The Sculptor (27 page)

So overcome was The Sculptor by his revelation that he left Banford’s apartment in shock. He left the young man alive only to return a week later—
after
he had purchased his own copy of
Slumbering in the Stone
and read it cover to cover ten times, after he finally understood the totality of his purpose—that is, why fate had led him to Banford, to Dr. Catherine Hildebrant, and to Michelangelo, that man whose work was to become a template for The Sculptor’s destiny.

Everything is connected.

And now, six years later, as he followed the black Trailblazer on Route 95 toward downtown Providence, The Sculptor grinned widely beneath his fake moustache. Yes, even though the FBI was getting close to him, even though they had made the connection between the stolen
Pietà
and the Manzera family, The Sculptor knew deep down that fate had once again interceded on his behalf. And although he dared not get too close, The Sculptor also had a feeling that behind the tinted windows of the black Trailblazer sat the person for whom he had been searching all morning.

Yes, something deep down told The Sculptor that he had finally found Dr. Hildy.

It was just after 5:00
P.M
. when Markham and Cathy emerged from the Providence Public Library—their heads hung low, their faces drawn. They had spent over an hour searching the periodical databases for information on the death of Damon Manzera. There wasn’t much—the obligatory newspaper blurbs, the obituaries—but nothing that listed the death as suspicious, no evidence of foul play. Indeed, a spokesperson for the medical examiner was quoted many times as being very clear to the contrary, and stated that, at the time of Manzera’s death, the young man’s blood alcohol level was found to have been “dangerously high.” And thus, the coroner had concluded that most likely Manzera either fell asleep in the pool or somehow staggered off its edge into the water. Either way, the official cause of death was listed as accidental drowning; either way, end of story.

“We’ve now got two options on this end, Cathy,” said Markham, sliding into the Trailblazer. “Either I go back and tell Mrs. Manzera the real reason why I was there, see if I can find out anything else about her son, or we start poking around Manzera’s circle of acquaintances to see if they know anything—maybe start with his ex-wife, or at the country club, the one in East Greenwich where the newspaper articles said he worked.”

“But Sam, this all happened over ten years ago. Wouldn’t the police have done that already?”

“I assume so, yes. When we get the police records, we’ll be able to see who they questioned. I can only hope they missed something.” Markham closed his eyes, rested his head back, and sighed. “I don’t know what else to do, Cathy—starting to think this whole Manzera connection to the stolen
Pietà
was a bad idea. I’m starting to think I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore.”

“It’s in the book, Sam,” Cathy said, taking his hand. “You’re right about that. I know it. Everything we need to catch him is right there in
Slumbering in the Stone
. You’re just tired, is all. We both are. Why don’t we get some takeout Chinese or something—grab a bottle of wine and call it a day. Tomorrow’s Sunday. We can sleep in for a bit, maybe take a ride down to the coast—official business, of course. After a good night’s rest we’ll both be able to think more clearly. What do you say, Special Agent Markham? Is it a date?”

Markham smiled, kissed her deeply, and drove off.

Neither one of them noticed the blue Toyota Camry that had been parked diagonally across the street about a block away.

It pulled out again behind them.

The Camry followed the Trailblazer first to a Chinese restaurant in Cranston, then to a nearby liquor store, and finally back to downtown Providence, where the Trailblazer disappeared underneath an office building via a private driveway. And after about five minutes the blue Toyota Camry passed by—did not turn down the driveway like the Trailblazer. No, the driver of the blue Camry could not miss the two big PRIVATE ACCESS ONLY signs; he could clearly see the video cameras and the steel, card-access security gate—thought there might even be a guard or two prowling around as well.

“So that’s where they’re keeping her,” The Sculptor said out loud.

Despite her new hair color, despite her Jackie Onassis sunglasses, The Sculptor had recognized Dr. Hildy outside the library as soon as she stepped out from the Trailblazer. And while he had waited for her and the unknown FBI agent to finish their research inside—research he knew had to do with the tennis pro, Damon Manzera—The Sculptor concluded he needed to put his
David
on hold.

It was all right. He had done that before with his
Pietà
, when he finally understood the scope, the
message
of his work as something beyond himself, when he finally understood that, in order to really wake the world from its slumber, no material other than Tommy Campbell would be worthy of his
Bacchus
.

Yes, The Sculptor did not mind adapting; he did not resist changing his plans if he felt the hand of fate leading him someplace else.

But exactly where did fate want him to go next?

The Sculptor needed time to think and figure out how he would dispose of Dr. Hildy—perhaps this FBI agent, too. But unlike before, when he could take his time, when his work was still unknown to the world, The Sculptor knew now that the clock was ticking. Yes, he had to move quickly—had to get to Hildebrant and the FBI agent before they got to him.
But how?
It was much too risky under the present circumstances to try to take them at that fortress in downtown Providence—especially since The Sculptor had no idea what it looked like inside.

And so, as The Sculptor drove away from Providence, he resigned himself to wait for the right opportunity to take them on the
outside
.

The Sculptor smiled, for he knew deep down that fate would bring him and Dr. Hildy together very soon.

After all, fate had never let him down before.

“I thought we agreed we were going to take a break today,” said Cathy.

She stood in the doorway to their bedroom—naked, save for the button-down shirt of Markham’s which she wore drawn tightly around her. They had spent that Sunday together driving along the coast—had ended up in Newport and strolled along the cliff-walk before taking in a late lunch at a restaurant overlooking the harbor. Upon their return to the safe house, the fax from Rachel Sullivan had already arrived: the coroner’s report, as well as a list of names taken from the East Greenwich Police investigation on the death of Damon Manzera—both requested by Sam Markham the evening before. Cathy had made the FBI agent promise to let them wait—convinced him that nothing could be done with the information until the following morning. And after another evening of wine and lovemaking, the once shy art history professor could not help but feel a certain amount of pride that her feminine wiles had won out yet again.

“It’s 12:15,” said Markham. “
Ante meridiem
. Technically it’s now tomorrow—haven’t broken my promise to you, have I?”

“I guess not. But you woke me up.”

“Sorry.”

Dressed in only his underwear, the FBI agent lay on the sofa in the common area—which also consisted of two recliners and a television, two desks complete with computers and printers, a copier and a fax machine, as well as an entire wall dedicated to the twelve video monitors that continually displayed surveillance from the building’s exterior, its second and third floor corridors, as well as its parking garage.

Sullivan’s fax lay scattered about on the floor—cast aside by Markham in deference to his copy of
Slumbering in the Stone
. Cathy sat down beside him.

“What’s got your attention now?” she asked.

“Wasn’t able to learn much from the fax, so I started reading again about
David
.”

“And?”

“I guess the thing that keeps jumping out at me is how tall the statue is—seventeen feet, you say?”

“Yes. You can’t really grasp its size, its magnificence until you see it in person.”

“But the way it was sculpted—the head and the upper torso, the hands slightly out of proportion to the lower half of the body—you say in your book you think this was intentional on Michelangelo’s part?”

“Yes. There are a number of theories about this. As I’m sure you’ve read, the enormous block of Carrara marble from which
David
was originally sculpted had already been worked by a couple of other artists—one of them being a student of Donatello—and then ended up being neglected in a courtyard for almost thirty years before the twenty-six-year-old Michelangelo was commissioned to finish the project in 1501. Some scholars believe that Michelangelo had to work from a figure that had been blocked out earlier. However, I believe that the marble wasn’t nearly that far along when Michelangelo got to it. And as the guild that originally commissioned the statue had intended for it to sit atop the buttress of a cathedral—a plan that was later abandoned—when viewed from below, the proportions of
David
would be correct.”

“It took him a little over three years,” said Markham, reading. “And the statue ended up being installed outside the entrance to the Palazzo Vecchio.”

“Yes. A representation of the biblical David whose defeat of Goliath and the Philistines came to symbolize the triumph of the Florentine Republic over its rival city-states, Michelangelo’s
David
was initially placed outside the Palazzo Vecchio—a fortresslike palace that served as the old seat of civic government in Florence. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? Hard to believe nowadays that the Florentines would have allowed what has become the most famous statue in the world to be subjected to wind and weather and pigeon poop before moving it indoors to the Galleria dell’ Accademia almost four hundred years later.”

Markham was silent—his eyes fixed on a photographic detail of
David
’s waist.

“You’re thinking about where he’s going to display it, aren’t you?” said Cathy. “You’re thinking about what to do in case we don’t catch The Michelangelo Killer before he creates his
David
.”

“Actually, I’m thinking about where he’s going to get his material.”

“What do you mean?”

“We know from our investigation thus far that no young males with a physique resembling the statue of
David
have been reported missing—a physique one can assume the killer will have a hard time finding among the population of male prostitutes from which we now know he’s drawn.”

“Yes.”

“Well, as I mentioned earlier, there’s the unusual proportions—the relationship of the torso to the statue’s lower half. The Sculptor would not be able to accommodate for that the same way he did with his
Pietà
—that is, by using more than one body, piecing it together, and then hiding the joints underneath the figure’s clothing. No, like
Bacchus
, the statue is nude, and thus theoretically the killer would have to use only one person—would have to be very selective in choosing his material. And so, ironically, what on the surface would seem like the simplest of the three statues in actuality will be the most difficult for him to achieve.”

“Unless he is planning on correcting Michelangelo’s intended forced perspective. Meaning, the killer intends to adapt the proportional ratios to be viewed straight on.”

“Yes. But the physique, the musculature of
David
is so well known. That in and of itself will take a lot of searching. Much more difficult to come across another famous Rhode Islander on the Internet—the way he most surely saw the figure of his
Bacchus
in the photographs of Tommy Campbell. You saw them, didn’t you? The pictures of Campbell taken on that beach in Rio a couple of years ago with his model ex-girlfriend?”

“Yes,” said Cathy. “So you’re thinking The Sculptor may go looking for his
David
at a local beach? A swimming pool, perhaps—someplace where he would be able to get a good look at his material?”

“Perhaps for the body, yes—but for the other part, most likely no.”

“What other part?”

“As I said, one would think that,
theoretically
, The Sculptor would have to acquire a single body that resembled the statue of
David
. However, what about the statue’s penis?”

“What about it?”

“It’s uncircumcised.”

Cathy was silent. She understood.

“As you state in your book,” said Markham, “whereas the historical David, being a Jew, would have most certainly been circumcised, Michelangelo was consciously sculpting his
David
in line with the classical Greek aesthetic, which would have seen a circumcised penis as mutilated. Such a detail will thus be of supreme importance to The Sculptor—something he will
have
to account for. So you see, it’s clear that it is going to be exponentially more difficult for The Sculptor to acquire a body that both looks like
David
and
also
has an uncircumcised penis. Hence, I’m willing to bet that the killer will be searching for the latter separately, and thus plans on attaching it to his
David
afterward—perhaps beneath an epoxy-sculpted line of pubic hair.”

“So you’re suggesting then that we try to beat him to his material? That we focus on finding out not only where he’s going to find a body like
David
’s, but also a penis like his as well?”

“Yes. Either that, or we try to bring him to
us
.”

“What do you mean?”

“From what we know about this guy—his intelligence, the solitary sort that he is, and the fact that he now knows the public is on to him—where would be the safest place for him to go shopping for his
David?
”

“The Internet.”

“Yes—a place where he can browse and study his material like he most certainly did with the images of Tommy Campbell.”

“So you’re saying we might be able to lay a trap for him?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Cathy. It’s a long shot but—in addition to all the other leads we’ve been following, including the new Manzera connection—we can post an ad on Craigslist and some of the other Web sites known to be used by gay men. Put a picture up of a guy with a physique like
David
’s, and advertise our John Doe as a local uncircumcised male seeking companionship. I’ve looked into these sites myself when we were pursuing the male prostitute angle. Some of these men—many of whom are undoubtedly prostitutes themselves—are not shy about advertising the details of their privates, including whether or not they are circumcised. If we make our John Doe such an irresistible target—that is, create a profile for someone who looks like
David
and has the uncircumcised penis to boot—The Sculptor might not be able to resist killing two birds with one stone.”

“But how do you know The Sculptor hasn’t already acquired his penis?”

“Because, in order to get the proportions right he’ll have to find his
David
first. I made that mistake with the
Bacchus
, Cathy—when I thought The Sculptor would have experimented with the goat before acquiring the top half of his satyr. I’m not going to make that mistake again. Of course, it’s obvious The Michelangelo Killer won’t be able to find a seventeen-foot-tall man. However, if he finds someone with the right proportions, regardless of his height, he’ll have a better idea of what size penis to look for in order to retain the aesthetic proportions of the original. If we can save the killer all that trouble with an ad on the Internet, we might just be able to catch him.”

“But do you think The Sculptor would fall for something like that?”

“I don’t know, Cathy. But right now, it’s the only thing I can believe in.”