The Sculptor

“That is correct. This can easily be confirmed by a quick tour of the school’s Web site, and if you hurry-that is, if you’re a real go-getter like that pretty redhead on the beat-you can confirm for yourself Dr. Hildebrant’s involvement in the case. An unmarked FBI vehicle, a black Chevy Trailblazer I believe, will soon drop her off at her place of residence. If you review your latest footage of the crime scene, you’ll be able to see the truck exiting the property. From what I can tell, the good doctor left Watch Hill not even ten minutes ago, and unless our friends with the Federal Bureau of Investigation have more goodies in store for her today, I expect that the same Chevy Trailblazer will put her back at 311 East George Street in about forty to fifty minutes-depending on traffic, of course.”

“You said 311 East George Street?”

“I most certainly did.”

“Why would the FBI be consulting an art history professor?”

“The bodies of Tommy Campbell and his companion were found in that wealthy banker’s garden painted white like marble and posed upright in the form of a classical sculpture. Michelangelo’s Bacchus, to be exact.”

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“I’m sorry, I cannot. Hopefully, the powers-that-be at W-N-R-I are smart enough to record their hotline. Therefore, I suggest you review the tape and that footage and get a reporter over to Dr. Hildebrant’s house as soon as possible. The arrival of the black FBI vehicle will be confirmation that I’m not full of poop.”

The Sculptor hung up. His pulse had quickened-not because he was worried about getting caught; not because he was excited about all those pointed questions he imagined the press would soon be asking the FBI. No, The Sculptor’s heart knocked at his chest because of his conversation, his flirtation with the man on the other end of the hotline-a man whose voice had aroused him greatly.

Indeed, The Sculptor was already erect-could feel the hard nakedness of his penis pressing against the underside of the desk. And like a blushing-pink Pria-pus he sauntered over to the mortician’s table. From the space underneath, he unfolded a three-sectional arm, at the end of which was attached a small, flat-screen television. The Sculptor maneuvered it into place-adjusted the arm so the screen hovered about three feet above the head of the mortician’s table-and then uncoiled the accompanying cables. He laid them carefully on the floor, plugging one into the wall and the other into a monitor on his computer desk. The screen above the mortician’s table at once flickered into life, its image the same as the monitor before him. The Sculptor minimized the CNN.com Web site and double clicked on one of the desktop icons-a marble hand holding a bowl titled “Bacchus2.” The screen went blank for a moment, and then the countdown began-thirty seconds, grainy black and white that The Sculptor had designed to look like an old, wipe-style film countdown.

30…29…28…27…26…

The Sculptor turned on the baroque guitar music from his father’s bedroom and flicked off all the monitors-all except the monitor above the mortician’s table.

Then he turned out the lights.

19…18…17…16…

The Sculptor crossed the darkened room and slid under the television screen onto his back-the cold steel of the mortician’s table sending a shiver through his buttocks; the black and white numbers above him wiping into each other like circle ghosts on a clock.

11…10…9…

The Sculptor smiled, took his shaft in his hand, and waited.

At “ 2” the screen went blank-the room, black-and a second later, just as it had materialized for Tommy Campbell, The Sculptor saw what he had been waiting for: a statue, dirty white against black, so that it appeared to be floating just inches above his face. However, whereas it was Michelangelo’s Bacchus that had emerged from the darkness for Tommy Campbell, before The Sculptor now was HIS Bacchus, HIS creation. And as the marble white effigy of the Rebels wide receiver and his satyr companion began to rotate, unlike the mortician table’s former occupant, The Sculptor felt no fear, no confusion at all.

No, in the three months since he had taken the life of Tommy Campbell-especially in the last few weeks-The Sculptor had been in this position many, many times.

The Sculptor began to stroke his penis-hard, but slow at first, as he had learned to do in order to time things perfectly. And just as Michelangelo’s Bacchus had done for Tommy Campbell, the image before The Sculptor suddenly morphed into a close-up of the statue’s head: the grapes, the leaves, the curly hair surrounding the wide receiver’s drunken face-a gleaming white face with blank, porcelain eyes and a half-open mouth. The camera then panned down over Campbell ’s chest, over his bloated belly, and finally to his groin-to the place where The Sculptor had carefully removed the young man’s penis.