Filippo pales when you inform him you have identified him as the murderer. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, breaking down. “I didn’t kill Augustus. You have to believe me. When I saw him dead, I was…” He seems reluctant to speak. “Yes, I was seeing Augustus. And this morning I told him I wanted out of the relationship. He started drinking heavily. By afternoon he was drunk. He yelled at me and said he basically owned all of my art. ‘You want out of your contract?’ he said. Then he grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me into the supply closet. He pulled out the shackles we sometimes used. I was distraught and didn’t realize he was tying me up until it was too late. He used a padlock with a key so I couldn’t get out. ‘Let’s see you get out of that!’ And then he left me. My hands were raised over my head, and it took hours to figure out how to get my utility knife out of my pocket and cut myself loose. Look!” Filippo exposes his wrists, both badly bruised. “It was late by the time I got loose. I didn’t know he was dead yet. I put my art on the wall and barely got to the reception room before the opening started. You have to believe me.”
Forensics verifies that traces of skin and blood on the shackles are Filippo’s.