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.”
“Look, I’m one of the good guys, okay? I’m not here to frighten you or blow your cover. Kenny Taft knew something about the murder of Keith Russo and maybe he took it to his grave, maybe he didn’t. I’m just chasing leads, Mr. Gilmer.”
“It’s Bruce.” He nods to a door and says, “Let’s step into my office.”
Thankfully, he has no secretary. He spends his time outdoors, and his office has the cluttered look of a man who would rather repair a sprinkler head than type a letter. There’s junk everywhere and old calendars tacked to the walls. He points to a chair and falls into one behind his metal desk.
“How’d you find me?” he asks.
“Just happened to be in the area.”
“No. Seriously.”
“Well, you’re not exactly hiding, Bruce. And what happened to Brace?”
“How much do you know?”
“A ton. I know Quincy Miller didn’t kill Keith Russo. His murder was a