"Yes, you're right, but then too, many of the confessions were voluntary."

    "So who would volunteer such things?"

    "Well, possibly people who were mentally disturbed."

    "Aha! Another reliable source!"

    "Well, of course you're quite right, Lieutenant. I'm just playing devil's advocate. But one thing that sometimes we tend to forget is that people psychotic enough to confess to such things might conceivably be psychotic enough to have done them. For example, the myths about werewolves. So, fine, they're ridiculous: no one can turn himself into a wolf. But what if a man were so disturbed that he not only thought that he was a werewolf, but also acted like one?"

    "Terrible. What is this---theory now, Father, or fact?

    "Well, there's William Stumpf, for example. Or Peter I can't remember. Anyway, a German in the sixteenth century who thought he was a werewolf. He murdered perhaps twenty or thirty young children"

    "You mean, he confessed it?"

    "Well, yes, but I think the confession was valid."

    "How so?"

    "When they caught him, he was eating the brains of his two young daughters-in-law."

    From the practice field, crisp in the thin, clear April sunlight, came echoes of chatter and ball against bat. "C'mon, Mullins, let's shag it, let's go, get the lead out!"

    They had come to the parking lot, priest and detective. They walked now in silence.

    When they came to the squad car, Kinderman absently reached out toward the handle of the door. For a moment he paused, then lifted a moody look to Karras.

    "So what am I looking for, Father?" he asked him.

    "A madman," said Damien Karras softly "Perhaps someone on drugs."

    The detective thought it over, then silently nodded. He turned to the priest. "Want a ride?" he asked, opening the door of the squad car "Oh, thanks, but it's just a short walk."

    "Never mind that; enjoy!" Kinderman gestured impatiently, motioning Karras to get into the car. "You can tell all your friends you went riding in a police car."

    The Jesuit grinned and slipped into the back.

    "Very good, very good," the detective breathed hoarsely, then squirmed in beside him and closed the door. "No walk is short," he commented. "None."

    With Karras guiding, they drove toward the modern Jesuit residence hall on Prospect Street, where the priest had taken new quarters. To remain in the cottage, he'd felt, might encourage the men he had counseled to continue to seek his professional help.

    "You like movies, Father Karras?"

    'Very much."

    "You saw Lear?'"

    "Can't afford it."

    "I saw it. I get passes."

    'That's nice."'

    "I get passes for the very best shows. Mrs. K., she gets tired, though; never likes to go."

    "That's too bad."

    "It's too bad, yes, I hate to go alone. You know, I love to talk film, to discuss, to critique' He was staring out the window, gaze averted to the side and away from the priest.

    Karras nodded silently, looking down at his large and very powerful hands. They were clasped between his legs. A moment passed. Then Kinderman hesitantly turned with a wistful look. "Would you like to see a film with me sometime, Father? It's free... I get passes," he added quickly.

    The priest looked at him, grinning. "As Elwood P. Dowd used to say in Harvey, Lieutenant. When?"

    "Oh, I'll call you, I'll call you!" The detective beam eagerly.

    They'd come to the residence hall and parked. Karras put a hand on the door and clicked it open "Please do. Look, I'm sorry that I wasn't much help."

    "Never mind, you were help." Kinderman waved limply. Karras was climbing out of the car. "In fact, for a Jew who's trying to pass, you're a very nice man."

    Karras turned, closed the door and leaned into the window with a faint, warm smile "Do people ever tell you look like Paul Newman?"

    "Always. And believe me, inside this body, Mr. Newman is struggling to get out. Too crowded. Inside," he said, "is also Clark Gable."

    Karras waved with a grin and started away.

    "Father, wait!"

    Karras turned. The detective was squeezing out of the car.

    "Listen, Father, I forgot," he puffed, approaching "Slipped my mind. You know, that card with the dirty writing on it? The one that was found in the church?"

    "You mean the altar card?"

    "Whatever. It's still around?"

    "Yes, I've got it in my room. I was checking the Latin. You want it?"

    "Yes, maybe it shows something. Maybe."

    "Just a second, I'll get it."

    While Kinderman waited outside by the squad car, the Jesuit went to his ground-floor room facing out on Prospect Street and found the card. He came outside again and gave it to Kinderman.

    "Maybe some fingerprints," Kinderman wheezed as he looked it over. Then, "No, wait, you've been handling it," he seemed to realize quickly. "Good thinking. Before you, the Jewish Mr. Moto." He was fumbling at the card's clear plastic sheath. "Ah, no, wait, it comes out, it comes out, it comes out!" Then he glanced up at Karras with incipient dismay. "You've been handling the inside as well, Kirk Douglas?"

    Karras grinned ruefully, nodding his head.

    "Never mind, maybe still we could find something else. Incidentally, you studied this?"

    "Yes, I did."

    'Your conclusion?"

    Karras shrugged "Doesn't look like the work of a prankster At first, I thought maybe a student But I doubt it. Whoever did that thing is pretty deeply disturbed."