EARNEST:
Not by name, but it was obvious that she’d suffered a great loss. An aura as scattered as hers is nearly unheard of without intense trauma. But with the love and care of our brothers and sisters, Sister Anahata left the burdens of the modern world behind. Within a year’s time, she had made remarkable progress and was an integral part of our community, caring for children, taking lovers, and gracing us all with her unique blend of kindness and light. We are all devastated by her death, and we will miss her terribly.
POPPY:
Do you know if Sister Anahata had access to the internet?
EARNEST:
As I mentioned, we maintain an internet presence. This is managed by our Outreach Team, which is a small, carefully selected group staffed only with members who are unwaveringly devoted to our way of life. Members of the Outreach Team are the only ones who have official access to the internet, a policy that is designed to shield our more sensitive members from the pervasive temptation of the modern world. Sister Anahata was one such sensitive member, and she therefore would not have been accessing the internet in any sanctioned way. That said, our community is hardly a prison and she could have gotten online if she chose.
POPPY:
Do you think Sister Anahata was aware of this podcast and the renewed interest in her husband’s murder?
I am well aware some corners of the internet blame me for Erin Buhrman’s suicide. Since her tragic death five days ago, the possibility that I somehow played a role in it has haunted me.
EARNEST:
I am certain that she was. Not long before Sister Anahata took leave of us, our community was infiltrated by a group armed with cameras and recording devices. They ambushed Sister Anahata as she left morning meditation. Morning meditation is designed to help our members open themselves spiritually, and, following it, she would’ve been particularly vulnerable to abuse. After this encounter, Sister Anahata fell into long-forgotten patterns of self-destruction.
While she might have recovered with the love and support of her brothers and sisters, the following day, a gang of teenagers interrupted a ceremony and began spewing antagonistic venom at Sister Anahata and other members of our collective in attendance. We were all traumatized by the experience, Sister Anahata especially. We here at the Life Force Collective did our best to help her through that darkened period, but ultimately I regret to say that we could not save her.
I have to be honest, Brother Earnest’s words disturbed me. But after many, many hours of reflection, I have come to the conclusion that I don’t think this podcast is to blame. At all.
“But Poppy,” you say, “what about the groups of strangers breaking onto LFC grounds to torment her? Weren’t they fans of your show?”
It seems that way—and let me state for the record that while I am infinitely grateful for the incredible audience participation this podcast has inspired, I never, never want any of my listeners to invade the privacy of anyone connected to this case. Please remember they are not characters—this is real life, and they are real people. Please treat them with respect.
Perhaps if this podcast didn’t exist, no one would have sought out Erin Buhrman at the LFC compound. Then again, they might have. I’m not the only one interested in the Chuck Buhrman murder; I just happen to have the biggest platform. I know of at least twenty different websites—regularly updated websites, I might add—that are dedicated to the case, and conspiracy theories often pop up on the CrimeJunkie.net boards.
And let’s not forget what really killed Erin Buhrman. It wasn’t a group of strangers. It was the ghosts of her own past. She might have found solace from her painful memories in the LFC—or she might have just hidden them deep inside herself—but those memories were still a part of her. Everyone who knew Erin Buhrman knew she was a troubled woman. Even Brother Earnest, whose interactions with Erin were limited to the time she spent with a cult premised on sunshine worship, stated there was a darkness inside her.
And so, while I am sorry if my podcast played any role in the harassment of a vulnerable woman, I can confidently say that it was not to blame for anyone’s death.
chapter 15
I stumbled at the first mention of my late uncle Dennis, and I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk when I heard Uncle Jason’s voice. By the time Poppy Parnell began interviewing Beverly Dodds White, I was so disoriented by hearing that fame-chasing impostor narrate my mother’s life that I had to take a seat on the curb. That was where I remained for the next thirty minutes, listening in horrified curiosity. Every few minutes I would stop the podcast, certain that I’d had enough, that I couldn’t take any more, but I listened until its conclusion.
Even then, I remained seated, stunned. Poppy Parnell might not blame herself for my mother’s death, but she should. Even if her theory was right, even if Warren Cave was spending his life in prison for a crime he didn’t commit and my father’s murderer was walking free . . . well, that would be a tragedy, but there were other ways to remedy that. There were legal channels to follow; there was nothing that forced her to turn my father’s untimely death into a commodity. I might have sat there all afternoon, thinking black thoughts about Poppy, but the man whose home I was sitting outside of came out to the curb with a bottle of water and asked me if I was feeling all right. I decided it was time to return to Aunt A’s.
“That was a long run,” Caleb commented amiably as I walked through the front door.
I nodded blankly, still processing what I had heard.
“You okay, love?” he asked, squinting at me while he placed the back of his hand against my forehead. “You look pale.”
My instinct was to tell Caleb I was fine, but I remembered my new resolution to be completely honest with him. Just as I opened my mouth to tell him about the podcast, Aunt A stepped into the foyer. I quickly censored myself. I didn’t know whether Aunt A knew an unscheduled episode had been devoted to my mother, and I didn’t want to be the one to break that news.
“I’m fine,” I said, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. “I think I just pushed myself too hard. I’m a little light-headed. Nothing a warm shower can’t fix.”
“This is why I don’t believe in running,” Aunt A said, patting her soft midsection.
“You’ll outlast us all, Aunt A,” I said with false brightness. “Caleb, come upstairs and give me a hand?”