by Debra Moerke
Drawing in one more deep breath, and exhaling slowly, I forced myself to get out of the car and walk across the parking lot to the jail entrance. The empty lobby had seen many visitors; the vinyl floor was well worn. Centered in the lobby, a glass security window with a short laminated countertop served as the only introduction to the detention center. There was a sterile feel to the almost colorless decor. No one was present except the woman behind the glass window.
“Hi, Deb! What are you doing here so late? Visitation time is almost over. I assume you are here for a clergy visit.” Jean had worked at the detention center for a long time. She and I would often spend a few minutes visiting with each other before I’d go in.
“Hi, Jean. Yeah . . . I’m here to see Karen Bower. I know I don’t have much time, but she requested the visit.” I knew I wasn’t my usual friendly, lighthearted self but hoped Jean would not ask me questions or want to chat. I wanted to fill out the visitor form, hand over my car keys and driver’s license, and get this visit over with as quickly as possible.
“Do you know her personally?” Jean asked. “It’s all over the newspaper, you know.”
“Yes. I know her,” I answered softly. Jean looked at me for a moment. I was sure she could tell I had been crying.
“Okay, honey. You’re cleared to go in. Take care, okay?” I appreciated Jean’s attempt to be tender but didn’t have the emotional energy to respond. I smiled at her and walked outside to the visitation entrance.
My legs seemed so heavy I could barely shuffle to the door. Every step felt like a battle. Tears streamed down my face as the door to the lobby closed tightly behind me. I had only one tissue, and it wasn’t enough to soak up the tears drenching my face. I knew the lock on the visitation door would click open as soon as I was in the security camera’s view. I desperately needed to be able to go into the visit calm and with some sense of control.
“Help me, Lord,” I prayed.
Suddenly, an unseen, gentle hug of warmth wrapped itself around me. From head to toe, peace filled me, calming my heart and body. It reminded me of my cozy bed comforter on a cold snowy night. But this warmth didn’t just cover me—it actually filled me. The anxious weight in my chest dissipated. My shaky hands became still. I not only stopped crying, but my eyes were dry. I knew the Lord was giving me a direct and instant answer to my prayer.
Was this grace being given to me? Grace to be like Jesus to Karen Bower? Was God preparing me to be the hands and feet and mouthpiece of the one true lover of our souls? What was God planning to do with this supernatural grace of his? I knew, somehow, it was not given for me alone, but for Karen as well. I was in awe that God was using me in an extraordinary way.
The security door unlocked, and I pulled it toward me. As I walked down the short hall, I heard the next door click open before I reached it. An officer waited for me.
“Good evening,” the officer greeted me with little expression.
“Good evening.”
When I reached the special visitation area for attorneys and chaplains, the officer offered me any room I wanted. No one else was there.
“You’re here to see Bower, correct?” the officer asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The officer disappeared through the visitation security door, and I watched him through the glass window as he walked to the next interior door. I dragged one of the plastic chairs from behind a small table and moved it to where I could see him coming with Karen. I thought I might be better prepared if I could see her before the door opened. The smell of bleach and sweat assaulted my senses. The jail often smelled of it, but it seemed especially strong that evening.
“The officer is getting Karen now, Deb.” Jean’s voice came over the speaker. “It will be a few minutes. He has to get her from the infirmary.” I waved at the camera in the corner of the hallway ceiling, indicating a thank-you. Why the infirmary? Is Karen sick?
Minutes passed before I heard the sound of several metal doors unlocking through the hallways. Then, through the glass window of the security door, Karen appeared, dressed in navy blue jail scrubs. She peered through the glass as she came closer, and our eyes locked. Her eyebrows shot up at the sight of me. We each gave a quick smile, and the escorting officer radioed to security control to unlock the door of the special visits area.
Why did I smile at her? She murdered Hannah!
Was I here as a chaplain, an ambassador of grace, or as the foster mother whose precious foster child had been murdered?
Pulling the heavy door open, the officer directed Karen to walk through. Then, nodding at me, he pulled the door closed behind him.
“Inmate Bower is secure in visitation for a clergy visit.” The officer radioed the control center before disappearing through the door.
Clergy visit? Is that really what this is? I wasn’t sure what this visit felt like, but my frame of mind certainly wasn’t typical of my chaplain visits. Turmoil waged in my soul.
I found myself extending my arms to hug Karen. We usually gave hugs, so it seemed the natural thing to do. It would have felt more awkward not to hug. It could have indicated hardness in my heart. Jesus would hug her, I thought.
“You came!” I could hear the surprise and relief in her voice. I realized she’d had no idea who was waiting to see her. She’d had no idea if I would come or not.
“Thank you for coming.” Karen spoke softly.
I gave a slight smile but said nothing. We each grabbed a plastic chair and set them on either side of the small Formica table in one of the visitation cells.
“Do you know where my kids are?”
“Four are in foster homes. I’m not sure if they’ve located Andrew yet. And DeAnn is still at your parents,” I said soberly.
A few seconds ticked by with no eye contact and no words spoken between us.
“I guess you know by now what happened.” Karen opened the conversation.
“I know only a little.” I folded my hands on my lap.
Silence.
Karen looked down at the floor, then up at me. She appeared nervous but not necessarily emotional. No tears. No signs of distress or remorse. I held a steady stare with her and waited. I could feel God’s presence in the room. I knew he was there because I felt an unexplainable sense of peace and a sound mind. Perhaps the emotions would come later, once I left the jail. But for this moment, I was given a calm spirit.
“What happened?” I whispered.
Karen looked at me for a moment and, after a long sigh, began describing the terrible evening Hannah died.
“I was angry at her for something. I can’t remember what it was now. We were standing at the top of the stairs and I told her to go downstairs. She was crying and arguing with me and wouldn’t move. I pushed her toward the stairs, but she fell down the stairs to the landing by the front door. She started to scream, and I got madder and went down to her and yelled for her to shut up and stop screaming. She kept crying and screaming, and I started kicking her with my shoes; they had hard wood soles, and I kept kicking her harder and harder until I heard her head crack and her face became distorted. I could tell I had cracked her skull. Then she stopped screaming and just lay there moaning.”
I listened in horror, yet didn’t flinch or move. Karen was reporting this all so matter-of-factly. No tears, no apparent anguish or trauma. Just a straight, apparently unfeeling telling of events. It was surreal.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she continued flatly. “I watched her for a minute, and I could tell she was seriously hurt. I yelled at the other kids to stay upstairs and not come down. Then I picked up Hannah and carried her to the bedroom on the bottom floor and laid her on the bed. I ran upstairs to see where the kids were and told them to stay in their rooms. Then I went back and checked on Hannah. She was hardly making a sound, and blood was coming out of her ear. I could tell she was in a bad condition.” Karen paused for a second.
I knew the layout of the home. I could visualize the tragic scene as she describe
d it all—the violence and the insanity.
“If you knew she was in such bad shape, why didn’t you call an ambulance?” I knew the answer before I asked it.
“I was afraid. I could tell she was probably not going to make it or there would be so much damage that, well . . . I panicked.”
“What did you do then?” I asked, not knowing if I really wanted to know.
“I grabbed a yellow blanket and wrapped her in it and left her on the bed until the kids went to sleep.” Karen rubbed her fingers nervously as she spoke, looking at them as if she would find some sort of comfort in them.
“What did you tell the kids?” I asked. I couldn’t believe how calm I was.
“I told them that Hannah was in big trouble and had to go to bed early. I told them that they were not to go downstairs; all of them were to sleep upstairs that night.” Karen looked at the floor, then at the cinder block wall next to her, then up at me as she waited for my next question. Was she trying to focus, or was she scanning the cell to distract her from mentally replaying the attack on Hannah?
“What did you do then?”
“I checked on Hannah again. I could tell she was dead. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave her there on the bed. Where could I take her? I couldn’t take her anywhere. And I didn’t want her to be far from me. I wanted her to be near. So I got a large black trash bag, curled her up, and put her in it. Then I carried her to the garage and tucked her under a desk out there.” Karen looked down, then sat back in her chair as if telling me had somehow lifted the heavy weight she had been carrying for a long time. She let out a deep sigh, then looked at me.
I didn’t want her to feel any relief from that weight. I wanted her crushed by it.
We sat silently for a moment as I stared at her pale face and thought, Oh, dear God, this is real. This is really happening.
“Why did you leave her there all this time and not bury her or . . . something?” My mind was boggled by the questions I was asking. A voice inside me wanted to scream, wanted to come unleashed and scream something, anything. But the Holy Spirit kept me calm. I knew it had to be him. I wasn’t in denial. I knew the gruesome story I was hearing was all true.
Karen continued. “I couldn’t bring myself to move her. I would go out into the garage for weeks after, once the kids went to bed, and I would sit on a folding chair in the garage and talk to her. I don’t know why. I just needed to do that. After a while, I couldn’t imagine her not being there. I knew where she was by keeping her close.” Karen shook her head slightly. She appeared to be still reasoning why she kept Hannah in the garage.
“And what did you tell the kids? Where did you say she was?” I knew our time was running out. Visiting hours were almost over, and the officer would come to get Karen soon.
“In the morning, I told them she had behaved badly and had to go live with a friend.”
“And they never asked about her after that?” I questioned.
“No. Not really. If they did, I would remind them she was living somewhere else.” Karen picked at her fingernails.
“And you told the police all of this?” I asked.
“Yes. They came to the Lusk prison and taped my confession.”
Karen needed to purge her thoughts and her memories of what she had done nearly ten months before. I didn’t believe she was emptying her heart, though. She didn’t cry, tremble, or wring her hands. It was as if she was relieved it was all out in the open. But I saw no remorse. Had she become so numb, so hardened over the past months? How could she commit such a terrible crime, hide the body for so long, and keep the secret from so many?
As difficult and shocking as it was to hear the gory details of what had happened, I didn’t cry or yell or walk out. I couldn’t have walked out if I had wanted to—I was in a secured room and would have to wait five to ten minutes for an officer. It was not a situation that I could run away from. I had to stay and hear Karen out. Hear about the terrible nightmare that she would never be able to wake from.
“I know I’m in big trouble,” she blurted.
I thought it strange that she would be thinking of how much trouble she was in, rather than the fact that she had taken the life of her child. Had the years of abuse she had inflicted on Hannah while under the influence of drugs and alcohol and bad company meant nothing to her? Had murdering her daughter meant nothing more than that she was “in trouble”? It all seemed so bizarre. We were talking evil, abuse, and murder, and all Karen could think of was that she was in “big trouble.”
Over a year before I had told the caseworkers at DFS that I was afraid for Hannah’s safety. They had reminded me that I was not the foster parent of the Bower children anymore and that they were taking care of watching over the children in their mother’s care. Now my greatest fear had happened. Devastated, I shook my head in disbelief.
This cannot be happening. I am not with Karen Bower hearing about the murder of her little five-year-old daughter. The precious girl our family loved. It is all too big. It is all too crazy. This atrocious event should not be in my life. Yet here I was.
Karen asked if I knew anything else about her other children. I told her I didn’t. Then she told me she’d just been sentenced to the women’s prison in Lusk for two years for grand larceny. Suddenly it occurred to me that it was not a good thing that Karen had confessed everything to me. It may have made Karen feel better, but I knew attorneys would soon be involved, and they would not be happy that a full confession was given to a lay chaplain who was a previous foster parent to Karen’s children. I knew the visit should end.
“Karen, it’s time for me to leave and get home to my family.”
“Will you come back to visit me again?” Karen asked with a crack in her voice. “It’s hard to be here, and no one is willing to visit me. Not my parents or any friends.”
What friends? I knew that many of the people she had associated with were involved with drugs and would want nothing to do with visiting a jail. Others surely were so angry at what she had done. Who would visit her? Me. Why, Lord, have you called me to be the one? Who am I?
“Yes, I will try to visit again. It is not easy for me. My family does not want me to, but I will try.”
I pushed the intercom button on the wall and requested that an officer come to get Karen. We only had a few minutes more alone. Though I believed Karen’s heart was hard, I also saw relief in her eyes that she didn’t have to hide the truth anymore. I asked if I could pray with her. She nodded, and I held her hands. I prayed for truth to be revealed and that God would show his grace and love to Karen as she sought him. I knew the Holy Spirit led my prayer. As we were praying, I was struck by the horror that I was holding the hands of the murderer who had taken Hannah’s life.
My voice cracked a little, and I knew I needed to get to the safety of my car where I would be free to cry out to God. My heart was swelling, and I could take in no more. I felt queasy, as if I had taken a toxic poison. I needed to find a bucket quick. That bucket would have to be the Lord. Only he could handle something so vile.
After I said, “Amen,” Karen and I stood up and walked silently to the door. We could hear the security doors unlock one by one as the officer made his way through the maze of hallways to us. As the door to the visitation room unlocked, we gave each other another hug.
As she stepped through the door, I spoke up. “Oh! One more question.”
“What’s that?”
“Why do they have you in the infirmary?”
Pausing for a moment, she turned her eyes away and then answered.
“Because I am considered a high-profile case and . . . I’m five months pregnant.”
Chapter 11The Ultimate Question
SILENTLY, Al, Sadie, Helen, Charles, and I filed out the front door of our home to the van. The usually annoying Wyoming wind whooshed around us, but this morning it felt like a warm soothing blanket. My heart, frozen in crushing grief, needed the comfort.
Belting ourselves in, w
e braced ourselves for a somber drive to Hannah’s funeral. We drove the highway along the North Platte River toward Natrona Memorial Gardens in silence. None of us was ready to accept the reality of the dark deed that had taken Hannah’s life. The twenty-minute ride would be too short. We needed more time.
Twelve days had passed since I’d visited Karen in jail where she made her shocking revelations to me. Was she sitting in her cell right now, imagining her daughter’s funeral service? Was she grieving the child she didn’t have anymore because of her own violent actions? And what of the child she now carried in her womb—one she would never be able to mother?
I reflected back to when I was the director of the crisis pregnancy center. I’d been driving home one evening along a less-traveled backcountry road when I stopped at a crossroads surrounded by sagebrush, dirt, and dried grass. It was almost dusk as I gazed up at the sky. Gray clouds were forming.
At that moment I experienced what I would call a vision. Captivated, I saw a long staircase going up to heaven toward Jesus, who was standing next to a short pillar. On top of the pillar lay the limp, lifeless body of a newborn baby. My heart began to pound as I watched an image of myself climbing the staircase. When I reached Jesus, he lifted the lifeless infant from the pillar and held it out as if presenting the child to me.
Suddenly, a second vision appeared next to the first. The same stairs, the same pillar, the same lifeless infant. But now, I saw myself climbing up to the pillar, lifting the infant in my arms, and humbly presenting the child to Jesus. He held it to his chest and smiled at me. The visions faded.
I didn’t need anyone to interpret the vision. I knew exactly what Jesus was saying. I had been given a choice. I could deny that I had taken the life of my unborn child through abortion when I was seventeen, or lay that truth, in confession, at Jesus’ feet and receive forgiveness. I chose confession and forgiveness by presenting my sin to him. Because of that forgiveness, he would then use me to show others the road to forgiveness. That had been my confirmation for my call to be the director of the crisis pregnancy center.