"The desecrations," Karras said, nodding.
"So I wasted my schmaltz, the detective said quietly.
"Sorry"
"Never mind, Father; that I deserved. Yes, the things in the church," he confirmed. "Correct. Only maybe something else besides, something serious."
"Murder?"
"Yes. kick me again, I enjoy it."
"Well, Homicide Division." The Jesuit shrugged.
"Never mind, never mind, Marlon Brando; never mind.
People tell you for a priest you're a little bit smart-ass?"
"Mea culpa," Karras murmured. Though he was smiling, he felt a regret that perhaps he'd diminished the man's self esteem. He hadn't meant to. And now he felt glad of a chance to express a sincere perplexity. "I don't get it, though," he added, taking care that he wrinkled his brow. "What's the connection?"
"Look, Father, could we keep this between us? Confidential? Like a matter of confession, so to speak?"
"Of course." He was eyeing the detective earnestly. "What is it?"
"You know that director who was doing the film here, Father? Burke Dennings?"
"Well, I've seen him."
"You've seen him." The detective nodded. "You're also familiar with how he died?"
"Well, the papers..." Karras shrugged again.
"That's just part of it."
"Oh?"
"Only part of it. Part. Just a part. Listen, what do you know on the subject of witchcraft?"
"What?"
"Listen, patience; I'm leading up to something. Now witchcraft, please---you're familiar?"
"A little."
"From the witching end, not the hunting."
"Oh, I once did a paper on it" Karras smiled. "The psychiatric end."
"Oh, really? Wonderful! Great! That's a bonus. A plus. You could help me a lot, a lot more than I thought. Listen, Father. Now witchcraft..."
He reached up and gripped at the Jesuit's arm as they rounded a turn and approached the bench. "Now me, I'm a layman and, plainly speaking, not well educated. Not formally. No. But I read. Look; I know what they say about self-made men, that they're horrible examples of unskilled labor. But me, I'll speak plainly, I'm not ashamed. Not at all, I'm---" Abruptly he arrested the flow, looked down and shook his head. "Schmaltz. It's habit. I can't stop the schmaltz. Look, forgive me; you're busy."
"Yes, I'm praying."
The Jesuit's soft delivery had been dry and expressionless. Kinderman halted for a moment and eyed him. "You're serious? No."
The detective faced forward again and they walked. "Look, I'll come to the point: the desecrations. They remind you of anything to do with witchcraft?"
"Maybe. Some rituals used in Black Mass."
"A-plus. And now Dennings---you read how he died?"
"In a fall"
"Well, I'll tell you, and---please---confidential!"
"Of course."
The detective looked suddenly pained as he realized that Karras had no intention of stopping at the bench. "Do you mind?" he asked wistfully.
"What?"
"Could we stop? Maybe sit?"
"Oh, sure." They began to move back toward the bench.
"You won't cramp?"
"No, I'm fine now."
"You're sure?"
"I'm fine."
"All right, all right, if you insist."
"You were saying?"
"In a second, please, just one second."
Kinderman settled his aching bulk on the bench with a sigh of content. "Ah, better, that's better," he said as the Jesuit picked up his towel and wiped his perspiring face. "Middle age. What a life."
"Burke Dennings?-"
"Burke Dennings, Burke Dennings, Burke Dennings..." The detective was nodding down at his shoes. Then he glanced up at Karras. The priest was wiping the back of his neck. "Burke Dennings, good Father, was found at the bottom of that long flight of steps at exactly five minutes after seven with his head turned completely around and backward."
Peppery shouts drifted muffled from the baseball diamond where the varsity team held practice. Karras stopped wiping and held the lieutenant's steady gaze. "It didn't happen in the fall?" he said at last.
"Sure, it's possible." Kinderman shrugged. "But..."
"Unlikely," Karras brooded.
"And so what comes to mind in the contest of witchcraft?"
The Jesuit sat down slowly, looking pensive. "Well," he said finally, "supposedly demons broke the necks of witches that way. At least, that's the myth."
"A myth?"
"Oh, largely," he said, turning to Kinderman. "Although people did die that way, I suppose: likely members of a coven who either defected or gave away secrets. That's just a guess. But I know it was a trademark of demonic assassins."
Kinderman nodded. "Exactly. Exactly. I remembered the connection from a murder in London. That's now. I mean, lately, just four or five years ago, Father. I remembered that I read it in the papers."
"Yes, I read it too, but I think it turned out to be some sort of hoax. Am I wrong?"
"No, that's right, Father, absolutely right. But in this case, at least, you can see some connection, maybe, with that and the things in the church. Maybe somebody crazy, Father, maybe someone with a spite against the Church. Some unconscious rebellion, perhaps..."
"Sick priest," murmured Karras. "That it?"
"Listen, you re the psychiatrist, Father; you tell me."
"Well, of course, the desecrations are clearly pathological," Karras said thoughtfully, slipping on his sweater. "And if Dennings was murdered---well, I'd guess that the killer's pathological too."
"And perhaps had some knowledge of witchcraft?"
"Could be."
"Could be," the detective grunted. "So who fits the bill, also lives in the neighborhood, and also has access in the night to the church?"
"Sick priest," Karras said, reaching out moodily beside him to a pair of sun-bleached khaki pants.
"Listen, Father, this is hard for you---please!---I understand. But for priests on the campus here, you're the psychiatrist, Father, so---"
"No, I've had a change of assignment."
"Oh, really? In the middle of the year?"