"Oh, come on, now!"
"Just answer the question, please, Father Paranoia."
"Well, yes; at a point in their training, they do. At least, Jesuits and some of the other orders.
At Woodstock Seminary, certain philosophy courses were taught in Latin."
"How so?"
"For precision of thought. It's like law."
"Ah, I see."
Karras suddenly looked earnest, grave. "Look, Lieutenant, can I tell you who I really think did it?"
The detective leaned closer. "No, who?"
"Dominicans. Go pick on them."
Karras smiled, waved good-bye and walked away.
"I lied!" the detective called after him sullenly. "You look like Sal Mineo!"
Kinderman watched as the priest gave another little wave and entered the residence hall, then he turned and got into the squad car. He wheezed, sitting motionless, staring at the floorboard.
"He hums, he hums, that man," he murmured. "Just like a tuning fork under the water." For a moment longer he held the look; and then turned and told the driver, "All right, back to headquarters. Hurry. Break laws." They pulled away.
**********
Karras' new room was simply furnished: a single bed, a comfortable chair, a desk and bookshelves built into the wall. On the desk was an early photo of his mother, and in silent rebuke on the wall by his bed hung a metal crucifix.
The narrow room way world enough for him. He cared little for possessions; only that those he had be clean.
He showered, scrubbing briskly, then slipped on khaki pants and a T-shirt and ambled to dinner in the priests' refectory, where he spotted pink-cheeked Dyer sitting alone at a table in a corner.
He moved to join him.
"Hi, Damien," said Dyer. The young priest was wearing a faded Snoopy sweatshirt.
Karras bowed his head as he stood by a chair and murmured a rapid grace. Then he blessed himself, sat and greeted his friend.
"How's the loafer?" asked Dyer as Karras spread a napkin on his lap.
"Who's a loafer? I'm working."
"One lecture a week?"
"It's the quality that counts," said Karras. "What's dinner?"
"Can't you smell it?"
"Oh, shit, is it dog day?" Knackwurst and sauerkraut.
"It's the quantity that counts," replied Dyer serenely.
Karras shook his head and reached out for the aluminum pitcher of milk.
"I wouldn't do that," murmured Dyer without expression as he buttered a slice of whole wheat bread. "See the bubbles? Saltpeter."
"I need it," said Karras. As he tipped up his glass to fill it with milk, he could hear someone joining them at the table.
"Well, I finally read that book," said the newcomer brightly.
Karras glanced up and felt aching dismay, felt the soft crushing weight, press of lead, press of bone, as he recognized the priest who had come to him recently for counseling, the one who could not make friends.
"Oh, and what did you think of it?" Karras asked. He set down the pitcher as if it were the booklet for a broken novena.
The young priest talked, and half an hour later, Dyer was table-hopping, spiking the refectory with laughter. Karras checked his watch. "Want to pick up a jacket?" he asked the young priest.
"We can go across the street and take a look at the sunset."
Soon they were leaning against a railing at the top of the steps down to M Street. End of day.
The burnished rays of the setting sun flamed glory at the clouds of the western sky and shattered in rippling, crimson dapples on the darkening waters of the river. Once Karras met God in this sight. Long ago. Like a lover forsaken, he still kept the rendezvous.
"Sure a sight," said the younger man.
"Yes, it is," agreed Karras. "I try to get out here every night." The campus clock boomed out the hour. It was 7:00 P.M.
