Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace

by Debra Moerke

  “After calling DFS so many times to express concern I was, uh, nicely told by one of the caseworkers to . . . well . . . butt out and let them do their job. I felt something was wrong, but they said the caseworker had gone to the house and had seen Hannah. I often wondered if her mother had a friend’s child sit in for Hannah when she knew there would be a home visit. When I told that to the caseworker, she said they didn’t think that would happen. I can’t help you with where she could be. I have been concerned for a very long time.” I could hear myself sounding anxious as I unloaded on poor Jill. I paused.

  There was only silence.

  “Jill, you still there?”

  “I realize I’ve known you only a short time, Deb, but I trust your judgment and your gut feelings. What are you trying to tell me? I’m listening.” I could tell she was being sincere.

  “I believe there has been foul play, Jill. I never use those words, but that is what my gut and my heart tell me.” Anger rose within me as my eyes filled with tears. My voice cracked. “I have felt that way for a long time. But no one would listen . . . before now.”

  Again . . . silence.

  “I’m going to take a chance on what you are telling me. I trust your instincts. I am going to file a missing person report with the police.” Her strong tone gave me assurance.

  “Thank heaven. Please let me know when you hear something.” I didn’t know if I should be scared or happy with her decision. That conversation was on a Friday. I didn’t hear anything for the next four days and did my best to take my worry to the Lord in prayer.

  A warm July breeze streamed through the kitchen window, providing refreshing relief from the heat as I prepared dinner. Al was on the computer in the little room off the dining area. The kids, two of our own and one foster child, lay sprawled in front of the TV. Only the muffled sound of cartoons and the soft whistle of the wind outside could be heard.

  Pulling out a frying pan from under the stove, I turned up the heat and crumbled ground beef into the pan for tacos. As the meat began to sizzle, the wall phone started ringing. “I’ll get it!” I hollered.

  “Hey, Jill,” I said, recognizing her voice. “What are you doing calling at 5:30 in the evening?” I teased. “I thought the time clock ended at 5:00 for all of you at DFS.”

  “What are you doing right now?” Jill’s tone was soft, low.

  “Cooking dinner,” I answered, now curious.

  “I think you need to sit down.”

  “Okay.” I lowered the heat under the pan and took a few steps back. I felt my stomach tighten. “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to call and tell you personally before you saw it on the evening news. They found Hannah . . .”

  “Where?” I jumped in excitedly.

  “Deb . . . they found her body in the garage of the home where they were living. She’s clearly been dead for some time, and her body was placed inside a black garbage bag. I am so, so sorry.”

  All the air seemed sucked out of the room. I couldn’t catch my breath. I paced in circles, wrapping myself in the long cord of the yellow phone like a cord tightening around my heart, strangling its ability to pump blood to my brain.

  “No. No. No,” I whispered.

  I couldn’t think. I could only feel pain everywhere, clawing at my stomach and ripping up through my chest, squeezing breath and life out of me. I stopped in the middle of the kitchen. Frozen, I couldn’t speak another word.

  “I have to go.” Jill’s voice cracked. “Out of care and respect for you, I wanted you to know first.”

  “Thank you.” I could only choke out those two words. I held the phone to my ear long after Jill had hung up. If I didn’t put the receiver back in its cradle, maybe I could put off the reality of the news a bit longer. Maybe Jill would come back on the line and tell me she had made a mistake.

  Dear Jesus, can this be real? Hannah dead? How do I tell Al? The kids? What do I say? My mind raced, even though my body seemed to be moving in slow motion.

  Returning the phone to its base, I held on to it, bracing myself against the wall with my other hand. I was stinging. Breathless. Voiceless.

  Managing a short breath, I called out, “Al! I need you! I need you now.” My cry was weak but desperate. “Al!”

  “What is it?” His response indicated he was slightly irritated for being interrupted, but as soon as he saw me, his scowl softened to concern and tenderness as he approached me. “What is it?” he whispered.

  “They found Hannah’s body. She’s dead. Our sweet little Hannah.” I began to sob. Al wrapped his arms around me. I could feel his body shake, and then I heard his sobs and felt his tears as he held his cheek tight against mine.

  The crying drew the kids from the living room. They stood with eyes wide. They had never seen us like this, falling apart in tears with arms clasped desperately around each other. I turned toward them and cried, “They found Hannah.” That was all I needed to say. Our sobs told them the news was bad. They all started crying and wrapped their arms around us. We stood as a family, broken, devastated, our hearts and souls torn, grieving and mourning as we had never done before. Our legs gave way, and still embracing each other, we dropped to our knees on the carpet, drowning in our loss. This could not be true. This could not have happened.

  As I hugged my children, I looked into the living room at Al’s recliner. I could see Hannah there as Al read to her. I could see her smiling and lying back against his chest as he turned the pages. I could see her. She couldn’t be gone.

  Helen was staying the night at a friend’s house. I would have to call and tell her the terrible news. She would be heartbroken. She loved Hannah.

  We all loved Hannah.

  Through the tormented night I wrestled with God. Why? Why had he allowed Karen to regain guardianship of Hannah, only to allow her to be murdered? It made no sense, especially since we fought to hold on to her, to keep her safe. Why had I been unable to arouse the concern of DFS for Hannah’s safety—before and after her return to Karen? Was this my fault?

  My mind replayed the agonizing day I had to take Hannah back to her mother. Overwhelmed by the judge’s decision and full of fear for Hannah, I knew she was not returning to a safe place. There would be no love shown to her there.

  Though Al slept fitfully at my side, sleep would not come for me. I punched my pillow as I tossed and turned. My mind refused to rest. I should have just taken her out of there. But the law had not been on my side. Now, the law had stepped in—when it was too late. The news report announced that the mother, already in prison on another charge, had been charged with the murder. Karen was behind bars this night, but I was imprisoned as well—by unspeakable grief and relentless pain. I lay in the darkness of my room trapped in the darkness of my soul.

  I was surprised when the sun broke through the opening of the bedroom curtains. Somehow, I hadn’t expected light to ever come again. While the rest of the family remained asleep, I slipped out of bed, grabbed my bathrobe, and headed downstairs to start the coffee. Since it was summer, the house would remain quiet for a little longer.

  I sat at the kitchen table, my chin resting on my folded arms as I watched the coffee fill to the ten-cup mark. Pulling a mug from the cupboard, I poured half a cup of the steamy brew and topped it off with cool water from the faucet. As I took my first sip, the phone rang.

  I stared at the yellow phone for a moment, nearly afraid to pick it up for all the bad news it had brought me in such a short time. I couldn’t think who might be calling so early. Then, I raced to grab it before it woke everyone in the house.

  “Hello. Moerkes’.” My voice was low and lifeless.

  “Hello. This is the Natrona County Detention Center,” a recording announced. “You have a collect call from an inmate. If you wish to accept the charges, say yes now. If not, simply hang up.”

  An inmate? The word ripped at my stomach and wrenched my body. I could think of only one inmate—the one on my mind all night. Pressure began building behi
nd my eyes as my jaw tightened. I couldn’t swallow.

  Are you kidding me? Aghast at the thought of Karen calling me, I gripped the phone tighter. You have to be kidding me! I turned toward the wall to hang up. Does she really think I would accept the charges and take her call? What is she thinking? Is she crazy? My mind raced as my hand, gripping the receiver, moved from my ear toward the phone base. “No way,” I whispered, about to hang up.

  In that very second, a voice swept through my mind. “If she were to call me, would I take her call?” My heart recognized the voice—Jesus. I froze. “You are my hands and feet and voice. Do you represent me or not?”

  I knew I had to take the call. “Lord, be with me. I cannot do this alone,” I whispered. Raising my eyes toward heaven, I heard myself say clearly, “Yes” to the recording and to Jesus.

  “Debra? Debra, are you there?” Karen’s familiar voice was on the other end.

  “Yes, I’m here.” I could hardly get the words out. My shoulders dropped. My jaw relaxed. I had given up. My voice and my body demonstrated it. Had I? Or was I simply submitting to my Lord?

  “Will you come see me?” Karen asked in a desperate whine. “I really need to see you.”

  At those words it seemed as if the world stopped spinning for a moment—time stood still. I tried to absorb her audacious request. Would I come see her? An unearthly rage surged up from some dark place inside of me. See her? I wanted to reach right through the phone and down her throat and rip her heart out of her body. I wanted to slam her up against the kitchen wall and scream at her, “What is wrong with you?” Then, just that quickly, the rage was gone, replaced by the echo of the words, “You are my hands and feet and voice. Do you represent me or not?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll see.” With those blatantly honest words, I hung up the phone. I didn’t know what else to say. The decision to go would not be mine alone. What would Al say? What would the kids say? Yet somehow, in that moment, I already knew I’d go. But what would I say once I got there?

  Chapter 10The Battleground

  IT HAD BEEN ABOUT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS since we’d heard the news about Hannah; maybe twelve since Karen had called me early in the morning. Silent grief tore at our hearts as we sat around the dinner table. Sadie, Helen, Charles, and even our foster daughter picked at their dinner. Al had hardly touched his, and I could barely swallow. No one wanted to eat, and yet no one seemed ready to leave the comfort and presence of the family.

  I looked at the clock. Visitation at the detention center ended at 9:00 p.m. If I was going to go see Karen, I would need to leave by 8:00 p.m. That gave me thirty minutes to finish eating and clean up the dishes. I moved at a relaxed pace and tried not to appear anxious. I’d arrive in plenty of time for a brief visit.

  Al and I had talked in the late afternoon about me visiting Karen. When I asked him about it, he’d winced and then looked sternly at me. He appeared shocked that I would even consider such a thing.

  “Deb, haven’t you been through enough? What could she possibly have to say to you? What would you say to her? I don’t want to see you bearing any more pain just so Karen can feel better.”

  His argument was sensible. I was feeling the same way. I’d spent the entire day torn by inner conflict. On the one hand, when my rage surged, I wanted nothing to do with her. Let her rot all alone. She deserves far worse. On the other hand, I wanted to be who God wanted me to be. I wanted to be a living example of grace. In the end, I could not deny the message from the Lord. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t deny it.

  “All I can say is that during my phone conversation with Karen I felt the Holy Spirit challenging me to go.”

  He shook his head as if he didn’t want to hear what I was saying. He didn’t seem to doubt what I’d heard, but out of his protection for me and anger toward Karen, he wrestled with agreeing that I should go. He asked for time to think about it. I understood. Moments before dinner Al gave me a reluctant yes.

  As the last of the dishes were put in the cupboard and the counter was wiped clean, I took off my apron and hung it on the wall. The kids had already completed their kitchen chores and gone into the family room to watch TV. Al joined them and settled into his recliner.

  “Hey, guys! I’m running out to see someone. I’ll try to be back in time to watch the end of the movie with you.” My announcement was upbeat and lively as I reached for my keys and purse, hoping to hear only “Okay . . . bye, Mom.”

  “Who are you seeing?” Charles called out as I reached for the knob of the front door. I froze.

  “Just a friend. I’ll be back soon.” I hoped to get out of the house before there were any more questions.

  “Are you going to the jail?” Helen asked. Her tone sounded accusatory.

  I wanted to avoid a straight answer. How should I respond? My hesitation drew more attention.

  “Are you going to see Karen?” Charles sat up sharply. Suddenly, all the kids looked at me.

  “Yes. I am.”

  Sadie shook her head and marched to her bedroom, closing the door hard behind her. Charles and Helen continued to stare at me. Their faces flushed, and their bodies stiffened.

  “Why?” Helen asked, raising her voice a bit.

  “I believe God wants me to.” What else could I say? That was the truth.

  Charles shook his head and lay back down on the carpet. Helen continued to stare at me in disbelief. Al looked on in silence.

  Their anger was justified. How could their mother spend time with someone who had done something so unthinkable? I knew that now wasn’t the time to try to counsel them through their anger and pain. I was dealing with my own. I could only pray for them and for Al.

  Though I did my best to explain that as a Christian I needed to go and do what God wanted me to do, they didn’t understand. My children’s faith was still young. They had not experienced the tests God allows in our lives that give us opportunity to trust him more and build our faith.

  It was hard knowing that Al didn’t support the visit either. He did support me, though. He always had. And that meant the world to me. He didn’t doubt God had called me. I was sure this was a test of faith for both of us.

  I left my family stinging and angry. I was not the one who could bring understanding or calm their hearts. Only God could do that. I had to go.

  “I love you all. I’ll be back soon.”

  As I drove the car down the bumpy dirt road from our house to the highway, I was confident I was doing the right thing, yet tormented over how much I didn’t want to go. “I am ready to do this,” I spoke aloud as I attempted to convince myself. I felt a strength come over me—until I reached the end of the dirt road and turned to head to town.

  Suddenly, I felt like someone had punched my stomach and I was going to throw up. A woozy wave of confusion filled my head, and I could barely see the speeding cars around me. I needed to get off the road and calm myself before I caused an accident.

  As I pulled over, heavy sorrow flooded my chest. Putting the car into park, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Tears drenched my cheeks. I felt as if a giant vacuum was sucking the life out of me, and I struggled to breathe.

  Maybe the devil is trying to use my pain to discourage me from seeing Karen. Yes, I’m experiencing understandable turmoil considering what has happened to Hannah, but there is a spiritual side to this as well. I slowly regained my composure. I was not one to side with the devil, but his ways could easily be justified if they felt like an easier way out. Isn’t this what we battle every day? A tug-of-war between what God would have us do and the temptation to take Satan’s easy way out? I wouldn’t let him win. I would get myself together and go.

  “God, give me what I need to do your will,” I prayed.

  I thought back to the years I had spent facilitating the Wednesday morning Bible study with the women at the jail. I thought of the many inmates I had gone to visit, those who requested to see a chaplain. I relished those visits. But this one would be different.
This one was personal—a visit I never could have dreamed I would be called to make. What did she want? What would I say to her? How would I behave? What if I lost my temper?

  I felt a tumultuous war within—anger, grief, the desire to be obedient to God, and the fear I wasn’t up to the challenge.

  Desperate for air, I rolled down my window and stuck my head out. I felt as if I was coming up out of a deep body of water, gasping for oxygen. I inhaled and exhaled two or three times, and my heart rate slowed and my focus returned. The hum of the evening traffic and the sound of chirping crickets gradually became louder than the pounding of my heart. I rested my head against the frame of the open window, closed my eyes, and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  When I opened my eyes, I knew it was time to go. I feared that someone might think I was having car trouble and stop to offer help. I didn’t want to have to explain anything to a stranger. I put the car into drive. “Don’t let my anger and fear keep me from doing what you want me to do, Lord,” I said aloud.

  All my senses seemed suddenly alive. The stars appeared unusually brilliant against the darkening evening sky, and the moon was brightly defined. I welcomed the kind face of the moon as it escorted me past the bridge, across town, and up the hill to the parking lot of the jail.

  I pulled into the visitors parking area and turned off the engine, giving myself a few minutes before going into the gray brick building. Huge circles of razor wire lined the top of the inmate recreation wall, and they sparkled like glistening diamonds as the parking lot lights shone down on them. Everything appeared so much more vivid. I felt as if something dark had been pursuing me ever since I left home, and yet now I was safe in the familiar parking lot of the jail. The Lord was near.