by Allen Eskens
Max Rupert stepped from the shadows of the tree line, his gun still pointed at the pile of waste that used to be Dan Lockwood. He walked over and kicked the body onto its back, Lockwood's eyes staring blankly up at the sky. Two more figures stepped from the shadows, sheriff's deputies, each wearing brown winter coats with badges on the left lapel.
One spoke into a radio microphone pinned to his shoulder, and the horizon lit up red and blue, as if the officer had called in his own personal Aurora Borealis. Soon the lights of the squad cars crested the rise, their sirens piercing the night.
The shootout at the barn made the news and started the snowball rolling. The press wanted to know why a man from Iowa took three bullets in the head, and why two local college kids were at the scene. In order to justify the shooting and clear Max Rupert of any wrongdoing, the city scrambled to put flesh on the bones of what Lila and I had discovered. Within twenty-four hours, not only had they reopened Crystal Hagen's murder case, but they'd moved it to the head of the line. By the time they issued their first press release the following morning, they had confirmed Lila's deciphering of the code and that Dan Lockwood had been called DJ by Crystal and other family members back in 1980.
On the second day after the shooting, the Minnesota BCA verified that the DNA found under Crystal Hagen's fingernail belonged to Dan Lockwood. Not only that, but when the BCA ran Lockwood's DNA profile through CODIS, the national DNA database, they got a hit. Lockwood's DNA matched the profile in a case from Davenport, Iowa, where a young girl had been raped and killed, her body found in the rubble of a burned out barn. The city held a press conference to declare that Dan Lockwood had likely killed Crystal Hagen in 1980 and that he had been on the verge of killing one or both of the college students when Detective Rupert had fatally shot him. The city and the press united in their praise of Max Rupert, holding him up as a hero for killing Lockwood and saving the lives of the unidentified University of Minnesota students—who likely would have been his next victims.
One reporter learned my name, and that I'd been at the scene when Rupert shot Lockwood. She called my hospital room to ask me some questions, referring to me as a hero and buttering me up real good. I didn't feel like a hero though. I had nearly gotten Lila killed. I told the reporter that I didn't want to talk to her and that she should not call me again.
My professors all granted me extensions for my final exams and term papers. I took them up on their offers—all, that is, except for my biography class. Lila brought my laptop to the hospital, and I spent hour after hour propped up in my bed typing. Lila also brought Jeremy to the hospital to see me every day. She had spent a couple hours in the emergency room that night, getting checked over by the doctors before being released with bruises on her face and torso and abrasions on her wrists where the rope had cut into them. She'd slept on the couch in my apartment after that with Jeremy sleeping in the next room.
The doctors kept me in the hospital for four days, releasing me two weeks before Christmas with a bottle of pain medication and a pair of crutches. By the time they discharged me, I had written twice as many pages as were required for my biography of Carl Iverson. I had completed the project with the exception of the final chapter—Carl's official exoneration.
On the morning they discharged me, Professor Sanden met me in the hospital lobby. He seemed winded as he crossed the room to greet me, smiling like he had just won a raffle. “Merry Christmas,” he said. Then he handed me a document: a court order with a raised seal on the bottom. My pulse quickened as I started reading the formal language of the heading: State of Minnesota, Plaintiff, versus Carl Albert Iverson, Defendant. I continued reading the document line by line until Professor Sanden interrupted me by flipping to the final page and pointing to a paragraph that read:
IT IS HEREBY ORDERED that the conviction of Carl Albert Iverson for the crime of murder in the first degree, found by Verdict dated January 15, 1981, and entered as Judgment on that same day, be hereby VACATED in its entirety, and that the civil rights of said Defendant be fully restored effective immediately upon the signing of this Order.
The order was signed by a district-court judge and dated that very morning.
“I can't believe it,” I said. “How did you—”
“It's amazing what you can get done when the political will is there,” Professor Sanden said. “With the story about the shooting making national news, the county attorney was more than happy to expedite things.”
“So does this mean…”
“Carl Iverson is completely and officially innocent,” Sanden said, beaming with delight.
I called Virgil Gray and invited him to join us when we went to visit Carl that day. Janet and Mrs. Lorngren also came with us to Carl's room. I thought about framing the order but decided against it, as that didn't seem the kind of thing that Carl would have wanted. Instead, I simply handed him the document, explaining what it meant, explaining that in the eyes of the world it was now official—he did not kill Crystal Hagen. Carl rubbed his fingers across the raised seal on the bottom of the first page, closed his eyes, and smiled a melancholy smile. A tear trickled down his cheek, which caused Janet and Mrs. Lorngren to start crying, which made Lila, Virgil, and me tear up, too. Only Jeremy remained dry eyed, but that's Jeremy.
Carl struggled to reach his hand out to me, and I took his in mine and held it. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you…all.”
We stayed with Carl until he could no longer keep his weak eyes open. We wished him a merry Christmas and promised to come back the next day, but that didn't happen. He died that night. Mrs. Lorngren said that it was as though he simply decided that the time had come for him to stop living. His death was as peaceful as any she had ever seen.
Not counting the minister, thirteen mourners attended Carl Iverson's funeral: Virgil Gray, Lila, Jeremy, me, Professor Sanden, Max Rupert, Janet, Mrs. Lorngren, two other staff from Hillview, and three guards from Stillwater Prison who remembered him fondly from his time there. He was buried at Fort Snelling National Cemetery, laid to rest in formation next to hundreds of other Vietnam veterans. The minister kept the graveside ceremony short, in part because he had never met Carl Iverson and had little to say about him beyond the standard text, and in part because a cold December breeze swept unfettered across the broad open expanse of the cemetery.
After the service, Max Rupert left with Boady Sanden, but not before insisting that Lila and I meet them later at a nearby restaurant for coffee. I could tell that they had something they wanted to talk about, something that apparently required a modicum of privacy.
I went to say goodbye to Virgil, who had been carrying a paper sack with him for the entirety of the service, clutching it to his chest. Once we were alone, he opened the bag and pulled out a display case—an oak box about the size of a dictionary with a glass face. Inside, pinned to red felt backing, were Carl's medals: two Purple Hearts and the Silver Star. Below the medals were arm patches signifying that Carl had been promoted to corporal before his discharge from the army.
“He wanted me to give these to you,” Virgil said.
I couldn't speak. For at least a minute all I could do was stare at them, at the way their polished edges glistened, the way the silver and purple popped against the blood-red background. “Where did you find these?” I finally said.
“After Carl got arrested, I snuck into his house and took ’em.” Virgil shrugged as if I might fault him for the theft. “Carl didn't have much in the way of possessions, and I figured that one day he'd want these back. They are…” Virgil pursed his lips to hold in his sobs, “…were his only possessions.” Virgil held out his hand, and I shook it. Then he pulled me in and gave me a hug. “You did good,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
I thanked Virgil and then turned to make my way to the car, where Jeremy and Lila waited. Virgil remained at the gravesite, apparently not ready to leave his friend.
At the restaurant, Lila and I were warming our hands on our coffee mugs whe
n Max and Boady arrived. Jeremy sipped hot chocolate from his mug, slurping to draw it out from under a layer of marshmallow. I introduced Max and Boady to Jeremy. Jeremy said a polite hello, as he had been taught, then turned his attention back to his hot chocolate. I gave a brief explanation of how Jeremy came to live with me, leaving out the part where I broke Larry's knee.
“That's going to make school a little more difficult,” Boady said.
I dropped my gaze to the table. “I won't be going back to school.”
It was the first time I'd spoken those words aloud, even to myself. Though I had officially dropped all my spring-semester classes, saying it out loud made it all the more real. When I looked up, I saw Boady and Max exchanging a glance and—to my surprise—a smile.
“I want to show you something,” Max said, retrieving a piece of folded paper from his jacket pocket and handing it to me. I opened it to find an e-mail that had been sent to Max from the sheriff from Scott County, Iowa:
I've looked into the reward for solving Melissa Burns's murder. It was posted back in 1992 and is still available. It appears certain that Lockwood killed her. He worked as head of security for the mall here in Davenport and must have abducted Melissa as she was leaving the mall. Melissa was the granddaughter of a bank owner in this area, and he put up the $100,000 reward. If you give me a bank account for Mr. Talbert and Ms. Nash, I can have the bank wire it up once our case is officially closed.
I stopped reading, my head nearly ready to explode by that last part. “A hundred thousand dollars?” I said, louder than I'd intended. “Are you kidding?”
Boady smiled and said, “Keep reading.”
I am aware that Mr. Lockwood is being looked at for two other abductions and murders, one in Coralville, Iowa, and one outside of Des Moines. It is the same modus operandi, and is likely the work of Lockwood as well. I've been informed that there are $10,000 rewards on each of those cases. You should let your people know that they will be entitled to that money if those cases clear.
I handed the e-mail to Lila. I heard her gasp when she read about the money and then read her name. When she finished she looked up and said, “Is this for real?”
“Absolutely,” Max said. “It goes to you two.”
I tried to speak but could do little more than swallow a lump of air. When I finally managed to speak, I said, “That's a lot of money.”
“It's more than you normally see for a reward, I'll grant you that,” Max said. “But it's not out of the ball park—especially for the death of a banker's granddaughter. If Lockwood was the perp in all three cases, you'll be looking at a hundred and twenty thousand.”
Lila looked at me. “I want you to have the reward,” she said, “all of it. You need it to take care of Jeremy.”
“Absolutely not!” I said. “You almost died.”
“I don't need it like you do,” she said. “I want you to have it.”
“We split it equally,” I said, “or I'm not taking any of it. That's not open for discussion.”
Lila opened her mouth to argue, paused, and said, “We split it three ways.” She nodded at Jeremy. “Without him, we would never have solved the code. He gets a third.”
I started to refuse, but she held up a hand, looked me in the eye with the seriousness of a woman who would not be moved, and said, “That's not open for discussion.”
I looked at Jeremy, grinning at me with a marshmallow mustache. He hadn't been listening to the conversation. I smiled back at him, and then I leaned in and kissed Lila.
A heavy snow began to fall outside, and by the time we left the restaurant, Lila's car had been covered by an inch of it. She and Jeremy climbed in while I stayed outside to clean the snow off the windows. I could not stop smiling. With that money, I could go to school and take care of Jeremy. An incredible sense of lightness filled me as I brushed the snow off the windshield. A young couple entered the restaurant, releasing a wave of warm air fused with the scent of fresh-baked goods. The aroma sailed on a light breeze and swirled around my head. It caused me to pause and remember something Carl had told me—that heaven could be here on Earth.
I scooped snow into my bare hand and watched as it melted in my palm. I felt its coldness against my warm skin and studied the crystalline flakes as they changed into water droplets that trickled down my wrist, evaporating into another existence. I closed my eyes and listened to the music of the breeze as it hummed through the nearby pine trees, punctuated by the chirp of some chickadees hidden in the needles. I drew in a breath of crisp December air and stood perfectly still, savoring the feel, the sound, and the smell of the world around me, sensations that would have passed by me unnoticed had I never met Carl Iverson.
I would like to offer my heartfelt gratitude to my agent Amy Cloughley who went above and beyond to bring this book to life. I want to thank my editor Dan Mayer and all of those at Seventh Street Book for their help and guidance.
I would also like to acknowledge the great assistance given to me by my beta readers: Nancy Rosin, Suzie Root, Bill Patten, Kelly Lundgren, Carrie Leone, Chris Cain, and my many friends at Twin Cities Sisters in Crime.
A special thanks to Erika Applebaum of the Minnesota Innocence Project for her advice.
Spread the word.
I hope that you enjoyed reading The Life We Bury. There is no greater honor for a writer than to know that his or her work is enjoyed by the reader. And if you enjoyed The Life We Bury, please tell others and like it on Facebook, for there is no greater support you can give a debut author than your word-of-mouth recommendation.
Also watch for my follow-up novel tentatively titled In The Path of the Beast, slated for publication in the fall of 2015, and visit me online at http://www.alleneskens.com.
Allen Eskens grew up in Jefferson City, Missouri, before migrating north to attend the University of Minnesota. After graduating with a degree in journalism, he went on to law school and eventually settled in Mankato, Minnesota, where he started a law practice and raised his family. He honed his creative-writing skills in the MFA program at Minnesota State University and at the Loft Literary Center and the Iowa Summer Writer's Festival. He continues to live quietly in the country near Mankato, husband to Joely, father to Mikayla, and pet owner to many.
