Legion (10 page)

Kinderman clasped his hands on his lap and stared down at them broodingly. He felt abandoned. Design and causality, he thought. God exists, I know. Very nice. But what could He possibly be thinking of? Why didn’t He simply intervene? Free will. Okay. We should keep it. But was there simply no limit to the tolerance of God? He remembered a line from G. K. Chesterton: “When the playwright comes on stage, the play is over.’’ So then let it be over. Who needs it? It stinks. His mind drifted back to the possibility that God was a being of limited power. Why not? Such an answer was simple and direct. Yet Kinderman couldn’t help strongly resisting it. God a yokel? A
putz
? It couldn’t be. The leap of his mind from God to perfection had no transition. It was a motionless identity.

The detective shook his head. He found the notion of a God who was less than all–powerful every bit as frightening as none at all. Perhaps even more. Death was an ending, at least, without a God. But who knew what a God who was flawed might do? If less than all–powerful, why wouldn’t He also be less than all–good, like the vain, capricious, cruel God of Job? With all of eternity at His disposal, what fiendish new tortures might He not devise?

A limited God? Kinderman brushed away the thought. God the Father of the orbits and the spinning nebulae and the shepherding moons of Saturn, the Author of gravity and the brain, the Lurker in the genes and the subatomic particles–He couldn’t handle cancer and some crabgrass?

He looked up at the crucifix over the altar, and slowly his expression grew hard and demanding. What’s your part in this monkey business? Will you answer? Do you want to call a lawyer? Shall I read you your rights? Take it easy. I’m your friend. I can get you protection. Just answer me a few little questions, all right?

The detective’s face began to soften, and he looked at the crucifix with a meekness and a quiet wonder in his eyes. Who are you? God’s son ? No, you know I don’t believe that. I just asked to be polite. You don’t mind my being frank a little bit? It couldn’t hurt. If it gets a little sensitive, maybe too forward, you could rattle all the windows here a little. I’ll shut up. Just the windows. That’s enough. I don’t need any buildings to fall on my head. I already have Ryan. You’ve noticed? This affliction Job somehow missed out on. Who slipped up in that department? Never mind, I don’t want to start trouble. In the meantime, I don’t know who you are, but you are Someone. Who could miss it? You are Someone. That is clear as a brook. I don’t need to have proof that you did all those miracles. Who cares? It doesn’t matter. I know. Do you know how I know? From what you said. When I read, “Love your enemy,’’ I tingle, I go crazy, and inside of my chest I can feel something floating, something that feels like it was there the whole time. It’s as if my very being for just those few moments consisted of the total recognition of a truth. And then I know that you are Someone. No one from the earth could ever say what you said. No one could even make it up. Who could imagine it? The words knock you down.

Something else, something little that I thought I might share with you. Would you mind? What’s to mind? I’m just talking. On the boat, when the disciples see you standing on the shore and then they realize that it’s you and that you’ve risen from the dead? Peter’s standing on the deck in the total altogether. So why not? He’s a fisherman, he’s young, he should enjoy. But right away he can’t wait for the boat to go in, he’s so excited, so beside himself with joy that it’s you. So he grabs the nearest garment–do you remember this ?–but he doesn’t even want to take the time to pull it on. He just ties it around and jumps off the boat and then starts swimming like crazy for the shore. Is that something? Whenever I think of it, I glow! It isn’t some goyischer holy picture full of reverence and stiffness and probably lies; it isn’t some image being peddled, some myth. I can’t believe it didn’t happen. It’s so human, so surprising, and so real all at once. Peter must have loved you very much.

So do I. Does that startle you? Well, it’s true. That you ever existed is a thought that gives me shelter; that men could make you up is a thought that gives me hope; and the thought that you might exist even now would give me safety and a gladness that I could not contain. I would like to touch your face and make you smile. It couldn’t hurt.

So much for tea time and pleasantries. Who are you?

What is it that you want from us? To suffer like you did on the cross? Well, we’re doing it. Please don’t go sleepless with worrying about this problem. We are all in good shape on that score. We’re doing fine. That is mainly what I wanted to tell you in the first place. Also, Father Bermingham, your friend, sends regards.

K
I
NDERMAN ARRIVED AT HIS OFFICE AT NINE. ATKINS WAS waiting for him. The lab results were in.

Kinderman sat at his desk and pushed aside a scattering of books with turned–down pages to make a space for the typed reports. He then went through them. The use of succinylcholine in the murder of the priest was confirmed. There were also prints that had been taken from the metal pull on the right–hand panel of the confessional, and from the wood around it as well. They matched other prints from the front of the panel, the part that faced out to the penitent’s side. They were not the priest’s.

The information from the Washington Post had not changed. Atkins had a rundown on
Paterno
, but Kinderman waved it aside. “No interest,” he said. “It’s the shopping bag or the windbreaker. Please don’t confuse me with the facts. Where is Ryan?”

“He’s off,” replied Atkins.

“This is true.”

Kinderman sighed and leaned back in his chair. Then he stared at the Kleenex box on his desk. He seemed lost in thought. “Thalidomide cures leprosy,” he said absently. Abruptly he leaned forward toward Atkins. “Have you any idea why the speed of light should be the top–limiting speed in the universe?” he asked.

“No,” answered Atkins. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Kinderman. He shrugged. “I was just asking. In the meantime, as long as we’re not on the subject, do you know what your church says the nature of an angel is?”

“Pure love,” answered Atkins.

“Exactly. Even a fallen angel, they say. Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“You never asked me.”

“I have to think of every single question?”

The detective snatched a green–colored book from its forest, and he quickly opened it at its marker, a folded waxed paper that had once held a pickle. “I had to come across it by accident,” he said. “It’s in here, in this book called Satan by your lantzmen, all priests and Catholic theologians. Listen!” The detective began to read: “ ‘An angel’s knowledge is perfect. Because of it, the fire of an angel’s love is not built up slowly; it has no stages of mere smouldering; rather the angel is immediately a holocaust, a roaring conflagration, aflame with a love that will never lessen.’ “ Kinderman tossed the book back into the pile. “It says also that this situation never changes–fallen angel,
shmallen
angel, whatever. And so what is all this press we are getting about devils always
shmutzing
up and down and all around making trouble? It’s a joke. It couldn’t be. Not according to your church.” He had started to search for another book.

“What’s the meaning of the fingerprints?” Atkins asked him.

“Aha!” Kinderman had found what he wanted, and he opened the book to a turned–down page. “We can learn a little something from the birds,” he said.

“We can learn a little something from the birds?” repeated Atkins.

Kinderman glared. “Atkins, what did I just this minute say? Now, pay attention. Listen here to what this says about the titlark.”

“The titlark?”

Kinderman looked up at him inscrutably. “Atkins, please do not do this again.”

“No, I won’t.”

“No, you won’t. Now I will tell you how the titlark”– Kinderman waited–”how the titlark comes to building its nest. It’s incredible.” He looked down at the book and began to read: ‘“The titlark uses four different building materials: moss, spider’s silk, lichens and feathers. First it finds a branch that forks the right way. Then moss is collected and placed on the fork. Most of the moss falls off, but the bird persists until some pieces have stuck. Then it switches to spider’s silk, which it rubs on the moss until it sticks, and then it’s stretched and used for binding. These activities continue until a platform has taken shape. And now the bird switches back to moss and starts constructing the cup around it, first by sidewise weaving, and then later by vertical weaving, which it does in a sitting position, steadily rotating its body. When the cup begins to take shape, new action patterns begin: breast–pressing and trampling with the feet. Then when the cup is one–third complete, the bird starts collecting lichens that are to cover just the outside of the nest by using a number of acrobatic maneuvers. When the cup is two–thirds complete, the building routine is changed in such a way as to leave a neat entrance hole at the most convenient point of approach. Then the wall around the hole is strengthened, the dome of the nest completed, and now the furnishing with feathers begins.’ “ Kinderman put down the book. “So you thought it was simple, Atkins, building nests? Some kind of dry–wall prefabricated duplex in Phoenix? Look what’s happening! The bird must have some notion of what the nest should look like, and besides that some idea that a little moss here, a little lichen there, these are steps in the direction of some pattern that’s ideal. Is this intelligence? The titlark has a brain like a lima bean. What is it that’s directing these amazing goings–on? You think Ryan could build such a nest? Never mind. In the meantime, as a sidelight, a quiet little jab, where on earth is this ‘carrot–and–stick reinforcement’ the behaviorists are telling us is needed for this bird to carry out these operations, thirteen different types of construction jobs? B. F. Skinner did a very good thing: in World War Two he trained pigeons to be kamikaze pilots. This is emiss. You could even look it up in some book. They had these cute little bombs strapped under their tummies, but as it happens they kept getting lost all the time and making these bombing runs on Philadelphia. So much for the lack of free will in man. As regards these fingerprints, they mean nothing: they are only confirming what I already knew. The killer has to slide the panel shut so the next in line won’t see the priest dead. He does it also to make us suspect someone else. That’s the meaning of the very loud sound when Paterno heard the panel sliding shut. The killer wanted to convince whoever else was around that he’d made his confession and the priest was still alive on account of they could hear the priest closing the panel. This is also the meaning of the hesitation in the sound of the sliding as reported by Paterno. A slide, a hesitation, and then it slams shut. The killer couldn’t slide it all the way from inside, so he finishes the job on his side of the panel. The prints are the killer’s. This eliminates the man with the shaven head. He was on the left. The prints and funny sounds all occurred on the right. The killer is the elderly man with the shopping bag or the man in the black woolen windbreaker.” Kinderman stood up and went for his coat. “I am going for a visit with Dyer at the hospital. Go and see the old lady, Atkins. See if she is talking yet. Has the Gemini file come in?”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“Give a call. Also bring in the witnesses from the church and get composite sketches of the suspects. Avanti. I will see you by the waters of Babylon; I feel I may be ready for some serious lamenting.’’ He paused at the door. ‘‘Is my hat on my head?”

“Yes, it is.”

“This is nothing if not a convenience.”

He went through the door and then came back. “A subject for discussion on some other occasion: who would wear white cloth pants in the winter? A thought. Adieu. Remember me.” He went through the door again and was gone. Atkins wondered where to begin.

Kinderman made two stops while en route to Georgetown General Hospital. He arrived at the information desk with a sack full of White Tower hamburgers. Cradled in an arm was a large stuffed teddy bear dressed in pale blue shorts and a T–shirt. “Oh, miss,” said Kinderman.

The girl at the desk flicked a glance at the T–shirt on the bear. On its chest was the inscription: if wearer is found depressed, administer chocolate immediately.

“That’s cute,” the girl smiled. “For a little boy or for a girl?”

“For a little boy,” said Kinderman.

“His name, please?”

‘‘ Father Joseph Dyer.’’

“Did I hear you correctly, sir? You said ‘Father’?”

“Yes, I did. Father Dyer.”

The girl threw a look at the bear and then at Kinderman, and then checked through her patient listings. “Neurology, room four–oh–four, fourth floor. Take a right when you exit the elevator.”

“Thank you so much. You’re very kind.”

When Kinderman arrived at Dyer’s room, the priest was in bed. He was wearing his reading glasses and was sitting up, comfortably engrossed in a newspaper that he held in front of his face. Did he know? wondered Kinderman. Perhaps not. Dyer had checked in about the time that the murder was taking place. The detective hoped that they’d kept him busy and mildly sedated since then. He knew he could tell from the Jesuit’s unguarded demeanor and expression and, wanting to know what he had to prepare for, Kinderman gingerly moved to the bedside. Dyer didn’t notice him standing there and Kinderman examined his face. The signs were good. But the priest was preoccupied with the paper. Would he read about the murder? The detective glanced at the paper, looking for the headline, and suddenly froze.

“Well? Are you going to sit down or just stand there breathing your germs all over me?” said Dyer.

“What are you reading?” asked Kinderman bloodlessly.

“So it’s Women’s Wear Daily. So what?” The Jesuit’s glance flicked over to the bear. “Is that for me?”

“I just found it in the street. I thought it would suit you.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I don’t know about the color,” said Dyer sullenly. Then he had a fit of coughing.

“Oh, I see. We are doing Anastasia today. I thought you told me that there’s nothing really wrong with you,” said Kinderman.

“You never can tell,” said Dyer gloomily.

Kinderman relaxed. He understood now that Dyer was in perfect health, and still knew nothing about the murder. He thrust the bear and the bag into Dyer’s hands. “Here, take them,’’ he said. He found a chair, pulled it up beside the bed and sat down. “I can’t believe you’re reading Women’s Wear Daily,” he said.

“I have to know what’s going on,” said Dyer. “I can’t give spiritual advice in a vacuum.”

“Don’t you think you should be reading from your Office or something? The Spiritual Exercises, maybe?”

“It doesn’t give you all the fashions,” the priest said blandly.

“Eat the burgers,” said Kinderman.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat half. They’re White Tower.”

“Where’d the other half come from?”

“Space, your native country.”

Dyer began to open the bag. “Well, maybe one.”

A short, stout nurse waddled into the room. Her eyes had the toughness of a veteran’s. She was carrying a rubber tourniquet and a hypodermic syringe. She moved toward Dyer. “Come to take a little blood from you, Father.”

“Again?”

The nurse stopped short. “What’s ‘again’?” she asked the priest.

“Someone took it already ten minutes ago.”

“Are you kidding me, Father?”

Dyer pointed to the small, round piece of tape on his inner left forearm. “There’s the hole,” he said.

The nurse looked. “There it sure as hell is,” she said grimly. She turned and walked belligerently out of the room, and then bawled down the hall, “Who stuck this guy?”

Dyer stared through the open door. “I just love all this attention,” be commented glumly.

“Yes, it’s nice here,” said Kinderman. “Peaceful. When comes the air raid drill?”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Dyer. He reached inside the drawer of a bedside table and extracted a cartoon torn out of the pages of a magazine. He handed it to Kinderman. “I’ve been saving this for you,” he told him.

Kinderman stared. The cartoon depicted a mustached fisherman standing beside a gigantic carp. The caption read,

ERNEST HEMINGWAY, WHILE FISHING IN THE ROCKIES, CATCHES A CARP OVER FIVE FEET LONG AND THEN DECIDES NOT TO WRITE ABOUT IT.

Kinderman looked up at Dyer, his expression severe. He said, “Where did you get this?”

“Our Sunday Messenger,” said Dyer. “You know, I’m beginning to feel a little better.” He took out a burger and began to eat. He said, “Mmm, thanks, Bill. This is great. Is the carp still in the tub, by the way?”

“He was executed last night.” The detective watched Dyer going after a second burger. “Mary’s mother wept openly at the table. As for me, I took a bath.”

“I could tell,” said Dyer.

“You’re enjoying your burgers, Father? It’s Lent.”

“I’m exempted from fasting,” said Dyer. “I’m sick.”

“In the streets of Calcutta the children are starving.”

“They don’t eat cows,” said Dyer.

“I give up. Most Jews, they pick a priest to be a friend, it’s always someone like Teilhard de Chardin. What do I get? A priest who knows the latest from Giorgio’s and treats people like Rubik’s Cube, always twisting them around in his hands to make colors. Who needs it? No, really, you’re a pain in the
tolas
.”

“Want a burger?” Dyer offered him the bag.

“Yes, I think I would like one.” Watching Dyer had made Kinderman hungry. He reached inside the bag and took out a burger. “It’s the pickle that makes me so crazy,’’ he said. “It’s what makes it.” He took a big bite and then looked up to see a doctor walking into the room.

“Good morning, Vincent,” said Dyer.

Amfortas nodded and stopped at the foot of the bed. He picked up Dyer’s chart and studied it.

“This is my friend Lieutenant Kinderman,” said Dyer. “Meet Doctor Amfortas, Bill.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Kinderman.

Amfortas didn’t seem to hear them. He was writing something down on the chart.

“Someone told me I’d be out of here tomorrow,” said Dyer.

Amfortas nodded and replaced the chart.

“I was starting to like it here,” said Dyer.

“Yes, the nurses are so sweet,” added Kinderman.

For the first time since he’d entered the room, Amfortas looked at the detective directly. His face remained melancholy and grave, but deep in the sad, dark eyes something stirred. What is he thinking? the detective wondered. Do I read a little smile behind those eyes?

The contact was momentary, and Amfortas turned away and left the room. He turned left in the hallway and vanished from view.

“A laugh riot, this doctor,” commented Kinderman. “Since when is Milton Berle in the practice of medicine?”

“Poor guy,” said Dyer.

“Poor guy? What’s wrong with him? Have you befriended him?”

“He lost his wife.”

“Oh, I see.”

“He’s just never gotten over it.”

“Divorce?”

“No, she died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It was recent?”

“Three years,” said Dyer.

“That’s a very long time ago,” said Kinderman.

“I know. But she died of meningitis.”

“Oh.”

“There’s an awful lot of anger inside him. He treated her himself, but he just couldn’t save her, or even do much about the pain. It just tore him apart. He’s quitting the ward tonight. He wants to spend all his time on his research work. He started on it after she died.”

“What kind of research, exactly?” asked Kinderman.

“Pain,” said the priest. “He studies pain.”

Kinderman considered this fact with interest. “You seem to know a lot about him,” he said.

“Yes, he really opened up to me yesterday.”

“He talks?”

“Well, you know how it is with the Roman collar. It acts like a magnet for troubled souls.”

“Am I to draw some kind of personal inference from this?”

“If the gumshoe fits, then wear it.”

“Is he Catholic?”

“Who?”

“Toulouse Lautrec. Who else would I be talking about but the doctor?”

“Well, you’re frequently oblique.”

“This is standard procedure when approaching some nut. Is Amfortas a Catholic or not?”

“He’s a Catholic. He’s been going to daily Mass for years.”

“What Mass?”

“The six thirty a.m. at Holy Trinity. Incidentally, I’ve been thinking about your problem.”

“What problem?”

“The problem of evil,’’ said Dyer.

“This is my problem only?” said Kinderman, astounded. “What do they teach you in your schools? You’re all weaving theological baskets at Ostrich Seminary for the Blind? This is everybody’s problem.”

“I understand,” said Dyer.

“This is new.”

“You’d better start being nice to me.’’

“The bear is only garbage then, I gather.”

“The bear has moved me deeply and profoundly. Can I talk?”

“It’s so dangerous,” Kinderman replied. Then he sighed and picked up the newspaper. He opened to a page and began to read. “Go ahead, you have my keenest attention,’’ he said.

“Well, I was thinking,” said Dyer, “being here in the hospital and all.”

“Being here in the hospital with not a thing wrong with you,” Kinderman corrected him.

Dyer ignored it. “I started thinking about things that I’ve heard about surgery.”

“These people have almost no clothes on,” said Kinderman, absorbed in Women’s Wear Daily.

“They say that when you’re under the anesthesia,” said Dyer, “your unconscious is aware of everything. It hears the doctors and the nurses talking about you. It feels the pain of the knife.” Kinderman looked up from the paper and eyed him. “But when you wake up from the anesthesia, it’s as if it never happened,’’ said Dyer. “So maybe when we all go back to God, that’s how it will be with all the pain of the world.”

“This is true,” said Kinderman.

“You agree with me?” Dyer looked astonished.

“I mean about the unconscious,” Kinderman explained. “Some psychologists, all biggies, great names from the past, they made all these experiments and found out that inside us there’s a second consciousness, this thing we now know as the unconscious. Alfred Binet, he was one of them. Listen! Once Binet does this. He gets a girl and then hypnotizes her, right? He tells her that from then she won’t be able to see him or hear him or know what he’s doing in any way. He puts a pencil in her hand and some paper in front of her. Someone else in the room starts talking to the girl and asking her lots of questions. Binet, in the meantime, is asking her questions at the very same time; and while she’s talking with the first psychologist, the girl is at the same time writing down answers to the questions from Binet! Is that amazing? Something else. Binet at one point sticks a pin in her hand. The girl feels nothing; she continues to talk to the first psychologist. But in the meantime, the pencil is moving and writing the words ‘Please don’t hurt me.’ Isn’t that something? Anyway, it’s true what you said about the surgery.

Someone is feeling all this cutting and pasting. But who is it?” He suddenly remembered his dream and the cryptic statement uttered by Max: “We have two souls. “

“The unconscious,” Kinderman brooded. “What is it? Who is it? What has it to do with the collective unconscious? It’s all part of my theory, you understand.”

Dyer looked away and made a gesture of impatience. “Oh, that again,” he muttered.

“Yes, you’re eaten up with jealousy that Kinderman the mastermind, the Jewish Mister Moto in your midst, is on the verge of now cracking this problem of evil,” said Kinderman. His eyebrows bushed together. “My giant brain is like a sturgeon surrounded by minnows.”

Dyer’s head came around. “Don’t you think that’s a little unseemly?”

“No, not.”

“Well, then why don’t you tell me your theory? Let’s hear it and be done with it,’’ said Dyer. “Cheech and Chong have been waiting in the hall; their turn is next.”

“It’s too huge for you to grasp,” said Kinderman sulkily.

“So what’s wrong with just Original Sin?”

“Little babies are responsible for something done by Adam?”

“It’s a mystery,” said Dyer.

“It’s a joke. I’ll admit I played around with such a notion,” said Kinderman. He leaned forward and his eyes began to sparkle. “If the sin was that scientists blew up the earth many millions of years ago with something like cobalt bombs, we would have from this
tsimmis
atomic mutations. Maybe this creates the viruses that make sickness, maybe even messes up the whole physical environment so that now there comes earthquakes and natural catastrophes. As for men, they get altogether crazy and
farmischt
and they turn into monsters from the horrible mutations; they start eating meat, like the animals as well, and all this going to the bathroom and liking rock and roll. They can’t help it. It’s genetic. Even God cannot help it. The sin is a condition that’s passed through the genes.”

“What if every man born was really once a part of Adam?” asked Dyer. “I mean physically–actually one of the cells of his body?”

Kinderman’s look became abruptly suspicious. “So it’s not all Sunday catechism class with you, Father. All these bingo games are making you a little bit adventurous. Where did you come up with this idea?”

“What about it?” asked Dyer.

“You’re thinking. But this notion doesn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too Jewish. It makes God a little peevish, already. It’s the same with what I said about the genes. Let’s face it, God could stop this foolish nonsense whenever He pleases. He could start things all over again from the beginning. He couldn’t say, ‘Adam, wash your face, it’s almost dinner’ and forget the whole thing? He couldn’t fix up the genes? The Gospel tells you to forgive and forget, but God can’t? The hereafter is Sicily? Puzo should hear about this. We’ll have ‘Godfather Four’ in two seconds.”

“So, okay, what’s your theory, then?” Dyer insisted.

The detective looked crafty. “I’m still working on it, Father. My unconscious is
schmeckling
it together.”

Dyer turned and plopped his head against the pillows, exasperated. “This is boring,” he said. His eyes were on the blank TV.

“I’ll give another little hint,” offered Kinderman.

“I wish they’d come and fix that stupid thing.”

“Stop insulting me and listen to the hint.”

Dyer yawned.

“It’s from your Gospels,” Kinderman continued. “ ‘What you do unto the least of these, my little ones, you do unto Me,’ “ he paraphrased.

“They could at least have a Space Invaders game around this place.”

“Space Invaders?” echoed Kinderman dully.

Dyer turned to him and asked, “Could you get me a paper from the gift shop?”

“What, the National Enquirer, the Globe or the Star?”

“I think the Star comes out Wednesdays. Isn’t that right?”

“I rush to find any common ground between our planets.”

Dyer looked offended. “So what’s wrong with those papers? Mickey Rooney saw a ghost that resembled Abe Lincoln. Where else can you find out about these things?”

The detective reached into his pockets. “Here, I have a few books you might enjoy,” he told the priest. He extracted some paperbacks and Dyer looked over the titles.

“Non–fiction,” he said grumpily. “Boring. Can’t you bring me up a novel?”

Kinderman wearily stood up. “I’ll bring a novel,” he said. He walked to the foot of the bed and picked up the chart. “What kind? A historical?”

“Scruples,” said Dyer. “I’m up to Chapter Three, but I forgot to bring it with me.”

Kinderman eyed him without expression, then replaced the chart. He turned and walked slowly toward the door. “After lunch,” he told Dyer. “You shouldn’t excite yourself before lunch. I am also going to eat.”

“After scarfing down three hamburgers?”

“Two. But who’s counting?”

“If they haven’t got Scruples, get Princess Daisy,’’ Dyer called after him.

Kinderman exited shaking his head.

He walked down the hallway a little and then stopped. He saw Amfoitas standing at the charge desk. He was writing on a clipboard. Kinderman approached him, assuming an expression of tragic concern. “Doctor Amfoitas?” the detective said gravely. The neurologist looked up. Those eyes, thought Kinderman. What a mystery is in them! “It’s about Father Dyer,” said the detective.

“He’s all right,” said Amfortas quietly. He returned his attention to the clipboard.

“Yes, I know that,” said Kinderman. “It’s something else. Something terribly important. We’re both friends of Father Dyer, but with this I can’t help him. Only you.”

The urgent tone drew the doctor’s gaze, and the haggard dark eyes searched those of the detective. “What is it?” asked Amfortas.

Kinderman glanced around, looking guarded. “I can’t tell you here,” he said. “Could we go someplace else and have a talk?” He looked at his watch. “Maybe lunch,” he said.

“That’s a meal I never take,” said Amfortas.

“Then watch me. Please. It’s important.”