Caleb's smile fades just the slightest bit, so that only if you know him as well as I do would you even catch the dimming. "You know what? Why don't I take Nathaniel out, so that you two can catch up?"
After they leave, I lead Marcella into the kitchen. We talk about the temperature in Virginia at this time of year, and when we had our first frost. I make us iced tea. Then, when I can stand it no longer, I sit down across from her. "It's good news, isn't it? The DNA, it's a match?"
"Nina, did you notice anything when you read the medical file?"
"I didn't bother, actually."
Marcella draws a circle on the table with her finger. "Father Szyszynski had chronic myeloid leukemia."
"Good," I say flatly. "I hope he was suffering. I hope he puked his insides out every time he got chemotherapy."
"He wasn't getting chemo. He had a bone marrow transplant about seven years ago. His leukemia was in remission. For all intents and purposes, he was cured."
I stiffen a little. "Is this your way of telling me I ought to feel guilty for killing a man who was a cancer survivor?"
"No. It's . . . well, there's something about the treatment of leukemia that factors into DNA analysis.
Basically, to cure it, you need to get new blood. And the way that's done is via bone marrow transplant, since bone marrow is what makes blood. After a few months, your old bone marrow has been replaced completely by the donor's bone marrow. Your old blood is gone, and the leukemia with it." Marcella looks up at me. "You follow?"
"So far."
"Your body can use this new blood, because it's healthy. But it's not your blood, and at the DNA level, it doesn't look like your blood used to. Your skin cells, your saliva, your semen-the DNA in those will be what you were born with, but the DNA in your new blood comes from your donor." Marcella puts her hand on top of mine. "Nina, the lab results were accurate. The DNA in Father Szyszynski's blood sample matched the semen in your son's underwear. But the DNA in Father Szyszynski's blood isn't really his."
"No," I say. "No, this isn't the way it works. I was just explaining it the other day to Caleb. You can get DNA from any cell in your body. That's why you can use a blood sample to match a semen sample."
"Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, yes. But this is a very, very specific exception." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Nina."
My head swings up. "You mean . . . he's still alive?"
She doesn't have to answer.
I have killed the wrong man.
After Marcella leaves, I pace like a lion in a cage of my own making. My hands are shaking; I can't seem to get warm. What have I done? I killed a man who was innocent. A priest. A person who came to comfort me when my world cracked apart; who loved children, Nathaniel included. I killed a man who fought cancer and won, who deserved a long life. I committed murder and I can no longer even justify my actions to myself.
I have always believed there is a special place in Hell for the worst ones-the serial killers, the rapists who target kids, the sociopaths who would just as soon lie as cut your throat for the ten dollars in your wallet. And even when I have not secured convictions for them, I tell myself that eventually, they will get what's coming to them.
So will I.
And the reason I know this is because even though I cannot find the strength to stand up; even though I want to scratch at myself until this part of me has been cut away in ribbons, there is another part of me that is thinking: He is still out there.
I pick up the phone to call Fisher. But then I hang it up. He needs to hear this; he could very well find out by himself. But I don't know how it will play in my trial, yet. It could make the prosecution more sympathetic, since their victim is a true victim. Then again, an insanity defense is an insanity defense.
It doesn't matter if I killed Father Szyszynski or the judge or every spectator in that courtroom-if I were insane at the time, I still wouldn't be guilty.
In fact, this might make me look crazier.
I sit down at the kitchen table and bury my face in my hands. The doorbell rings and suddenly Patrick is in the kitchen, too big for it, frantic from the message I've left on his beeper. "What?" he demands, absorbing in a single glance my position, and the quiet of the household. "Did something happen to Nathaniel?"
It is such a loaded question, that I can't help it-I start to laugh. I laugh until my stomach cramps, until I cannot catch my breath, until tears stream from my eyes and I realize I am sobbing. Patrick's hands are on my shoulders, my forearms, my waist, as if the thing that has broken inside me might be as simple as a bone. I wipe my nose on the back of my sleeve and force myself to meet his gaze. "Patrick," I whisper, "I screwed up. Father Szyszynski ... he didn't ... he wasn't-"
He calms me down and makes me tell him everything. When I finish, he stares at me for a full thirty seconds before he speaks. "You're kidding," Patrick says. "You shot the wrong guy?"
He doesn't wait for an answer, just gets up and starts to pace. "Nina, wait a second. Things get screwed up in labs; it's happened before."
I grab onto this lifeline. "Maybe that's it. Some medical mistake."
"But we had an ID before we ever had the semen evidence." Patrick shakes his head. "Why would Nathaniel have said his name?"
