The Sculptor sm-1

by Gregory Funaro

  “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.”

  Chapter 46

  The Sculptor followed the black Trailblazer as he had done for the past two days—at a distance, always just out of sight behind a buffer of six or seven cars. Unbeknown to Sam and Cathy, the blue Toyota Camry had been with them almost the entire time since they left the Manzeras in East Greenwich—had followed them the next morning all along the coast, had waited for them to come back from their stroll together in Newport, had accompanied them everywhere they went on their romantic Sunday sojourn. Yes, The Sculptor could tell Dr. Hildy and the FBI agent were an item by the way they touched each other—the way they held hands at the restaurant, the way the good doctor snuggled up to her male companion by the cement wall overlooking the ocean. This was good; this meant it would be easier for The Sculptor to catch them off guard. Indeed, had it been nighttime, had there not been so many people around that day in Newport, The Sculptor would have disposed of the happy couple right there on the cliff-walk.

  But to do so in broad daylight would have been too risky.

  Yes, The Sculptor would have to wait for fate to give him a better opportunity.

  And so, early Monday morning, when The Sculptor saw the black Trailblazer emerge from the private underground parking garage in downtown Providence and then head for the FBI Resident Agency a few blocks away, The Sculptor knew that today was a day for business, not pleasure. The good doctor and her male companion were inside the FBI building for almost two hours. And when they emerged again, The Sculptor’s hand automatically went to his Sig Sauer .45, which lay next to him under his jacket on the passenger seat.

  He had resigned himself to taking them today, but the timing must be just right—he had to tread ever so carefully along the fine line between fate and free will.

  The Sculptor followed the Trailblazer all over Rhode Island, but only when he saw it pull into the East Greenwich Country Club did he understand just how close they were to finding him.

  They’re following the old police report, The Sculptor concluded.

  Oh yes, the FBI would most certainly want to question him about Manzera—just like the East Greenwich Police did ten years ago, when the tennis pro’s parents insisted their son could not have drowned by his own accord. However, luckily for the young man named Christian, the philandering Manzera had made a lot of enemies in his time at the country club. He had banged more than his share of married women, and thus the young man named Christian was only one of a slew of people, including Manzera’s ex-wife, who had openly admitted they were happy to see the tennis pro dead. And so, despite Mr. and Mrs. Manzera’s insistence to the contrary, with nothing more for the police to go on their son’s death was quickly ruled an accident.

  But now things were different; now the FBI was on the case. They had video of The Sculptor himself and would make the connection between the figure in black at Echo Point Cemetery and his own physique as soon as they laid eyes on him. And unlike ten years ago—when the young man named Christian had yet to become The Sculptor, when the young man named Christian had yet to even begin remodeling the carriage house—now there was evidence everywhere: the van, the equipment, the lab—not to mention all the excess material scattered about.

  No. There was no way of getting around it all now. Once the FBI set foot on his property, it would not take them long to put two and two together.

  The Sculptor began to panic—felt his heart beating fast in his chest; he felt the urge to race home, gather up his things, and make a run for it before the FBI arrived. But a short time later, when he saw the black Trailblazer pull out of the country club and head off in the direction of his house, an inner voice calmly whispered to him of the opportunity that had just presented itself. That the black Trailblazer was driving slowly meant that the man formerly known as Christian was just one of many people the FBI had planned on questioning that day—just a name on a list.

  That was good.

  That meant there was still time.

  And so The Sculptor sped off in the opposite direction—took the shortcut on a dirt road through the woods that he knew would bring him to his house well before the black Trailblazer arrived. Unless The Sculptor was mistaken, fate would deliver Dr. Hildy and her FBI boyfriend straight to his doorstep.

  Oh yes. The Sculptor wanted to make sure he was there to welcome them.

  Chapter 47

  After Markham’s conversation that morning with Bill Burrell—and after the SAC’s lukewarm reception and then reluctant acceptance of his Internet idea—while Rachel Sullivan and her team began putting together a profile for Craigslist and a handful of other Web sites popular in the gay community, a crestfallen and unenthusiastic Sam Markham began knocking off the names listed on the East Greenwich Police report—names of people who had been questioned in connection to Damon Manzera’s death ten years earlier, names that Markham was beginning to think were a waste of time.

  Not revealing the true nature of their visit, Markham and Cathy first spoke with Manzera’s ex-wife, and then with the ex-husband of the woman with whom Manzera had been cheating prior to his divorce. Neither one of them recognized Cathy Hildebrant; neither one of them had anything to offer other than “what they already told the police ten years ago.” However, both suggested that Markham and his partner try their luck with the general manager at the East Greenwich Country Club.

  “There’s still hope, Sam,” Cathy had said en route. “The Manzeras suspected all along that their son had been murdered. Just because the police were unable to find anything doesn’t mean that we won’t.”
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br />   “Look at the addresses on that list, Cathy—probably a ‘who’s who’ of Rhode Island high society. You saw how cold, how suspicious, and tight-lipped Manzera’s ex and that other guy were—just like Manzera’s own mother. Yes, like our friends down at Watch Hill, the one thing these people fear even more than The Michelangelo Killer is a good scandal.”

  Although the general manager of the East Greenwich Country Club explained to Sam Markham that he had in fact heard of Damon Manzera, he also explained to them that—having been in his position for only a year—he felt uncomfortable speaking about rumors regarding his club’s members.

  “The Manzeras are one of East Greenwich’s most respected families,” he said. “In addition to his aging mother, Damon Manzera leaves behind three sisters—all of whom have been members of our club since they were little girls. Thus, you will understand, Agent Markham, if out of respect for the family I decline to comment on what is to me nothing more than gossip and hearsay.”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Markham, sliding the list of names across the general manager’s desk. “And I hope you understand, sir, that I could make things very difficult for you and your little club if I thought even for a second that you were hindering this investigation. Meaning, I wouldn’t think twice about getting a subpoena for your records and having it delivered to your office under full police escort—complete with lights and sirens, of course, and perhaps some television cameras, too.”

  The general manager was silent.

  “Now why don’t you take a look at that list of names and see if you’ve changed your mind about helping me.”

  “Other than the two names you’ve already crossed off,” said the GM after a quick scan, “the only other name that I can connect for sure to the period of time in which Manzera was employed here is the Bach family. From what I gather, they were members up until about fifteen years ago—some kind of personal tragedy if my memory serves me, although I’m not sure I ever knew the details. But at least they’d have been members when Manzera was employed. You might want to try them. Other than that, I do recollect hearing rumors about Manzera’s flings with married women, but as for names, I can’t tell you if anybody on this list is a match. And that’s the truth, Agent Markham. You have my word on that, for as I’ve already explained to you, I’ve only been in my current position for about a year now. However, if you’d like, I can try to telephone my predecessor for you. I’m sure he’d be happy to cooperate, to report on his own firsthand knowledge of the goings on at the club around the time of Manzera’s death.”

  “That’d be fine. Thank you.”

  While Markham and Cathy waited, the general manager tried repeatedly to contact his predecessor. However, when the latter proved unreachable by phone, the general manager gave Markham the man’s Florida address and telephone number and asked to be excused. And for the time being, the FBI agent let him off the hook, added the information to his list, and left the general manager’s office in a huff.

  “Who’s next?” Cathy asked once they were back inside the Trailblazer.

  “Just so happens it’s the Bach family,” said Sam Markham, scanning his list. “The one the general manager mentioned. Specifically, Edward and Christian Bach.”

  “Any notes on them?”

  “Nothing really. Like the others, names have an X next to them—just lists them with the same ‘persons of interest’ blurb that the cops wrote down for Manzera’s ex and that other guy. Looks like they dismissed them as suspects early on in their investigation. Does say, however, that Edward is the father, and Christian the son. Mother listed as deceased. GPS shows their last known address isn’t too far from here. Best hit them next and then grab some lunch. What do you say?”

  “Sounds good. It’s almost two o’clock. I’m starving.”

  Within ten minutes the Trailblazer’s GPS system led them down a winding wooded road, through a pillared fieldstone wall, and up a long driveway to a large, three-story house. On the other side of the driveway, behind a waterless fountain, Cathy could make out a black Porsche 911 and a blue Toyota Camry.

  “You must hate these slum assignments,” she said, and Markham smiled. Had he noticed the overgrown second driveway, had he been able to see through the trees and the thick underbrush to the carriage house at the rear of the property, Supervisory Special Agent Sam Markham might not have been smiling.

  Markham and Cathy exited the Trailblazer and climbed a set of four wide flagstone steps. They followed the path along the side of the house and then climbed up another four steps to the side door—a door that stood curiously propped open as if the owner of the house had been expecting them. Markham looked inside. He could see into what looked like a mud room, and into the kitchen beyond.

  “Hello?” he called, knocking on the open storm door.

  Turning, Markham was about to speak when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement—then the flash of a bright red dot reflected off the glass.

  “Get down!” he shouted, pushing Cathy away from the red dot and inside the house. But the silenced bullet found him anyway—grazed the back of his head and took off a chunk of his right ear as he tackled Cathy onto the mud room floor, the warmth of his blood spattering her face.

  The sound of a loud pop on the door frame—then another bullet tore into Markham’s thigh. The FBI agent shrieked in pain.

  “Move, Cathy, move!” he shouted, rolling off of her and fumbling for his gun. Cathy, her ears buzzing, her muscles tense with fear, scrambled to her feet just in time to see a shadowy figure in the doorway—the sunlight streaming in behind him; tall, bald, and naked as a marble Hercules.

  Yes. They had found The Sculptor.

  A flash of red light passed across Cathy’s eyes. She froze—did not see Markham rise to his feet and grab The Sculptor’s arm—only heard the bullet whizzing past her ear. Her vision spotted from The Sculptor’s laser sight, Cathy backed away into the kitchen, watching in red blotchy horror as Markham tried to wrestle The Sculptor’s gun away from him. Their grunting figures crashed against the walls of the mud room as The Sculptor fired off two silenced bullets into the floor.

  Then, with a roar, The Sculptor seemed to explode—his arms flailing outward in a burst of power. Sam Markham went sailing across the room—his back slamming into the darkened door frame behind him.

  Only then did Cathy notice the open cellar door.

  “Sam!” she cried—but it was too late. As Markham recovered, as he finally drew his gun from his shoulder holster, the red dot again flashed across Cathy’s eyes.

  Thhhwhip! Thhhwhip!

  And then Sam Markham disappeared into a black abyss—the muffled sound of his body thumping down the cellar stairs sucking Cathy’s breath from her lungs.

  Firing again down into the darkness, The Sculptor moved to the cellar door in a blur. Then he flicked on the light at the top of the stairs. Cathy had not seen where The Sculptor’s bullets had hit Markham, but in the light cast from the cellar stairwell, she could see on The Sculptor’s face that he was satisfied with his shots. Cathy tried to scream, but her fear held her breath tight in her throat.

  The Sculptor whirled his eyes on her—eyes that, in the shadow cast from the cellar, looked to Cathy to be carved from ice.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Dr. Hildy,” said The Sculptor, raising his gun. “I wish the circumstances could have been different.”

  Suddenly Cathy’s breath returned, and she became aware that her legs were moving, dragging her forward against the fear that so desperately wanted her to stay put. Another thhhwhip of a bullet by her left ear, and then the kitchen, the adjoining dining room flying past her in a rush. Cathy found herself at the front door, her fingers like numb hotdogs against the dead bolt—slippery and useless as the sound of footsteps thundered behind her. Cathy turned to find The Sculptor approaching from the dining room. She made a dash to her left—could see the sunlight down the hall at the back of the house; she was aware somehow that if she follow
ed alongside the grand staircase it would lead her back to the mud room door. But the naked, hairless man who looked like a bald Arnold Schwarzenegger intercepted her. Cathy fell backward onto the stairs, The Sculptor standing over her and leveling the red dot of his gun between her eyes.

  “I wasn’t expecting this, Dr. Hildy. I hope you won’t think me rude.”

  There was no click like in the movies; only the look of curious disappointment on The Sculptor’s face when he noticed his Sig Sauer—its clip spent—had locked itself in the empty position.

  Cathy did not wait; in a flash she kicked the heel of her sneaker hard into The Sculptor’s naked testicles. The Sculptor howled in pain—his gun dropping on the steps, his hands instinctively going to his groin as his massive frame fell forward, blocking an escape route past him. Like a crab, Cathy pinwheeled her arms and legs backward, found her footing, and scrambled up the stairs—her disorientation, her terror carrying her right past the servants’ staircase which, unbeknown to her, would have brought her back down into the kitchen.

  No, with The Sculptor fast on her heels, in a haze of red wallpaper and richly stained wood, Cathy raced down the upstairs hallway in the opposite direction.

  Streaking past one of the bedrooms, out of the corner of her eye she saw the silhouette of a man sitting by a large window. Instinctively, she ran to him.

  “Help me!” Cathy cried, dashing into the bedroom and slamming the door behind her. “Call the police!” But when Cathy caught sight of the man’s face, when she looked into the hollow eyes of the helpless, drooling invalid that was The Sculptor’s father, her heart sank into her stomach.

  “Albert?” the man croaked, his eyes staring past her.

  But Cathy did not have time to lament, for a split second later The Sculptor burst into the room behind her.

  “Get away from him!” he bellowed, coming for her in a blur of naked flesh. Cathy backed away against the wall—her hands grasping a stainless steel IV stand just as The Sculptor was upon her. She flung it at him, the plastic bag and its metal arm hitting The Sculptor square in the face. The Sculptor’s hands went to his eyes, buying Cathy enough time to get away from him across the four-poster bed.