Free The Truth Seeker by Dee Henderson Page A

The process began when the last breath was taken, and while she had never said as much to Kate, she knew what the Gospels, the first four books in the New Testament, said. Mark and Luke both said Jesus breathed His last; Matthew and John said Jesus gave up His spirit.
    Jesus had hung on a cross for hours and died. The Bible said that explicitly. And if that was true, she knew what had happened to Him five minutes later, an hour later, three hours later, a day later. She didn’t know the exact entomology of which flies lived in Palestine, but they would be cousins of those she understood very well from here. She knew the basics of Jerusalem two thousand years ago at the time of Passover: crowds, dust, heat—and flies. There would be no body left to resurrect three days later, not a body recognizable as the man Jesus.
    Maybe if the Bible tried to argue He died for a few minutes, even an hour
    but days—
    Lisa knew from bitter experience that life ended forever with that last breath.
    The old memory returned, a sharp stab, coming back in color and texture and terror. Lisa raised a shaky hand to adjust her shirt neckline.
    She silently cursed as she tried to shove the memory back into the past and get that floating dead face out of her mind. She was normally so
    careful to skirt everything that might brush against the memory, and instead she’d walked herself right into it.
    She took deep breaths, slowly calming down. She’d had enough of this conversation. Kate was not one who did subtle, not unless it was on the job where she would willingly make small talk for hours if it was necessary to negotiate a peaceful conclusion to a dangerous situation.
    “People don’t rise from the dead,” Lisa replied bluntly, knowing it would end the conversation for now. And just to make sure it stayed ended, she reached down and turned on the radio.
    “It’s been abysmal without you around, Lisa.”
    Her boss rose to greet her with a welcoming smile. Lisa walked slowly into his office, returning the smile. Ben Wilcott was in his late fifties, had overseen the state crime lab for the last eleven years.
    “Thanks, Ben. I almost got caught up on my reading thanks to your contributions—though I think the doctors were a little startled to see copies of the NIJ Journals and FSA Bulletins on the bedside table.”
    “I know how hard it is to go cold turkey from work, and I’d like your opinion on those National Institute of Justice proposed protocols.”
    “I took notes,” Lisa replied, having anticipated the request. “And the Forensic Science Academy has another seminar scheduled on fiber collection and analysis. I think it would be a good idea to send Kim.”
    “I’ll get it arranged. Can I get you something? Coffee? A soft drink?”
    She’d worked for him too long not to know when something was coming that she wasn’t going to want to hear. “I’d love something cold.”
    He brought her back a cold soda and one for himself, then settled in the chair beside her rather than behind the desk. “Classic looking cane.”
    Lisa spun its white ivory handle and burnished mahogany wood.
    “Stephen’s contribution.”
     
    “I was surprised the doctors okayed you coming back this soon, even for desk duty.”
    She smiled. “They were afraid I meant it when I said I’d go sailing if they insisted I take a vacation. Seriously, I’m looking forward to being back.”
    “Gloria was asking about you.”
    She sipped at the soda, wondering where this was heading. Ben was walking one of the wooden nickels his granddaughter had given him through his fingers, and he only did that when he was thinking about something during a meeting unrelated to the topic at hand or when he was waiting for the right time to mention some news. “Is Gloria here today? I was surprised not to see her at her desk outside your office.”
    “Funding came through to move the police file archives into the new cold storage warehouse. She’s in her element cataloging and organizing the move; making it happen