A Merciful Fate

EIGHT

Mercy decided that Art Juergen looked like a man who enjoyed retirement.

He wore a pink golfing shirt and tan pants, appearing as if he’d just stopped in after nine holes. His hair had a little more silver since she’d last seen him, and his skin indicated he’d spent a lot of time on the course.

After shaking his hand, she watched as he met Jeff and Eddie. Within thirty seconds the three men were talking as if they’d known each other for years. Art had a knack for putting people immediately at ease. Eddie hadn’t crossed paths with Art in Portland, and Mercy saw he was making up for it. He peppered the former agent with questions.

“You don’t know how stoked I was to hear that something turned up after all these years,” Art told them as he took a seat in the small conference room. “It’s that case for me. The one that I’ve always wondered about.”

“I don’t know if the new lead will take us anywhere,” Mercy said. “Yes, we’ve got the remains of one of the robbers and some money bags, but will it help us find the other men?”

“Won’t know until you try,” Art said earnestly. “Every few years the robbery would be featured on a TV news show or turn up in a magazine, and the leads would start pouring in again.” He stroked his chin, a faraway look in his eyes. “When the investigation started, there were over a hundred agents working it. Stories were in the news every day, and tips flooded our phones. It took a lot of manpower to follow up on every call, but we did.”

“I can’t imagine,” Jeff stated. “Hopefully it won’t hit as hard this time.”

“You’ve heard from the press?” Art asked.

“Just one tabloid so far. We’ve done our best to keep a lid on it for now.”

Surprise lit Art’s face. “You’re lucky. You’ll have time to get organized before the rush.”

“I don’t think anyone can be prepared enough for that,” added Eddie dryly.

Mercy had watched footage of the FBI’s old press conferences on the robbery. Art Juergen had spoken at each one. He’d been unflappable and serious, projecting firm control of the investigation. A good television face for the FBI.

“How helpful was Shane Gamble in the beginning?” Mercy asked.

“Shane Gamble.” Art leaned forward, resting his hands on the table, and met each investigator’s eyes. “Gamble was always cocky, never repentant for the death of that guard or the loss of the money. I swear he looked forward to our conversations . . . I’ve never met anyone quite like him. He seemed to get off on bantering with me.”

“Yes.” Mercy blinked as she realized she’d spoken out loud. All eyes turned to her. “He’s still the same.”

“Part of me admired him,” Art admitted. “This young punk had orchestrated one of the boldest robberies in the States and succeeded in stumping the FBI. Not a lot of people have done that.”

“He murdered another inmate,” Mercy stated. “He deserves no admiration.”

“I know.” Shame flicked across Art’s face. “Does he still claim the inmate was paid to murder him?”

“He does,” Mercy said. “For someone who’s pretty smart, why does he make such an outrageous claim? It doesn’t fit with the rest of his personality.”

“I’d wondered the same thing,” Art told her. “We investigated and found nothing to support it. No payments to the murdered man or his family. I think he made it up to cover for losing his temper. Maybe he believes it himself by now.”

“I can see that. Maybe it does fit with his psyche.” Mercy thought hard, remembering Shane’s confidence during her interview. “He acts like he’s completely successful even though he’s been in prison for nearly thirty years. Maybe he has a mental block to admitting failure on his part. He has to cast the rationale for the murder on someone else.”

“Very possible,” Jeff agreed. He looked to Art. “What about the search for the other four men?”

Art blew out a huge breath and slumped back in his chair. “We had so much data rolling in, we must have missed something. We got nowhere on the other four. It was like they vanished into thin air.”

“But your gut said . . . ,” Eddie prompted.

The older agent grinned. “Canada. I couldn’t get it out of my head that they’d vanished into a remote part of Canada.”

“That describes most of the country,” Eddie said.

“They were all avid campers,” said Art. “Snow or sun. Gamble’s parents told me their son and his friends loved to disappear into the Oregon wilderness for a few days. Gave his mom sleepless nights, but his father supported it. I kept imagining the other thieves in a remote cabin, toasting their success.” He shook his head, a touch of wonder in his eyes. “The image still sticks with me.”

“Well, we know that one of the thieves was in a remote cabin,” said Eddie. “At least two were there if Mull was murdered by one of the others.” Eddie turned to Mercy. “Do you want me to inform Mull’s family? Dr. Lockhart emailed me about the notification this morning, and I told her we’d handle it in person. They live in Salem.”

“Can you do that today?” Mercy asked.

“Absolutely,” said Eddie.

“I wish Gamble’s parents were still alive,” said Mercy. “I want to talk to them.”

“Good people. But they were never the same after their son committed murder.” Art’s face fell. “His mother developed lung cancer a few years ago. I visited Gamble’s parents several times while she was sick to offer my support. We’d gotten to know each other over the years, and I could relate to their struggles. I swear Gamble’s father died of a broken heart after his wife died.” Art swallowed audibly, dropping his gaze to the table. “My wife died from lung cancer too.”

Mercy’s heart sank. She’d forgotten that part. Art had rarely mentioned his wife during her time in Portland. His wife had been in her early thirties when she died—Mercy’s age now. The bits and pieces Mercy had learned of her death, she’d heard from other agents; Art hadn’t wanted to talk about it. The pain of his loss flooded the room.

“I’m so sorry, Art.”

Eddie and Jeff echoed her words.

He gave a brave but weak smile. “It’s been over twenty years. Time helps but doesn’t fully heal, you know?”

The room was silent for a long second, and Mercy couldn’t figure out a polite way to continue the robbery conversation.

“Sorry about going off track, folks.” Art’s voice was stronger. “Back to the Gamble robbers . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if they were all dead by now.”

Mercy admired how he pushed past a topic that was clearly painful for him.

“The case has been too quiet,” said Art. “Dead people don’t talk. With four missing people, someone should have talked or bragged by now.”

“Three missing people since Mull has turned up,” Eddie corrected him. “What was the consensus on the mystery driver? New friend?”

“That was a weird one. Honestly, I don’t know what to think. I suspect Gamble wasn’t lying about Trevor Whipple bringing in someone at the last moment, but why did this person’s family never claim their son or father was missing?”

“Surely there were male missing person reports of the right age,” argued Mercy.

“None that panned out,” said Art. “I spent more time trying to figure out the mystery driver’s identity than on any other aspect of the case.”

“The guard who survived didn’t have a description of the driver, right?” asked Mercy.

“Nope. He said the driver never stepped foot out of the car. He faintly remembered that there was even a car. The guard was really rattled.”

“With good reason,” said Eddie. “His partner was murdered. What was the surviving guard’s name again?”

“Gary Chandler,” supplied Mercy. His interviews in the file were nightmareworthy. His trauma painfully echoed through his words.

“Gary hated dealing with us,” said Art. “It brought back the ordeal he’d suffered every time. I know he got psychiatric help after the robbery, but I swear the incident altered something fundamental in him. He reminded me of the guys who came back from war with PTSD.”

“Can’t blame him,” Mercy said quietly. “The other guard died in his arms.” A shudder shot through her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Eddie’s and Jeff’s concerned gazes. She’d been in Gary Chandler’s shoes when her brother Levi died. “I hope he’s willing to speak with us.”

“Might be better if I call him,” Art suggested, scrolling through his phone. “He knows me. I’ll tell him to talk to you.”

“Perfect. Hopefully I can see him today while Eddie notifies the Mull family.”

“I don’t think Gary has much on his schedule these days,” said Art. “Never had another job as far as I know.”

“For thirty years?” Skepticism rang in Jeff’s voice. “That seems extreme.”

“Can’t judge what’s going on in another man’s brain,” the retired FBI agent stated.

“True,” said Mercy.

Gary Chandler was forever altered. The children of the murdered armored car guard had lost their father. The families of the thieves had been left in limbo for thirty years.

At least today Ellis Mull’s family would get an answer. But not the answer they’d hoped for.

How many lives has this robbery shattered?

Truman had to Google the town of Gervais, Oregon.

Sandy’s ex-husband, Lionel Kerns, currently resided in Gervais and worked for an RV manufacturer.

Truman eyed the online map. Gervais was about a three-hour drive from Bend and sat an hour south of Portland. The location didn’t eliminate Lionel as a suspect in Sandy’s vandalism. Looking through Lionel’s priors, Truman found a DUI conviction from four years ago and a recent assault conviction. He dug a little deeper and discovered there were no arrest records from the time when Lionel had lived in Portland with Sandy.

But Sandy said he assaulted her.

She never pressed charges?

He sighed and slumped back in his desk chair. He’d seen it before. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d pushed for a battered wife or girlfriend to press charges against her partner. A blank look would take over the woman’s face, and she’d avoid his eyes. Sandy didn’t seem like the type to let assault slide, but she might be a different woman today than she’d been a decade ago.

Did she change out of necessity?

He’d never seen Sandy on a date or heard her name associated with a man’s in the rounds of town gossip. This morning was the first time he’d given half a thought to Sandy’s personal life, when Samuel surprised him with his obvious feelings toward her.

How long has Samuel been interested?

Since Truman had known Sandy, she’d been one of the unofficial town leaders, joining Ina Smythe, Pearl and Rose Kilpatrick, and Barbara Johnson in their frequent plans to better their community.

From the police department lobby came a familiar voice and the distinctive thumps of a cane on the floor.

Speak of the devil.

Truman stepped away from his desk, headed down the hall, and found Ina Smythe giving her grandson, Lucas, a lecture about the dust that had built up behind his desk’s monitor. Truman bit the inside of his cheek as his big office manager promptly ran a damp cloth over the offending area while Ina pointed out other places he’d missed.

“Truman!” Ina turned her cheek for a kiss and he obeyed.

Ina had been a pseudoaunt to him during the high school summers Truman had spent in Eagle’s Nest with his uncle, his yearly escape from San Jose city life. Later Ina had recommended Truman for the chief of police job after a serious injury as a cop in the big city had nearly killed him. He’d been left wondering if he’d ever return to police work until Ina’s offer came through.

“Let’s talk in your office.” She painfully headed in that direction, leaning heavily on her cane. Arthritis and bad knees had troubled her for years.

Not “Do you have a minute?” or “Can we talk?”

He smiled. That was Ina. This was her town.

As he followed the determined woman, a small pang vibrated through his heart; her usual limp was more pronounced, and she seemed more frail than usual.

He put the thoughts out of his mind. Ina Smythe wouldn’t allow death to tell her what to do.

With a heavy sigh, she sat in a chair across from his desk and waved him to his seat with her cane. He grinned and sat.

“How’s the boy?” she asked, fixing her hawklike stare on him.

“Ollie? Good.”

Frustration flashed, and she waggled her cane at him. “You know what I mean. He found that body two days ago. He handling it all right?”

“Ollie’s an outdoorsman . . . and this wasn’t his first encounter with death. He’s doing as well as can be expected for an eighteen-year-old.”

“I get a good feeling from that boy. He’s terrified to make eye contact with me, but he’s got better manners than my own kids ever did.”

“He likes cookies,” Truman suggested. “And you should offer a treat to his dog next time you see him. Those two things will win him over.”

“He’s got a past.”

It wasn’t a question, but Truman knew she wanted an explanation. Curiosity shone in her eyes. Few people knew Ollie’s history, and he liked it that way. The orphan didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for him.

“That’s Ollie’s story to tell. Like I said, try cookies.”

“Hmph.” She didn’t care for his answer, but she accepted it. “They identify the body yet?”

“They did yesterday evening. He wasn’t a local.”

“Who was it?”

Truman shifted in his seat, making his chair squeak, knowing the FBI hadn’t released the identity. They were waiting to notify Mull’s family and trying to keep the media coverage to a minimum.

She held up a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find out soon enough.”

Relief flooded him. It was still ingrained in him to answer Ina’s questions.

I’m not a teenager anymore.

“Why are you waiting so long for a wedding to that woman?”

The question out of left field didn’t surprise him. This was typical of conversations with Ina; she collected information.

“I assume you’re referring to Mercy. We both know she doesn’t rush into anything, and we wanted to wait until—”

“Rose has her baby and marries Nick.”

Truman nodded.

“I heard about their engagement. Took him long enough. I had them pegged as a couple almost two years ago.”

“What?” Ina had managed to surprise him.

“I saw the way he looked at her at the Fourth of July picnic the year before last and knew it was just a matter of time. Like your Mercy, Nick doesn’t rush into anything. He takes his time. Does things right. But I knew he’d made his mind up back then.”

“Huh.” Truman was speechless. Mercy had believed Nick’s interest was relatively new.

“He’s got good character, that one. I remember when his wife died, and I wondered if he’d ever recover. I knew he’d wished they’d had children. Now with Rose pregnant, that man will have two people to cherish. That baby couldn’t have a better father.”

Truman could only nod, his throat thickening. Some men would struggle with the parentage of Rose’s baby. Nick wasn’t one of them.

Why am I surprised when Ina reveals how well she knows her people?

“What do you know about Sandy’s time before she moved to Eagle’s Nest?” he asked, hoping for Ina’s insight into the woman’s past.

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Is this about the vandalism at her place?”

“Partially.”

“What has she told you?” Ina asked cautiously.

She knows.

But he saw she was holding back, not wanting to betray a confidence. Ina knew when stories were appropriate to spread and when to hold her tongue.

Unlike some of the other gossips in town.

“She told us about Lionel.”

Ina relaxed back into her chair, tucking her cane between her knees as she considered Truman’s question. “It took me a few years to get the story out of Sandy. Anyone who met that woman could tell she had a past. I swear she looked over her shoulder for years, always expecting something horrible to come for her.”

“She’s suggested her ex might be responsible for the vandalism.”

Ina gazed out the window, her fingertips tapping the arch of her cane. “Maybe. But she hasn’t heard from him in ten years.” Her sharp eyes abruptly met his. “Right? Don’t tell me she knows he’s creeping around.” Fury burned in her gaze, and Truman worried for Lionel.

“She’s not positive about that. We had to pull the story out of her, she seemed—”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Samuel and me.”

“Ahhh.” A knowing look crossed her face, and she nodded.

“Don’t tell me . . .”

“Oh yes. I’ve noticed how your officer looks at her.”

“I feel like I’m constantly in the dark in this town. Not a good place for someone in my position,” Truman groused.

She brushed aside his comment with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t worry about it. I’d tell you if it was important. This is just people stuff.”

“The people of Eagle’s Nest are my business.”

“Their personal lives aren’t.”

He bit back his next comment. But they’re yours?

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, they’re mine. You’re in charge of the laws and enforcement. The happiness of the people is mine. If I can do something to improve someone’s quality of life, I’m going to do it. Sometimes that means asking a lot of questions and maybe sticking my nose into places people don’t like. Anyway, Sandy told me about that jerk who beat on her and made me swear to keep it silent. I have until now. Do you think there’s any chance it’s him?”

“He’s got a recent assault conviction and lives about three hours away. It doesn’t rule him out.” He paused. “He doesn’t have a record from the time he was married to Sandy.”

Ina pressed her lips together and slowly nodded. “She wasn’t up to it. She has a lot of regret about not pressing charges. I hope that hasn’t come back to haunt her.”

“I’ll keep looking into it. We’re putting up cameras at her B&B tomorrow.”

“You’re looking into the problems at my daughter-in-law’s place too, right?”

This is the real purpose of her visit. Bree.

“We are . . . It’s possibly connected to the issues at the bed-and-breakfast,” Truman said. “We haven’t had vandalism reports for months, so it’s hard to believe that two completely unrelated but similar vandalism cases occurred within a week.”

“Doesn’t feel right.”

“I agree.” Truman sighed. “All the graffiti feels personalized to the victim. But it still could be the same person with two axes to grind.”

“Bree is upset. She feels her horses are in danger.” Exasperation filled Ina’s tone. “She’s more concerned about them than the X on her truck.”

“She has every right to be upset. I suspect it’s easier for her to focus on the horses than consider that the vandal intended a message for her. No one wants to feel targeted.”

“Lucas can’t be out there all hours of the day, watching out for his mother.”

“Neither can we,” Truman said gently.

Waves of dissatisfaction rolled off his visitor, and her knuckles whitened as she gripped her cane.

“I know you’re concerned,” Truman stated. “Bree is a priority to me. Sandy is too, and I’m doing my best to figure out what’s happening.”

Ina had the grace to look away. “I know you’re good at your job . . . but I had to say something,” she said in a low voice. “It’s my family.”

“You wouldn’t be the Ina I’ve always known if you hadn’t said something,” Truman said with sympathy. “I’d be worried if I hadn’t received a phone call or visit over this.”

“Not asking for special treatment.”

“Everyone gets the most special treatment I can give.”

The corners of her mouth slowly turned up. “You’re a good chief, Truman Daly.”

“Why do I feel like you’re not complimenting me?” he asked, raising his brows.

“Mighta been a compliment for myself. I knew you were the best for the job.” She stood, pushing up with one quivering arm to keep her balance.

“How are you doing, Ina?” Watching her struggle hurt something integral in his soul.

She glared at him, dark eyes flashing. “Why?”

He held up his hands. “Just asking.”

“Don’t want to be fussed over.”

“But you’ll keep me in the loop?” He held her gaze, relaying his concern.

She paused. “Of course. Now get back to work and let me say goodbye to my grandson.” She turned her back to him and shuffled out to the hall.

Truman stayed put at his desk, following her order and wondering if she’d actually tell him if she had any serious health problems.

She protected her privacy with an iron wall but could easily convince others to share their biggest secrets.

He turned back to his computer screen and studied the image from Lionel Kerns’s driver’s license, committing it to memory. He sent the photo to the rest of his officers. According to Kerns’s stats, he was six foot three and nearly three hundred pounds. He had a silvering beard and a wide nose. Truman studied the eyes, growing angry that the large man had believed he had the right to beat on his wife. Sandy was tall and strong, but not enough to defend herself against a man of that size.

If Lionel Kerns was messing with Sandy or Bree, Truman wanted to be the first person to lay a hand on him.

My town.