upped in the warm, green hollow of the campus, Damien Karras, jogged alone around an oval, loamy track in khaki shorts and a cotton T-shit drenched with the cling of healing sweat. Up ahead, on a hillock, the lime-white dome of the astronamical observatory pulsed with the beat of his stride; behind him, the medical school fell away with churned-up shards of earth and care.

Since release from his duties, he came here daily, lapping the miles and chasing sleep. He had almost caught it; almost eased the clutch of grief that gripped at his heart like a deep tattoo. It held him gentler now.

Twenty laps...

Much gentler.

More! Two more!

Much gentler...

Powerful leg muscles blooded and stinging, rippling with a long and leonine grace, Karras thumped around a turn when he noticed someone sitting on a bench to¬ the side where he'd laid out his towel, sweater and pants: a middle-aged man in a floppy overcoat and pulpy, crushed felt hat. He seemed to be watching him. Was he? Yes... head turning as Karras passed.

The priest accelerated, digging at the final lap with pounding strides that jarred the earth, then he slowed to a panting, gulping walk as he passed the bench without a glance, both hands pressed light to his throbbing sides. The heave of his rock-muscled chest and shoulders stretched his T-shirt, distorting the stenciled word PHILOSOPHERS inscribed across the front in once-blade letters now faded to a hint by repeated washings.

The man in the overcoat stood up and began to approach him.

"Father Karras?" Lieutenant Kinderman called hoarsely.

The priest turned around and nodded briefly, squinting into sunlight, waiting for Kinderman to reach him, then beckoned him along as once again he began to move. "Do you mind? I'll cramp," he panted.

"Yes, of course,"the detective answered, nodding with a wincing lack of enthusiasm as be tucked his hands into his pockets. The walk from the parking lot had tired him.

"Have--- have we met?" asked the Jesuit.

"No, Father. No, but they said that you looked like a boxer; some priest at the residence hall; I forget." He was tugging out his wallet. "So bad with names."

"And yours?"

"William Kinderman, Father." He flashed his identification. "Homicide."

"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 Kmderman 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.

"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."

"Ah, yes; doctor's ethics. If you knew. You wouldn't tell."

"No, I probably wouldn't."

"Incidentally--- and I mention it only in passing--- this ethic is lately considered illegal. Not to bother you with trivia, but lately a psychiatrist in sunny California, no less, was put in jail for not telling the police what he knew about a patient."

"That a threat?"

"Don't talk paranoid. I mention it in passing."

"I could always tell the judge it was a matter of confession," said the Jesuit, grinning wryly as he stood to tuck his shirt in. "Plainly speaking," he added.

The detective glanced up at him, faintly gloomy. "Want to go into business, Father?" he said Then looked away dismally. " 'Father'... what 'Father'?" he asked rhetorically. "You're a Jew; I could tell when I met you."

The Jesuit chuckled.

"Yes, laugh," said Kinderman. "Laugh." But then he smiled, looking impishly pleased with himself. He turned with beaming eyes. "That reminds me. The entrance examination to be a policeman, Father? When I took it, one question went something like: 'What are rabies and what would you do for them?' Know what some dumbhead put down for an answer? Emis? 'Rabies,' he said, 'are Jew priests, and I would do anything that I could for them.' Honest!" He'd raised up a hand as in oath.

Karras laughed. "Come on, I'll walk you to your car. Are you parked in the lot?"

The detective looked up at him, reluctant to move. "Then we're finished?"

The priest put a foot on the bench, leaning over, an arm resting heavily on his knee. "Look, I'm really not covering up," he said. "Really. If I knew of a priest like the one you're looking for, the least I would do is to tell you that there was such a man without giving you his name. Then I guess I'd report it to the Provincial. But I don't know of anyone who even comes close."

"Ah, well," the detective sighed. "I never thought it was a priest in the first place. Not really." He nodded toward the parking lot. "Yes, I'm over there."

They started walking.

"What I really suspect," the detective continued, "if I said it out loud you would call me a nut. I don't know. I don't know." He was shaking his head. "All these clubs and these cults where they kill for no reason. It makes you start thinking peculiar things. To keep up with the times, these days, you have to be a little bit crazy."

Karras nodded.

"What's that thing on your shirt?" the detective asked him, motioning his head toward the Jesuit's chest.

"What thing?"

"On the T-shirt," the detective clarified. "The writing. 'Philosophers.' "

"Oh, I taught a few courses one year," said Karras, "at Woodstock Seminary in Maryland. I played on the lower-class baseball team. They were called the Philosophers.' "

"Ah, and the upper-class team?"

"Theologians."

Kinderman smiled and shook his head. "Theologians three, Philosophers two," he mused.

"Philosophers three, Theologians two."

"Of course."

"Of course."

"Strange things," the detective brooded. "Strange.¬ Listen, Father," he began on a reticent tack. "Listen, doctor.... Am I crazy, or could there be maybe a witch coven here in the District right now? Right today?"

"Oh, come on," said Karras.

"Then there could."

"Didn't get that."

"Now I'll be the doctor," the detective announced to him, punching at the air with an index finger. "You didn't say no, but instead you were smart-ass again. That's defensive, good Father, defensive. You're afraid you'll look gullible, maybe; a superstitious priest in front of Kinderman the mastermind, the rationalist'' ---he was tapping the finger at his temple--- "the genius beside you, here, the walking Age of Reason. Right? Am I right?"

The Jesuit stared at him now with mounting surmise and respect. "Why, that's very astute," he remarked.

"Well, all right, then," Kinderman grunted. "So I'll ask you again: could there maybe be witch covens here in the District?"

"Well, I really wouldn't know," answered Karras thoughtfully, arms folded across his chest. "But in parts of Europe they say Black Mass."

"Today?"

"Today."

"You mean just like the old days, Father? Look, I read about those things, incidentally, with the sex and the statues and who knows whatever. Not meaning to disgust you, by the way, but they did all those things? It's for real?"

"I don't know."

"Your opinion, then, Father Defensive."

The Jesuit chuckled. "All right, then; I think it's for real. Or at least I suspect so. But most of my reasoning's based on pathology. Sure, Black Mass. But anyone doing those things is a very disturbed human being, and disturbed in a very special way. There's a clinical name for that kind of disturbance, in fact; it's called Satanism--- means people who can't have any sexual pleasure unless it's connected to a blasphemous action. Well, it's not that uncommon, not even today, and Black Mass was just used as the justification."

"Again, please forgive me, but the things with the statues of Jesus and Mary?"

"What about them?"

"They're true?"

"Well, I think this might interest you as a policeman." His scholarly interest aroused and stirring, Karras' manner grew quietly animated. "The records of the Paris police still carry the case of a couple of monks from a nearby monastery--- let's see..." He scratched his head as he tried to recall. "Yes, the one at Crépy, I believe. Well, whatever." He shrugged. "Close by. At any rate, the monks came into an inn and got rather belligerent about wanting a bed for three. Well, the third they were carrying: a life-size statue of the Blessed Mother."

"Ah, boy, that's shocking," breathed the detective. "Shocking."

"But true. And a fair indication that what you've been reading is based on fact."

"Well, the sex, maybe so, maybe so. I can see. That's a whole other story altogether. Never mind. But the ritual murders now, Father? That's true? Now come on! Using blood from the newborn babies?" The detective was alluding to something else he had read in the book on witchcraft, describing how the unfrocked priest at Black Mass would at times slit the wrist of a newborn infant so that the blood poured into a chalice and later was consecrated and consumed in the form of communion. "That's just like the stories they used to tell about the Jews," the detective continued. "How they stole Christian babies and drank their blood. Look, forgive me, but your people told all those stories."

"If we did, forgive me."

"You're absolved, you're absolved."

Something dark, something sad; passed across the priest's eyes, like the shadow of pain briefly remembered. He quickly fixed his eyes on the path just ahead.

"Well, I really don't know about ritual murder," said Karras. "I don't. But a midwife in Switzerland once confessed to the murder of thirty or forty babies for use at Black Mass. Oh, well, maybe she was tortured," he amended. "Who knows? But she certainly told a convincing story. She said she'd hide a long, thin needle up her sleeve, so that when she was delivering tire baby, she'd slip out the needle and stick it through the crown of the baby's head, and then hide the needle again. No marks," he said, glancing at Kinderman. "The baby looked stillborn. You've heard of the prejudice European Catholics used to have against midwives? Well, that's how it started."

"That's frightening."

"This century hasn't got the lock on insanity. Anyway---"

"Wait a minute, wait now, forgive me. These stories--- they were told by some people who were tortured, correct? So they're basically not so reliable. They signed the confessions and later, the machers, they filled in the blanks. I mean, then there was nothing like habeas corpus, no writs of 'Let My People Go,' so to speak. Am I right? Am I right?"

"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 ehoes 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 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."

"As you said."

"And the Latin..." Karras brooded. "It's not just flawless, Lieutenant, it's--- well, it's got a definite style that's very individual. It's as if whoever did it's used to thinking in Latin."

"Do priests?"

"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 Wood¬stock 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.

At 7:23, Lieutenant Kinderman pondered a spectrographic analysis showing that the paint from Regan's sculpture matched a scraping of paint from the desecrated statue of the Virgin Mary.

And at 8:47, in a slum in the northeast section of the city, an impassive Karl Engstrom emerged from a rat-infested tenement house, walked three blocks south to a bus stop, waited alone for a minute, expressionless, then crumpled, sobbing, against a lamppost.

Lieutenant Kinderman, at the time, was at the movies.