The Shroud Codex - Jerome R. Corsi [13]
The patient’s chair, a little less sumptuous and a lot less comfortable, was positioned directly opposite him, across from a small coffee table. From the patient’s perspective, Castle was backlit, making it difficult to see all the details of the psychiatrist’s face. In contrast, the light from the spacious windows pouring onto the patient gave Castle the advantage of being able to scrutinize every reaction of his patient in nicely lighted detail. Keeping the light to his back was an unfair advantage in the psychiatric setting and Castle liked unfair advantages when they played to his favor.
Around the perimeter of the room behind Castle were comfortable, overstuffed connecting couches, generously punctuated with pillows and positioned for the occasional group meetings Castle hosted in his office.
Entering the treatment room, Castle stopped to allow himself to soak in fully the dazzling beauty as the morning sun danced across the rich yellow and red leaves of Central Park’s changing fall trees.
Castle worked alone, without a secretary or appointments clerk. That too was a step he took to protect the privacy of his patients. Regardless of how trusted an assistant might be, a second person in the practice necessarily risked a breach of confidentiality, especially when the clients were well-known. When he was expecting patients, Castle simply left the outside door to his waiting room open.
This Monday morning at 8:00 A.M., as expected, Dr. Castle found Father Morelli comfortably seated in his waiting room, ready for the appointment Archbishop Duncan had scheduled over the phone on Friday.
Seeing the priest for the first time, Castle judged him to be in his early forties. Observing Morelli’s wire-frame glasses and frail build, Castle concluded he was most likely the scholarly type who had never excelled in athletics. Still, Duncan said Morelli was a Jesuit, so Castle knew not only that he was smart, but also that he was political—both of which made sense to Castle, especially since Duncan had told him that Morelli was one of the pope’s most trusted advisors.
Castle also noted that Morelli dressed modestly, in his black priest’s suit and Roman collar. Yet there were signs Father Morelli had money and enjoyed fine things. Without being ostentatious, Morelli wore handmade Italian leather shoes and he carried under his arm an elegant soft leather briefcase that Castle guessed had been handmade in Florence. Today, the briefcase looked like it was bulging with papers that Castle guessed were meant for him.
“Archbishop Duncan said you have come from Rome to discuss with me Father Bartholomew,” Castle began, as he settled into his chair opposite Morelli in the treatment room. “What’s the problem?”
“Va bene,” Morelli began instinctively in Italian, reminding himself instantly to switch into English. Proceeding with a heavy Italian accent, Morelli explained in grammatically perfect and fluent English that Father Paul Bartholomew’s problems began when he was in a massive car accident that should have killed him.
“Archbishop Duncan mentioned to me the car accident,” Castle commented, “but he did not give me any details other than to suggest that Father Bartholomew revived from a near-death experience.”
“Technically, Father Bartholomew did die,” Morelli stressed, making sure the psychiatrist was prepared to understand that as far as the Church was concerned, the experience was more than just near death. “Father Bartholomew’s heart actually stopped on the operating table. The doctors worked on him frantically and it was a miracle, but his heart started beating again and he came back to life.”
“How long was he considered dead?” Castle asked.
From his briefcase, Morelli handed Castle a thick medical file.
“Maybe as long as ten minutes,