Free The Sculptor by Gregory Funaro

chuckled The Sculptor. “You see, my friend, as a reward for WNRI’s tenacity, I would like to offer you some information pertaining to the case—a tip , as those in your line of work are apt to call it.”
    “May I have your name?”
    “If it’s all right with you, my friend, I would like to remain anonymous. Surely that is par for the course on a day like today—a day when a lot of tidily-squat about what’s what must be clogging up the pipes down there at W-N-R-I.” The manner in which The Sculptor sang the station’s call letters, like a cheesy radio announcer, had the unintended effect of irritating the investigator on the other end.
    “Look, pal, we got a lot going on down here. I don’t have time today for nonsense—”
    “Now, now, let’s not get testy. I could always call one of your competitors, and just think what your superiors would do to you if they found out you turned your back on perhaps the biggest story in your station’s history.”
    “All right,” sighed the investigator, unimpressed. “What have you got for me?”
    “The FBI has brought in an expert to assist them with their investigation of Tommy Campbell’s demise. Her name is Dr. Catherine Hildebrant—H-I-L-D-E-BR-A-N-T—and she is a professor of art history at Brown University.”
    “I’m sorry, you said art history?”
    “That is correct. This can easily be confirmed by a quick tour of the school’s Web site, and if you hurry—that is, if you’re a real go-getter like that pretty redhead on the beat—you can confirm for yourself Dr. Hildebrant’s involvement in the case. An unmarked FBI vehicle, a black Chevy Trailblazer I believe, will soon drop her off at her place of residence. If you review your latest footage of the crime scene, you’ll be able to see the truck exiting the property. From what I can tell, the good doctor left Watch Hill not even ten minutes ago, and unless our friends with the Federal Bureau of Investigation have more goodies in store for her today, I expect that the same Chevy Trailblazer will put her back at 311 East George Street in about forty to fifty minutes—depending on traffic, of course.”
    “You said 311 East George Street?”
    “I most certainly did.”
    “Why would the FBI be consulting an art history professor?”
    “The bodies of Tommy Campbell and his companion were found in that wealthy banker’s garden painted white like marble and posed upright in the form of a classical sculpture. Michelangelo’s Bacchus , to be exact.”
    “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
    “I’m sorry, I cannot . Hopefully, the powers-that-be at W-N-R-I are smart enough to record their hotline. Therefore, I suggest you review the tape and that footage and get a reporter over to Dr. Hildebrant’s house as soon as possible. The arrival of the black FBI vehicle will be confirmation that I’m not full of poop.”
    The Sculptor hung up. His pulse had quickened—not because he was worried about getting caught; not because he was excited about all those pointed questions he imagined the press would soon be asking the FBI. No, The Sculptor’s heart knocked at his chest because of his conversation, his flirtation with the man on the other end of the hotline—a man whose voice had aroused him greatly.
    Indeed, The Sculptor was already erect—could feel the hard nakedness of his penis pressing against the underside of the desk. And like a blushing-pink Pria-pus he sauntered over to the mortician’s table. From the space underneath, he unfolded a three-sectional arm, at the end of which was attached a small, flat-screen television. The Sculptor maneuvered it into place—adjusted the arm so the screen hovered about three feet above the head of the mortician’s table—and then uncoiled the accompanying cables. He laid them carefully on the floor, plugging one into the wall and the other into a monitor on his computer desk. The screen above the mortician’s table at once flickered into life, its