But now, all that was over. Yes, now that Campbell’s body had finally been found, Burrell felt a heavy wave of guilt for not having been on the scene when the boy’s parents arrived at Dodd’s estate, when they gave the positive ID of what had become of their only son.
And what exactly had become of their only son?
Burrell watched his forensic team begin the somber task of removing Tommy Campbell and his young companion from their station in the corner of the topiary garden. His gaze now and then wandered up to the sky, on the lookout for the news choppers that he knew would be arriving any minute. It took three of his men, three big men, almost ten minutes to carry the shrouded tableau of death across the courtyard and into the transport van that had been pulled up on the lawn outside the garden.
Damn, Burrell thought. Whoever did this really is one strong son of a bitch.
And as the heavy metal doors slammed shut, as the van started on its way across the lawn, Bulldog heaved a sigh of relief that he had been able to get the bodies off-site before the vultures started swarming overhead. Yes, that really was his only break in the case thus far. That meant the medical examiner could work in peace, and that Burrell’s office would not have to comment on any press footage of the scene until the official cause of death had been determined.
Burrell lit a cigarette and telephoned his wife—told her not to expect him home until late that evening, perhaps even tomorrow morning. She responded like she always did—an empty, Korean-flavored “I’ll leave the light on” that had been hardened by two kids and twenty-five years of marriage to “the life.” And as he joined Markham and Cathy in the back of the FBI surveillance van, when he saw the pretty professor’s half-Asian features in the soft light of the computer screens, the guilt Bill Burrell had felt for abandoning the Campbells all at once transformed into a longing for his wife.
Yes, at fifty years old, the Bulldog was getting soft.
“Tell me what we got,” Burrell exhaled in a plume of cigarette smoke.
“Well,” Markham began, “our agents were able to track down a collection of Michelangelo’s poetry at the Westerly Library, as well as a copy of Dr. Hildebrant’s Slumbering in the Stone.”
“And?”
“I haven’t had a chance yet to go over her book, but Dr. Hildebrant has identified the poem and the quotes.”
“The ones Sullivan told me about? The ones that were slipped under Dr. Hildebrant’s office door almost six years ago?”
“Yes, sir,” said Markham, looking down at a sheet of paper. “We found the three quotes online. And at first glance, they appear to be what Dr. Hildebrant took them as—words of wisdom and support in the wake of her mother’s death. This at the very least tells us that whoever gave them to her was aware of her personal life. The quotes arrived in the following order. ‘If we have been pleased with life, we should not be displeased with death, since it comes from the hand of the same master,’ ‘The promises of this world are, for the most part, vain phantoms,’ and finally, ‘To confide in one’s self and become something of worth and value, is the best and safest course.’”
“So what’s your take on them, Sam?”
“A definite attempt at intimacy, I’d say, as well an implied understanding by the writer of the grief that Dr. Hildebrant was going through at the time. In this light then, the last quote seems somewhat odd, given that the first two deal with death and the afterlife, and actually contrast this world with the next. Upon further research, however, Dr. Hildebrant and I have found that the third quote is often cited as a continuation of the second. I’m not quite sure what to make of that, but taking it into context with the sonnet, which was the last note she received, perhaps it signifies not only advice on how she should deal with her loss, but also a change of focus—both with regard to where Dr. Hildebrant should now focus her energy, and where her admirer should now focus his.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The sonnet that came next,” said Markham, thumbing through the book of poetry. “The one that was originally written to the youth Tommaso Cavalieri, is a much more intimate correspondence than the previous notes. Yes, like the first two quotes, it implies an unspoken and private knowledge of the other—but this time the sender seems to be speaking from both his and Dr. Hildebrant’s point of view.”
“How so?”
“The first four lines read as follows:
We both know, my lord, that you know I come near to have my pleasure with you; And we both know that you know my name; So why do you wait to introduce yourself?
“As Dr. Hildebrant had to explain to me, Michelangelo was a homosexual, and his relationship with Cavalieri—a relationship that was never physically consummated but that was nonetheless reciprocated—caused the artist, and presumably Cavalieri, great anguish. Michelangelo is speaking then for both of them, saying that he knows they both love each other, and therefore wants Cavalieri to acknowledge it, too. Given that knowledge—that is, the story behind the sonnet—we thus have an overt statement from Dr. Hildebrant’s admirer that says in effect, ‘Not only do I know what you’re thinking, but I also know that you know what I’m thinking.’”
“‘I come near to have my pleasure with you,’” repeated Burrell. “So the person who wrote the note is admitting that he had gotten physically close to Dr. Hildebrant?”
“Maybe,” said Markham. “But it could be meant to be taken figuratively, as in close to her through her work—her book, which was published about six months before the notes began arriving.”
“But the line about knowing his name, isn’t that an overt statement as well? That the writer of the note is saying, literally, you know who I am?”
“Perhaps,” said Markham. “But again, her admirer could be speaking figuratively—given the context of the original sonnet to Cavalieri, that it was a sort of homosexual code for something else, a spiritual love that could not be named. If we were to take the first four lines literally, the line, ‘So why do you wait to introduce yourself?’ seems inappropriate in any context other than Dr. Hildebrant avoiding an advance from someone. And as she has told me nothing like that happened before the notes were delivered, I am inclined to think there is some hidden meaning behind the first four lines, as there was for Cavalieri in Michelangelo’s time. What that meaning is for Dr. Hildebrant, I can’t be sure. But given the rest of the sonnet, I would tend to think that Dr. Hildebrant’s admirer, like Michelangelo himself, meant the poem as more of a spiritual overture than an actual love note—that is, in appreciation of her soul rather than her beauty.” Markham turned to Cathy. “You said that your admirer made no attempt in his correspondence to change the subject of the poem—a man, a lord—to a lady, is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Cathy.
“An odd choice if Dr. Hildebrant’s admirer meant the correspondence to be a love sonnet. Wouldn’t you agree, Bill?”
“Read me the rest of it,” he said.
“The next section does in fact seem to support the idea of a figurative, spiritual attraction rather than a physical one. It reads
If your gift to me of hope is true,
As true as the desire I’ve given you,
May the wall between us crumble down.
For nothing is more painful than hidden sorrow.
If I love in you, my lord, only that
Which you yourself do love, do not despise
The spirit for the love it bears the other.
“Here again, as in the original, Dr. Hildebrant told me her admirer addressed her as ‘lord.’ There is also the obvious statement of their spirits loving each other. However, given