"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?"
"That's the Order," Karras shrugged as he pulled on the pants.
"Still, you'd know who was sick at the time and who wasn't, correct? I mean, this kind of sickness. You'd know that."
"No, not necessarily, Lieutenant. Not at all. It would only be an accident, in fact, if I did. You see, I'm not a psychoanalyst. All I do is counsel. Anyway," he commented, buttoning his trousers, "I really know of no one who fits the description."
