But then there were the notes.

"Yes," Cathy began. "About five and a half years ago. At the beginning of the fall semester-just after my mother died-I started receiving some anonymous notes."

Cathy saw Markham catch his partner's eye in the rearview mirror.

"Love notes?" Sullivan asked.

"Not really. They were little quotes at first, one-liners that I took to be, well, gestures of encouragement and support in the wake of my mother's death. Then later on I received the sonnet."

"A sonnet?" asked Markham. "You mean like a love sonnet? A Shakespearean sonnet?"

"Not a Shakespearean sonnet, no, but one written by Michelangelo." Markham looked confused. "In addition to being a painter and a sculptor, Michelangelo was an accomplished, albeit second-rate poet. He wrote hundreds of poems on subject matter across the board. However, the most famous of his poems are the sonnets he wrote to a young man with whom he was in love-a young man by the name of Tommaso Cavalieri. The sonnet that I received was originally written for Cavalieri around 1535 I think, during the first couple years of their friendship when Michelangelo was about sixty years old and Cavalieri in his early twenties."

"So how many notes would you say you received?" asked Sullivan.

"Four-one sonnet and the three little quotes, which were also written by Michelangelo. I got one every other week or so for about a month and a half-at different times, in an envelope under my office door when I was out. Then they just stopped appearing. And I haven't received another note since."

"You said the notes were anonymous. Did you ever find out who sent them?"

"No, I did not."

"Any ideas?"

"The handwriting was feminine. And as Michelangelo's sonnets to Cavalieri were of a h.o.m.os.e.xual nature, I a.s.sumed that my admirer was a female."

"A h.o.m.os.e.xual nature?" asked Markham.

"Yes. It has been well established for some time now that Michelangelo was a h.o.m.os.e.xual. The only argument thrown around academic circles nowadays is whether or not he was exclusively exclusively a h.o.m.os.e.xual." a h.o.m.os.e.xual."

"I see," said Markham. "And, if I may ask-the content of the sonnet you received, did it deal with unrequited love?"

"Sort of. There's every indication that Cavalieri actually returned Michelangelo's affection, but the evidence also supports that the two never consummated the relationship. The sonnet therefore dealt with more of an unattainable spiritual love than any sort of carnal desire-the kind of love that could not be pursued or even named in Michelangelo's time. And even though the two remained the closest of friends, the relationship with Cavalieri caused Michelangelo great anguish until the artist's death."

"Do you still have these notes?" asked Markham.

"I kept them for a while," Cathy said, embarra.s.sed. "But when I showed them to my husband, he asked that I get rid of them. I did. That was foolish of me, I know. I shouldn't have listened to him."

If only you didn't listen to him the night he proposed...

"Do you remember the t.i.tle of the poem this person sent you? Was it numbered or something like Shakespeare's sonnets?"

"Scholars have numbered some of them, I think, but not with the kind of agreed upon consistency as Shakespeare's sonnets. I could be wrong, as it is not really my area of expertise. But I can tell you for sure that there was no number or t.i.tle on the poem I received. I remember that. If you'd like, I can give you the gist of it and the quotes-"

"But you'd recognize both the poem and the quotes if you saw them?"

"Yes."

Agent Markham switched off the recorder.

"Sullivan, call your tech-guy down at the crime scene. Make sure he has a laptop online and ready for us so Dr. Hildebrant can conduct a search on the Internet. And see if you can get someone to dig up a hardcopy of Michelangelo's poetry, too."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm also going to need cla.s.s rosters for Dr. Hildebrant and all her colleagues in the History of Art and Architecture Department going back over the last ten years. h.e.l.l, get me a roster for every cla.s.s with art or history in the t.i.tle. It's Sunday, but get someone on the go ahead today-so we can be there when the offices open tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," said Sullivan, and began dialing her cell phone.

"Agent Markham," Cathy said, the discussion about Michelangelo had grounded her, made her feel more like herself. "I realize that, because my name was on the base of that wicked thing, you think I might be somehow connected to this psychopath. But do you really think the person who sent me those notes could be the same person who murdered Tommy Campbell and that little boy? Couldn't it have been just some nut job who read my book? I mean, do you really think that this person could have been one of my students?"

"I don't know," said Markham. "But Tommaso is Italian for Thomas. And I'll tell you that, at the very least, I think it's a bizarre coincidence that you were given a poem originally intended for a young man named Tommy, and that you now have a statue of a young man named Tommy dedicated to you as well."

Cathy suddenly felt afraid; but more so she felt stupid-felt her cheeks go hot for not making the connection between the two names when she first mentioned Cavalieri.

But mostly Cathy felt stupid because Special Agent Sam Markham had had.

Chapter 5.

The carriage house loft was covered in soundproof foam that ran up the walls to the peak of the low-pitched ceiling. The windows had long ago been blocked out, and even when all the fluorescent lights were on, the black of the foam bathed the room in an overwhelming and seemingly infinite darkness. During his renovations, The Sculptor had purposely exposed the building's trusses to give the s.p.a.ce a little more height. These, too, were painted black, and at the far end of the loft, where the original carriage hoist had hung, The Sculptor outfitted the beams with an automatic winch system. This allowed the old mortician's table to be raised and lowered through a trap a la Frankenstein; Frankenstein; and sometimes, when he was feeling a bit silly, The Sculptor would allow himself a ride between floors. and sometimes, when he was feeling a bit silly, The Sculptor would allow himself a ride between floors.

On the other side of the room, where the door was located, in one corner lived The Sculptor's technology: an L-shaped desk with two computers, three flat-screen monitors, and a printer; a flat-screen television with cable; digital and video cameras; and various other gadgets that The Sculptor needed from time to time to accomplish his work. In the other corner The Sculptor stored some of his medical equipment-equipment not at all like the type in his father's bedroom, equipment for an entirely different purpose altogether.

The Sculptor turned on the monitor that displayed the video feed from his father's bedroom. There was his father as he left him, sitting by the window, staring out at the birds. The Sculptor turned on the sound feed as well, and the loft was at once filled with the sweet sound of Scarlatti.

The Sculptor booted up his two computers and hit the remote for the television-Fox News, no sound, just as he left it. There was nothing yet about his first showing-what he knew was going to be a spectacular entrance spectacular entrance into the public eye-but that was all right. Nothing to dampen his mood. No, The Sculptor was confident that news of his creation would dominate all the media outlets very soon. He smiled at the thought of it, wishing that the details would trickle out slowly as they often did in cases like this. That would pique the public's curiosity; that would whet the public's appet.i.te for more. into the public eye-but that was all right. Nothing to dampen his mood. No, The Sculptor was confident that news of his creation would dominate all the media outlets very soon. He smiled at the thought of it, wishing that the details would trickle out slowly as they often did in cases like this. That would pique the public's curiosity; that would whet the public's appet.i.te for more.

Above all else, however, The Sculptor was excited for Dr. Hildy to see his work-for Dr. Hildy was really the only person who could truly truly understand his understand his Bacchus Bacchus. And once the news got out about the inscription, once the public learned of the connection to Dr. Hildy, well, that certainly would make them want to know more about her. Perhaps all those big-shot journalists might even want to interview her-now wouldn't that be something! At the very least, the public would want to read her book on Michelangelo. Then they would all begin to understand; then they would all begin to finally At the very least, the public would want to read her book on Michelangelo. Then they would all begin to understand; then they would all begin to finally wake up wake up.

With both of his computers logged onto the Internet-Drudge Report and CNN-The Sculptor removed from the desk drawer the only book he allowed in the carriage house: his copy of Slumbering in the Stone Slumbering in the Stone. He flipped through it-the cover tattered, the pages dog-eared, underlined, with notes in the margins-until he reached the back jacket flap. There was the picture of Dr. Catherine Hildebrant. She wore her hair shorter six years ago. Looked a little heavier Looked a little heavier, The Sculptor thought. Perhaps it was the black and white of the photo; perhaps her gla.s.ses-yes, the black frames she wears now look much better on her than those old wire-rims. Objectively, The Sculptor thought Catherine Hildebrant to be attractive material, but in the long run such superficialities in women did not matter to him. No, The Sculptor knew that, like the material he used for his sculptures, Dr. Catherine Hildebrant's real beauty lay within, slumbering in the stone slumbering in the stone.

Smiling, feeling a little silly, The Sculptor returned his book to the desk drawer and rode the mortician's table down to the first floor. The gears were a bit noisier than usual. "Need a little oil," The Sculptor said to himself as he sent the table back upstairs. He would get to that next, after he finished tidying up his studio.

The first floor was drastically different from the loft above it. Here, too, the windows had been blocked out, but the walls were the original exposed brick. On one wall was a tool rack, while on another was a sheet of corkboard on which the plans for The Sculptor's Bacchus Bacchus still hung. A large white van, which could be driven in and out through one of the two overhanging doors, took up nearly half the s.p.a.ce; while the other half was reserved solely for The Sculptor's studio. There was a narrow stand-up shower and slop sink, as well as a small floor drain which his father told him had been used in the 1800s to catch the blood from deer carca.s.ses. On this side, too, was all the necessary equipment for The Sculptor's work, including a drafting table and chair, an arc-welder and power supply, a small anvil, a vat of "special paint" and a pump sprayer, ultraviolet lamps, rolls of plastic sheeting, and, at the rear of the carriage house, a large stainless steel hospital tub. The tub was the most complex piece of The Sculptor's equipment, for he had outfitted it not only with an airtight cover, but with a refrigeration unit and a vacuum pump as well. In a small lean-to behind the carriage house were stored the barrels of chemicals The Sculptor brought up from the cellar when he was ready to prepare his material. still hung. A large white van, which could be driven in and out through one of the two overhanging doors, took up nearly half the s.p.a.ce; while the other half was reserved solely for The Sculptor's studio. There was a narrow stand-up shower and slop sink, as well as a small floor drain which his father told him had been used in the 1800s to catch the blood from deer carca.s.ses. On this side, too, was all the necessary equipment for The Sculptor's work, including a drafting table and chair, an arc-welder and power supply, a small anvil, a vat of "special paint" and a pump sprayer, ultraviolet lamps, rolls of plastic sheeting, and, at the rear of the carriage house, a large stainless steel hospital tub. The tub was the most complex piece of The Sculptor's equipment, for he had outfitted it not only with an airtight cover, but with a refrigeration unit and a vacuum pump as well. In a small lean-to behind the carriage house were stored the barrels of chemicals The Sculptor brought up from the cellar when he was ready to prepare his material.

The Sculptor clicked on the video monitor that sat atop the drafting table-his father by the window, the Baroque guitar now filling the entire carriage house-and proceeded to pull down his plans from the corkboard. He twisted them into a tight log-the sinews of his powerful forearms rippling through his skin. He would light a fire in the parlor this evening; would bring up a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino from the cellar and watch the plans burn. Why not? I've behaved myself. I can have a little reward for all my hard work Why not? I've behaved myself. I can have a little reward for all my hard work. Yes, surely the news about his first showing will have broken by that time. If not, he could always tip off the media himself-after, of course, he was sure Dr. Hildy had seen his work; after he was sure she got his "thank you" note.

Perhaps she's on her way down there right now, he thought, smiling.

And as The Sculptor began to straighten up his studio, he concluded that it was too risky to check for himself, to follow Dr. Hildy around like he had in the past. No, surely the FBI would be expecting something like that; surely it was smarter to find out through the media like everybody else.

"Besides," The Sculptor said out loud, "I won't have time to spy on Dr. Hildy. For tomorrow is Monday. And Monday is the day I begin my next project."

Chapter 6.

Special Agent in Charge William "Bulldog" Burrell had mixed feelings about the hand that fate had dealt him. As the newly appointed SAC of the FBI's Boston Field Office, the Tommy Campbell case had been his baby from the beginning-one that he had seen to personally. A twenty-two-year veteran of the FBI, Bill Burrell knew his way around an investigation. He had served in the Washington, Chicago, and Dallas Field Offices, as well as held a number other of high-profile SAC positions, including section chief of the Strategic Information and Operations Center at FBI Headquarters, before landing the gig in Boston. The six-foot-three former Marine with the buzz cut had been called "Bulldog" since his football days at the University of New Hampshire-not only because of his hulking frame, his heavy jowls, his menacing stare, and his hot temper, but also because of the way he always tore into his opponents: straight ahead for the red until he ripped his man to shreds.

However, in the three months since Tommy Campbell's disappearance, Bulldog had not a shred of evidence to show for himself. He had long ago exhausted his leads, had long ago begun to feel desperate, and had since lost countless hours of sleep over what had been sizing up to be his first big failure since he took over the Boston Office the previous November-the first big failure of his career. What a mixed bag it was then that the kid's body should have turned up on the very same weekend Supervisory Special Agent Sam Markham had arrived in preparation for a three-day seminar on the latest forensic and profiling procedures at Quantico; what a mixed bag that Markham had gotten to the crime scene before he had; and what a mixed bag that Markham should be the one to jump on their very first lead now that the disappearance of Tommy Campbell had been deemed a homicide.

Yes, now that they had two two bodies and a serial killer on their hands; now that it was clear that they were dealing with something much, much bigger than just a murder or a suicide, Burrell, whether he liked it or not, would need Sam Markham. And although it had not yet been six hours since the horrific white sculpture had been discovered down at Watch Hill, already Special Agent in Charge William "Bulldog" Burrell was not happy about the way the investigation was moving ahead. bodies and a serial killer on their hands; now that it was clear that they were dealing with something much, much bigger than just a murder or a suicide, Burrell, whether he liked it or not, would need Sam Markham. And although it had not yet been six hours since the horrific white sculpture had been discovered down at Watch Hill, already Special Agent in Charge William "Bulldog" Burrell was not happy about the way the investigation was moving ahead.

It was not that Bulldog had anything personal against Markham. On the contrary, Bulldog actually admired the legendary "profiler," the man who had brought down Jackson Briggs, aka "The Sarasota Strangler"-that son of a b.i.t.c.h who killed all those old ladies in Florida. And then, of course, there was that nasty little business in Raleigh, North Carolina. Yeah, no one would ever forget what happened there.

Indeed, word on the street said that it was only a matter of time before Markham took over as chief for the Behavioral a.n.a.lysis Unit-2 at the National Center for the a.n.a.lysis of Violent Crime. However, Bill Burrell knew such a position was not one the forty-year-old Markham was gunning for. No, Markham was like him-happier with his boots on the ground, slugging it out in the trenches himself. himself. And now that the Tommy Campbell disappearance had been deemed a homicide, if Burrell had to work with somebody from Quantico, he was glad that it was Sam Markham. And now that the Tommy Campbell disappearance had been deemed a homicide, if Burrell had to work with somebody from Quantico, he was glad that it was Sam Markham.

Nonetheless, the fifty-year-old lifer could not help but feel cheated that the first and only break in the biggest case of his career had fallen into Markham's lap, for no matter how much he admired Markham, Bill Burrell was instinctively territorial. Like a bulldog. And this was his his junkyard. junkyard.

It was for this reason that the phone call from Special Agent Rachel Sullivan, Burrell's NCAVC coordinator, went right up his a.s.s. His technician had briefed him on their conversation as soon as Burrell arrived at the crime scene-a scene that had pulled him away from a visit with his sick mother in New Hampshire; a scene that demanded the hardnosed SAC show up at Watch Hill in person. in person. And although Bulldog was pleased with the way his forensic team had secured the site, that Markham should have given orders to his men was simply unacceptable. And although Bulldog was pleased with the way his forensic team had secured the site, that Markham should have given orders to his men was simply unacceptable.

Burrell stood at the bottom of the gravel driveway, frowning over a Marlboro. He dared to smoke only on a case-when he knew he would not be home for a while and his wife would not be able to smell it on him.

But how the h.e.l.l did he get them in here? Burrell asked himself, gazing out over the impeccably landscaped property. Burrell asked himself, gazing out over the impeccably landscaped property.

The mansion belonged to a wealthy investment CEO by the name of Dodd, who had been sleeping soundly with his wife when his caretaker discovered the statue in the southeastern corner of the topiary garden. A row of high hedges separated almost the entirety of Dodd's estate from his neighbors on either side-except for the eastern stretch, which sloped down toward the beach. It was in this area that, upon their initial sweep of the crime scene, Burrell's team discovered a set of fresh footprints running back and forth in the sand from the property next door. The neighbors on this side were summer folk-not "year rounders" like Dodd and his wife-and consequently the house remained unoccupied in the off-season. The man who made the footprints in the sand had known this. However, the man who made the footprints in the sand had also known to wear something-probably plastic bags-over his shoes; for in all the prints not a single tread could be found.

"Yes," Burrell whispered in a plume of smoke. "He had to have parked next door. But then that means he also had to carry carry Campbell and that boy around the back, across that narrow span of beach and up the gra.s.sy slope. Now that's one strong, one determined son of a b.i.t.c.h." Campbell and that boy around the back, across that narrow span of beach and up the gra.s.sy slope. Now that's one strong, one determined son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Burrell heeled his cigarette into the gravel and crossed the large expanse of lawn to the entrance of the topiary garden. He looked at his watch: 12:58 P.M.

Where the h.e.l.l is Markham? he thought, scanning the sea of blue FBI jackets. he thought, scanning the sea of blue FBI jackets.

The topiary garden was roughly a thirty-by-thirty-meter courtyard divided into quarters by a brick path with a marble fountain at its center. And save for the wall of twelve-foot high hedges that separated Dodd's property from his neighbors, a series of arched "windows" and "doors" had been cut into the remaining three sides, giving people inside the garden a lovely view of Dodd's property-including the beach and the Atlantic Ocean beyond it-while at the same time enclosing them in a separate s.p.a.ce altogether. In addition to the cla.s.sical marble sculptures that occupied the arched windows, the interior of the garden was peppered with a number of exquisitely trimmed topiary sculptures, including a bear, an elephant, a giraffe, and a horse.

It was in the farthest corner of the garden that the killer had mounted his exhibit, an exhibit that, despite its gruesomeness, Burrell thought looked strangely at home among its marble and spring-green companions-knew instinctively that the killer wanted everyone to see not just Tommy Campbell, not just his statue, but the totality of its context context as well. as well.

"She's here, Bill," said a voice behind him.

It was Sam Markham.

Turning, Burrell's gaze fell upon a pet.i.te, attractive young woman shivering beside the Quantico profiler. He right away pegged the eyes behind the black-rimmed gla.s.ses to be Korean-the same as his wife's.

"Can I have one of my people get you a cup of coffee, Dr. Hildebrant?" he said, dispensing with the formalities of an introduction. Bill Burrell knew his team well; knew that Special Agent Sullivan, who was now speaking with their tech guy by the fountain, had already briefed the art historian as to who he was.

"No thank you. I'd like to see the sculpture."

"This way," said Burrell, leading her across the courtyard. If it had been unclear to Cathy Hildebrant who was in charge of this shindig, the way the sea of blue jackets immediately parted to let Bill Burrell pa.s.s left no room for doubt.

Upon the FBI's arrival, the forensic team had quickly set about erecting a bright blue canopy over Tommy Campbell and his young companion, and thus Cathy did not have a clear view of the sculpture until she was directly upon it. And for all her anxiety leading up to this moment, despite the reality of the tableau of death before her, Cathy felt numbly detached and a.n.a.lytical, while at the same time overcome with a buzzing sensation of awe-a feeling eerily reminiscent of the first time she encountered the original Bacchus Bacchus in Florence nearly fifteen years earlier. in Florence nearly fifteen years earlier.

Indeed, the reproduction of Michelangelo's marble sculpture was even more-oh G.o.d, 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 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 Bacchus to do-an ingenious artistic ploy woven into the statue's multiplicity of angles that subliminally transmitted the dizzy unsteadiness of the drunken G.o.d 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 G.o.d's pose and stealing his grapes. to do-an ingenious artistic ploy woven into the statue's multiplicity of angles that subliminally transmitted the dizzy unsteadiness of the drunken G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 was paint-Cathy noticed the vague outline of what appeared to be st.i.tches where Tommy Campbell's p.e.n.i.s 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 paint-Cathy noticed the vague outline of what appeared to be st.i.tches where Tommy Campbell's p.e.n.i.s 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 very essence of Michelangelo's of Michelangelo's Bacchus. Bacchus.

"You see, Dr. Hildebrant," began Burrell. "Our preliminary a.n.a.lysis 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!" "Ching-chong! Ching-chong!" echoing in her head. 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 p.e.n.i.s?"

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 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. 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 p.e.n.i.s. 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 p.e.n.i.s, 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 G.o.d Dionysus-held that Bacchus was not only the G.o.d of wine and excess, but also the G.o.d 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 s.e.x was part of the excess over which Bacchus reigned supreme, some scholars conclude that there was a s.e.xual 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 s.e.xual desire. It has long been believed that Michelangelo purposely sculpted his Bacchus's body with a fleshy, almost androgynous quality-the swollen b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the bloated belly-and some scholars suggest that Bacchus Bacchus was purposely completed without a p.e.n.i.s to represent this. I tend to disagree with them, however." was purposely completed without a p.e.n.i.s 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 p.e.n.i.s? 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 Bacchus was originally commissioned in 1496 by a cardinal named Riario, who intended to install it in his garden of cla.s.sical 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." was originally commissioned in 1496 by a cardinal named Riario, who intended to install it in his garden of cla.s.sical 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, CSI, I guess." I guess."

"What are you thinking, Sam?" asked Burrell.

"Dr. Hildebrant," Markham said, "was Bacchus Bacchus Michelangelo's first statue?" Michelangelo's first statue?"