“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.”