The Sculptor

Although Reverend Bonetti rarely watched television or sat in front of a computer screen, and although he preferred to read or watch his tiny collection of old black-and-white movies on the rectory’s ancient VCR, even he knew what had happened to Catherine Hildebrant-to her ex-husband, yes, but also to her. Bonetti knew that the media was claiming it was her book, Slumbering in the Stone, that had inspired The Michelangelo Killer to commit his atrocities; he knew that, since the death of her husband, she had withdrawn from the public eye-probably had gone into protective custody, the papers said. Oh yes, he had read the news stories, had seen Hildebrant’s picture many times on Meghan O’Neill’s Special Report: The Michelangelo Killer series on Channel 9. And now there were the rumors that the first statue-the one with the football player and that poor little boy from Cranston -had originally been dedicated to her, too.

When he heard the outside door slam, Father Bonetti’s heart went out to Catherine Hildebrant as it had so many times over the last couple of weeks. But he needed to move quickly, and just as the knock came at his office door, the old priest slipped the copy of Slumbering in the Stone that he had picked up a week earlier into his desk drawer.

“Come in.”

Cathy entered first, followed by Markham.

“Dr. Hildebrant,” said Reverend Bonetti, offering his hand. “Despite the circumstances, it truly is a pleasure to see you again. I won’t pretend that I don’t know what’s happened to you over the last few weeks. But let me first offer my condolences for your loss, and second, my support in this difficult time. If there’s anything I can do, you’ll tell me?”

“Thank you, Father.”

Another round of pleasantries, and the three of them took their seats around Father Bonetti’s desk.

“Now,” said the priest. “To what do I owe this return visit?”

“I’d like to ask you a few more questions, Father,” said Markham. “Specifically with regard to your Gambardelli Pietà.”

“I’m not sure what else I can tell you. I’ve seen the police photos, the composite sketches of your man. There’s no one I know who fits that bill, and certainly no one that could afford twenty-five thousand dollars for a statue.”

“I understand that, Father. But I was hoping you could perhaps tell us a little more about the statue itself. You said that there was originally a picture of it on your Web site?”

“Yes. It was a photograph of the votive chapel-the one off the main church that I showed you-the one that currently houses our replacement Pietà.”

“Was there anything on the Web site, however-a caption or an accompanying description-that identified the statue specifically as a Gambardelli Pietà?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

“The picture then-was it a close-up of the statue, or taken at a distance?”

“I guess you could say it was taken at a distance. It has been a tradition at St. Bart’s for many years to move the pyramid of votive candles into the main church after Thanksgiving in order to accommodate the three life-size Nativity statues that occupy the chapel during the Christmas holiday. I believe it was around that time that the photograph was taken. There is no manger to house the Nativity-just the architecture of the chapel itself-so the Gambardelli Pietà would have been visible against the wall behind the statues of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“The family who donated the Pietà,” Markham continued. “What was their name?”

“Well, now,” said the priest, leaning back in his leather chair. “For the life of me, I can’t remember. If you’ll recall, our original Pietà was donated a few years before I arrived. There was a plaque engraved with the family’s name at its base, but of course that was stolen along with the statue. I’m ashamed to admit, Agent Markham, that-for all the time I’ve spent in this church-I’m not sure I ever knew the family’s name. Strange isn’t it? How you can pass by something every day and not really see it?”

“And you never had the plaque replaced?”

“No. The family who donated the statue moved away many years ago. Matter of fact, if my memory serves me, they hadn’t lived here for decades before I arrived-moved to a wealthier neighborhood-the gift of the Pietà being a bit of sentimentality on the part of one of their old matriarchs, I take it. However, our deacon at the time of the theft, a Scalabrini who has since moved on, took it upon himself to track them down. He did find someone-a daughter I think-but the person to whom he spoke said not to bother having another plaque made, as the family did not want to be associated with our church anymore.”

Markham and Cathy exchanged a look.

“This deacon,” said the FBI agent. “Do you know how he discovered the family’s name? Are there records of donations and things of the like in your files?”

“I assume that’s where he found it, yes-perhaps also from asking around the congregation.”

“And these records, these files-do you still have them?”