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The Sculptor. Gregory Funaro
Читать онлайн.Название The Sculptor
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780786024193
Автор произведения Gregory Funaro
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство Ingram
Indeed, the reproduction of Michelangelo’s marble sculpture was even more—oh God, how Cathy wished she could think of another word for it!—impressive than in Markham’s Polaroids. The pose, the attention to detail—the lion skin, the cup, the grapes—were nearly flawless, and Cathy had to remind herself that she was looking at a pair of bleached dead bodies. Nonetheless, she automatically began to circle the sculpture as she knew Michelangelo had intended viewers of his Bacchus to do—an ingenious artistic ploy woven into the statue’s multiplicity of angles that subliminally transmitted the dizzy unsteadiness of the drunken god himself. Cathy’s eyes dropped to Bacchus’s half-human counterpart, the as-of-yet nameless little boy who had been mercilessly contorted into a satyr. Here, too, the creator of this travesty had captured the essence of Michelangelo’s original—that mischievous, goat-legged imp who smiles at the viewer while imitating the god’s pose and stealing his grapes.
Cathy continued around the statue, glancing quickly at the dreaded inscription to her at its base, until her eyes came to rest on Bacchus’s groin. Beneath the marble-white paint—if in fact it was paint—Cathy noticed the vague outline of what appeared to be stitches where Tommy Campbell’s penis had been removed. However, as her eyes traveled up his torso to his face, what disturbed Cathy the most was how accurately Tommy Campbell’s killer had captured even the subtlest nuances of the original. It was clear to Cathy that whoever had made this heinous thing had gone to great lengths not only to murder Campbell and that poor little boy, but also to transform them into the very essence of Michelangelo’s Bacchus.
“You see, Dr. Hildebrant,” began Burrell. “Our preliminary analysis indicates that the killer somehow preserved the bodies and mounted them on an internal metal frame. This means that whoever did this not only has a working knowledge of taxidermy, of embalming and such, but also knows something about welding. This sound like anybody you know? Maybe one of your students who was also involved in metalworking?”
“No,” said Cathy. “I don’t know anyone who could do this.”
“And you have no idea why someone would want to dedicate this statue to you specifically?”
“No. No idea.” In the awkward silence that followed, Cathy suddenly became aware that the entire FBI team—what had to be two-dozen of them—was staring at her. She felt her face go hot, felt her stomach leap into her chest, and then a flash of memory, a dream—the third grade, show and tell, and distant taunts of “Ching-chong! Ching-chong!” echoing in her head.
It was Sam Markham who stepped in to save her.
“Dr. Hildebrant, is there anything else you can tell us about the statue before the forensic team removes it? For instance, why Tommy Campbell should be missing his…well, why he’s missing his penis?”
Cathy had the vague suspicion that Markham already knew the answer to his question—that he was trying to get her to talk about Bacchus the same way she talked about Michelangelo in the car in order to calm her. And, for the briefest of moments, Cathy Hildebrant loved him for it.
“Well,” she began. “There’s some debate about this, but the original is also missing its penis. We know that at some point Bacchus’s right hand, the one holding the bowl of wine, was broken off to give the sculpture the appearance of antiquity—as for a time it lived among a collection of Roman artifacts belonging to a man named Jacopo Galli. The hand, however, was restored by about 1550 or so, but the penis, well, some scholars believe that it was never there to begin with, or that it was chiseled off by Michelangelo himself soon after the statue was completed.”
“Why?” asked Markham.
“Both the Roman and Greek mythological traditions—the Greeks called their version of the god Dionysus—held that Bacchus was not only the god of wine and excess, but also the god of theatre, and thus possessed all powers apropos to early Greek theatre’s original ritual and celebratory purposes. Although scholars still debate the true nature of these early rituals, given that sex was part of the excess over which Bacchus reigned supreme, some scholars conclude that there was a sexual component to these early theatrical rituals as well. Hence, in both Roman and Greek mythology we often see Bacchus represented with both male and female genitalia, and thus the ability to govern the excesses of both male and female sexual desire. It has long been believed that Michelangelo purposely sculpted his Bacchus’s body with a fleshy, almost androgynous quality—the swollen breasts, the bloated belly—and some scholars suggest that Bacchus was purposely completed without a penis to represent this. I tend to disagree with them, however.”
“You ever seen anything like this, Sam?” asked Burrell.
“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”