Dr. Banks had rotten lungs. Sitting nearby, his wheezing sounded like a death rattle fed through an amplifier. He had tossed out something about emphysema, before lighting up a cigarette and blowing smoke toward a yellow overhead light that flickered with annoying regularity. His wrinkled skin appeared pulled apart from the inside out. He was more than old, he was worn out. He was going to die soon with the knowledge that his son was a murderer.

“Why did you come?” he asked in a surprisingly smooth voice. His stained teeth were false and smelled. There was a spark in his eyes, however. He was no fool.

“I want to understand your son better.”

“For personal or professional reasons?” he asked.

“You know what Gene did to me?”

“Yes. How are you feeling?”

“Physically, I improve each month. I’m able to eat somewhat normally now. But emotionally I still bear the scars.”

“I’m sorry.” He considered the ash at the end of his cigarette. “I wasn’t surprised when the call came—what he had done.”

“Did you see it coming?”

“It wasn’t like that. Gene never displayed violent behavior, as a child or as an adult.” He paused. “But something was wrong.”

“When did it start?” she asked.

The question stirred the old man’s deepest burden. It was as if he shrunk farther into his wicker chair. At the same time he struggled against the past. He wanted to talk to her—she could tell—but was ashamed to. She gave another word of encouragement.

“How did his mother die?” she asked.

He looked up. “Who told you?”

“Julie. But she didn’t say much. Could you?”

“It’s not a pleasant story.”

“Please, it’s important for me to understand.”

He appeared to grasp the need. He took a drink of his lemonade and cleared his throat.

“Gene was shy as a child. He was born in this house and grew up on this block. But he was a loner. He had hobbies. He used to like to collect bugs and he loved astronomy. He would stay out half the night with a small telescope I bought him. But he wasn’t into sports. He never played baseball or football. I used to worry he spent too much time at the library. That was his true love—reading. He was especially fond of fantasy. When he went off to college, I was not surprised he majored in literature. I wanted him to be a doctor but I didn’t push him to change. People like what they like. Gene kept his own counsel.” Dr. Fred Banks paused. “That was later, of course. His mother died when he was ten. That was a bad time. But before I continue, may I ask that what I have to say be kept off the record?”

“No problem,” Kelly said.

“I haven’t told a soul what I’m about to tell you.”