A Merciful Fate

by Elliot, Kendra

  Anyway, Ollie had found the remains; therefore, Truman was interested.

  No weapons were in the shack. No personal items. And clearly a lot of time had gone by since the death, because most of the bones were bare and the fabrics had nearly disintegrated. Possibly decades had passed.

  “Look here,” said Bolton.

  Truman turned at Bolton’s sharp tone. He had lifted part of a sleeping bag with a stick in his gloved hand. The rotted fabric fell into tiny pieces, but the filling stayed intact. Truman spotted what had caught Bolton’s eye. There were several small, flat bags under the sleeping bag’s remains. They looked heavy duty, made out of a vinyl that hadn’t decomposed.

  Bolton slid one out with his foot. It wasn’t much bigger than his shoe and had one zippered side.

  Truman could make out the faded logo. A big number one.

  Below the logo it read FIRST INTERSTATE BANK.

  Bank money . . . or money on its way to a bank.

  Curiosity got the better of Bolton and he unzipped it. “Empty.” He checked the others. “All empty.”

  Truman glanced back at the remains in the corner. “We may have found the motive.”

  “And I might have to hand over this case.” Bolton sighed. “If this is related to a bank robbery, it belongs to the FBI.”

  TWO

  FBI special agent Mercy Kilpatrick hid her excitement as she headed toward the meeting room. She’d never landed a notorious case before.

  A nearly thirty-year-old armored car robbery. A murdered driver. Multiple missing suspects. And now a dead body who might be one of those suspects.

  Fascinating.

  In the Portland FBI office this case would have gone to the violent crimes department, but here in Bend’s tiny office, everyone did a little of everything. She’d studied all the photos that Deschutes County had sent over from the cabin. A few minutes of investigating had pointed her toward the most likely source of the money bags. The more she dug, the bigger the situation got, and the more questions she had. Adrenaline buzzed in her veins.

  But first she needed to update her coworkers.

  “Someone looks excited,” said Special Agent Eddie Peterson as she entered the meeting room. He’d followed her lead by moving to the small Bend office from Portland. The young urban agent had discovered a love for the outdoors.

  “I thought I was hiding it,” Mercy confessed as she set her notes on the table.

  “You are. But your eyes give you away.”

  “Did Jeff tell you to meet him here?”

  “Yep. I suspect he wants me to give you a hand.”

  Mercy should have figured that. If this case was what she believed it was, more than one agent would be needed to work it.

  Their boss, Jeff Garrison, entered with Darby Cowan and Melissa. Jeff was Mercy’s age, tall, and the most competent supervisor she’d ever had. Darby was an amazing data analyst and always dressed in practical clothing that suggested she was minutes away from taking a fifteen-mile hike. Mercy suspected the older woman worked only to support her outdoor pursuits of camping, skiing, and kayaking. The office manager, Melissa, was a little younger, cheerful and chatty, and wore a smile every single day. Everyone took a seat and looked at Mercy expectantly.

  “You’ve all heard that empty money bags were found with remains in a shack about an hour out of town,” she started.

  Everyone nodded.

  “From my preliminary investigating, I believe those bags are from the armored car robbery near Portland’s downtown First Interstate Bank nearly thirty years ago.”

  Jeff already knew this fact, but Melissa and Eddie leaned forward in their seats.

  “The Gamble-Helmet Heist?” Eddie stumbled over the words. “That was one of the biggest robberies in the Pacific Northwest. Everyone has theories about what happened to the thieves and money. It’s second only to the D. B. Cooper case.”

  “Cooper was the guy who hijacked a passenger jet and then jumped out with a bunch of money and was never seen again, right?” asked Darby. “I know about that one, but why haven’t I heard of this Gamble-Helmet case?”

  “I remember when the Gamble-Helmet group robbed the armored car,” said Melissa. “I was just a kid, but it was all over the news for weeks. Wasn’t one of the drivers murdered?”

  “Yes,” answered Mercy. “Five men robbed the truck, and the one who shot the driver was caught. Shane Gamble. He’s currently in the Two Rivers prison in Umatilla. The other four men vanished along with the money. Nearly two million dollars.”

  “My brothers used to search in the woods for the Gamble-Helmet money when we went hiking,” Melissa added. “They were convinced it’d been buried somewhere in the forest.”

  “The escape vehicle was last seen headed east along I-84 toward the gorge. We were lucky that Gamble was caught at the scene and gave the names of the other men; otherwise we might have never found out who did it. These are the only pictures from the robbery.” Mercy turned her laptop around for everyone to see.

  “They’re all wearing freaking motorcycle helmets,” muttered Eddie.

  “Hence the Gamble-Helmet name for the heist,” said Darby as she made notes. “Why wear helmets? Wouldn’t the limited vision and hearing put them at a disadvantage? There has to be an easier way to hide an identity.”

  “The armored truck had stopped for a scheduled pickup, and the thieves immediately moved in, catching the first man off guard as he opened his door and dousing the driver with pepper spray,” said Mercy. “Presumably the helmets were to protect them from the pepper spray—it travels.”

  “I don’t know if that’s brilliant or stupidly risky,” said Darby.

  “The whole operation was risky,” said Mercy. “Four men swarmed into the truck, shoved what they could in their own bags, and ran to a waiting car with a driver. The first guard drew his weapon as Shane Gamble exited the truck, but Gamble fired first. The guard’s return shot brought Gamble down, the escape vehicle left without him, and he was caught at the scene.” Mercy took a deep breath. “The guard died before the police arrived. Gamble healed, went to trial, and was convicted.”

  “And the other four drove off into the sunset with a lot of cash,” finished Jeff. “Like Eddie said, this robbery is almost as big of a legend as D. B. Cooper’s airplane jump. That means lots of media interest.”

  Everyone groaned.

  “All media calls go to me,” stated Jeff, looking at Melissa. “No one needs to know which agents are working the case or how it’s proceeding.”

  Melissa nodded. “My phone is going to ring nonstop. Since the day it occurred, everyone has speculated on what happened to the other four thieves.”

  “I suspect the body in the woods will turn out to be one of them. With Gamble in prison, that leaves three more to find,” Eddie stated.

  “And money. A lot of money to find,” added Mercy.

  “Two million doesn’t go very far when divided between three or four people,” argued Eddie. “It’s got to be long gone. It’s been nearly thirty years.”

  “Maybe only one of them ended up with the money, and there could be more bodies,” suggested Mercy. “I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m waiting on final confirmation that these are some of the missing bags from the robbery, and if so, I plan to interview Shane Gamble first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “The Two Rivers Correctional Institution is over two hundred miles away,” said Jeff.

  “I figure it’ll take me three and a half hours—maybe less.”

  “No speeding tickets on company vehicles.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Eddie will be working with you,” said Jeff. “Divide up the load and stay away from the media. We’ll keep Deschutes County in the loop about the body since it’s their jurisdiction. Have you been in touch with the original lead FBI agent on the robbery case?”

  “Art Juergen,” answered Mercy. “He retired last year, and they’re getting me his current contact information. He’s a good g
uy. I worked with him for a few years. A lot of agents worked the case thirty years ago, but Portland’s ASAC says Juergen knew it inside and out. He’d told the ASAC that he regretted not solving it before he retired.”

  “And one year later we have a hot lead,” said Eddie. “This could make Juergen’s day. I’ll dig up background on the guys Gamble named as his associates.” Eddie looked at a piece of paper Mercy had shoved across the table. “Ellis Mull, Nathan May, and Trevor Whipple.”

  “What’s the name of the fifth person?” asked Darby.

  “No one knows the full name of the getaway driver,” said Melissa. “I remember angry wives and girlfriends would turn in their significant other to get the men investigated and humiliated. What a waste of investigator time.”

  “Melissa is right,” said Mercy. “From what I’ve read, no one knows who the fifth person is. Shane Gamble claimed Trevor Whipple brought the fifth man into the plan at the last minute to drive the car, and called him Jerry. Gamble didn’t know anything else about him.”

  “Hopefully that’s not Jerry up in the cabin,” said Eddie. “I think we can determine if it’s Mull, May, or Whipple, but figuring out if it was the unknown driver will be a challenge.”

  “The body could be a random hunter,” Darby pointed out. “Let’s get that final confirmation on the bank bags before we jump to conclusions.”

  Mercy met Eddie’s gaze. Her gut told her the dead body was part of the Gamble-Helmet Heist, and based on the smug smile on Eddie’s face, he suspected it too.

  Not again.

  This was the fourth car in two weeks.

  Sandy Foster tuned out the words of the furious man with her behind the Eagle’s Nest bed-and-breakfast. She didn’t blame him as they stared at the glass on the pavement. She’d be pissed too if someone had broken her car window. From the way he spoke, he seemed to believe that the two-year-old Honda was a rare, valuable car.

  It was a nice car, but she saw a dozen of them every day.

  “I’ll get the police over here,” she promised her customer. “And I know the owner of the auto glass repair shop in Bend. He’ll have someone here this afternoon.” I hope.

  Her relationship with the auto glass shop owner had formed out of necessity, and she wondered if he had a “break ten, get one free” program. Her lips twisted at the thought.

  “This isn’t funny,” the customer snapped.

  “I’m not laughing,” she assured him. “Believe me, this makes me furious. I want a safe place for my visitors to park. Incidents like this don’t make anyone feel safe.”

  “At least nothing was stolen,” he muttered. He crossed his arms, and his mouth sagged in a frown.

  “Let me buy you dinner at the town diner tonight,” Sandy offered. Her breakfast buffet was included in the price of a room; otherwise she would have offered that. Instead the cost of his and his wife’s dinner would come directly out of her cash.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he admitted.

  It was the nicest thing he’d said in the last five minutes. “I want to do something to make it up to you. Were you driving anywhere this afternoon?”

  He sighed. “Just to dinner in Bend a bit later.”

  “I bet it will be repaired by then,” she said, forcing herself to sound cheerful.

  “I hope so. We’ve been looking forward to trying the seafood place in the Old Mill District.” He gave her a sideways look.

  Shit. “They have fantastic food. I’ll pick up the dinner tab for you.”

  He brightened. “That’d be great. I’ll go tell my wife.” He took off toward the back door of her bed-and-breakfast.

  Sandy sighed and closed her eyes for a long moment. The seafood restaurant would cost five times as much as a meal at the diner. If her customer decided to push the boundaries and order lobster and multiple bottles of wine, it could be much more.

  I wouldn’t put it past him.

  She slid her phone out of her back pocket to call the Eagle’s Nest Police Department and her auto glass contact. Regret jabbed her in the chest. She adored her bed-and-breakfast. It was the result of years of backbreaking labor. She wanted the best experience for her customers and paid attention to every detail. Fine linens on the beds, updated huge bathrooms, spotlessly clean floors, and a breakfast buffet that made clients rave. She never took a day off; the old restored home was the pride of her heart.

  I love what I do, but if this damage keeps up, I’ll be broke.

  Then what?

  “This is happening too often,” Truman said as he wrote in his notebook. As soon as the department had received a call from Sandy, he knew what she would report.

  More vandalism to customer vehicles at her bed-and-breakfast.

  Beside him Sandy ran a hand through her long red hair in frustration. “Tell me about it. This isn’t good for business. I can read the future online reviews now: ‘Great place, amazing food, but expect to get your tires slashed or car windows broken.’”

  “People wouldn’t write that in a review,” said Truman. “This has nothing to do with the quality of your business.”

  “You’d be surprised what people will complain about. I’ve received a one-star review because I don’t provide shuttle service from Portland—give me a break! It’s over three hours away. In another one-star, a woman complained because her husband lost his coat while skiing! It didn’t even happen at my place.”

  “A rational person reading that review will see how ridiculous that is.”

  “Some people only look at the number of stars.” Sandy glared at the broken window.

  “How about installing cameras? You could find some inexpensive ones these days.”

  “How about you catch who is doing this?” Sandy suggested with a quirk of an eyebrow. The tall B&B owner was a force to be reckoned with. The fortysomething woman took no crap from anyone, but she was a natural in the hospitality field. She’d moved to town a decade before him, and he’d heard she’d been married at some point, but her passion was running her business. Truman still appreciated the time she’d backed him up in a domestic dispute with her rolling pin. He’d had no doubt she would use it if needed.

  “I’ll do my best. You know we don’t have the manpower or budget to run patrols at night. An officer on call is the best I can do.”

  “I know.” Sandy lowered her gaze. “It’s tight everywhere. That’s why I need this damage stopped. I haven’t had a profit since Christmas, and I can’t afford to lose a single customer. Any more of this and I’ll be frying eggs and hash browns at the restaurant down the street.”

  “You’re too important to this town for that . . . although you’d improve the diner’s breakfast tenfold.” Truman felt bad for the hardworking woman. “Your B&B brings in customers for other local businesses. We’re all dependent on each other. I’ll ask around and see if someone has some cameras they’d loan for a while,” he lied. “I’ll help set them up.”

  After I order them from Amazon.

  “I hope they don’t move the vandalism to the house,” Sandy said, looking up at the stately Queen Anne home. “I put a lot of work into restoring it, and my insurance deductible is huge.”

  “You said no one has heard the glass breaking or seen people near the cars?”

  “I asked all the guests. I can’t even tell you when this one happened. The owner didn’t come out to his car until lunchtime. It could have happened anytime in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “I suspect nighttime.”

  “I agree.” Her dark brows came together, and she frowned at the broken window of the Honda sedan.

  “What is it?” Truman asked. The look on her face was thoughtful.

  She shook her head and smiled at him. “It’s nothing. I’m trying to imagine what kind of person from around here does this. Teenagers, I expect?”

  “That’s a solid guess. I’ll file a report—another report—and find some cameras for you. Until then, warn your guests not to leave things in their car.” He paused.
“Nothing was stolen this time either, right?”

  “Right. Someone simply enjoys causing damage.”

  Truman slipped his notebook in his pocket. “Be careful, Sandy.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m always on my toes,” she said grimly. “Later, Chief.”

  THREE

  Truman inhaled deeply as he stepped inside the Eagle’s Nest station.

  Lucas’s mom has been here.

  The smell of her pulled pork nearly made him weep with hunger. He hung up his cowboy hat and turned to see his office manager, Lucas, and his mom walking out of the small room used for meetings. She had a grocery bag in one hand, but Truman could tell it was empty. She must have just dropped off dinner.

  And for once I’m here before the other guys.

  Too many times he’d been out on a call when Bree Ingram dropped off food, and he’d come back to find a tiny plate of cold leftovers that survived only because Lucas had saved it for him. Bree’s pulled pork was Truman’s favorite, but he also liked her pasta salad, fried chicken, and berry pie.

  “Evening, Chief,” Bree said with a smile. “I made a little extra pork, so I brought it by. Goes to waste in my house.” Bree Ingram had Lucas’s big smile, but that was the only physical attribute the widow shared with her son. She was tiny, especially when she stood next to linebacker-size Lucas. With her dark coloring and peppy attitude, she reminded him of a happy lab puppy.

  Lucas was a Saint Bernard, a gentle giant.

  “Thanks, Bree. We always appreciate your extra food.” Truman swallowed back a curse as all three of his officers emerged from the small room with paper plates loaded with pulled pork and fresh rolls. So much for being first. He glared at Samuel. The officer wasn’t even working today. No doubt one of the other officers had given him a heads-up. Samuel was a bachelor, unlike his other two officers, and was always happy to eat food someone else had made.

  The three officers greeted Truman with their mouths full.

  “You outdid yourself this time, Bree,” Royce Gibson told her. “You ever going to share the recipe with my wife?”