The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid (33 page)

T
ravers
ing
the fifty yards from
La Viuda’
s
home to
El Erupto del
Rey
took a full ten minutes because I had to hunt for a safe spot to brace the crutch tips with each step.

One of Susannah’s interest
s
in art history is
the religious folk
art
found in
New Mexico
’s
old
adobe
churches.
I also like the work of the
santeros
, but it is the buildings themselves that intrigue me,
especially the small unpretentious ones
constructed
by the local faithful.
There are
362 catalogued
old adobe churches in the state,
most of which were built before the United States existed and
many
that are badly deteriorated.
Thankfully,
the
Archbishop
’
s Commission for the Preservation of New Mexican Churches
is working with
Cornerstones Community Partnerships
and other organizations to save these historical treasures.
T
wo
of my favorites are the
Old San Ysidro Church
in
Corrales
with
the
unusual metal pyramidaltal pyra caps on it
s
buttresses and the
Saint
Francis de Paula Church in Tularosa
with its massive front wall in gleaming whitewash.

I was not surprised th
at
Susannah
wanted to visit the local
chu
r
ch before we left. Its thick adobe walls were
coated with
traditional clay plaster and supported by rounded bu
ttresses. The front door was
rough-hewn pine. It must have weighed two hundred pounds, but it swung open easily.
A central aisle ran between gigantic log pillars that rose thirty feet to the ceiling. There were pews between the pillars and walls. There were no windows
.
A small light
behind the chancel w
as
the only
source of
illumination.
Niches in the walls
contain
ed
the Stations of the Cross
.
The altar was made of tin and brightly painted.

I sat in one of the pews enjoying the cool still air as Susannah examined the work of the artisans in the niches.

She returned to me and said, “I think I’ll make confession.”

“Good idea. You need forgiveness for corrupting the youth of La Reina and practicing witchcraft.”

“Practicing witchcraft?”

“Yeah, that’s why
La Viuda de
Cheche Zaragosa Medrano
wouldn’t let
you
stay in her house. She said you’re a
bruja
.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Maybe because of the way you beguiled poor innocent Ernesto.”

She shrugged,
stepped over to a confessional and closed the door behind her.

From my seat in the near dark and behind one of the pillars, I watched the priest emerge from his office and enter his side of the booth.
He wore the
cappa
nera
of the Dominicans.
They were not in there long, which I took as a good sign. I watched the priest intently when he returned to his office.

I met Susannah outside.

“Ready to go
?” she asked.

“Not quite. I’m also going to make a confession.”

She looked understandably perplexed. “You’re not Catholic.”

“That’s why you have to give me a few pointers.”

I asked several questions, the last one being
how the priest would know to come out from his offic
e. I didn’t want to sit
in the booth
for hours waiting. I’m claustrophobic.

“They just know, Hubie. They have holy powers.
I’ll meet you at the truck in front of the bar.
”

The holy power in this case was a string attached to the door and running through a hole in the wall, probably
to a bell in the office.

When it came time to do so, I said “
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
. It has been over thirty years since my last confession.”

“We can talk of that shortly. What do you wish to confess?”

“I was digging illegally for ancient artifacts and discovered a human body.”

There was a long silence.

“Where did this hap did thipen?”

“In a cliff dwelling over the Rio Doloroso.”

After another long silence, he said, “Please step out to the pews.”

We walked over to them
. H
e gestured
for
me to enter. I sat down a few feet from the end
,
leaving him a place which he took.

He said, “I think it best that we continue this conversation outside the protection of the confessional. Do you object?”

“No.”

“Did you report the body to the police?”

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

“I thought it was the remains of a prehistoric person, a mummy so to speak.”

“Bu
t you have changed your opinion?
”

“Yes. A friend whose opinion I value believes the body is a contemporary person. She
and I analyzed and debated it
. I won’t bother
you
with the details. The upshot was that I decided to go back and examine the body to determine whether it was ancient or modern.
But the body was no longer there. It had been moved.
”

The priest sat in thought, his thumbnail under his front teeth.

“What do you deduce from the absence of the body?” he finally asked.

“My friend believes the
missing body
proves
it was a contemporary person. One who was murdered. The murderer knew I had discovered the body so he moved it to cover his crime.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think it remains possible that it was prehistoric.”

“If that is so, there
would be
no motive for its removal.”

“I’m afraid there could be. It would not be to conceal a murder. It would be for profit. Mummies are in great demand in the illegal antiquities trade.”

He shook his head slowly and stared down at the floor.
Perhaps he was
in prayer.

“What steps have you taken since discovering the body has been moved?”

“I talked to my lawyer and my priest.”

He smiled. “In that order?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

He waved it off. “What did your lawyer advise?”

“He said
t
he purpose o
f
the law requiring th
e reporting of a body is so
the p
olice can investigate. Since I no
longer know where the body is, that purpose cannot be met
. S
o I have no legal obligation to report the initial discovery.”

“And your priest?”

“He said I should ignore the letter of the law and do what I think is right.”

“Always sound advice. May I ask his name?”

“Father Groaz.”

“A diocesan priest. I often think they are closer to the people than we religious priests.”

“Shouldn’t all priests be religious?”

He laughed. “Unfortunately, some are not, as the world has recently discovered. But I wasn’t using the term in that way. A ‘religious priest’ is one who belongs to an order and has taken the three vows – poverty, obedience and celibacy.
Diocesan priests are bound only to celibacy, although they are in fact obedient and rarely wealthy.”

“How did you know Father
Groaz
is a diocesan priest?”

“Because there is no saint named Groaz. When we enter the orders, we take a new name, and it name, a must be the name of a saint.”

“What name did you choose?”

“Jerome.”

“So,” I asked
him
,
“s
hall I call you Father Jerome or
Alvar Nu
ñ
ez?
”

35

It was
now
his turn to confess.

“It started
in that booth,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of the confessional
.
“
A parishioner told me he had committed two sins. The first was participation
in the dark rites of the P
enitentes. You are aware of this sect?”

I nodded. Like most people w
ho grow up in New Mexico, I
heard tales of the P
enitentes bu
t had little factual knowledge.

“The second thing he confessed was witnessing a death
at the cliff dwelling, a location they
use
to e
nsure they
will
not be discovered or interrupted. He sought forgiveness for his failure to report the death.
”

“H
e did
n’t tell you who the victim was?
”