What began as a calm summer morning in Wyoming ended as a discovery that rewrote history. Two fishermen cast their lines — and instead pulled up a mystery buried since the Kennedy years. Nineteen feet below the surface lay a car — and the woman who vanished with it in 1962. This story will make you think twice about every lonely, snow-covered road at midnight.

By Elena Ramirez, Investigative Reporter October 21, 2025

A pristine example of a 1962 Mercury Comet, similar to the one driven by Margaret Sullivan on that fateful night.

In the crisp, unforgiving winters of Wyoming, where blizzards can swallow entire landscapes and secrets lie dormant under layers of ice and time, a single night in December 1962 changed everything for a small community—and now, six decades later, for the entire nation. Margaret “Maggie” Sullivan, a dedicated 28-year-old nurse at Casper Memorial Hospital, vanished without a trace after her night shift, leaving behind a bewildered husband, grieving family, and a town rife with whispers. Her cream-colored 1962 Mercury Comet, a symbol of mid-century American optimism, was never seen again. Until now.

The discovery, made on a serene July morning in 2024 at Boysen Reservoir—a vast, man-made lake in central Wyoming—has unearthed not just a rusted relic from the past, but a chilling truth that has sent shockwaves across the country. What was thought to be a tragic accident on an icy road has been revealed as something far more sinister: foul play, hidden for generations by those sworn to protect. As forensic experts peel back the layers of silt and decay, the story of Maggie’s final hours emerges, forcing America to confront the dark underbelly of its own history. This is a tale of betrayal, cover-ups, and the relentless pursuit of justice that defies the grave.

To understand the magnitude of this revelation, we must travel back to 1962, a year etched in the American psyche. John F. Kennedy was in the White House, inspiring a nation with visions of Camelot and space exploration. The Cuban Missile Crisis had just gripped the world in October, leaving citizens on edge about nuclear annihilation. In Wyoming, life moved at a slower pace, dominated by oil rigs, cattle ranches, and the harsh beauty of the Wind River Basin. Casper, the state’s second-largest city, was a hub for hardworking folks, where nurses like Maggie Sullivan were the unsung heroes of midnight emergencies and quiet compassion.

Maggie was born in 1934 in a modest farmhouse near Thermopolis, Wyoming. The daughter of Irish immigrants who fled the Great Depression, she grew up with a fierce determination to help others. By age 18, she had moved to Casper to train as a nurse, graduating with honors in 1954. Colleagues remembered her as vibrant, with auburn hair, a warm smile, and an unyielding work ethic. “She was the kind of nurse who held your hand through the worst,” recalled Evelyn Grant, a retired coworker now in her 90s, in an exclusive interview. “Maggie worked the graveyard shift because she said the nights were when people needed her most.”

In 1958, she married Dr. Robert Sullivan, a rising star in Casper’s medical community. Ten years her senior, Robert was charismatic, ambitious, and deeply involved in local politics. He volunteered for Kennedy’s campaign and dreamed of a seat in the state legislature. Their marriage seemed picture-perfect: a cozy home on the outskirts of town, dinner parties with influential friends, and plans for a family. But beneath the surface, cracks were forming. Friends whispered about arguments, Robert’s controlling nature, and Maggie’s growing independence. She had confided in a close friend about feeling trapped, yearning for more than the role of a doctor’s wife.

On December 15, 1962, a heavy snowfall blanketed Casper. Maggie finished her shift at 11 p.m., bundling up in her wool coat and nurse’s cap. She called Robert from the hospital payphone, as was her habit, to say she was heading home—a 20-mile drive along Highway 220, a winding road hugging the North Platte River. Witnesses saw her Mercury Comet, license plate WY-482, pull out of the parking lot under the glow of streetlamps. Then, nothing. She never arrived home.

Robert reported her missing the next morning, claiming she might have stopped to help at an accident scene—a plausible story for a nurse. Search parties braved the storm, combing roadsides and riverbanks. Helicopters scanned from above, but the blizzard erased any tracks. Theories abounded: a skid on black ice, a hit-and-run, even abduction by a drifter. The local sheriff, Harlan Brooks—a close friend of Robert’s—led the investigation but found no leads. By spring 1963, the case went cold. Robert, devastated publicly, remarried two years later and climbed the political ladder, serving as a state senator from 1970 to 1990. He passed away in 2015, hailed as a community pillar.

For Maggie’s family—her parents and two brothers—the pain never faded. They held annual vigils, plastered posters, and chased every rumor. “We knew something wasn’t right,” said her brother, Thomas Sullivan, now 85, from his home in Cheyenne. “Robert seemed too quick to move on.” Decades passed, technology advanced, but Maggie’s file gathered dust in the Wyoming State Archives. Until two unlikely heroes cast their lines into Boysen Reservoir.

Fishermen like those who stumbled upon the submerged vehicle often uncover hidden histories in Wyoming’s waters.

Boysen Reservoir, created in 1952 by damming the Wind River, spans over 20,000 acres and plunges to depths of 200 feet in places. It’s a fisherman’s paradise, teeming with walleye and trout, but its murky depths have long been rumored to hold secrets—sunken boats, lost artifacts, and perhaps more. On July 12, 2024, brothers Jake and Tyler Harlan (no relation to the sheriff) set out at dawn for a day of angling. Equipped with modern sonar gear, they motored to a quiet cove 19 feet deep.

“We were trolling for walleye when the line snagged hard,” Jake, 42, told me over coffee in Riverton. “Thought it was a log at first, but the sonar showed a large object—shaped like a car.” Curious, they marked the spot and called authorities. The Fremont County Sheriff’s Office dispatched divers, expecting perhaps a stolen vehicle. What emerged after hours of careful extraction was a ghost from the past: a 1962 Mercury Comet, license plate barely legible but matching Maggie’s.

The recovery operation was a spectacle. Cranes hoisted the algae-encrusted wreck from the water, silt cascading like tears. Inside, skeletal remains sat in the driver’s seat, clad in remnants of a nurse’s uniform. Personal effects—a purse with a faded ID, a gold locket, nursing pins—confirmed the identity. But as forensics teams from the Wyoming State Crime Lab examined the vehicle, the narrative shifted from accident to horror.

The car showed no signs of a high-speed crash. The front end was intact, tires deflated but not burst. The doors were locked from the inside, windows rolled up. Most damning: the remains bore evidence of trauma. A forensic anthropologist, Dr. Lena Vasquez, identified perimortem fractures to the skull and hyoid bone—indicators of blunt force and strangulation. “This wasn’t a drowning from an accident,” Dr. Vasquez stated in her report. “Maggie was dead before the car hit the water.”

The shocking truth? Ballistic analysis revealed a .38 caliber bullet lodged in the dashboard, fired from inside the vehicle. Gunpowder residue on the passenger seat suggested a struggle. But the clincher came from the trunk: a weathered duffel bag containing $5,000 in cash (equivalent to $50,000 today), Maggie’s diary, and letters exposing an affair—between Maggie and Sheriff Harlan Brooks.

The diary, preserved in a plastic bag, detailed months of abuse from Robert, her plans to leave him, and her secret relationship with Brooks. Entries described Robert’s jealousy, threats, and political ambitions funded by shady deals. One chilling passage from December 14: “Robert knows about Harlan. He says if I leave, he’ll make sure I disappear. God help me.”

Investigators pieced it together: On that snowy night, Robert confronted Maggie in the car. A fight ensued; he strangled her, shot wildly in panic, then drove the Comet to a remote access point at Boysen (then less developed) and pushed it into the water. Brooks, complicit in the affair and fearing scandal, helped cover it up—falsifying reports, misdirecting searches.

This revelation has frozen the nation. Robert Sullivan, the esteemed senator, was a murderer. His legacy—schools named after him, statues in Casper—now tainted. Descendants are reeling; his second wife, unaware, has gone into seclusion. The case exposes systemic corruption in 1960s Wyoming, where powerful men protected their own amid Cold War paranoia and patriarchal norms.

Scenes like this, where submerged vehicles are recovered, have solved numerous cold cases, revealing long-buried truths.

The FBI has reopened files, probing if Robert’s crimes extended further. Were there other victims? His political rise, fueled by oil money, now under scrutiny for bribery links. Maggie’s family, vindicated, pushes for justice—though the perpetrators are dead, they seek restitution and historical reckoning.

Experts weigh in on the psychological toll. “This case highlights how domestic violence was silenced in that era,” says Dr. Amelia Cortez, a criminologist at the University of Wyoming. “Women like Maggie had few escapes.” Forensically, the preservation is remarkable; the cold, oxygen-poor water mummified tissues, allowing DNA confirmation.

Nationally, the story has ignited debates. Podcasts dissect the Kennedy-era context—how societal pressures stifled women’s voices. Social media buzzes with #JusticeForMaggie, drawing parallels to modern cold cases solved by citizen sleuths and technology.

Jake and Tyler Harlan, the fishermen, are humble heroes. “We just wanted fish,” Tyler laughs. “Ended up catching history.” Their sonar, a $500 gadget, did what 1960s searches couldn’t.

As Wyoming reflects, Maggie’s story warns of hidden dangers on lonely roads—not just ice, but human malice. Her locket, engraved “Forever Free,” now rests with her family, a symbol of closure.

This tragic resurfacing rewrites history, reminding us: secrets don’t stay buried forever. In Boysen’s depths, truth waited 62 years. What else lies beneath America’s waters?