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Last night another man died in front of me. This one was in bed; comfortable, as far as deaths go. That doesn't always make it easier. His hand went limp in mine as he left. His last word was "Father." I don't know if he was talking to me, or to God.

Before he died, he told me about the girl he killed. He kidnapped from the Gotham suburbs and kept her in an old warehouse for a week. Then he killed her and dumped her body in the river.

Her name was Heather Hoch, and all of Gotham had been looking for her for the past two weeks.

I gave him the Last Rites. I made all the arrangements. I comforted his widow. I did my job.

This is the life I chose for myself. I chose it not because I wanted it, but because this was were I was called. I could have applied to seminary in some nice, suburban diocese, where I could work at a nice, suburban church and do two baptisms a month and have nice old ladies bring me lasagna on Friday nights. But I didn't. That was not what God asked of me. My charism is to serve in Gotham. I absolve the darkest sins and bury the most dead. This is my job.

I went home to the rectory. The hardest part about this particular assignment is that I am the only priest in this parish, and this house is so empty. I open the door each night and I am greeted by complete darkness. There is no need to turn on the light. I know the way around the place by habit and by touch, like a blind man.

Last night, I knelt by my bed to say my rosary, to fly to the comfort of Our Lady and to pray for the soul of the dead man. I did not hear the window open, but I did notice the shadow cast onto my bed. I crossed myself and turned around. In the moonlight, the figure in my window was rendered in a pure black silhouette, the points rising above his head the only identifiable feature. For a brief moment, I thought I saw them as horns.

"O'Malley died tonight," he said.

I nodded.

"You gave him the Last Rites."

I forced myself speak. "I did."

"Where's the girl?"

"I'm sure you know that I can't tell you anything," I said.

"And you know a girl's life is at stake," he said.

I stood up, suddenly strangely calm, except for a slight twitch in my hand that made the rosary beads rattle against each other. He didn't make a sound; I couldn't even hear him breathe.

"The seal of confession is sacred."

"More sacred then a life?" His voice acquired a harsh edge. He was judging me.

That line of discussion goes nowhere. I said a silent prayer to Our Lady for the strength to say what I said next.

"You must understand that I will not tell you anything about the contents of a penitent’s confession. There is nothing you, or anyone else can do make me violate my vows."

My voice only wavered a little.

"O'Malley is dead," he said. "You're the only one who knows what he did with her."

I did not respond. To acknowledge even that would be a violation.

For the right price, there are priests in this city who will tell the contents of anyone's confession. The police, I have no doubt, have themselves taken advantage of this more then once. This man, however, I suspect does not pay for his information. I suspect he has other methods.

He has very, very large hands.

"Tell me where she is, or she dies on your conscience."

I clenched my fist around my rosary, the beads pressed hard into my skin.

"Unless she's already dead,” he said.

I kept my face still, but I'm sure my eyes betrayed me.

He moved to go, but stopped, staring at me over his shoulder.

"I admire your conviction, Father," he said.

"Thank you," I said.

"You seem like a good man. So I can only assume she is dead."

I opened my mouth, but stood in silence.

"If she wasn't, you would have saved her."

Then he dipped stepped out on the fire escape, and leapt down into the night. By the time I crossed the room to shut the window, he was nowhere to be seen.

I stood there staring out onto the city streets and finished my rosary. Between each Hail Mary I said a small, silent prayer that what he said was not true.

If Heather Hoch was alive, I still would have kept my vow. The seal of confession was more important then anything, more important then earthly justice. If Heather Hoch had still been in that warehouse, bound, gagged, tied to a chair, her captor dead...she would have starved to death. And Batman would have come here, and I would have said nothing.

And somehow this would be the right thing.

I finished my rosary, and I went to bed. I did not sleep well, but that's not unusual. This morning I celebrated Sunday Mass, and there were less then 10 people in the pews. This is the work I am called to do. God calls us to many things. He calls us to sacrifice, to submission. He calls us to resist temptation.

I keep thinking of the points on his mask, the particular shape of the shadow they cast. That can not be a coincidence.