The Loss of a Brother

Wayne and Jeff Uber

Back in March of 1995 a twin brother worked at his desk, a sister read to her children, a mother enjoyed vacation abroad, and a father waited at home. None of them knew that three bullets, fired miles away, would forever alter their lives.

On Thursday morning, March 23, 1995, no one could reach my brother, Jeffrey. We knew almost immediately that something was wrong because Jeff was a responsible person who always carried a pager and was within reach of a cell phone or a radio in his work truck. But he had failed to return to work at quitting time. When his truck was discovered empty, in a mall parking lot, miles away from any of his scheduled appointments, we were even more alarmed.

We responded with pleas to the media, flyers in the neighborhood, and a Sunday search with about 100 volunteers. We posted a reward for information leading to his safe return. We immediately suspected foul play when we heard that Jeff's credit cards were being used for plane flights to Colorado. Jeff couldn't ski-he had an injured knee that prevented him from sports like skiing. Five frantic, exhausting days searching without new information had reduced us to tears. We were overcome by grief and fear for the man who meant so much to us.

Wayne, Lisa and Jeff Uber

Jeff had been a dependable son to my father, helping him maintain his rental properties. He and Dad were regular fishing companions and good friends. He was the child who lived closest to my mother, the one who took her to the movies and checked in on her a number of times each week. Jeff was a trusted brother to my sister and an uncle to her three children. He took them water-skiing and made them laugh when he threw bugs in spider webs. Jeff was the only brother I ever had. He was my twin. We finished each other's sentences and shared an unspoken understanding of one another, our family and common values.

All of that changed when a killer fired three shots into my brother for the price of a Colorado ski vacation with an unsuspecting girlfriend. Jeff's body was found in a storage warehouse. We held a memorial service before his body was released by the medical examiner since Jeff had now become "evidence."

We found ourselves in the middle of a media frenzy. We had nightmares about what happened. The police reports answered a lot of our questions, and yet some will never be answered. Somehow we would have to learn to live with that too.

We all tried to return to our previous lives, to achieve some sense of normalcy. That's a hard thing to do when conversations always seem to drift towards hearings, continuances, DNA, ballistics and estate issues-especially as we waited a year and a half for trials and agonized over sentencing and plea bargains.

Ultimately there was more than one sentence in the case. In many ways, we were all sentenced to a fate over which we had no choice, and justice seemed neither sure nor quick. Mom moved out of state from the home we grew up in, where she had lived for 28 years, to be closer to her parents and sisters. My father, who lived near Jeff, found himself 400 miles away from his closest living child in the aftermath. With Jeff brutally murdered, our home town became ground zero for a personal tragedy.

I struggled with a new identity. I was no longer another member of that happy family that had everything going for it. I wondered if others viewed me as "the relative of a murder victim," instead of whatever I was before all this happened. How would any of us live with the awful permanence of Jeff's loss? But my brother's example had already paved the way.

Jeff's life wasn't easy. He'd gone through a lot before he died. Jeff endured five cornea transplants and a cataract operation and wore a brace on one knee from a recent car accident. He never let any of it get him down. In like manner we all made the decision to engage in life. However painfully, we picked ourselves up and got back to work. My sister has three children, a loving and supportive husband and a job as a nurse. Having responsibilities and strong family ties helped us focus on the good things that were left. Two unplanned (and frantic) weeks away from work left us ready for the comfort of our old routines.

My sister and I became closer to our parents. We call them more often, and we talk to them longer. We don't fight anymore. We don't waste time and energy on things that don't matter.

Over the years and after the trials, I decided that something good had to come from Jeff Uber's murder. I figured that helping others who are only starting down this path was one way of honoring my brother's life. My wife urged me to join a support group, and there I learned that each friend and relative of a homicide victim has a message to share. Just listening to other survivors can make such a difference—that's what Jeff would have done.

Wayne Uber is a victim advocate, serving as a member of the board for the North Carolina Victim Assistance Network.