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.”