Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace

by Debra Moerke

  I was surprised at my angst. Where was the peace of God I had at the first and second visits? My grief over Hannah and my struggle with forgiving Karen were fighting their way to the surface. Waiting between security doors, I prayed out loud, “Lord, be with me.” Seconds later the door in front of me unlatched.

  I entered the hall to the square cinder block special visitation rooms and passed a closed door to another room where low voices were coming from the other side. An attorney, religious leader, or lay chaplain was visiting with an inmate. Whenever there was more than one visit going on, the security doors to each individual room had to be closed and secured. I found myself not wanting to be so physically confined with Karen this time. I feared I would fall apart in tears or say terrible things.

  My breathing became shallow as my heart raced. I didn’t want this visit, but it was too late, as I’d be seeing her any minute. Maybe my attitude will be better once I see her walking toward me. I sat on the blue plastic chair facing the glass and waited, willing myself to surrender to the Lord’s guidance during this visit.

  Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. I looked at my watch. I didn’t want to be late getting home to make dinner.

  I began to hear radio chatter, and through the glass I finally saw Karen walking toward me. The officer reached for his radio and squeezed the transmit button.

  “Control, open special visitation door, please.” I rose to meet her as the lock released. When our eyes met, Karen gave me a quick smile. I returned one just as quick. Stepping forward, we embraced. Her hug was tight and, I sensed, genuine.

  “How are you feeling? Is the baby moving much?” I wanted to have some control over the conversation, so I started with the obvious.

  “I’m feeling okay. Every time they bring me back to Casper they put me in a cell in the infirmary. It’s very boring. One of the nurses said it’s not only because I’m pregnant but also for security reasons. It would be too dangerous for me in general population in the dorm or a housing unit.”

  I’d never thought of Karen being in danger in the jail, but suddenly that made sense. Child abusers and child murderers are often hated by other prisoners. I couldn’t think of a response.

  “Do you know anything about the kids?” Karen sat hunched over, her hair stringy; she began twisting her fingers.

  “I don’t know much. They’re at different homes. Foster homes now, I believe. No one is talking, and I can’t get DFS to answer their phone. Some say that they’ve shut down until an investigation is completed. That’s crazy! There are foster parents who need to communicate with them. I know they are under tough scrutiny, and I guess it makes sense that there would be intense questioning. The community is outraged. You see it all through the newspaper. I hear it everywhere I go in town. People who know I am a foster parent stop me and ask if I know anything about the case.”

  Karen stared at me. For a moment, the focus was off of her and the bad guy was DFS. I found that my anger for the failure of the social system in Casper created an odd feeling of pity for Karen—as if this tragedy could have been averted if they had not returned the children to her prematurely. I found myself in an emotional tug-of-war that left me confused. DFS didn’t take Hannah’s life. I’d just hugged the person who had.

  We sat silently again. There was so much to process. We both had questions. Where did we start? How comfortable were we to ask them? What could be the legal issues if we did ask—and answered?

  I told her about Renee’s call. Karen asked if I could pay another month’s storage until she could figure out what to do.

  I was frustrated that she’d ask that of me. “Karen, it’s senseless to keep paying for storage. Isn’t there someone who can get it out and store it? Your family? A friend?”

  She shook her head as I continued to offer suggestions. There was no one.

  “You are the only one who will help me.” She wasn’t begging. Just stating a fact.

  “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t spend money on storage. Al would not be happy with that. I really have to go. Can I pray for you before I do?” I wanted to leave the jail. I felt pressured. Was it my conscience or God or because I had no answers? I pushed the button of the speaker on the wall, knowing we’d have time to pray before the officer came.

  I wrapped my hands around hers, then prayed for the hearts of her children to be protected, for truth to be revealed, and for God to work in Karen’s spirit, that she would learn to trust him. She thanked me, and we sat in silence until the officer arrived to escort her back to the infirmary.

  When I reached the parking lot, I poured out my frustration to God. “What do you want me to do? You give me Karen, who murdered her child, a child I loved. My family is hurting and angry and unhappy that I’m talking to Karen. I want to help her children, but they are all with other families. Who will care for them next? And then Karen has a baby on the way. Oh . . . and no one from DFS will answer my calls. I can’t even talk to them about the two foster children I have in my home. And according to Karen, and now the newspapers, there is the possibility that Karen may be facing the death penalty. When do my heart and emotions get a break from all of this?” I whined and prayed as I whipped out of the parking lot, racing to get home.

  Knowing I was running late, I rushed through the door when I reached home. My attempt to act nonchalant about where I had been was a struggle. Slow down. Act calm. Walk, don’t run. Behave as if this is just like any other day. I hated all the pretense. It left me feeling so isolated.

  I started pulling out pots and pans from the kitchen cupboard.

  Al followed me, munching on crackers. “We were wondering when you would get home. Everyone is starving.”

  “Sorry. I was, uh, well, caught up in a conversation with someone.” Al stared at me and stopped chomping.

  Avoiding eye contact, I opened the refrigerator.

  “A conversation with . . . someone?” He figured out where I had been. I was hyper and anxious under my phony smooth demeanor. “So what did you talk about?” He licked cracker crumbs off his fingers.

  I answered in a whisper. “Karen wants to know if I can do something with all her stuff in storage.”

  “Like what?” A bit snappy with his reply, he took two big steps to the trash can, opened it, and forced the empty cracker box down into it.

  “Well, what if I have it brought here and store it in the garage? I could go through it later and get things to her children. There might be things they need.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying. It was as if God put the words in my mouth right before they spilled out.

  Al stared at me, his expression frozen, cold as stone. His silence spoke volumes. I didn’t blame him. But I felt that same prodding from the Lord that I felt when I took Karen’s first call from jail. It wasn’t me offering to serve her in this way. It was Jesus in me prompting the offer. He does seem to like volunteering me for his work.

  I stared back. It was a showdown, though not an angry one. Al shook his head. “Do what you think you need to do.” Turning to walk out of the kitchen, he called back to me, “How long until dinner?”

  I was reluctant to admit it, but it looked as though God had answered my prayers. I had asked him what I should do, and he had told me. I would receive the storage unit full of Karen’s belongings and . . . then what? What would I do with it all? How much was there, anyway? I hadn’t asked Renee how big the storage unit was or whether it was full. How much stuff could Karen have? And when was I supposed to find the time to sort through it all?

  I was in the midst of preparing for the national Mrs. International pageant in Texas and would soon need to focus on the trip. I still had appearances to make as Mrs. Wyoming. I had my job, my family, and foster children to care for. Sure, I could receive the property and stick it in the back of my garage until I figured out what to do with it, but that left one other issue to deal with. How would I explain the stuff in our garage to my children who were still angry and suffering over Hannah’s murder?


  The next day, I called the number Renee gave me and made arrangements to have Karen’s stuff delivered. Al was at work and the kids were at school when the man arrived in his pickup. The timing was perfect. I could tuck away the bags in the garage, on the other side of our boat, where hopefully the kids wouldn’t notice them.

  “Where do you want them?” he said gruffly, slipping on a worn pair of work gloves.

  “Here on the driveway.”

  He clapped his hands together and said, “Let’s get to it!”

  The truck was full to the brim with black plastic garbage bags, fifteen to twenty of them. Climbing into the bed of the truck, the man threw them onto the driveway one by one.

  Thud! Thud! Thud! As each bag hit the cement, I dragged it into the garage. This was far more than I’d feared. Why did God have me open my mouth to say I would accept them?

  After the man had thrown the last bag from the truck, he got into the cab and drove off before I could thank him, the truck’s wheels kicking up a cyclone of dust all the way down our road. I eyed the mound of bulging black plastic bags covering half the floor of my garage. I knew the bags would require hours of time. There would be no camouflaging them. No covering them up. No hiding them. It was too much. Too big.

  Al and the kids will say I have lost my mind. Maybe I have.

  It was only a matter of days before one of the children spotted the bags. I did my best to explain, but their anger at Karen surged once again, as did their frustration with me for visiting and helping her. I empathized with their frustration, but with Al’s support I kept my course.

  A few days later I was surprised to get a call from the police, asking if Al and I would come to the station to answer some questions. We agreed.

  What would they ask us? What information could we offer them? Karen had confessed to the police that she had taken Hannah’s life. What could we say that would be of any help or shed any light on what Karen had already confessed to the police?

  Still, we felt it was our responsibility to talk with the police since they requested it. We felt vulnerable. Would they ask me what Karen told me at our first visit? We wondered if we should hire an attorney but decided not to.

  Detective Marsh met us in the police station lobby. He was dressed casually in an off-white golf shirt and dark grey khakis, with a shiny brass police badge clipped to his belt. His demeanor was as casual and welcoming as his appearance.

  “Thank you for coming to the station. I’m sure this is difficult for your family. I understand you had the Bower children in your home for some time,” he said, leading us to a room with several tables and chairs. Two other men and a woman were there, working at tables.

  Pulling out a chair for me, the detective motioned to another for Al. “Have a seat. Would you like some water?” We shook our heads. We hoped we wouldn’t have to stay long.

  Detective Marsh scooted a chair up to the table and sat sideways on the seat, draping one arm over the back of his chair as if he were trying to take a relaxed pose to help us not feel intimidated. One of the other men walked over to our table and sat next to Al.

  “How long have you been foster parents?” The first question came from Detective Marsh.

  “Almost sixteen years, I think,” I said, looking at Al for confirmation.

  “Yes, I think it’s going on sixteen years now,” Al said.

  “How long did you have the Bower children in your home?”

  “Ten or eleven months, I think,” I said, and Al nodded in agreement.

  “Do you know anything about the fathers of the children?” When Detective Marsh asked the question, the man sitting next to Al cocked his head, listening intently.

  “No, I have only met one briefly,” I said. “Hannah’s father.”

  From across the table, the other man finally introduced himself as a detective. He took over, asking if we would share what happened when the children were court ordered back to their mother and afterward. He asked if we saw Hannah during that time.

  Suddenly, anger burned in my chest. Now they ask! How many times did I call DFS about Hannah’s safety? If anyone would have asked or listened then, we would not be having this meeting. Hannah would be alive and well. I tried to calm myself. I knew it wasn’t the fault of the police.

  I explained that I had called DFS numerous times, expressing my concerns after the children went home. DFS had insisted that they were checking regularly on the children, including Hannah, and that all was well.

  “I understand that you’ve met with Karen in jail. Will you tell me what the two of you discussed?” Detective Marsh asked.

  “No, I don’t believe I should divulge that,” I said. “As her chaplain, our conversations were confidential.” I felt I would need legal counsel to guide me before I could say anything about it.

  Knowing Karen had confessed to the police the night they found Hannah’s body, I didn’t think they would need my testimony. I remembered a wise person told me once, “If you don’t know what to do, do nothing until you do.” I would do nothing and say nothing until I had clear understanding and direction from an attorney or from God.

  I mentioned that I was storing Karen’s property in our garage. Was it important to their investigation? Detective Marsh said no—the authorities had searched Karen’s home and released the remaining contents.

  Finally, the questions were over, the detectives thanked us, and Al and I were relieved to have that behind us. About a week passed and we got another call—this one from a private investigator asking if Al and I would meet with him at a restaurant or somewhere we felt comfortable.

  Comfortable? We were anything but. We were not even sure who he was working for—DFS, Karen’s attorneys, or her family. But we naively agreed to meet. His questions covered pretty much the same information as Detective Marsh’s, so we repeated our answers.

  Al and I returned home worn out and frustrated. What had I gotten us into when I answered that fateful call from Karen? I knew the Lord had prompted me to visit her, but now I was squirming. Not only did I have a garage filled with her belongings, but now I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was under legal scrutiny.

  What was my involvement with Karen going to cost us?

  Chapter 13Sacred Conversations

  KAREN HAD BEEN TRANSPORTED back to the prison in Lusk, a two-hour drive away. Though I felt compelled to visit her again, I allowed a few weeks to pass before I decided to make the trip.

  Only Al knew where I was going that day. I couldn’t tell my children or anyone else. I didn’t want to hear any criticism or see any harsh looks from those who wouldn’t understand my decision to visit Hannah’s murderer. I left early in the morning to give myself plenty of time for the long drive.

  As I approached Lusk, my heart raced. I drove along the quaint streets, then across the railroad tracks to the outskirts of town, and finally into the back row of the parking lot at the familiar prison facility. Twice a year for five years, as a speaker with a Christian women’s jail and prison organization, I had spoken to female inmates at this facility. Now, in order to visit Karen as an individual inmate, I had to agree to no longer be a special guest speaker, which saddened me.

  The huge gray cement building surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire looked menacing. This visit would be nothing like the ones at the local jail in Casper. This was an ominous prison. With the engine still running, I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes. I needed to take in a few deep breaths and seek God’s grace and wisdom. Grace to make it through another visit with my own tumultuous feelings. Wisdom to know what to say and how to minister to Karen.

  As I crossed the vast parking lot, I prayed, “Well, Lord. I’m here. Help me know what to say.”

  When I reached the small speaker box next to the gated entrance, I pushed the silver button on the box and waited. No response. As I pushed it again, a few people walked up behind me. This time a voice came over the speaker. “May I help you?”

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bsp; A man standing next to me replied. “Yes. We are here for visitation.”

  “Who are you visiting?” the voice asked.

  The man stated an inmate’s name and number. A woman stepped up and gave a different name and number. I waited, knowing I would have to say Karen’s name out loud. With the case still plastered all over the news, my secret visit was about to be exposed.

  I moved closer to the box. “Karen Bower,” I said quietly, hoping the others wouldn’t hear. My face flushed with embarrassment as I moved behind them. I didn’t look to see if any of them were looking at me. I stared at my driver’s license, nervously flipping it between my fingers.

  Finally, the gate opened and our little group passed through and into the prison lobby where we stored personal items in lockers. I stood away from the others while we waited another fifteen minutes for an officer to arrive. He asked that each visitor bring their license to the desk and sign in. I let everyone else go in front of me.

  Once the others had signed in and walked through the scanner, the officer opened the door to let everyone into visitation—everyone but me. “Debra Moerke,” he called out, in a voice that echoed throughout the waiting room. “Bower is at a high level of custody, so she cannot have a visit in the general visitation room. You will be having a closed visit in a separate room with a window and phone.”

  If the others didn’t know who I was coming to see before, they knew now. The shame of her crime seemed to hang over me like a thick cloud. I gave the officer a weak smile.

  “I’ll be back for you in a minute,” the officer said.

  The security door slammed shut, and I was left alone in the silent, sterile lobby. Moments later, the officer appeared and told me to follow him. We walked down a short hall lined with doors of individual visitation rooms. Each door had a large window so visits could be visually monitored. The officer escorted me to one of the rooms. It had a plastic chair, a short counter, a phone, and a window that revealed the same kind of room on the opposite side. “They’re getting Bower now,” the officer said as he closed the door.