Twist of Time

Chapter One
The nude woman’s body had no head.
Homicide Detective Sgt. Kate Flynn first thought it was obscured by the thick undergrowth of sumac brush where the body lay. Moving closer, she was surprised to see only the stub of neck edged with a ring of dried, black blood. The rest of the neck was presumably attached to the missing head. For the average cop of 35, the unexpected might startle; No head was very unexpected. But Kate was not average–she was a third-generation Irish cop with an IQ that hovered in the 140s. When she was a teenager and decided she wanted the same career as her father, a homicide detective, he began showing her crime scene photos from his cases. For Kate’s eighteenth birthday, she watched her first forensic autopsy.
As a veteran cop, this missing head was no more than an underline in her crime scene notes.
She was keenly aware of the uniformed officer watching. His name was Lester Hicks, twice passed over for a promotion. He was a dough-pudgy jerk and a gossip. Kate had been in the Santa Barbara Police Department little more than a year, having transferred from Los Angeles homicide as Detective Sgt. She was still fighting currents of male resentment and she knew that Lester was going to report back to the “boys” on her first homicide in Santa Barbara as lead detective. He was hoping like hell to say that she screwed up.
Lester cleared his throat to get attention. “The hands are gone, too.” He seemed pleased. “And the feet.”
She moved in for a closer look. The dumb ass got that part right, the hands and feet were missing. She looked for defense wounds and discovered a circular abrasion on the left wrist. From her pocket Kate produced a tape recorder and began dictating.
“Notes on Jane Doe homicide corpus: left wrist abrasion suggests possible handcuff attached to briefcase. No head–no dental. No hands and feet–no prints. Killer was very determined to prevent identification. This appears textbook, a pro.”
Hicks grinned, showing broken teeth — a parting souvenir from his ex-wife, who finally took exception to his abuse. “I think she was killed someplace else and dumped here.”
“Really? Damn, and I thought it was road rage.” From his blank look, he obviously missed her sarcasm. The man was an imbecile.
“No, you’re wrong,” he argued. “Two hikers found her. Teenagers, a dude and a girl. They’re waiting in my cruiser.”
“You question them?”
“Yeah. They’re spooked, probably the head thing. They came down off that upper trail.” He indicated the dirt road about thirty yards above. “And here she was.”
They were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle on the road. Kate expected to see the forensic van, but it was another Santa Barbara PD cruiser. The door on the passenger side opened and a man got out. The officer pointed toward Kate; He nodded thanks and began walking down the hill through the low underbrush toward her.
From habit, she sized him up as if writing a police description: height, five-eleven to six- one; weight, 185 to 195; Age, thirty-eight to forty-three; even features, ruddy complexion; hair dark and close clipped; wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and running sneakers.
Based upon the report from homicide that morning, everything about him was wrong. He should be dressed in a monk’s robe like the others at the Saint Joseph Monastery on the mountain above Santa Barbara. He should be pale and have a weird haircut. He was too young — shouldn’t monks be older, like in the movies? And he definitely should not be attractive. Obviously, this was the wrong guy.
“Detective Sgt. Flynn? I’m Thomas Bardsey.”
It was the right guy. “Thanks for coming,” Kate said. “I thought you’d be wearing a monk’s habit.”
“I do at the monastery. Outside we usually dress civilian. I came as…” He saw the body. “Oh, dear God.”
“You reported a missing person two days ago, Denise Hollander. This woman was found this morning. Since there is no… uh, head. we hoped you could make an ID. You might recognize her from the identifying marks on her body.”
“I’m a monk.”
“So?”
“I’ve never seen her naked.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“Besides, a head wouldn’t help. I have no idea what she looks like.”
“Didn’t you report her missing?”
“Yes. But we never met. She flew in from New York two days ago. We had an appointment to meet at the monastery. When she didn’t show, I phoned her company in Baltimore and they said she arrived in Los Angeles. She had called her boss with her mobile phone while driving to Santa Barbara. I immediately notified the police.” He frowned. “Isn’t all that in my missing person report?”
“I haven’t seen it yet. Homicide woke me at home and said you would meet me here.” She looked him over. “I’ve never seen a monk out of uniform. I’m Catholic too–terminally lapsed.”
“I’m not Catholic. I’m Anglican.”
“I didn’t know they had monks.”
“Monks, nuns, the priests can marry. Also, some women priests. I like to say that we have all the problems.”
Her laugh and the spark in her eyes surprised him; She was very attractive. His gaze shifted from her eyes to the dead body. “My only contact with her was by phone and email.”
“What were you meeting about?”
“She was bringing me a manuscript. A diary, fourteenth century. Her company asked me to translate it.” He added, “Celtic studies is my field.”
Kate had no idea what that meant. “Is the diary valuable?”
He paused before answering. “Quite valuable.”
“Enough to kill for?”
He paused again. “That would depend upon what’s in the translation.”
His pause suggested he was being evasive. Great: a reluctant witness. Opening her writing pad, she scribbled the note. “Who wrote the diary?”
“A monk. A Templar Knight named Brychan.”
“Spell it.”
He did. “Rhymes with rye-kan. The ‘ch’ sounds like a ‘k’. A Celtic term meaning royal bloodline.”
“So, what is a Templar Knight?”