A Merciful Fate (Mercy Kilpatrick Book 5) Page 7

  “Tell me what you think is going on,” Samuel said patiently. “I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”

  Tell him. Every fiber of her being told her she was wrong and then a split second later screamed that she was right. The conflict was tearing her apart.

  She looked at her boots and rapidly spoke before she could change her mind again. “It could be my ex.” A weight lifted from her shoulders, and she tentatively met Samuel’s gaze again.

  Samuel’s expression hadn’t changed.

  “Ex-boyfriend?” Samuel asked.

  “Ex-husband,” she whispered.

  “Why do you suspect him?” Samuel’s voice maintained its calm tone.

  Sandy finally glanced at Truman. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner.”

  “You thought he was a possibility when I was here the other day?” he asked.

  “I didn’t want to consider it. It’s been over ten years since . . .” She swallowed and tightened her crossed arms.

  “Since what?” Samuel asked sharply, his brows coming together.

  “Since I’ve heard from him.”

  “Why so long?” the officer pressed.

  “Because I changed my name and moved here without telling him.” Only two other people in Eagle’s Nest knew those facts. Now the number had doubled. It felt as if she’d stepped off a pier into black, fathomless water, her deepest secrets dragging her down.

  “What did he do to you?” Samuel asked gently.

  “I’m jumping to conclusions,” she forced out in an upbeat voice, trying to pull herself up to the surface. “I’m sure it’s just teenagers.” She smiled, knowing it was fake.

  Neither was fooled.

  “You don’t believe that,” said Truman as Samuel nodded. “Why would your ex do this?”

  Sandy closed her eyes for a long moment, a rushing sound in her ears. “Almost no one knows about this.”

  “We’ll keep it as quiet as we can,” Samuel promised.

  Can I do this?

  “I left an abusive situation in Portland. I was terrified he would injure me in a permanent way if I didn’t get out of there.”

  “Or kill you.” Samuel’s tone was flat, but anger projected from his eyes. Sandy looked away from the heat of his fury, but it comforted her instead of scaring her.

  She’d been lucky to have a fresh start in Eagle’s Nest. Now she had true friends and a spine of steel. But as soon as her ex-husband entered her thoughts, she’d become that woman—the woman who watched every word she said and tiptoed around her husband for fear of reprisal.

  An abused wife.

  Sandy despised the woman she used to be. She had fought and cried and struggled to get rid of that woman. But with a few broken windows and spray paint, she had reappeared.

  What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

  I should be fucking Wonder Woman.

  “I was stupid to stay as long as I did, but I was barely eighteen when we married, and he was ten years older. He’d convinced me that I was the one with the problem—I was the one who needed to learn to make our marriage work.” She shook her head in disgust. “He was the king of gaslighting. It took a lot of therapy before I understood how he’d manipulated my thoughts and actions for twenty years. The physical stuff started toward the end. Damn, I was such a stereotype. I believed him when he said a punch was an accident. And then I believed him when he promised it’d never happen again. He begged and pleaded for me to forgive him as he explained how much strain he was under at work. Over and over I gave him more chances. I hid bruises, a broken arm, and black eyes. I honestly believed it was my fault. But when he knocked me unconscious, I knew I was done.”

  Both men watched her with wide eyes, no blame or pity present.

  Thank God.

  She couldn’t stomach pity. Pity was for victims, and her days of being a victim were far in the past.

  “I moved out while he was at work. I hired a divorce lawyer who also helped me start a new life. With a new name.” She raised her chin, making herself look both of them in the eye. “During our divorce he threatened multiple times to kill me. My spousal support payments were removed from his paycheck because he refused to pay.” She gave a nervous laugh. “That turned out for the best. The state sent the payments to me, so he never knew where to find me.”

  “What’s his name?” Samuel spoke softly, but his command was clear.

  Sandy cocked her head as she met the officer’s gaze and paused before answering. “Lionel Kerns.”

  “What’s your real name?” he continued in the same gentle tone.

  “Jada.” She pressed her lips closed. The name hadn’t crossed her lips in years; it belonged to another woman. And she’d sworn she’d never say Jada Kerns again. Lionel’s last name was like a brand that’d been forcibly burned into her soul. It was best forgotten.

  “Jada. That’s lovely,” Samuel said.

  Truman jerked his gaze from her to Samuel, confusion on his face. She took little notice. Samuel’s compassion felt like a lifeline, one that was slowly hauling her out of the rough, black water.

  Samuel understood and didn’t seem to think any less of her.

  Male judgment about her previous life was one of her worst fears. It’d kept her single and avoidant, believing no man could understand. Or, worse, that any man would be the same as Lionel.

  Samuel looked at Truman, a desire to hunt in his gaze. “Let’s find out where Lionel Kerns is these days.”

  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 tow
n 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.