SPOILER — condensed paraphrase 

Everything erupts in a single, ugly confrontation. The police barged into the clinic convinced they’d finally cornered a cold, methodical killer — and all their fury lands on one man: Dr. Walker. The lead detective doesn’t mince words. He accuses the doctor of planting ritual rosary beads at two murder scenes and of being somehow connected to a string of deaths. The detective’s tone is equal parts accusation and incredulity: why would a respected physician buy ten sets of beads, two of which turned up with the bodies? The implication is damning.

Walker meets the interrogation with a kind of brittle calm. He insists he doesn’t know what they’re talking about, parroting the fed-up disbelief of someone whose whole life is being dismantled in front of him. He points out the obvious — rosary beads don’t make him a murderer; thousands of people own them. He gives a bland, predictable alibi for the hours in question: he keeps regular hours and was most likely at home. But the detectives don’t let him off. They order him to take his hands out of his pockets and to step where they can see him, escalating from suspicion to the formalities of an arrest.

Tempers flare. A junior officer taunts the doctor, sarcastically asking if he’s giving haircuts between murders, turning the interrogation room into a theater of cruelty. Walker’s lawyer immediately steps in, invoking psychiatric distress and pleading that his client is unwell and frightened — the sort of performance the defense hopes will buy a pause, a transfer, an evaluation. The lawyer claims that arrest at the workplace has pushed the doctor into extreme emotional turmoil; perhaps, he suggests, the stress caused a breakdown. The strategy is obvious: argue incapacity, insist on psychiatric evaluation, and try to blunt the force of the charges.

But the detectives push back just as hard. They point to connections — the beads, the timing, the victims Sarah and Maryanne — and they frame the doctor’s behavior as more than fragile: as possibly calculated. One detective contends that Walker knew exactly what he was doing, that the acts were planned. He presents hair samples from the doctor’s office as key evidence. The lab results, however, complicate the narrative: the hairs do not match the two known victims. That gap opens up a poisonous possibility — either the evidence is circumstantial and misread, or there are more victims than they’ve identified so far.

As the exchange spirals, Walker slips into religious language, alternately praying and railing. At times he seems to plead for forgiveness — “Heavenly Father, forgive them their trespasses” — and at others he is furious, muttering apocalyptic threats of vengeance: “I will repay the faithless with everlasting darkness.” He speaks as if enacting judgment, or perhaps confessing to a mission. This performance confounds everyone in the room. Is this a genuine psychotic break, ritualized confession, or a manipulative act designed to create doubt?

The detectives grow frustrated with the lawyer’s attempts to block questioning on the grounds of mental incapacity. They threaten to file for a warrant (a “7:30” with the judge) to have the doctor sent for immediate psychiatric observation at Belhaven. The stakes are raised: move him to a psychiatric facility and you stall the prosecution; keep him in detention and you risk a public meltdown that could influence jurors. The cops insist that if he’s innocent, he should be able to provide an alibi. The defense counters that the man is suffering and cannot be expected to sit for a coherent interrogation.

The scene cuts between procedural formality and explosive human drama. The victim’s families loom large offstage — the detectives repeatedly reference Sarah and Maryanne, two young women whose deaths have already devastated loved ones and polarized the neighborhood. The investigators press the point: how fearful and alone were those women in the hours before they died? That emotional appeal is designed to pierce the clinical defenses and reveal motive. The defense’s counterargument — that everything is circumstantial — turns on the absence of a smoking gun. No DNA matches. No direct forensic proof ties Walker’s office hair to the two victims. Yet the detectives remain convinced there’s a pattern, and they are unwilling to close the file.

Then the conversation flips from accusation to confusion. The detective, already rattled and desperate for answers, begins to probe Walker about “how many” victims there were. Walker’s responses become disjointed. He repeats the phrase “I killed all of them,” but immediately follows it with a concession — “all two of them, doc” — as if trying to reconcile some internal count. The repetition grows frantic: “How many were there? How long will the wicked triumph?” The refrain becomes a haunting chorus rather than a clear confession. The detective demands clarity: are there two victims or more? The answer remains maddeningly ambiguous.

This ambiguity is the film’s cruel pivot. On the surface, Walker may be confessing to two killings. But the mismatch in the forensic evidence and his own contradictory statements point in two darker directions at once: either an innocent man is being framed by circumstantial coincidences that happen to look sinister, or a guilty man is playing a game — confessing in fragments, hinting at additional crimes, and using religious rhetoric to obfuscate the truth. The viewer is forced to live in that uncomfortable grey zone, watching legal procedure collide with the chaos of a man who might be unraveling or strategically performing.

The lawyer presses for psychiatric evaluation, arguing that Walker cannot meaningfully participate in his own defense if he is in extreme mental distress. The detectives, meanwhile, are unwilling to let go; they threaten to proceed and file to have him hospitalized against the defense’s wishes. Meanwhile, whispers about rose beads, hair samples, and scheduling add bureaucratic texture to the crisis but never fully resolve the central question: who killed those women — and how many more are out there?

The climax of the scene is not a tidy confession or a triumphant legal victory. Instead it is a slip into ritualistic dread. Walker’s voice rises and falls between prayer and accusation, threatening vengeance and invoking God. The final image is disquieting: the doctor, mouth moving in prayer or condemnation, repeating, “How long will the wicked triumph?” The detectives exchange uncertain glances. The film leaves us with a knife edge of suspicion: there is enough smoke to believe there may be a fire, but too many mismatches to be sure. The unresolved question — the true count of victims, the role of faith and performance, and whether justice will catch up — becomes the movie’s engine. The audience is left with the worst kind of suspense: not the shock of an immediate reveal, but the creeping, moral uncertainty that the story has only just begun to untangle.