The Resurrection File Read online

  Will placed the papers in a large expandable folder and stared at his yellow pad for a few minutes. Then he began to make a few notes.

  First he wrote down,

  “Nonprofit foundation vs. for-profit private research center.”

  Then after a few seconds Will jotted down,

  “Question—why didn’t they incorporate the research center as a nonprofit, tax-exempt foundation?”

  Lastly he listed some further thoughts:

  “Answers—reasons for the research center not to go non-profit, tax-exempt:

  1) No requirement of public listing (i.e., salaries—expenses—donors—sources of income);

  2) Must not need tax-deductible contributions (how is that possible? huge private funding?)

  3) Are they hiding something?”

  After a few more moments of reflection Will took his pen and underlined point number three several times.

  Then he grabbed the telephone and called Tiny. He caught Heftland on his cell phone.

  “Hey hey, my man, how are you doing?” Tiny bellowed.

  “Listen,” Will said, “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “You know the money you owe me?”

  “Oh yeah—and listen, Will, I haven’t forgotten. I’m working on a real big stakeout right now—important surveillance—I’ll be sending you some dough right away.”

  Just then the Burger Hut order box next to Tiny’s car squawked out, “Would you like to try our special new Double-Delight Cheeseburger Combo for only $3.99?”

  “I guess you’re not kidding,” Will noted. “That would be a big stakeout—spelled S-T-E-A-K-O-U-T—right?”

  “Hey, no kidding. I really am on a job. I’m just stopping here for some drive-through cuisine,” Tiny shot back, and then he leaned over to the box and shouted out, “Give me the special, and make it a diet Coke with that. And use the low-cal dressing on the burger, will you?”

  “Look Tiny, here’s my proposal. I’m offering you a chance to work off the money you owe me.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Do you remember that libel and defamation lawsuit you sent over to me?”

  “You mean that nutty Scotsman with the magazine?”

  “Well, yeah, that would be the case.”

  “Did he come across with some money?”

  “Yes. He retained me,” Will replied.

  “Wow. I’ll be. Yeah, he paid my bill, so I figured he might be a decent client. But you never know about a guy like that.”

  “I read your report. Nice work.”

  Tiny was all smiles as he pulled up to the window at the Burger Hut. “Thanks. I really don’t know what he was after. He was a little vague. He just wanted me to dig up whatever I could on this scientist, whatever his name was…”

  “Reichstad.”

  “Yeah. Reichstad. And the rest of his scientists. The Frankenstein doctors over there at that research center.”

  “What makes you say that?” Will asked.

  “Remember the original Frankenstein movie? You know, with Boris Karloff. The scientist, this high-society English dude, starts out being straight as an arrow—not Karloff, because he was the monster—but that other guy, English actor, refined type. But he gets sucked into the chance to become the master over life and death—and creating life out of the corpses of dead people, and so he starts going a little wacky…”

  “I know the movie, Tiny,” Will broke in. “What’s your point?”

  “Well, it’s just this. Remember in the movies, whenever your local law-enforcement gentry show up at the Frankenstein castle asking questions—and the Herr Doktor, the mad scientist who figured he was still smart enough to con the local yokels, would show them around, as if to say, ‘See—there is nothing strange going on here…’ but you, the audience, you knew that he wasn’t showing them everything. And he would always be in a real hurry to shuffle them out of there so he could get back to his ghoulish deeds in the basement.”

  “So?”

  “Well, as part of my investigation I went over to that research center of Reichstad’s. I posed as an amateur archaeology buff, a tourist, and asked if they gave guided tours.”

  “And?”

  “The receptionist was real cold to me. Real ice-maiden. She said at first that they don’t ever give tours. But then she gets up from her desk and asks if I would like to see some things. I said, sure. So she walks me around to a couple of the awards and pictures on the walls of the little lobby there, and tells me a few things about them, and thanks me for my interest in the Center, and then asks me to leave.”

  “Well?”

  “It was the Frankenstein thing all over again. Why give me a pretend tour of the lobby? This gal was pretty nervous. She was acting like she didn’t want to admit that they wouldn’t give me a tour of that place. She couldn’t wait to shuffle me out of there fast enough. So that just got me to thinking—what kind of stuff are they doing in the basement of the castle, you know? Are they covering something up? Just food for thought, I guess.”

  “Interesting,” Will commented. “So, will you work off the money you owe me by working on this Reichstad vs. MacCameron case?”

  “Sure, why not? But you got to cover my out-of-pocket expenses. I’ll keep track of my time, at my standard rates. I’ll send you a monthly statement. When do you want me to start?”

  Will ended the call by telling Tiny he would give him a call in a few days.

  After hanging up with his private investigator, Will dictated a Notice of Retainer that would alert the court and opposing counsel that he would be representing MacCameron. He would fax it, and then overnight the hard copy, that afternoon. He looked at his watch and figured he had enough time to start roughing out a formal Answer to the lawsuit Complaint, and then it would be time to go catch some dinner.

  Then the lawyer took his pen and added another note to his yellow pad. It simply said:

  “Frankenstein?”

  13

  THE RED ROOSTER TAVERN WAS QUICKLY filling up. There was a bizarre excitement in the air. Pitchers of beer were already circulating. There were the usual after-work frequenters—mostly office staff, some younger professional types, secretaries, teachers, and salesmen. But tonight the crowd was bigger and louder than usual. Friendly arguments and lively speculations were already breaking out—the kind you would normally see only before the start of an important ball game.

  But tonight there was no ball game scheduled—or at least no game that this crowd had come to see. The overhead television sets were normally set to the sports channels. Tonight they were all tuned in to the World Cable Network.

  On the television screen there were some newsmen talking, and the word “live” appeared in the corner of the screen.

  Four blocks away from the Red Rooster, Will Chambers looked out his window and noticed the sun going down. He set the MacCameron file aside, along with the Bible that he had in front of him and decided to stroll down to the Red Rooster for a meal.

  It was still warm outside, early evening, as Will left the building. He walked down the cobblestone sidewalks that had grown uneven with age, and along the narrow, tree-lined streets. He kept thinking back to something he had been reading back at the office.

  He had read the article that MacCameron had written in Digging for Truth magazine as a rebuttal to Reichstad’s claims about the 7QA fragment. MacCameron’s article kept referring to passages in the New Testament. So Will had sent Betty scurrying down to the bookstore to get a Bible.

  When Betty returned she knocked on the door of his office. He called her in, and she handed him the plastic bag from the bookstore without saying a word. But she gave Will a quizzical look, like she had wanted to make a sarcastic remark but had then thought better of it.

  The MacCameron article made a reference to the Gospel of John, chapter eleven, so Will fumbled unsuccessfully through the Bible to look it up. He finally checked the table of contents and loc
ated it.

  It was the story of Jesus going to the funeral of a guy named Lazarus, who had already been dead and buried for several days. Jesus told the people to remove the stone. They were all concerned because the body was already beginning to rot and stink. But they removed the stone, and then Lazarus walked out of the tomb, with his grave wrappings still wound around his entire body.

  Lazarus, so dead that his corpse had already begun to decay, had been brought back to life in front of a number of witnesses.

  Will read about the conversation Jesus had had, just before the “resurrection” of Lazarus, with one of the sisters of the dead man.

  In verse twenty-five Will read this:

  Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in Me will live even if he dies, and everyone who lives and believes in Me will never die. Do you believe this?”

  When Will read this, it was as if he had been hit full in the face, like a swimmer in the ocean slammed by a huge unexpected wave.

  For just an instant, Will felt as if that question—“do you believe this?”—had been directed to him. As if there were someone in the room—sitting across from him—who had just asked him, “Will Chambers, do you believe what you are reading?” For some reason that question, in the silence of his office, had taken on the roaring power of a tidal wave.

  Will rarely trusted his emotions. So he had chalked up his strange reaction to either stress or fatigue or both. As he neared the Red Rooster, Will realized he hadn’t had a drink for a while. Maybe it was time to start catching up.

  When Will walked in he couldn’t see a spare table available, so he grabbed the last open stool at the bar.

  “It’s crowded,” Will noted to the bartender. And then he ordered his usual—a steak sandwich and onion rings.

  “What’re you drinking tonight?”

  For a split second Will struggled with his decision on how he was going to respond. So he ignored the bartender and glanced over at the television set. On the screen two news anchors were talking at a desk. Behind them there was a country outlined on a map, with the words “Saudi Arabia” in large letters.

  “What’ll you have, Will?” the bartender asked again.

  Just then a foreign reporter came on the screen. The crowd in the Red Rooster suddenly quieted down.

  “Hey, what’s the deal here?” Will asked.

  The bartender looked at him a little incredulously.

  “Are you kidding? Where you been lately, on the space shuttle?”

  “No, seriously. What is this?” Will questioned, nodding his head toward the television.

  “The Wall Street bombers—or at least some of the guys who planned it—they are going to be executed today. It’s been all over the news the last twenty-four hours.”

  “They finally caught them? Was there a trial I missed?”

  The bartender laughed. “This is Saudi Arabia, Will. I don’t think it works the same over there. They probably beat a confession out of these guys. Hey, who cares. The point is they’re getting what they deserve. The death penalty. No appeals. No drawn-out legal case. Just quick justice. That’s fine by me.”

  Somebody yelled out to turn up the television. The bartender bent over to a knob and turned the volume up.

  The reporter was warning the audience that what they were about to see would be both shocking and graphic. He calmly explained how, after the New York truck incident, the U.S. State Department had put additional pressure on the Saudis for cooperation. As a result, new information had come to light about last year’s Wall Street bombing, and the Saudis, based on that information, had immediately arrested two suspected terrorists. They obtained quick confessions, conducted a cursory magistrate inquiry, and imposed a sentence of death on both of them.

  The method of execution would be by public beheading.

  Then two men with black hoods over their heads were led by armed guards onto a platform. Their arms were tied behind them. Their legs were shackled, so they had to make little shuffling steps forward until they were in front of two large wooden blocks that came up to their waists. They were pushed down to a kneeling position.

  Each guard held a long pole with a wire neck loop at the end. With the poles, the heads of the two men were forced and held facedown onto the wooden blocks from behind.

  Two executioners in long robes and with huge silver-bladed axes appeared beside the prisoners.

  Before Will could process what he was seeing, the two executioners swung their axes over their heads with blinding speed and brought them down onto the necks of the criminals. Two kneeling bodies fell over to the side, blood flowing from the headless necks.

  The crowd in the Red Rooster jumped to their feet, cheering and yelling.

  The noise continued as people raised their fists and continued to cheer at the television sets, giving each other high-fives.

  One couple left immediately, the woman shaking her head. The man with her was grimacing slightly.

  Will stared at the television set but did not speak. After a while the bartender came back and asked him again what he was going to drink.

  “You know, I just remembered that I’ve got to be somewhere,” Will said, and threw some money on the bar.

  “Aren’t you going to stick around for your steak?”

  “Lost my appetite,” Will replied.

  “Oh, I forgot, Will, you’re one of those bleeding-heart liberals,” the bartender shot back with a little laugh.

  “Exactly when did the world start getting so strange?” Will asked, but directed his question to no one in particular and did not wait for an answer. He was quickly out on the street, walking back toward his office.

  Now all he wanted to do was get to his car and go home. Suddenly, the company of his loyal golden retriever seemed preferable to that of the human race.

  14

  IN WASHINGTON THE NEXT DAY, NEWS REPORTERS were crowding into the room at the Press Club. In the front of the room, the moderator of the press conference glanced at his watch, and then looked out over the room filled with television cameras and reporters.

  Behind the moderator there was a row of six men and three women, standing and smiling stiffly. One of the women had a clerical collar, as did three of the men. Another was arrayed in bishop’s robes. Then the moderator stepped up to the tangle of microphones at the podium. He smiled and thanked everyone for coming.

  “Let me say first,” the moderator explained, “that we are not going to be commenting today about the fact that two men were executed on live international television last night.”

  There were a few snickers from the reporters.

  “That is the subject for another press conference, perhaps, at another time. We are here today to comment on the 7QA fragment and its implications for twenty-first century Christianity.”

  Then the moderator looked down at his prepared notes and began.

  “This coalition represents a broad cross-section of the Christian denominations in America. As such, we have representatives from the National Council of Churches, from the American Conference of Bishops, and from most major segments of the mainline Christian community.

  “Each of our representatives will be giving a short statement. But by way of introduction, I want you to know that a Joint Statement has been prepared by our coalition. And there should be enough copies of the Statement for all of you on the table in the back of the room, so you can pick one up as you leave.”

  The moderator introduced the representatives, who each, in turn, made three-minute statements.

  Then the floor was opened for questions. The first question came from a newswoman in the front.

  “Doesn’t this 7QA fragment mean that Christians everywhere will have to start questioning everything they used to believe in the Gospel stories—questioning who Jesus really was?”

  In response, several speakers from the panel emphasized that faith and science were partners in truth, not combatants. Yes, there would perhaps be a new
understanding of Jesus, but that is the essence of faith—that it is a living and evolving concept, not a static, rigid, absolutist experience.

  What if this archaeological discovery disproves the resurrection? one reporter asked. Wouldn’t that be the end of Christianity?

  Not at all, the panelists replied. One speaker emphasized that “the jury was still out” on 7QA, while on the other hand, the verdict on the traditional idea of Christ had been settled for two thousand years. Another panelist pointed out that the resurrection was a spiritual idea, with spiritual aspects to it. If Jesus was not physically resurrected, that did not mean that there was not, in some sense, a spiritual resurrection. In order to successfully survive in the twenty-first century, the panelist pointed out, Christianity needed to, in effect, reinvent itself. That included being willing to rediscover who Jesus really was.

  Then a question came from a reporter in the back of the room. Jack Hornby, a veteran from the Washington Herald stood up and said he was addressing his question to anyone on the panel who would like to respond.

  “This ‘spiritual resurrection’ that you are talking about sounds pretty safe—pretty bland. And if you will pardon my observation, pretty meaningless. In light of this 7QA fragment discovery, why not fight for the idea that either Jesus really walked out of the grave, or else he didn’t? If he didn’t, then maybe it’s time for Christianity to take him down from the throne, in a manner of speaking.”

  After a few of the panelists tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to respond, the moderator stepped up to the microphone. This was a difficult and complicated issue, and couldn’t be answered, he said, in a simple way. Indeed, the moderator pointed out, it could not be answered in the kind of abbreviated and simplified format that many reporters would prefer.

  “Then why did you bother to call a press conference and invite the press?” Hornby shot back. But before the irritated moderator could close, Hornby launched a final question:

  “I would be interested in your reaction to the lawsuit that was recently filed by Dr. Reichstad, the scientist who discovered this fragment. He has sued a Reverend Angus MacCameron, who criticized his interpretations of the fragment. Are you aware of that lawsuit, and if so, what is your response?”