"Really?" Karras scanned the badge and identification card with a shining, boyish interest. Flushed and perspiring, his face had an eager look of innocence as he turned to the waddling detective. "What's this about?"

    "Hey, you know something, Father?" Kinderman answered, inspecting the Jesuit's rugged features. "It's true, you do look like a boxer. Excuse me; that scar, you know, there by your eye?" He was pointing. "Like Brando, it looks like, in Waterfront, just exactly Marlon Brando. They gave him a scar"---he was illustrating, pulling at the corner of his eye---"that made his eye look a little bit closed, just a little, made him look a little dreamy all the time, always sad. Well, that's you," he said, pointing. "You're Brando. People tell you that, Father?"

    "No, they don't."

    "Ever box?"

    "Oh, a little."

    "You're from here in the District?"

    "New York."

    "Golden Gloves. Am I right?"

    "You just made captain." Karras smiled. "Now what can I do for you?"

    "Walk a little slower, please. Emphysema." The detective was gesturing at his throat.

    "Oh, I'm sorry." Karras slowed his pace.

    "Never mind. Do you smoke?"

    "Yes, I do."

    "You shouldn't."

    "Well, now tell me the problem."

    "Of course; I'm digressing. Incidentally, you're busy?" the detective inquired. "I'm not interrupting?"

    "Interrupting what?" asked Karras, bemused.

    "Well, mental prayer, perhaps."

    "You will make captain." Karras smiled cryptically.

    "Pardon me, I missed something?"

    Karras shook his head; but the smile lingered. "I doubt that you ever miss a thing," he remarked. His sidelong glance toward Kinderman was sly and warmly twinkling.

    Kinderman halted and mounted a massive and hopeless effort at looking befuddled, but glancing at the Jesuit's crinkling eyes, he lowered his head and chuckled ruefully. "Ah, well. Of course... of course... a psychiatrist. Who am I kidding?" He shrugged. "Look, it's habit with me, Father. Forgive me. Schmaltz---that's the Kinderman method: pure schmaltz. Well, I'll stop and tell you straight what it's all about."

    "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.