“Not any more. Not after that Carson show. The book I wanted to write was too big for me to handle. My early years were rough ones, and my faith in Jesus pulled me through some really bad times. I wanted to pay homage to him and all he had meant to me, not with the usual sugar-coated phrases of blind faith and adoration that fill book after book but with the truth—facts, uncompromising evidence, proof, stronger than any in my detective stories, that he was indeed the Son of God. The three tribunes in my story, armed with all their skills and knowledge and power, would plan to attack each witness with unrelenting questions and cross-examinations until one of them cracked, under pressure, and confessed to being involved in the removal of the body of Jesus from his tomb in order for his followers to claim that he had risen from the dead. But, according to my plot, the best efforts of the commission would fail! None of the disciples would crack under pressure, and each testimony would only strengthen those of the others. Thus, when all the facts were compared, the Christ Commission would be forced to conclude that, based on all the evidence they had accumulated, Jesus did rise from that tomb. End of book.”

Joseph had returned to his seat on the small bench. He studied me for several moments. “What went wrong with your plan?”

“At first, nothing. I was editing a small magazine in Chicago—hadn’t even written my first detective novel—when I got the idea for ‘The Christ Commission.’ I began to study every book I could lay my hands on dealing with the life of Jesus, preparing long lists of questions that I wanted the members of the commission to ask witnesses such as Peter, Matthew, James, Pilate, Caiaphas, and you.”

The old man never moved his eyes from me, only nodding now and then to encourage me to continue and to indicate that he understood.