Gregory Funaro - The Sculptor

“Wait a minute,” said Markham. “You’re telling me that the thief left you twenty thousand dollars?”

“Twenty-five thousand to be exact,” smiled the priest. “A little detail that I neglected to tell the Providence Police upon their initial investigation. You see, Agent Markham, when you’ve been around as long as I have, you begin to understand something of human nature. The person or persons who took our Pietà left the money in cash, in an envelope addressed to me right there on the pedestal, so that I could replace it-not so that I could redecorate the evidence room at the Providence Police Station, if you take my meaning.”

Sam Markham was silent, his mind spinning.

“The extra five thousand was undoubtedly intended for us to cover the shipping costs of the statue, as well as to repair the damage from the break-in and to compensate us for our trouble.”

“Why report the theft at all then?” asked Markham, his voice tight. “Why not just take the money, replace your statue, and not be bothered-that is, since you intended not to cooperate fully with the authorities to begin with?”

“I was the only one who knew about the money, Agent Markham, as I was the first one in the church on the morning after the break-in. However, the damage to the side door and the absence of the statue itself could not be hidden from my fellow Scalabrini, let alone the congregation. You see, Agent Markham, the money was addressed to me-twenty-five thousand dollar bills in a sealed envelope. There was no need to report it, as whoever took our Pietà seemed to want it, seemed to need it more than we did here at St. Bart’s. And even though I may not have understood that need, I took the gift of the money as an act of faith, as a confidential act of penance. And up until the telephone call from the FBI, took the person who left the twenty-five thousand dollars in the statue’s place as a man with a conscience.”

Sam Markham was silent again, his eyes fixed on the Pietà.

“But now,” the Reverend Bonetti continued, “I see that my silence may have been misguided, for now I see that the FBI thinks the man who took our Pietà three years ago might be the same man who murdered those two boys-the same man who made them into that horrific sculpture down at Watch Hill.”

“The envelope,” said Markham, turning to the priest. “The sheet of instructions on how to replace the statue-I don’t suppose you saved them?”

The Reverend Robert Bonetti smiled and reached into the inside pocket of his black blazer.

“I hoped this might help you forgive me for not telling the authorities about the money sooner. But now I hope even more that it’ll change your opinion of me being just a simple and foolish old man.”

The envelope that the priest handed Markham had scrawled across it in neatly looped cursive the words, For Father Bonetti. Inside, Markham found a brief handwritten note not only giving instructions on how to obtain another Pietà from Gambardelli, but also a short apology for any inconvenience the thief may have caused Father Bonetti and his parish. Markham showed the note to Cathy. She recognized the handwriting immediately.

Flowery. Feminine. Precise.

The same handwriting from the notes she received five and a half years earlier.

She nodded.

“The man we are looking for is tall, Father Bonetti,” said Markham. “About six-three to six-six. And very big, very strong -would have been able to lift the statue off its base and carry it from the church himself with no problem. Most likely a bodybuilder or someone who’s into power lifting. Anybody you know fit that bill, Father?”

“Most of the men in our congregation are working class, Agent Markham-skilled laborers or others who work with their hands. They are mostly Italians, but we have a growing Hispanic population as well. Yes, a lot of these men are powerfully built, but only a few that tall. And I know of none who have twenty-five thousand dollars to blow on a statue.”

“You ever see anyone strange hanging around the church? Not a regular parishioner, but someone just dropping by once or twice to poke around?”

“Not that I remember, no.”

“No unusual confessions that I should know about?”

The priest smiled thinly.

“Even if there were, Agent Markham, I’m not at liberty to tell you.”

“Is there anything else you might be able to tell us, Father Bonetti?” asked the FBI agent. “Anybody you might know that would have knowledge of the statue and also the means to pay you twenty-five thousand dollars for it?”

“We used to have quite an extensive picture gallery on our Web site,” said Father Bonetti. “Since the theft, however, most of the pictures have been taken down. They were mainly shots of the church interior. One of them, of course, contained our Gambardelli Pietà . Perhaps your man simply recognized it and targeted us that way.”

Cathy and Markham traded glances.

“Thank you, Father,” said Markham. “You’ve been a great help.”

“I’ll walk you out,” said the priest. And once they had exited the church, once Cathy and Markham reached the bottom of the front steps, the Reverend Robert Bonetti called after them.

“I was down there, too, you know.”

Markham and Cathy turned to face him.

“Down at Watch Hill. At the Campbells ’ house on Foster Cove. Last time was over thirty years ago, before they owned the place. Used to belong to the family of a friend of mine-famous movie director, he was. Grew up with him. Even spent some time with him down at Watch Hill when we were kids. Lovely town, but a lot of evil lurking underneath. Never seen anything good come from that place. You best keep that in mind.”

Cathy and Markham exchanged an uneasy silence.

It was starting to rain.

“Everything is connected,” said the priest finally. “Remember that, you two. Everything is connected.”

And with that the Reverend Robert Bonetti disappeared back into the darkness of St. Bartholomew’s.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Cathy once she and Markham were on their way.

“I’m thinking a lot of things.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars for a statue that he planned on destroying. It wasn’t just the marble, Sam. The Michelangelo Killer wanted a flawless replica of the Rome Pietà itself-a Gambardelli Pietà specifically-and was willing to pay above market value for it when he could have just stolen it. Why?”

“Because money is no object for him. The only reason The Michelangelo Killer didn’t buy one directly from Gambardelli himself is so the statue couldn’t be traced back to him. And besides, to have simply stolen the statue would have been rude-self-centered and crass-just one of the many aspects of our culture that I suspect The Michelangelo Killer is trying to change.”

“But it’s the Rome Pietà , Sam. If we stick to the premise that The Michelangelo Killer used Carrara marble dust for his Bacchus because he had originally planned on using it for something else, that he should have stolen the Rome Pietà would indicate it was the re-creation of that statue-not Michelangelo’s David -that had originally been the killer’s goal.”

“And the Carrara marble from which that statue was carved, the specificity of that form, would help him-in an undoubtedly spiritual, even magical way-achieve the same kind of likeness, the same kind of proportional fidelity for his Pietà that we saw in his Bacchus. Hence, there would also be a connection between his material-the human bodies that would comprise his work-and the material that comprised Michelangelo’s work both in form and substance.”