The Sculptor

“No. Serial killers sometimes pose their victims-put them on display, if you will-either for their own sick benefit or for the others who come afterward. But no, I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“And the missing penis? That mean anything to you, Sam? Killer’s got a problem with his gender? Wants to be a woman or something?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s just trying to make the sculpture look authentic like the one in Florence.”

“That would explain why the killer put the sculpture on display here,” said Cathy.

“What do you mean?” asked Burrell.

“Agent Markham, you told me that the owner of this property is the CEO of an investment firm?”

“That’s right. His name is Dodd. Earl Dodd.”

“Michelangelo’s Bacchus was originally commissioned in 1496 by a cardinal named Riario, who intended to install it in his garden of classical sculptures. The cardinal ended up rejecting the statue-thought it distasteful-and we know that by about 1506 or so it had been given a home in the garden of Jacopo Galli, a wealthy banker.”

Burrell and Markham exchanged a look, and Cathy suddenly felt self-conscious again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Forgive me if I’m playing detective. Too many nights alone watching CSI, I guess.”

“What are you thinking, Sam?” asked Burrell.

“Dr. Hildebrant,” Markham said, “was Bacchus Michelangelo’s first statue?”

“Heavens no. He was only twenty-two when it was completed, had sculpted a number of others, but Bacchus was indeed Michelangelo’s first life-size statue-the sculpture that really thrust him into the public eye and garnered him recognition as a talented marble carver.”

“Then you’re thinking this is an introduction, Sam?” asked Burrell. “The first of more to come?”

“Perhaps.”

“But why Campbell?” countered the SAC. “And why this boy?”

“I’m not sure,” said Markham, squatting by the inscription at the base of the statue. “But I suspect that’s something the killer wants Dr. Hildebrant to tell us.”

Chapter 7

The motto on the side of the new Westerly Police cruisers read, PRIDE, INTEGRITY, AND COMMITMENT-to which the police chief always added in his mind, “Tight-lipped.” Indeed, if there was one quality the citizens of Watch Hill appreciated in their chief, it was that he knew how to keep his men quiet. And as the secluded seaside community had long been a vacation retreat for the rich and famous, there had always been an unwritten rule in the department that officers should turn on their cruiser lights and sirens only when absolutely necessary. Over the years, the Westerly Police had even developed a sort of informal “code” in order to avoid the attention of local reporters, who were constantly monitoring the police bands with the hopes of catching a juicy story.

Yet following the disappearance of Tommy Campbell-the juiciest story to hit Watch Hill in decades-unbeknown to the police chief, one of his officers had jumped “on the take”-five hundred dollars cash, no questions asked, to be paid upon delivery of any “credible, first dibs info” relating to the wide receiver’s whereabouts. Thus, when rookie WNRI Channel 9 Eye-Team Investigator Meghan O’Neill’s cell phone rang with a tip that Tommy Campbell’s body had been found down at Watch Hill, the ambitious young reporter knew that her money had been well spent.

And so it was that, as Cathy Hildebrant concluded her examination of The Sculptor’s Bacchus, O’Neill and the Channel 9 Mobile News Room pulled up outside of Earl Dodd’s wall of high hedges. The stretch of Ocean View Highway in front of the mansion looked to be deserted, and for a moment the Eye-Team’s star investigator thought she had been duped. However, when she caught sight of the two Rhode Island state troopers standing guard beyond the iron gate, when she glimpsed the line of unmarked FBI vehicles that snaked up the driveway, Meghan O’Neill called in the confirmation to Channel 9 herself.

Yes, that up-and-coming anchor slot was as good as hers.

And although the Westerly Police Chief would never have believed it, although only a handful of his men had known what really was going on in the wealthy investment banker’s topiary garden before the state police arrived, as soon as the two troopers saw the pretty redhead scramble out of the van, they knew a local boy had rolled.

“I’ll call it in,” said one of the officers. “You go tell Burrell.” And in a flash his partner was off across the lawn as the other radioed for backup.

“I want to be live in thirty seconds,” said O’Neill, straightening her blouse and taking the microphone. “We’ll start here on the sidewalk, and then you follow me to the front gate.” With only a year on the Rhode Island beat under her belt, Meghan O’Neill learned early on that it was best to get the cameras rolling as soon as possible-that people “behaved better” when they knew they were being recorded.