'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.
