The Sculptor

by Gregory Funaro

  The one bright spot in the tragedy that had been Karen Canfield’s life was that her estranged mother requested her daughter’s head and breasts be sent back to Dayton when the FBI was through with them.

  Paul Jimenez’s family, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with him; and thus, the FBI would hang on to his body and Esther Muniz’s hands indefinitely.

  Markham quickly scanned his e-mails, promising himself he would get to them upon his return from Boston—after the teleconference with Quantico, in which he and Burrell’s team would once again be briefed on the ongoing forensic and coroner’s reports, as well as the joint investigations that had begun into the lives of the latest victims. Yet Markham could not ignore the nagging feeling that it was all a waste of time; he could not ignore that little voice in the back of his head that told him The Sculptor was too smart to allow himself to be caught that way—that is, by allowing himself to be traced to his material. Indeed, it seemed to Markham that The Sculptor had thought of everything: from the phony license plates and the fake satellite dish on his Eye-Team van, to the way he left absolutely no trace evidence in the material he used for his sculptures—other than that of which he was obviously consciously aware.

  But there must be something he’s overlooked, Markham thought. Something that perhaps goes all the way back to the murder of Gabriel Banford, or to the theft of the Pietà at St. Bart’s; something that The Sculptor had done when his plan was not yet fully formed—or perhaps something from the period when he was still experimenting.

  Yes, Markham felt instinctively that The Sculptor’s latest exhibit had somehow gotten him off course—that he’d had enough information to catch The Michelangelo Killer from the beginning.

  Slumbering in the Stone, Markham said to himself. It was Cathy who led me to the exhibition of The Sculptor’s Pietà—her book that got me so close I could have spit on him that night. Perhaps everything I need to catch him is right there.

  Suddenly Markham understood that he did not need to hear anything more from Quantico. He already knew that the preliminary coroner’s reports would show that Steve Rogers and Paul Jimenez had died from an overdose of epinephrine, and that the glossy white Starfire paint which had covered The Sculptor’s Pietà would show traces of finely ground Carrara marble—marble that undoubtedly had been pulverized from the stolen Pietà at St. Bart’s. Perhaps something might be learned from the heavy starched canvas The Sculptor had used for the Virgin’s robes, or the rock of Golgotha.

  But still…

  Slumbering in the Stone, Markham said to himself. The key has to be in Slumbering in the Stone.

  Markham checked the time in the corner of his computer screen—would have to leave soon if he was going to make the meeting in Boston. He was torn; he felt like he needed to stay in Providence—just knew that the answer to catching The Michelangelo Killer was right there on his desk, right there in the book in his briefcase. But Markham also knew he needed Cathy; and Christ was he tired—couldn’t think straight. He had slept for only a couple of hours in his office between working on his computer and reading over and over again the printouts from Boston and Quantico. He had spoken to Cathy before drifting off—had whispered her to sleep with “I miss you” and “I’ll see you tomorrow” instead of the three words he had really wanted to say—those three words he had not said to another woman since the death of his Michelle. They had slept together in the same bed only once in the two weeks since they first made love at Cathy’s East Side condo, stealing kisses and passionate exchanges here and there when the coast was clear at the safe house. If Bill Burrell and his team knew about his affair with Cathy Hildebrant, if they thought it improper, they weren’t saying. And to be honest, Sam Markham didn’t give a shit if the whole fucking Federal Bureau of Investigation knew. No, in the two weeks since he first began to admit to himself his love for Cathy Hildebrant, Markham began to feel more and more that he was working not for them, but for her.

  The only e-mail Sam Markham chose to open that morning was from Rachel Sullivan. He responded with a short Yes to her question as to whether or not he wanted to donate to the fund she was organizing for the slain officer’s families. She was a good egg, that Sullivan, and a damn fine agent—would soon be a SAC herself, Markham thought; she was doing a bang-up job of scraping the shit from the toilet bowl that was South Providence. No doubt she would be giving a presentation today on her missing persons report—had already informed Markham that, after weeding through the databases, she was presently working with a list of at least eight names of prostitutes who were known to have disappeared from the Rhode Island area in the last six years, and whose circumstances might tie them to The Michelangelo Killer.

  Eight, Markham had said to himself. How many are The Sculptor’s? And how many others went unreported?

  Markham felt his stomach knot at the thought of The Michelangelo Killer going shopping for material on the streets of South Providence like it was Wal-Mart. But a smart place to buy, Markham thought—a typical hunting ground for serial killers because so many of their victims go unnoticed. But whereas Markham knew that most serial killers hunted out of the need to satisfy some kind of selfish sexual or psychological urge, he also knew that The Sculptor only hunted out of a need for supplies.

  “Put me down for 500,” Markham added in his e-mail, and then shut down his computer.

  Five hundred dollars, he said to himself. Two hundred and fifty each for their lives. Pathetic.

  At that moment, Markham would have given his whole salary to the policemen’s widows. But at the same time he understood that anything more than his five hundred dollars would make him and the FBI look guilty. He had attended the double funeral that week—actually wept when he saw the slain policemen’s children place their flowers on their fathers’ caskets. In hindsight, it had been foolish for the FBI to put out an APB—foolish to unleash the cunning Sculptor on a couple of unsuspecting locals.

  But then again, two weeks ago, how could the FBI have known what they were really dealing with?

  A killing machine, Markham thought. Built like the fucking Terminator, and who won’t stop until he finds his man.

  Yes, as vivid as were those teenage memories of Arnold Schwarzenegger blasting his way through the streets of LA in pursuit of Sarah Connor, Special Agent Sam Markham could see so clearly the man for whom The Sculptor would be searching next—a dark and grainy movie in his mind, in which a ski-masked Terminator chased a marble white statue through the streets of downtown Providence.

  A movie starring Michelangelo’s David.

  Chapter 37

  The plan from the beginning had always been David, but it was the Pietà that had inspired him to actually start working—yes, the Pietà around which the development of his skills had evolved. And so, that it should have been the Pietà that ended up causing him so much trouble bothered The Sculptor greatly.

  In the two weeks since his second exhibit—in the two weeks since he had been almost caught—The Sculptor followed attentively every single story about him in the media. Yes, he saw many times the still photographs of him that had been taken from the police dash-cam, the ludicrous FBI composite sketch of what he might look like under his ski mask, the details of his height and weight, the pictures of the make and model of his van—all that blahdy-blah-blah.

  In the end, however, such details did not worry The Sculptor, for in the end The Sculptor knew such details would not hurt him. No, what really got under The Sculptor’s skin was his understanding that—although he wasn’t quite sure how—the police and the FBI had one way or another figured out where he was going to exhibit his Pietà. And even though it had quickly become obvious to him that the authorities had made their discovery only at the last minute, The Sculptor—putting two and two together from the media reports—nonetheless had a good idea who might have tipped them off.

  Dr. Hildy. It had to have been Dr. Hildy.

  The Sculptor threw the weight bar back onto the rack with a loud
clang. He had benched more than ever today—was well aware that he was channeling his frustration into his workouts in a way that was unusual for him. The Sculptor’s workouts in the cellar were normally quite methodical—steady, calm, and unemotional. But today, The Sculptor felt restless, felt helpless—like he needed to be working. Everything was all ready for his David—the video, the base and frame, the epinephrine, the formaldehyde, the chemicals for the Plastination process. He had even repainted the van—had disposed of the phony satellite dish—and would start working on switching it out for something else once he got his new material. All he really needed now was the right material. But because The Sculptor could not figure out exactly how Dr. Hildy and the FBI had managed to guess the location for his Pietà, instinctively The Sculptor felt it was too dangerous to go shopping just yet.

  And just where would he go shopping? Not on the streets of South Providence anymore; not on the Internet, or up in Boston where the FBI now knew the RounDaWay17 material had come from. No, the FBI would be looking for that. Besides, The Sculptor had understood from the beginning that, with the unveiling of his Pietà, he would no longer be able to use that kind of material anyway; he understood that he would have to go back to shopping for material as had done for his Bacchus.

  True, the news reports erroneously claimed that The Sculptor had found his material for the Christ figure on Arlington Street in Boston. And if the FBI did in fact know about RounDaWay17’s Craigslist account, they most certainly hadn’t revealed it to the press. No, The Sculptor was not worried about that—knew that it would be impossible for them to trace RounDaWay17’s online activity now that The Sculptor had hacked into, changed, and deleted the young man’s account.

  No, it was the gnawing not-knowing of exactly how Dr. Hildy and the FBI had figured out the location of his Pietà that worried him the most.

  At least everything is ready, he said to himself. That’s some comfort.

  In the beginning, when he first began experimenting with the pieces of the women, The Sculptor would travel all over New England picking the locks at the backs of funeral homes and stealing just enough formaldehyde to get him by—just enough so it would not be missed. But The Sculptor observed in his travels that many of the funeral homes produced their own formaldehyde, and later, after he accidentally stumbled upon a picture of Rhode Island native Tommy Campbell on the Internet—when he saw the resemblance to Michelangelo’s Bacchus, when he understood that it was his destiny to have the wide receiver for his first exhibit—in addition to putting his Pietà on hold, The Sculptor decided to start producing his own twenty-nine percent formaldehyde solution in the small lab he had set up off the wine cellar to manufacture his epinephrine and his high-powered tranquilizers. Using a technique of methanol conversion that he learned on the Internet, there in the cool damp bowels of his family home he could prepare and store not just his formaldehyde, but all his chemicals; and when he was ready, he could transfer them to barrels and wheel them up and out of the back hatchway door for use in the carriage house.

  It was a very efficient system.

  However, as was the case with the Plastination process in the carriage house, more than the actual acquisition of his chemicals—the majority of which had been either distilled from common household products or stolen barrel by barrel from warehouses that weren’t even locked—the biggest problem for The Sculptor in his cellar lab was always the ventilation. And despite the numerous exhaust vents that he had installed, despite the gas mask that he always wore, after working for long hours in his cramped laboratory The Sculptor would sometimes begin to feel dizzy. And on those rare occasions when he would accidentally touch the epinephrine—highly concentrated synthetic epinephrine that he had also learned to manufacture from his hours of study on the Internet—he would start to sweat, would feel his heart speed up and his head go all loopy. The Sculptor, however, did not mind such temporary changes within his body—the dizziness, the speedy heartbeat—as in a way, he thought, it helped him connect to his creations.

  But The Sculptor did not like the change he felt within his body today; nor did he like the emotions bubbling up inside of him when he thought of Dr. Hildy. And as he slid two more plates onto his weight bar, The Sculptor could not help but feel as if the pretty art history professor had betrayed him.

  The Sculptor had been smart enough to know from the beginning that Dr. Catherine Hildebrant would be at the very least an unwilling accomplice in his plan. But after all he had done for her, after he had specifically used her ex-husband for the body of his Virgin as a favor to her—that same man who had betrayed her, that same poopy-head who The Sculptor had followed for years, who he knew was having sexual relations behind the good doctor’s back—yes, Dr. Hildy could have at least held off on telling the FBI about his Pietà until it was in place.

  The Sculptor blasted out six more reps on his bench, and when he returned the bar to the rack, it was as if his mind at once had cleared. And in a flash of insight, The Sculptor suddenly understood the brutal but simple reality that, if indeed it had been Dr. Hildy who had led the FBI to his Pietà, then there was a good chance that Dr. Hildy might do the same with his David. Hence, although it had never been part of his original plan, The Sculptor understood all at once that the best thing to do in order to guarantee a smooth exhibit of his David was to get rid of Dr. Catherine Hildebrant.

  And much to his surprise, The Sculptor suddenly felt a lot better.

  Chapter 38

  “I want to go back to Providence,” said Cathy Hildebrant. She and Sam Markham stood before Burrell’s desk like a pair of high school delinquents in the principal’s office—contrite, fearful, yet defiant.

  “I can’t allow it,” said Burrell. “That would be like throwing you to the wolves.”

  “I don’t care. I can be more help to you working with Sam on the street.”

  “But Cathy, you’ve been watching the television these last couple of weeks—been reading the papers and the news reports online. You know the press is looking for you, is dying to pick your bones.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’ll keep a low profile.”

  “But with the murder of your ex, don’t you see that they all blame you? We can’t protect you from them anymore. It’s an entirely different situation now—they don’t want to just talk to you about The Michelangelo Killer, they want to get closer to him through you. I know you’ve been following the news. The press and the public are just waiting for The Sculptor’s next exhibit. They all know what it’s going to be—the goddamn statue of David. Christ, it’s only a matter of time before every young male with muscles in Rhode Island starts going into a panic, starts going into hiding.”

  “I understand that but—”

  “I can’t guarantee your safety down there, Cathy,” Burrell said, rising. “Hell, I shouldn’t even have you as a consultant on the case anymore.”

  “She’ll be fine with me, Bill,” said Markham. “We can set her up in a room in my building—I’ll be personally responsible for her, twenty-four-seven.”

  “Both of you were at the teleconference today, Sam. Both of you understand now what this guy is all about. We can tie him to at least nine murders, including Gabriel Banford and the two policemen. That’s at least nine. Who knows how many of Rachel’s missing prostitutes are his. Who knows how many more there are that we don’t know about—prostitutes, young men, women, children. He doesn’t hunt in one demographic, Sam. He chooses his victims according to some sick plan that parallels the artistic output of Michelangelo. I mean, Christ, what’s to say he won’t come after Cathy next?”

  “I can’t stay in hiding all my life,” Cathy said.

  “No, but you can goddamn well stay there a little longer.”

  An awkward silence fell over the office as the SAC turned his back on them—staring absently out his window to the Boston skyline.

  “I understand what you’ve been going through, Cathy. I understand that you’ve been cooped up with
us for almost two weeks now. I know it must make you feel isolated, helpless, and a little stir crazy—being away from the people and the places you love. That’s to be expected. But at least there’s the buffer of distance between you and the killer; at least the press doesn’t know where you are. If you go back to Providence, if you start working the streets with Markham again, someone might spot you, might notify the press. And if the media finds out where you are, then The Sculptor might find out, too.” Burrell turned to face her. “Look, Cathy, if you can just hold out a little longer, if you can just sit tight until we get something solid—”

  “You can’t hold me here against my will.”

  “You’re right,” said Burrell. “But I can fire you from the case if you choose to leave protective custody. Is that what you want me to do?”

  Both Cathy and Markham knew the SAC was bluffing, but it was the FBI agent who called him on it.

  “If she goes, I go.”

  Burrell looked at him incredulously.

  “I mean it,” Markham said. “I’m done—I’m through with the Bureau for good. You can’t fire me, Bill, but I can quit. I can fly back to Quantico and hand in my resignation first thing in the morning.”