Nic makes his next international call, it’s 8 p.m. Friday night in California and 2 p.m. Saturday afternoon in Gordon’s
     Bay, Sydney. As he dials, he taps up a Google Earth map. On the screen he zooms along the beautiful Australian peninsula,
     past the striking ocean frontages around Dunningham Reserve and Bundock Park and then down the northern headland that showcases
     the select homesteads of multi-millionaires.
    This time Dylan Jacobs answers his own phone and it doesn’t sound like the meditation and sunshine have done much to relax
     him. ‘Jacobs,’ he snaps, irritably.
    ‘Nic Karakandez, Mr Jacobs.’ The cop’s voice is calm and friendly. ‘Just to be clear, you are
Dylan
Jacobs, the husband of Tamara Jacobs the Hollywood writer?’
    ‘Why do you want to know, Mr Karikeez?’
    ‘Karakandez –
Lieutenant Kar-a-kan-deez
of the LAPD.’
    ‘I
am
Dylan Jacobs. Tamara is my wife.’ The aggression has gone from his voice. ‘Why are you ringing me, Lieutenant?’
    ‘I’m afraid the body of a woman has been found at Manhattan Beach. From photographs we’ve obtained it appears to be that of
     Tamara.’
    ‘Dear God. It can’t be—’
    ‘Mr Jacobs, I apologise for calling you like this, but I’m a homicide detective and we’re treating the death as suspicious.’
    Jacobs struggles to speak. ‘This isn’t real. It just can’t be. You’re certain it’s Tamara?’
    Nic weighs up the voice down the line and decides the shock is genuine. ‘We’re as sure as we can be without next-of-kin identification.’
     One thing is bugging him, though, something he just has to mention. ‘Mr Jacobs, I’ve listened to all the messages on your
     wife’s home answerphone and despite her being missing for more than twenty-four hours, none of them are from you.’
    Jacobs lets out a long sigh. ‘We don’t talk much, Detective. Maybe once a week. Sometimes less. We’re estranged, have been
     for years. I have a home out here in Sydney with my partner – I believe you spoke to