The Sculptor

Virgin herself, and when you take into account that you discuss in your chapter on the Pieta the relationship between the Virgin and Christ as a contradicting yet parallel trinity to the traditional Christian Holy Trinity—well, it’s a bizarre coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“Never mind all the metaphorical and moral implications that go along with such a reading of this parallel, incestuous, impure trinity.”

“Is that why we’re going to see the Reverend Bonetti again today?”

“Yes,” said Sam Markham. “I honestly haven’t a clue exactly what or why, but something tells me that there’s more to The Sculptor’s theft of the Gambardelli Pieta than we first realized.”

Chapter 40

The Reverend Robert Bonetti watched them from his office window—had requested on the telephone that they enter at the back of the church so as not to disturb his parishioners, who would be coming and going all day for confession. When he saw them emerge from the Trailblazer, at first the old priest did not recognize the blond woman with the sunglasses who accompanied the FBI agent named Markham. Only when they passed outside his window did Father Bonetti realize the pretty art history professor from Brown University had finally decided to come out of hiding.

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had inspired The Michelangelo Killer to commit his atrocities; he knew that, since the death of her husband, she had withdrawn from the public eye—probably had gone into protective custody, the papers said.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 Pieta.”

“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 Pieta.”

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

“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 Pieta would have been visible against the wall behind the statues of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“The family who donated the Pieta,” 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 Pieta 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 Pieta 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?”

“I would think so. But to be honest, Agent Markham, I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for them. Any records older than five years we move to the basement, where they’re stacked in a dead files pile along with all the documents that were transferred from the old church after its renovation in the late 1960s—stuff going back almost a hundred years. Ironically, it was the deacon’s search for that family’s name that was our motivation to start cleaning house down there. However, even if you did find the actual record of the donation, Agent Markham, you might still have to track down the surviving family members like our man did three years ago. If you’d like, I can find out from the Scalabrini Fathers where the deacon is stationed—can ask him if he remembers the last name, where the family is living now, and can get back to you early next week.”

“Under normal circumstances, that would be fine, Father. But, with the murder of Cathy’s ex-husband, with the discovery of the Pieta two weeks ago in Exeter, there is every indication that The Michelangelo Killer is going to kill again—and soon. Hence, we need to follow up on every lead as quickly as possible.”

“Yes,” said the priest. “I read about it in the papers. The authorities, the media seems to think his next public exhibition will be the statue of David. Indeed, I’m willing to bet that sales of your book, Dr. Hildebrant, have skyrocketed with amateur sleuths looking for a way to prevent the crime, to solve the case before the FBI does.”

Cathy was silent.

“You’re probably right, Father Bonetti,” said Markham. “So you see why it’s extremely important that we get