The Guardians(48)

He continues, “And so a few weeks ago I was having drinks with another old-fart lawyer in Seabrook, guy you don’t know. We used to be partners back in the day but he quit after his wife died and left him some money. I told him about meeting you and about your theories and such, and I gave him a copy of your petition. He says he always suspected Pfitzner got the wrong man because Pfitzner wanted the wrong man. Keith knew too much and had to be disposed of. Frankly though, Post, I just don’t remember conversations like that at the time of the murder.”

This old gossip is of no benefit at all. After a town rushes to judgment, it’s only natural that some people take the time to reflect as the years pass. Most folks, though, are just relieved that somebody got convicted and the case is closed.

I have what I need and am unlikely to gather any more useful information. As he drains his glass, his eyelids begin to droop. He probably drinks his lunch most days and naps throughout the afternoon.

We shake hands and say goodbye like old friends. I offer to get the check, but he’s decided to have some more sangria. As I’m walking away, Bea appears out of nowhere, and with a big smile says she’ll see me later.

Kenny Taft left behind a pregnant wife, Sybil, and a two-year-old child. After his death, Sybil returned to her hometown of Ocala, became a schoolteacher, remarried, and had another child.

Like nightfall, Frankie eases into town and finds her home, a nice split-level in the suburbs. Vicki has done her research and we know that Sybil is married to a high school principal. Their home is assessed at $170,000 and taxes last year were $18,000. There is one mortgage that is eight years old. Both vehicles have bank loans. Evidently, she and her husband live a quiet life in a nice section of town.

And Sybil does not wish to disturb her life. On the phone, she tells Frankie that she does not want to talk about her deceased husband. The tragedy of Kenny’s murder was twenty-plus years ago and it took her a long time to get over it. The fact that the killers have never been found only makes it worse. No, she knows nothing that was not known back then. Frankie presses a little and she gets upset. The line goes dead. He reports to me and we decide to back off, for now.

Driving nonstop for three days from Savannah to Boise would have been easier than flying there. Because of weather somewhere in between, I sit in the Atlanta airport for thirteen hours as flights fall like dominoes. I camp out near a bar and watch the stranded walk in and, hours later, stagger out. Once again, I am thankful that alcohol is not my temptation. I eventually make it to Minneapolis where I am informed that my flight to Boise is overbooked. I stand by and stand by and am finally awarded the last seat. We arrive in Boise at 2:30 a.m. and, of course, the rental car I reserved is not available because the rental desk is closed.

Other than the frustration, though, this is not a big deal. I have no appointment in Sun Valley. Bruce Gilmer does not know I’m on my way.

Leave it to Vicki to find a really cheap motel in this famous resort area. At dawn I drag myself into a small room in a run-down tourist trap next door in Ketchum, and sleep for hours.

Gilmer is employed by a Sun Valley resort as a golf course manager. We don’t know much about him, but since there are no divorce records for either Brace or Bruce Gilmer we are assuming he is still married to the same woman. Nor could Vicki find any official record of Brace legally changing his name to Bruce. Regardless, he did a nice job of leaving Seabrook behind some twenty years ago. He’s now forty-seven, a year younger than me.

Driving from Ketchum to Sun Valley, I can’t take my eyes off the mountains and the scenery. The weather is a dream. It was ninety-five and sticky when I left Savannah. Here it’s about thirty degrees cooler and if there is humidity I can’t feel it.

The resort is exclusive, for members only, and this is tricky. But the collar always helps. I put it on and stop at the gate. I tell the guard that I have an appointment with Bruce Gilmer. He checks a clipboard as cars line up behind me. Most are probably golfers eager to tee off. He finally gives me a pass and waves me through.

At the pro shop I ask for Mr. Gilmer and get directions. His office is in a building hidden from view and surrounded by tractors, mowers, and irrigation equipment. I ask a laborer and he points to a man standing under a terrace talking on the phone. I ease behind him and wait. When the phone is put away, I step up and say, “Excuse me, are you Bruce Gilmer?”

He turns, faces me, immediately notices the collar, and assumes I’m a minister of some variety instead of a nosy lawyer digging through his past.

“I am. And you are?”

“Cullen Post, with Guardian Ministries,” I say as I hand him my card. I’ve done this so often my timing is perfect.

He studies the card, slowly extends a hand, says, “Nice to meet you.”

“And you.”

“What can I do for you?” he asks with a smile. After all, the guy works in a service business. The customer first and all that.

“I’m an Episcopal priest and I’m also a lawyer, an innocence lawyer. I work with clients who have been wrongfully convicted and I try to get them out of prison. Men like Quincy Miller. He’s my client now. Can I have a few minutes of your time?”

The smile vanishes and he glances around. “To talk about what?”

“Kenny Taft.”

He sort of grunts and sort of laughs as his shoulders sag. He blinks a few times as if in disbelief and mumbles, “You gotta be kidding.”