Melvoy was shaking his head "no" and said, "Matt went to a cooking school in Switzerland someplace. I paid. Matt's grandfather was my best friend. You've heard of the USS Walke?"
"Saw it on your cap in the videotapes at the two crime scenes," she said.
"Matt's grandfather died when the Walke was hit off the coast of Korea. He had one son and the son had one son, Matt. When Matt's parents died, the boy came to live with me. At the end, we were the only family we had."
"The end?" prompted Stella.
"Matt shot himself. At first I was angry with him for doing that to me, leaving me alone. Then I was relieved, relieved of the responsibility of propping him up. Then came the guilt. I loved the boy."
Melvoy laughed.
"Yes?" asked Stella.
"You're the first person I said that to," he said. "Never said it to Matt. Said it a few dozen times maybe to my wife. Saying 'I love you' doesn't come easy in my family."
He pulled himself together and sat up straight, letting out a deep breath and saying, "Ask it."
Stella knew what he meant.
"Why did you want to kill me?"
"Because you killed Matt," he said. "A good, happy kid who wanted nothing more than to please you. He wanted to be like you. Worked days without sleeping. Started to get headaches. Doctors warned him, told him to get another job. I told the boy I'd take him on as my partner and leave the drugstore to him when I died. Turned me down, talked about you. You never told him he was doing a good job, never encouraged him, kept pointing out the mistakes he was making."
Stella knew there was definitely some truth in what the man was saying, but there was also some ignorance.
"That's the way we work," said Stella. "It was the way I was treated when I started with the CSI unit. We see things, do things no one should have to see or do."
"And you like it," said Melvoy with a challenge.
"Yes," said Stella. "But it was the wrong career choice for Matt."
"He stayed with it because he wanted your approval," said Melvoy. "And it killed him."
There wasn't much more for Stella to say, at least nothing that would help the man across from her. Melvoy's face had gone slack and his eyes were focused somewhere in the past.
Stella had treated Matthew Heath exactly as she had treated at least a dozen other incoming lab techs before him, lab techs who aspired to be in the field. The strong and the smart made it, many of them moving to other cities where there were jobs a step up on the forensic ladder. Stella had been sure the second day he was on the job that Matthew Heath was not going to make it, that the longer he stayed the more the job would get to him.
Melvoy forced himself back into the present, stood and began to reach into his pocket.
"Don't," said Stella firmly, the service revolver in her hand.
Melvoy slowly slid a small spiral-bound notebook from his pocket.
"I fill these things all the time now," he said. "Have a drawer full of them. I write down just about everything I have to do."
He flipped open the notebook, turned it so Stella could see the large block letters: KILL STELLA BONASERA.
"You're going to have to shoot me. Now's as good a time as any, just be sure to shoot to kill."
He put the notebook back in his pocket and stood.
"No," she said.
"For the past few months I've been having short blackouts, loss of memory. It's starting."
He closed the distance between them and Stella stood. "I won't shoot to kill," she said. "And I don't think you'll hurt me."
"I'm tired," said Melvoy, sitting again, eyes closed. "I'll make a trade."
"A trade?" asked Stella.
"I tell you who the next crucifixion target is and you shoot me," he said. "You a good shot?"
"Yes," she said.
"Deal?" he asked.
"No deal," she said.
"Didn't think so," he said with a sigh. "I can see why Matt wanted to be like you. Okay, I was watching you at the second crime scene. A priest in black, white collar, walked behind the crowd. I glanced at him. He looked at the storefront and crossed himself. When he walked past, a man at the rear of the crowd moved after him; only saw the back of him but he was definitely following the priest. Later, when the body was taken away, I went in the direction of the priest and the man who had followed him."
"Why?" asked Stella.
"Had the idea that if I came up with something I could get close to you."
"No," she said. "There's something else."
He didn't answer.
"You're a Catholic," she said.
"Was," he said.
"So am I," she said. "You wanted to protect the priest."
"I don't know," said Melvoy. "God, I'm tired."
"The priest," Stella prompted.
"Father William Wosak," said Melvoy. "Parish priest at St. Martine's. Sometimes I think there is a God. I've got the feeling that he stopped me from killing you. I'm really glad I didn't."
"So am I," said Stella. "You're a combat veteran. The Veterans Administration will take care of you."
"I've got enough money and nobody to give it to but doctors," he said. "But I meant what I said. I don't intend to be here when it gets worse. I intend to commit a mortal sin."
Stella said nothing. The decision was his. She couldn't stop him and maybe, given his pride, it wasn't an unreasonable choice to make.
"Could you recognize the person who followed the priest?" she asked.
"No," he said. "His back was to me. He was tall, heavyset, wore a dark blue shirt with short sleeves. My money's going to Alzheimer's research. It's all arranged. Now you better go save a priest."
Stella took out her cell phone, moved to the window and made her call. She kept her gun in her hand and didn't turn her back on Melvoy, whose eyes were closed, mouth open, head back against the chair.
He moved quickly. Stella was in the middle of a sentence. Before she could reach him, Melvoy had taken the antihistamine syrup bottle from the box, opened it with a quick twist and gulped the thick liquid down. He handed Stella the empty bottle.
"Don't call for help," he said, moving back to the chair.
"I have to," said Stella.
Stella dialed 911, identified herself and asked for an ambulance. When she turned off the phone, Melvoy was having minor convulsions.
Jane Parsons brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, popped the two aspirin into her mouth and washed them down with room-temperature bottled water. She had a headache and may or may not have been hungry. She wasn't sure.
She checked the clock on the wall of the lab. Ten forty-five. She had been working for the past fourteen hours.
Her time had not been wasted. After examining the DNA sample Aiden had given her, Jane had gone to the Internet and followed link after link, most of them leading nowhere, all of them interesting. She had also sent eight e-mails and made four phone calls.
The rough draft of her report was on the screen in front of her. She scrolled down, being sure that she couched her conclusions with protective phrases, including: "It appears to be," "Research at the following laboratories and universities supports the conclusion that…" and "Therefore, it is almost certain that…"
When she was reasonably satisfied with the report, she printed four copies, one for Aiden, one for Stella, one for Flack and one for Mac. They'd have them in the morning.
She stood up, moved the mouse and put the computer to sleep. It needed the rest. She screwed the cap back on the water bottle.
DNA did not lie. It did speak a foreign language, which Jane had been taught to read with reasonable fluency. In her mind, there was no doubt. The person whose DNA she examined had lied.
Why the lie? Jane didn't know. That was a job for the Crime Scene Investigator in charge of the case, Stella.