The Sculptor

parts of eleven more women—eight identified as prostitutes from Providence and Fall River, Massachusetts, and three still listed as Jane Does—were discovered on Bach’s property: some were preserved as sculptures in Bach’s “art gallery,” while other discarded pieces were found buried in the woods directly behind the burned-out shell of the carriage house. And even though dogs had been brought in to search the rest of Bach’s property, even though they found no more victims beyond the immediate vicinity of what the press had dubbed, “The Michelangelo Killer’s Studio of Death,” Markham had a gut feeling that Christian Bach’s body count might be even higher.

Bach’s East Greenwich neighbors, his few remaining acquaintances, and the members of the wealthy circles in which his family once traveled were all shocked and outraged to discover that one of their own could have committed such unimaginable crimes. True, they knew the handsome and brilliant young Bach had become something of a recluse after the death of his mother. And true, he had broken off all ties with both sides of his family in order to care for his father. But such a move was not unusual in families where money was concerned, especially the kind of money in Bach’s family. Yes, one couldn’t be too careful nowadays with relatives looking for a handout or making claim to money that wasn’t theirs—an unpleasant fact of life made only clearer by the swarm of vultures that was now trying to get a piece of Christian Bach’s father. And besides, the young Mr. Bach had maintained his grounds with such care, had been so kind to the children at Halloween, had been so generous with his donations to his various philanthropic organizations that—well…

However, that it should have fallen to Cathy Markham to tell The Michelangelo Killer’s story was perhaps the most bizarre twist of all. Never mind that Bach’s body was never found—quite a common occurrence in such cases, the authorities assured, cases in which a massive explosion is followed by a long-burning, extremely hot chemical fire. After the smoke had cleared and the public resigned itself to the fact that there was absolutely no way Bach could have survived, and after the initial media blitz died down and she and Sam Markham were married, Cathy gave in to the pressure around her and began writing an account not only of her ordeal, but also of the man to whom she owed—oh, how she hated to admit it!—her happiness.

Yes, despite everything that had happened, for the first time in her life Cathy Markham felt truly happy— which had nothing to do with the six-figure, multi-book deal her agent had just brokered; had nothing to do with the rights to the movie for her yet unreleased follow-up to Slumbering in the Stone, or that she and her new husband would never have to work again. No, all Cathy Markham was thankful for was Sam. She tried never to think about the irony of how they came together, or what she would tell their children when they asked how she and Daddy met.

There’ll be time to sort it out later.

A cool breeze blew off the river, ruffling the pages of the high school reading list in her husband’s hand as he settled in beside her. She would never have thought to ask him, but was nonetheless thrilled when Sam told her on their honeymoon that he was leaving the FBI. She had actually cried when he surprised her later that spring with his new teaching job: English, at a private high school in Connecticut, starting in the fall.

Yes, Cathy knew all about Michelle, and she understood that this was just part of her husband’s way of sorting it all out. And Cathy loved him for it, for Cathy also understood that he was sorting it out for her.

Cathy’s cell phone rang—Beethoven, Fur Elise. She looked at the number then muted it.

“Not going to answer it?”

“Private number.”

“Let me see.”

“Please, Sam, it’s Sunday.”

Markham snatched the phone and pretended he was about to open it. Cathy sighed—knew that he was baiting her—but did not bite. And just as she expected, her husband let the phone ring into voice mail. He cast it aside on the wicker sofa and snuggled closer to her. Yes, just like her, Sam Markham preferred simply to sit next to his spouse in the cool quiet oblivion of the river breeze.

Yes, Cathy thought. There’ll be time to sort it out later.

Miles away, Special Agent in Charge Bill Burrell closed his cell phone. He did not care to leave a message on the pretty art history professor’s voice mail.

She’s been through so much, Burrell thought. I just hope I can get hold of them before the fucking vultures get here.

Bulldog took a long, deep drag from his Marlboro as Special Agent Rachel Sullivan came up beside him.

“Any luck, Chief?”

“No answer on either of their cells. Get a car sent out ASAP—somewhere in Mystic I think they’re living. Address is in the database.”

“Right.”

As Special Agent Sullivan disappeared up the steps behind him, Burrell gazed out across the courtyard past the sea of blue FBI jackets to the marble white figure at the opposite end. The SAC did not need his team to tell him who it was—would have recognized the statue of the naked, muscular man with the curly hair even if he had never heard of The Michelangelo Killer.

Just what has this son of a bitch started?

Bulldog heeled his cigarette into the steps and opened his cell phone. It was going to be a long day. He would have to telephone the wife to say he wasn’t coming home tonight.

No. After twenty years with the Bureau it just never gets any fucking easier.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Sculptor would not have been possible without the faith of two men: my agent, William Reiss, at John Hawkins & Associates; and my editor, John Scognamiglio, at Kensington Publishing Corp. For their excitement, insight, and guidance throughout this project I am eternally grateful. In between its first draft and publication, there were many in my family who offered to read The Sculptor, and thus helped me iron out a lot of the wrinkles: my loving wife, Angela, who has always been my biggest fan and my harshest critic; my father, Anthony, and my brother, Michael; my mother, Linda Ise; my uncle, Raymond Funaro, and my aunt, Marilyn DiStefano. To all of them I owe much love and gratitude. Further appreciation goes out to my coterie of readers here at East Carolina University: my colleagues John Shearin, Jill Matarelli-Carlson, Jeffery Phipps, Robert Caprio, and Patch Clark. And last but not least, I would like to thank my student Michael Combs for giving me the opportunity to learn from him.

Copyright © 2010 Gregory Funaro

All rights reserved.