When I began looking into the circumstances surrounding Chuck Buhrman’s death, I didn’t know what to expect. I couldn’t begin to guess whether there was any truth to Melanie Cave’s claim that her son had been convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, or whether she was just a heartsick mother who refused to accept an ugly truth about her child. I wasn’t sure what—if anything—I could contribute. The wildest I allowed myself to dream was that I might uncover evidence that would force a new trial.
Instead, we now know exactly what happened to Chuck Buhrman—and that Warren had nothing to do with it.
Here with me is Stephen Goldberg, who currently owns the former Buhrman home on Cyan Court. Stephen, can you please tell my listeners what happened on Wednesday morning?
STEPHEN:
Around 5:30 a.m., I was leaving my house for my usual run when I heard strange noises coming from the playhouse.
POPPY:
Let me interrupt you here and describe the playhouse. It’s a single room about one hundred square feet, but the exterior is crafted to look like a miniature version of the family home. The small interior includes a play kitchen, with a fake refrigerator, stove, and sink. I understand that it was built for Chuck Buhrman’s daughters by his father-in-law.
STEPHEN:
Our daughters love that playhouse. Anyway, I heard these noises, and thought it must be an animal or a homeless person. But it turned out to be those Buhrman girls. One of them had ripped the sink away completely from the wall. It had always been a little loose, so I’d caulked it up when we moved in. I’d done it in a hurry, and I hadn’t really taken the time to do the job right . . . If I had, maybe I would’ve found that gun sooner.
That’s right. Chuck’s missing weapon was found in the wall of the backyard playhouse, along with a bloodstained plastic poncho.
Even more shockingly, after the discovery of the gun, Lanie recanted her testimony against Warren Cave. She now says that she did not see Warren shoot her father.
Incredibly, there’s more: Lanie told the police that it was actually her mother, Erin Buhrman, who pulled the trigger. Chuck Buhrman was killed by his wife.
“But Poppy,” you say, “you’ve just spent four weeks arguing that we shouldn’t believe a word that Lanie says. And now you want us to believe that Erin killed her husband on Lanie’s word alone?”
No, of course not. I know that you’re all smarter than that. But here are the reasons that I’m convinced Erin Buhrman is the culprit: Ballistics proved that Chuck’s gun was the murder weapon, and police found exactly two sets of fingerprints on that gun—one belonging to Chuck, the other to Erin. Erin claimed she’d never handled, or even seen, that gun—so what were her fingerprints doing on it?
Most importantly, however, a shocking suicide note was found written in the margins of one of Erin’s books. One of my sources inside the LFC sent the book to me, completely unaware of its importance, and I discovered the note . . . in which Erin confesses to killing her husband. Officially, the Elm Park Police Department is still awaiting authentication of the note, but I have some experience in handwriting analysis, and I am convinced the note is bona fide.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t answer all the questions we might have. It hints that Erin killed her husband because she was jealous of his affair with Melanie, but it doesn’t say it outright. Was that the true motive? Was the murder premeditated? Did she join the Life Force Collective to repent for what she’d done, or to hide from the law? With Erin Buhrman dead, we may never know the answers to some of these questions.
I had hoped Lanie would grant me an interview to discuss this surprising turn of events. No such luck. I was, however, able to get my hands on a copy of her official statement to the police. According to her new statement, on that fateful night in October 2002, she went downstairs to get a drink of water. As she approached the kitchen, a dark-haired, black-clad figure entered through the back door and shot her father. She claims to have believed this figure to be Warren Cave.
Could Lanie have legitimately mistaken Erin for Warren? Or did she purposefully lie to protect her mother?
I sat down with a psychologist, Dr. Eileen Whitehall-Lynch, to discuss what might be at work here. Please note Dr. Whitehall-Lynch has not spoken directly to Lanie Ives; she is merely postulating about what a likely scenario might be.
POPPY:
Thanks for your time, Dr. Whitehall-Lynch. In your opinion, could Lanie have mistaken her mother—her own mother—for the seventeen-year-old neighbor boy?
DR. WHITEHALL-LYNCH:
The human brain is a funny thing. It does what it can to protect us. Lanie had just witnessed her father’s brutal murder at the hands of her mother. It’s almost too horrible to imagine. Her traumatized brain was struggling to process what she had just seen. Skinny, black-haired perpetrator who looks like your mother, but logically cannot be your mother? Must be the skinny, black-haired neighbor. Once Lanie’s brain made that connection, I suspect she used existing information to validate her belief. Statements Lanie made to the police in 2002 indicate that she had been uneasy around Warren since his family had moved in next door. Her brain was simply unable to process the truth, and so it substituted an image that made more sense.
Now, the question I’m sure most of you are wondering: What about Warren? Is he on his way home?
Almost. The wheels of justice are turning, albeit slowly, and I have it on good authority that Warren will soon be free. You may recall that in an early episode of this podcast, Melanie Cave stated neither she nor Warren intends to pursue civil penalties against Lanie. Both of them are holding to that earlier statement. Warren lost twelve years of his life, but he’s told me that God would want him to forgive.
WARREN:
“For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.” Matthew 6:14–15.
Melanie tells me that she is following her son’s lead.
MELANIE:
There has never been any doubt in my mind that Lanie lied about what she saw that night. I’m so relieved that she has finally admitted it, and that this long nightmare of ours is coming to an end. While the petty, vindictive part of me wants to see Lanie Buhrman pay for robbing my son of more than a decade of his life, Warren and I are choosing to take the high road. Instead, we’re focusing on the excitement of his upcoming release. I’ve already started planning his welcome-home dinner.
My work here is done. Thanks for listening, and, above all, thanks for being a part of this. If you loved this program, please make sure to let my bosses at Werner Entertainment know that you’d like to hear from me again.
This is Poppy Parnell, signing off. Thanks again for listening to Reconsidered. It’s been a hell of a ride . . . but it’s not over yet! Join me next spring on the ID network for Reconsidered with Poppy Parnell as I dig into more cases that are cold but not forgotten!
acknowledgments
A million thanks to all the people who have devoted their time and energy to make this book a reality: my superlative agent, Lisa Grubka, who has provided invaluable assistance at every step of this process; my brilliant editor, Lauren McKenna, who understood these characters from the very beginning and whose insightful comments and suggestions helped me give them the story they deserved; everyone at Fletcher & Company who has advocated for this book (Gráinne Fox, Melissa Chinchillo, and Erin McFadden); everyone at Gallery Books who has played a role in the editing and publishing process (Louise Burke, Jennifer Bergstrom, Elana Cohen, Marla Daniels, Chelsea Cohen, Akasha Archer, Liz Psaltis, Diana Velasquez, Melanie Mitzman, Mackenzie Hickey, and Kristin Dwyer); Catherine Richards at Pan Macmillan, whose thoughtful comments and enthusiasm were incredibly helpful; and Michelle Weiner, Michelle Kroes, and Olivia Blaustein at CAA. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Mollie Glick, who was an early supporter of this project, and who introduced me to Lisa. I am truly humbled to have worked with such
talented people, and I appreciate everything each of you has done more than I can say.
I am also deeply grateful to my friends, family, and assorted loved ones who have supported and encouraged me along the way: my husband, Marc Hedrich, who gave me the courage to follow my dreams and who has been a pillar of strength during the emotionally tumultuous writing process; my mother, Mary Barber, who has always been one of my biggest cheerleaders and believes in me (even when I don’t); my brother, David Barber, who patiently and thoughtfully answered all my questions about Illinois criminal law and who introduced me to Serial, the podcast that sparked the inspiration for this book; my late father, Richard Barber, who nurtured my creativity from a young age and from whom I inherited the storytelling gene; and all my friends who didn’t say I was crazy for quitting law to write (or who at least had the decency not to say it to my face). I love you all.
Finally, a special shout-out to the staff at V-Bar on Sullivan Street in New York; Starbucks on Piedmont and 41st in Oakland; Philz Coffee in Washington, DC; and the lounge at the Warsaw Marriott, all of whom kept me in coffee and/or wine while I wrote, cursed, and rewrote huge sections of this book. Thanks for not kicking me out.
Keep reading for a glimpse into Kathleen Barber’s upcoming thriller
FOLLOW ME
Available February 2020 from Gallery Books
PROLOGUE
HIM
Everyone on the internet is a liar. Every last one of us. The difference is the magnitude of our lies. On one end of the spectrum are the scammers, the phishers, the lowlifes trying to convince your grandmother to bail you out of a fictional Thai prison. On the other end are those whose untruths are the smallest, the most inconsequential: those who click a box affirming they’ve read terms and conditions, who click “like” on a cousin’s photograph of her pug-nosed child. In the middle are the rest of us: those who tell slightly bolder lies designed to make ourselves look better. We embellish our job descriptions. We smile in pictures even when our hearts feel shriveled and black. Because what’s the harm in making our mediocre lives look and feel just a little less mediocre?
But the internet can reveal just as much as it can obfuscate.
Take Sabrina, for example. When I was sixteen, she was my whole world, my pocket-sized, red-haired princess. Every thump of my beating heart was an echo of her name. With her small hand in mine, I could do anything. But seven months into our relationship, her family moved across the country to California. Part of me wanted to drink bleach and die, and another part of me was certain Sabrina and I were simply enduring a test to prove our everlasting love and that fifty years later we would laugh about those years apart. The day she left, I found two strands of her strawberry-blonde hair on my pillow, and I placed them in an envelope beside my bed for safekeeping.
At first, we talked for hours on the phone each night. I twisted those hairs around my finger and listened to Sabrina say how much she hated California and how much she missed me. She promised she still loved me. She promised nothing would change. She promised. But her calls gradually became less and less frequent. She started taking an hour, and then two or three, to respond to text messages. I assumed she felt as gutted as I did, so I mailed her gifts and flowers to cheer her up, sent her poems all but written in blood squeezed from my aching heart.
And then Astrid Marshall, one of Sabrina’s bitchier friends, sent me a link to a YouTube video called “HOTTEST GUYS AT NEWMAN HIGH RATED!” I felt sick as I watched Sabrina, her gorgeous hair hacked to her chin and streaked through with brassy blonde, sitting in some unfamiliar room in a circle of strange girls. The ringleader—a bleached blonde who was wearing so much makeup that her face was a different shade than her neck—screeched a greeting into the camera and then led the others in discussing which of the boys at Sabrina’s new school were the “hottest.” My stomach churned as Sabrina giggled and nodded in agreement, but the bile started to really climb my throat when someone asked her, “But you have a long-distance boyfriend, don’t you, Sabrina?” She shook her head quickly, her alien hair swishing around her small face. “No, no. There’s this guy who’s, like, obsessed with me, but we’re not going out. I just keep him around for the gifts.” The entire circle cackled with cruel laughter, and I slammed shut the computer before that treacherous whore could take another bite out of my heart.
That night, I stole a lighter from one of my older brothers and watched those glimmering strands blacken and break.
When I confronted Sabrina about the video, she cried that she was sorry. But that was just another lie. She was only sorry that she was caught, that her duplicity had been exposed. After all, a quick search had shown me that there were more videos, and in them Sabrina didn’t look sorry at all. That stone-cold bitch had moved on, leaving me completely and utterly destroyed. For years, I thought my heart had been broken beyond repair. I thought I would never love again.
But then there was Audrey.
Ironically, Sabrina is the one who brought me to Audrey. If it weren’t for Sabrina and her lies, I never would have ended up on the Overexposed forums. That was where I took shelter, commiserating with other men who had discovered disheartening truths online about the women they thought they loved. The other commenters helped me gain perspective, helped me see that this was less a reflection of me and more a reflection of Sabrina and the grasping, unhappy women like her.
But the forums didn’t just contain grievances and complaints about ex-girlfriends. They were also home to lively discussion about online women. You know the type: the bloggers, the vloggers, the Tumblrinas, the Instagram models. The women who peddle their bodies online like fruit at the supermarket. The consensus on those threads was that admiring these virtual women was better, easier than finding one in real life because all women lie, and at least these liars were up front about it. It was no secret that their perfect bodies were Photoshopped, that their sultry eyelashes were glued on. Online women could never humiliate you. They couldn’t carve a gaping wound in your soul because they didn’t have souls themselves.
The thing that I would never admit to in those threads was that I missed the pulsating heart of a real woman. I missed burying my face in silky hair, inhaling the scent of perfumed skin. I missed the softness of feminine lips beneath mine. If only that bitch Sabrina hadn’t broken me.
And then one night, I was lying in my extra-long twin bed, listening to my roommate snore and battling insomnia by browsing Overexposed. I was on a thread where users were posting screengrabs of their ideal woman when one of them caught my eye. I rocketed to a seated position, my chest clenched so tightly I could barely breathe. The thumbnail image was small, only an inch or two at most, but I would recognize that mane of shimmering, red-tinged hair anywhere.
Sabrina.
With trembling fingers, I tapped open the picture. Relief and disappointment coalesced as I realized it wasn’t her. It was another flame-haired beauty smiling at the camera, her name discernible in the screenshot from her social media post: Audrey.
Her resemblance to Sabrina had initially taken my breath away, but the more I studied her, the more I saw the differences. Both were small and red-haired, but Audrey was sharper, more femme fatale. Aquamarine eyes flashed beneath thick lashes, heart-shaped face came to a point, pale breasts swelled beneath a plunging neckline. My mouth filled with saliva; heat surged through my body.
Audrey.
I found the rest of her online presence, from her Tumblr to her WordPress blog, and followed her wherever I could. For days, I binged on her. I went through her blog archives, committing every image to memory, parsing every chatty post for its deeper meaning. She was more adventurous than Sabrina ever had been, and funnier, too. I learned what she was listening to, what she was watching, what she was reading; I devoured every morsel she shared of herself.
Lucky for me, that was pretty much everything.
My favorite image was of her standing on a beach, her milky-white skin glowing against her black crochet bikin
i. She was partially turned away from the camera, her body angled toward the ocean behind her, her eyes looking straight through the screen into mine. One hand restrained her flowing hair, the other was extended to the camera, beckoning, as if to say, Follow me.
CHAPTER ONE
AUDREY
What doesn’t kill you makes you more interesting. At least, that’s always been my personal motto, and it was echoing through my mind as I tried to stave off a panic attack on a southbound train to Washington, DC. In this instance, though, it wasn’t helping—largely because I wasn’t sure that the logic held. What if this move actually made me less interesting?
I shuddered and once again considered petting the emotional support chihuahua currently occupying a quarter of my seat. When I’d extended a hand to scratch behind his ears earlier, his owner—a ferocious woman with a French-tip manicure and wearing a lemon-yellow velour tracksuit—had practically screamed, “He’s working!” The little dog looked to me like he was snoozing, but I was in no hurry to set his owner off again.
Instead, I fished a Xanax from my purse and took another surreptitious photo of the dog. I added “Hour 2” in purple text and a GIF of a small, yapping dog before uploading it to my Instagram Story. Almost immediately, comments from my million-plus followers appeared:
Safe travels!
That dog looks like he has it in for you!
Hang in there, Audrey!
The tension that had ratcheted my shoulders up by my ears began to melt, and I finally relaxed into my seat. Comments from my followers were hands down my favorite part of living my life on the internet. My former roommate (and former best friend) Izzy used to say that was because I was a narcissist, but Izzy was the one who couldn’t pass a reflective surface without checking herself out, so, you know, glass houses and all that. Anyway, it wasn’t a love of myself that kept me sharing my world with my followers—it was my love of connection. With a million friends at the palm of your hand, how could anyone ever feel truly alone?
Truth Be Told Page 29