Bone Harvest - Mary Logue [81]
The sheriff’s department was in the new building. They had been working on it when he had left the department twenty years ago. It perched up on the hill overlooking the town, although it didn’t have much of a view. Earl Lowman sat in his car and blew on the cup of coffee he had picked up at the Burger King in town. A fast-food joint in Durand. Who woulda thought?
Marie and he had come home from the hospital about two in the morning. She had made up the couch for him to sleep on. The kids had awakened him when they were getting ready for school, but he managed to keep them quiet enough so they didn’t wake up Marie. She had still been sleeping when he left. He had called the hospital and they said that Andy was eating his breakfast. He left a note for Marie so she would know right away that Andy was doing fine.
And now here he sat, about to do what it was starting to feel like he had come back to Durand to do. Tell the truth. How had he made such a mess of things? He had been so young. Would anyone understand? What could they do to him now? Throw him in jail for obstructing the law at best, sentence him to life for killing someone at worst. Take away his badge, when he had given it up years ago. Fine him. Whatever it was, he didn’t mind. He had his son back and a family to get to know. If he had to go to jail, he’d just as soon it would be in Wisconsin, where they could come and see him.
He finished his coffee and wiped his face with his hands. It wouldn’t get any easier for waiting. Getting out of his car, he checked his back pocket for his wallet. Then he walked into the sheriff’s department.
When he gave his name, the young woman behind the counter called one of the deputies.
A dark-haired woman came out of a back room and introduced herself. “I’m Claire Watkins, the investigator for the county. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks. Just finished my coffee.”
She brought him into a large back room with a black man sitting at a long table. The man stood and shook his hand. “I’m Sean Tyrone, from DCI, Department of Criminal Investigation.”
“You been sleeping in your suit?” Earl asked.
“It’s been a long night.”
“I hear you.” Earl sat down at the table. “You want me to tell my story.”
“You comfortable with us taping this?” Watkins asked.
“Sure. That’s the way to do it.”
She pressed a button on the tape player sitting on the table in front of him. “Should I ask you questions?”
“Let’s start that way,” he agreed.
“Could you state your full name?”
“Earl Anthony Lowman. Currently residing in Tucson, Arizona. I was a deputy sheriff for the Pepin County sheriff’s department for thirty years.”
“Can you tell us what happened at the Schuler farm on July the seventh, 1952?”
“In 1952 I was twenty-five years old. I had been working for the sheriff for maybe a year. I didn’t know what I was doing.” He stopped.
Watkins leaned toward him and Tyrone tapped a pencil on the table. They waited. They didn’t care about his excuses. He might as well skip them.
“It was a hot day,” he remembered. “Crisp and hot. Not too humid. I had borrowed a saw from Otto Schuler and decided to walk it over there. That was pretty unusual. No one walked much in those days. Guess they don’t now either. I had on my uniform. I had just gotten home from work and hadn’t changed yet. I was newly married and my wife was making dinner. I told her I’d be back in fifteen, twenty minutes.
“When I walked down the driveway to the Schuler place, no one was about, but that didn’t surprise me. It was after five thirty and this was a farm family. They were probably inside eating. But then when I got to the door, I called out and nobody answered. The door was wide open. This wasn’t unusual. No one locked their doors. But I was surprised I couldn’t raise anyone. I called again. Then I stuck my head in the door.”
Earl stopped for a moment. He could see it all. The scene came up in front of his