As you tell Larry you have determined he is the murderer, he holds his hands up. “Whoa,” he says. “This little joke has gone too far. I didn’t kill Augustus. But you have to understand. The New York art world is cutthroat. So look at it from my perspective. The city’s most notorious gallery owner gets skewered on my sculpture. As a murder artist, you don’t get a bigger break than that. So I was just capitalizing on an opportunity. Yes, I did fight with Augustus and ram him with my wheelchair. In the leg. So there’s no way I could have broken that bottle of liquor in his jacket pocket. You know how much force it takes to break one of those? You’ve got the wrong guy.”