The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid (34 page)

Alvar – Father Jerome, I st
ill d
idn’t
know what to call him
–
let out a long
sigh
as if he had been
holding his breath. “
No. I wi
sh he had.
I struggled with this information
for several weeks,
trying, as your Father
Groaz
advised you, to
ignore the letter of the law and do what I think is right.
But like you, I was hesitant and unsure.”

“I know information received in confession is sacrosanct,” I said, “but couldn’t you
have
report
ed
the fact of the death to the police without revealing who had told you?”

He let out another sigh and shook his head.
“
I could have done that. But I had to consider t
he consequences
. I didn’t want the police trying to extract c
onfidential information from me or my parishioners.
B
eing questioned aggressively by the police would hardly qualify me as a martyr.
My
larger
concern was my parishioners.”

He looked up at me. “The P
enitentes w
e
re virtually in control of this parish when I arrived. The deacons and I have made great strides to reduce their influence. Their
morada
is gone. Their number is reduced. They have been driven underground.
The last thing we need is the police questioning the parishioners. Everyone would
suspect that
I had tipped the police about the death. Even though I would have withheld the name, it would destroy their confidence in me and, more importantly, the Church. I
also did not want
the police trying to discover who made the confession, pitting neighbor against neighbor, child against parent. It would tear this community apart. And yet…
i
t did not seem right simply to remain silent. The deceased person deserved better than an anonymous gra
ve. His family deserves to know his fate. The people who participated in his death
–
I will not
quite
call it a murder
–
should
be called to account for their actions.”

“So you decided to come to me.”

He nodded.
“I remembered a newspaper article about you in which you were described as someone who has long been suspected of illegally digging up old pots.
The article
caught my attention because of its unusual headline,
Pot
Thief with a
Conscience
?”

“I remember that article
,” I said
.
“
I had returned some sacred pots to
the
San Roque Pueblo. I did it because it was the right thing to do. The last thing I wanted was publicity.”

“I thought it was a perfect compromise
,” he said
.
“
If you found the body and reported it, then the authorities could identify the victim, notify his family and arrange for a proper burial. And this community would be spared an ordeal. But compromises are never perfect.
By involving you, the villains
discovered
their misdeed was known. They have moved the body
. Now it will never be found.”

“
size="+0" face="Palatino Linotype">Y
ou have
no
idea where they might have taken the body? Is there an
other secret location they use
for their ceremonies?”

“
No.
” He looked down and shook his head. “My meddling has only made things worse.” He looked back up at me. “I’m sorry to have involved you in this sordid mess.”

“No apology necessary. I’m sorry I didn’t go directly to the police as my friend suggested.”

A slight smile formed on his lips. “Over thirty years
since your last confession
?
”

“Yes, and the
person
who heard it was not Catholic.”

“Nor
, I would hazard, are you
.”

I admitted
it
. Then I said, “I have
a question for you. Since you’
ve taken a vow of poverty, how did you have the m
oney to
pay the teenager for
the pot you sold
me?”

“I
never said I paid him. I said I
got
it from him. He brought it to me out of gratitude for helping him
recover from a drug habit.
We are not supposed to receive gifts other than small tokens such as cookies or a bottle of inexpensive wine. I know those rules exi
st
for a legitimate reason. Personally, I find poverty to be spiritually liberating. But it is socially awkward to refuse a gift from a parishioner
, especially one a
s
fragile as this young man
. So I
accepted the gift, knowing
I couldn’t keep it. When I hit upon the plan involving you, it was also an opportunity to divest myself of the pot in what I thought was a good cause.”

“I should have known something was fishy when you didn’t bargain hard and also threw in the location of the cliff dwelling.”

“I have no experience in such matters.”

“What did you do with the thousand dollars I gave you?”

He smiled. “I told the
teenager and his mother
that I enjoyed having
the pot
but had to sell it because we are not supposed to
become
attached to material goods. That was easier for
both of them
to accept than turning it down when
it was
first
offered
to me
. Knowing I like
d
having it was especially important to
the mother
because—“

“She made it.”

He was
flabbergasted. “How did you know?”

“I found a shard in that cliff dwelling before I found the body. Something about the design made me uncomfortable. I didn’t figure out what it was until I made a pot based on that shard. When I plac
e
d the new pot in the shop, I noted how different it was from the one you sold me. They could not both have been from the same tribe. Then I examined the one you brought.
The pieces fit together like
two pieces of a
jigsaw puzzle
.”

“Why shouldn’t they? They were from the same pot.”

I shook my head.
“Prehistoric pot
s
were
not made on wheels with procels with ssed clay. There are always
irregularities and little bubbles. When they break, small pieces fall off along the
fissure
. Only a new pot can receive a clean break.”

He laughed. “It was foolish
of me
to try to fool an expert, but it worked at first. I had to break the pot so it could pass as ancient. But to get back to your original question, I gave the money to the woman for her son’s college fund.”

“She is talented,” I said.
“
If she has another pot as good as that one, she can add to that fund by selling it to me.”

If I ever get enough money to start buying pots again, I thought to myself.

“I will make that known to her.”

We looked at each other for a few seconds. I can’t be sure how he felt, but I sensed a bond between us.

I rose to go. He stepped into the aisle so
that
I could pass. We shook hands. I started towards the door.

After a few steps, I turned back and asked, “Surely you don’t own a car?”

He was puzzled briefly
then laughed
. “Oh, the drivers license I showed
you
. I got that on my sixteenth birthday at the
DMV office in Hatch. I’m not sure I actually knew how to drive. But it’s a small farming
community
. You have to have a
car
to get to the fields
, so they were pretty lax
.
I renew it every five years in case I ever need a form of identification
.”

“You miss Hatch?”

“I miss the smell of fresh green chile
roasting
.”

“
Vaya con Dios
,” I said.

He
extended his hand and ma
de
the sign of the cross
.
”God be with you.”

36

El Bastard
o
was waiting for me when I stepped outside the church.

Before I could turn to grab the heavy door, h
is hand shot in my direction. But it was open.

“I just wanted to say goodbye.”

I accepted his handshake warily.

“I was already drunk when I heard you were with Sirena. I don’t even remember the fight, but she said you beat me fair and square, so no hard feelings,
que no
?”

“No hard feelings
,“ I agreed. “
I admire you for taking it like a man.”

The smile on his face revealed how much he liked th
e compliment
.

“Sirena, she also told me you two were just chaperones and not really on a date. She says I have to think before I get mad. I know she is right, but I’m not too good at thinking.”

He looked me up and down.
“Even
with me
drunk, I can’t believe a
little
shrimp wearing a cast could
knock me out
. You must be one tough
vato
.”