“He was a priest.” Parris hesitated and watched me pull a small notebook out of my hip pocket. When my ballpoint was ready, he added, “We attended seminary together.”
“He was older than Cecilia?”
“Yes. By about twelve years.”
“What was your relationship with Cecilia?”
Parris eyed the carpet again. “We were good friends. As I said, we’d known each other for years.”
I paused and stuck the pen in my mouth. “Father Parris, are you aware of what happened last night?” Parris nodded. His eyes were closed. I waited until he opened them and looked at me. “Would you tell me how you found out?”
Parris slumped back in the chair, and his left hand strayed to his pectoral cross. He toyed with it for a minute, then clasped his hands together. “I heard all the sirens, of course. And then this morning I had occasion to drive into the village. I sprained my ankle last night, and I needed an elastic support. Orlando Garcia, at the trading post, saw me and asked if I’d heard.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I called the clinic immediately.”
“Do you remember what time that was?”
Parris pursed his lips and glanced at his wristwatch, as if the hands might have stopped at the moment in question. “Mid-morning. It was shortly after I’d finished mass here.”
“And then?”
“They told me that Cecilia had been transferred to Albuquerque. To Presbyterian. I drove into the city immediately.”
“So you were aware of the extent of her injuries?”
Nolan Parris stood up with a grunt and limped across to the bookcase. He rested both hands on the top shelf for support. I waited. Finally he said, “I administered last rites. I was there when she died.” He turned and looked at me without releasing his grip on the bookcase. “I made arrangements. A friend of mine at Sacred Heart will say rosary and mass, probably tomorrow. I did all I could. And then I drove back here.”
“Father, are you aware that Cecilia was pregnant?”
“Yes.” His lack of hesitation surprised me.
“Do you know who the father was?”
“I’m not sure I understand how that is relevant to the investigation of the accident,” Parris said without much conviction.
“Do you know?”
He pushed away from the bookcase and sat down on the only straight-backed chair in the room. “I can’t imagine what good these explorations into Cecilia’s private life can do now.”
“Father Parris, a hit-and-run is homicide.” Parris’s face flushed, and his shoulders sagged a little. “So you see, information of any kind might be helpful to us.”
Parris bowed his head, and for a moment I was afraid he’d sunken into one of those hour-long prayers. Eventually, he looked up at me. “Yes, I know who the father was. Or I should say, I know who she said he was.”
“And who’s that?”
“A fellow by the name of Finn.”
“First name?”
“I’m not sure. They’re just initials I think. H.P. maybe. Something like that.”
“Are you aware of where Mr. Finn lives?”
“Oh, he lives around here, all right.” Parris almost chuckled, the sound coming out like more of a snort. “Up at the hot springs. He and a friend camp out there.” He stressed the word friend.
“Do you know the friend?”
“No. But I’ve seen him once or twice. And Cecilia mentioned him now and again. A younger man, I believe.”
“And so you think Finn is the father?”
“Cecilia said he was. She said he paid one or two of her bills at the health clinic.”
“Did Cecilia Burgess have any other children?”
The question seemed to catch Parris off-guard. He watched the rug patterns for a long minute, then settled for a simple shake of the head. A very small shake.
“So the little girl who’s staying with Finn-Daisy, I think her name is-isn’t Cecilia Burgess’s child?”
“No, not as far…” Parris stopped abruptly. His face was anguished. “No, I’m not going to do that.” He was speaking more to himself than to me, and I remained silent. His features twisted with some internal struggle, and I thought for a moment that the young priest was going to weep.
He closed his eyes again for a while, then got out of the chair, limped to the door, and gently closed it.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Forgive me. This is hard.” He made his way slowly to the chair nearest mine. I said nothing, letting him take his time. He surprised me with a faint grin. “I feel as if I’m in the confessional.”
“Some different laws apply,” I said gently.
He nodded sad agreement with that. “The girl living with Finn is my daughter.”
“And Cecilia’s?” I prompted.
“Yes,” Father Nolan Parris said. He looked relieved.
Chapter 9
Over the years, I’ve had lots of practice at not looking as surprised as I felt. This was one of those times. I leaned back in the chair and regarded Parris with interest. Then, trying to sound fatherly instead of intimidating, I said, “So tell me.”
He shrugged. “It’s no long story. As I said, Cecilia’s brother was a close friend of mine. My best friend. We’d known each other since we were two. We went to school together, all the way from kindergarten through college and seminary.” He stopped, arranging his mental cards.
“I wish some of his willpower and discipline had rubbed off on me. I drink too much, Sheriff. Or at least, I did.” He clasped his hands tightly together. “I guess that I was an alcoholic by the time Richard Burgess was killed. That’s what they tell me. Anyway, his death…the stupidity of it…the waste…was all the excuse I needed.
“I don’t remember all the grim details, and I don’t think I ever want to. The next eighteen months were my own private hell. They say a drunk has to hit rock bottom before he’ll admit to being in trouble.” He shook his head. “Do you know where they found me, finally?”
I shook my head and Parris said, “I was living in a cardboard box under an Albuquerque overpass-downtown, where the old railroad station used to be. And living is probably the wrong word. A rookie cop happened by and he thought I was dead. Next best thing. They took me to St. Joseph’s, and one of the nurses recognized me…she remembered when Richard Burgess and I hung out together. We used to be on rotation together as police department chaplains. Los dos padres, they called us. But that was a long time ago.” He hesitated, lost in his memories. My back hurt from sitting so long.
“I didn’t have any close relatives. Just one cousin back east somewhere. The nurse knew about Cecilia Burgess and called her. That was the big mistake, I guess. That’s when it started. I held onto her like a damn leech. I guess I put her through more hell than even last night.”
“I doubt that.”
“Anyway, one thing led to another. I was an accomplished liar. Always have been. I could lie to myself as easily as to anyone else. I made up some of the most wonderfully creative stories…personal sob stories that suckered that poor girl right into my world. I guess it was one of those nights when she was trying to keep me from tearing the apartment apart…that’s when we started.”
“You had sex with her, you mean?”
“Stripped of all the niceties and excuses, that’s the gist of it.”
“And that guilt really set you off?”
Nolan Parris looked up sharply at my tone. He moved his jaw sideways, assessing me. “Maybe you don’t understand, Sheriff. You impress me as the kind of man who’s always known exactly where he stood, who always knows exactly what he believes.”
“I’ve had my moments. Anyone does. But that’s not what’s at issue now. I gather the two of you didn’t stay together long?”
“No. I can remember having long discussions with her about my leaving the clergy, after finding out she was pregnant. But I…I just couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Again Parris looked at me critically, but he wasn’t in a hurry to answer. To let him off the hook a little I asked, “How did the two of you end up here, in San Estevan?”