Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace

by Debra Moerke

  As the wind picked up, I fought against the steering wheel just as I fought against my doubts about this visit. Was I doing the right thing? I thought back to the day Courtney was born. Karen never saw her. In spite of my second thoughts, I felt I was doing the best thing. I felt led to show mercy and grace to Karen as evidence of God’s love for her. Although there had been no trial or sentencing yet, Karen’s confession meant that she’d never be free again.

  I drove through Lusk, passed the old brick houses with wide front porches scattered along one side of Main Street, and crossed over the railroad tracks. As I turned onto the long driveway of the prison, I found myself letting up on the accelerator. I was in no rush to go through with this visit. Though my car was slowing, my heart was racing. I was in utter turmoil second-guessing what I was doing and why.

  I thought of Hannah. If she could see me, what would she think? Would she cry out in shock? Would she tell me, No, don’t go in there. My mother doesn’t deserve to see Courtney. She doesn’t deserve anything. She was mean and heartless and brutal. She killed me. How could you bring Courtney here, after all that she’s done? Or would she say she has forgiven her mother and I needed to show grace and bring Courtney to see her? Hannah had a sweet and tender heart. I believed she would have told me to do what I knew God was prompting me to do.

  The words of Ephesians 2:4-5 rolled across my mind and heart:

  But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved.

  I couldn’t begin to guess why God was sending me to the prison with a precious newborn for a visit that would prove to be heart-wrenching for me and for the mother. I simply knew grace had something to do with it, and I knew God wanted me to show grace. How many times had he shown his grace to me?

  Tears streamed down my cheeks as I parked the truck. I looked up to the sky as if God were waiting for my decision.

  “Lord, I don’t think I can do this,” I prayed. “I couldn’t protect Hannah. Am I failing to do what’s best for Courtney by bringing her here?”

  Leaning over the steering wheel, I sobbed. In sharp contrast, Courtney slept peacefully. Time was running out. Visitation would start soon, and if I wasn’t on time, I would not be able to go in. I knew I needed to obey what God was clearly leading me to do.

  I dried my tears, and a deep peace filled the spaces of my heart where fear had tried to take over. I would obey. As I opened the door to the back seat, I had to fight against the wind. Even the wind is wrestling with me, Lord. I unbuckled Courtney and wrapped the blanket around her so she looked like a little burrito. The sweet smell of baby lotion from her morning bath reminded me of how innocent and vulnerable she was. Holding her tightly against my chest, I walked to the metal box to announce our arrival.

  Once inside the visitor area, I unwrapped my precious bundle. A few visitors smiled as I slipped the little winter cap off Courtney’s head, letting her dark hair escape. The visitation officer behind the counter smiled as well. “Are you here to see Karen Bower?” she asked.

  I didn’t want her to say Karen’s name so loudly. Her name was now notorious throughout Wyoming and had even made national news. Would one of these visitors tell people I had brought the baby for Karen to see? Would the guards give me those looks that said I was crazy for even visiting Karen? I knew my pride was breaking through, the enemy looking to win a small battle in the face of God’s grace winning out in my visit.

  “Make sure everything is out of your pockets and in a locker,” the officer called out to the handful of visitors. “Oh, miss, you’ll need to put the baby blanket in a locker.” There went my cover. Courtney and I were both exposed as we walked through the scan and stood in line to go into the visitation room.

  The smell of unlaundered clothes hung in the air, reminding me that many people had sat in here before me—people I would not have necessarily wanted around Courtney or any of my children. I eyed the bookshelves of children’s books and games and thought of other children visiting their mothers. Through the windows, I could see the outside courtyard enclosed by cinder block walls and razor wire. I scanned the room for privacy, but found none. This would be the first time I visited Karen here without glass between us. We could finally sit together in an open room.

  I watched as each inmate passed through the door until, finally, Karen appeared. She smiled at me, then, seeing the baby, began to cry. I started to cry as well. We embraced with Courtney tucked between us. It felt strange and yet right sitting next to each other watching Courtney sleep. After a few silent moments, Karen spoke.

  “May I hold her?”

  I didn’t want her to, and yet I did. We both knew she would never hold Courtney again—not as a baby or small child and maybe never. Karen cried as she rocked her daughter. I cried watching her. It would break my heart if I could only hold my babies one time in my life. My heart broke for Karen. My heart broke for Hannah. My heart broke for Courtney. How did we all find ourselves here?

  Karen stroked her baby’s arms and head. She kissed her softly and gave her tender hugs. I knew Courtney would want a bottle soon. I wasn’t permitted to bring one in to visitation, but I knew this would be my way out of the visit if it was not going well. I hugged Karen as she held her baby and prayed over both of them. We sat in silence for the longest time, Karen watching Courtney sleep, smoothing her soft baby hair to one side. Then Courtney woke and started to fuss. I knew she was getting hungry.

  “We have to go. She needs a bottle,” I whispered.

  “I know. I don’t want you to leave. I know I won’t see her again.” Karen began to cry, though she appeared to be trying to hold back in order not to cause a scene. She kissed Courtney’s forehead. I wanted to respect Karen as a mother, yet my own motherly love for Hannah took over. Where were the kisses from her mother when she was alive? Resentment began to creep inside me.

  I asked God to push the anger back down and let this moment be one of grace. While doing God’s will in visiting this mother with her baby in my arms, I could not have resentment in my heart. I must have love. I must have compassion. I must trust God to help me to raise this little one with the spirit of forgiveness. One day, Courtney and I would both need to walk in such grace if we were to be free of bitterness. I knew that was what God was calling me to do.

  Together we walked to the officer on duty, whose eyes were full of compassion. I was surprised as much by her compassion as I was by how calm I was lifting Courtney from Karen’s arms. I hated for an innocent baby to be in prison surroundings. I wanted her out of there as soon as I could make it through the security doors.

  The officer radioed to open the visitation door for me to leave. Standing at the door, Karen gave me a hug. “Thank you for bringing her.”

  Hugging Karen one last time, I turned, then walked down the hall. As I left the facility, I pictured her being escorted back to her cell. She must have such mixed feelings, as I did. Sorrow. Regret. Loneliness. Heartache for her newborn child and for all of her children.

  I sat with Courtney in the back seat of my car feeding her a well-deserved bottle. It was time for her to go home and live her life. I prayed that God would protect her tender heart in the future when she would have to come to terms with the actions and fate of her birthmother.

  A sudden pang of anxiety surged through me. How and when would I possibly mother this precious child through the realization that her birth mother had murdered her sister?

  “That is in my hands,” I sensed God telling me. For now, my calling was simply to walk in the light that I had.

  Chapter 21The Garage

  IN SPRING OF 1999 two significant events took place in the Moerke household. The first was long awaited and brought relief and closure. In May, Courtney’s adoption was finalized, and she joined our family as an official Moerke. We were delighted and sighed with relief, knowing there would be no more fear of her being taken from us.

&nb
sp; The second event took us by complete surprise and initially seemed unwelcome news. Within a month of the adoption, Al received notice that a new company would be managing the food service at the Casper Events Center. We would need to transfer to Arizona. No one in our family wanted to move. We loved the Rocky Mountains, our church family, and our friends. Phoenix would mean big-city living and high temperatures, and we didn’t know anyone there. Our oldest two, Elizabeth and Jason, were now twenty-four and twenty-three years old and independent, so our move wouldn’t affect them much. But our four youngest had all been born in Casper. Sadie was seventeen and in her senior year of high school—an especially difficult year to move. Helen was fifteen, and Charles twelve. Courtney, only seven months, would be the only child for whom the move would not be difficult. In fact, we saw definite advantages for her to leave Casper where her mother’s crime continued to fascinate the community.

  Al went on ahead to Phoenix to start work and look for our new home. The rest of us stayed in Casper, and I put our house on the market. We still had one nine-year-old foster son who had been with us for some time. We couldn’t bring him with us, but he had a family in Casper who could take him. I hoped to make his summer fun before we had to leave.

  Moving meant packing. And beyond all our own belongings in the house, I still had to contend with Karen’s property stored in our garage.

  It was time. The pile of black bags was beginning to look like a dusty sleeping buffalo in the corner. I hadn’t put it off for so long because of laziness or lack of time. It was just that when I would go out to our garage and see the pile of black trash bags stacked high, I would picture Hannah’s little body curled up inside them. I would stare at the suffocating plastic and feel my own breathing tighten within my chest.

  Though nearly a year had passed since her body had been discovered, I still found it painful that no one had known. No one went looking for her. For months and months, no one guessed she had been murdered and hidden in the house where her mother, sisters, and brothers continued on with their lives. I was facing nearly twenty trash bags, each one reminding me of precious Hannah.

  Now that we were moving, I was forced either to put all of the bags in a dumpster unopened, or go through them, as I told Karen I would. I decided to honor my promise. I waited until the kids were either at school or doing homework to start the process, two bags at a time. I had no idea what I’d find, so I wanted to allow myself time to digest anything that might be upsetting.

  I pulled at the tightly secured knot on the first bag, and after much frustration, closed my eyes, dug my fingers into the side of the bag, and stretched it until a huge hole popped open, exposing the contents. Bath towels and sheets. That isn’t so bad. Setting them aside for Goodwill, I breathed in a breath of courage and grabbed a second smaller bag. I found bras, underwear, and other lingerie, obviously Karen’s.

  I turned the bag upside down and shook out the contents; Polaroid photos fell out as well. There were five or six pictures of Karen with a man. They were pictures not meant for my eyes or anyone else’s. I was sure Karen would have been embarrassed that I found them. I certainly was. I sorted through the lingerie to make sure I collected all of the photos. I wasn’t comfortable putting them in my trash can, so I decided to burn them. After throwing the lingerie away I looked for a container in which to safely burn the pictures.

  What about the kids? I thought, as I dug through aluminum cans and tools on a narrow wooden shelf against a wall. What if they smell the smoke and come out to the garage? I found a rusty coffee can full of nails and screws and emptied it. As the contents spilled out of the can, chills ran up my spine as if something had scurried up my wrist. I looked down at the two faces in the photo, and though both Karen and the man were smiling, I sensed evil darting at me from the man’s eyes.

  I quickly dropped the pictures into the can, set it down on the garage floor, and went looking for matches in the house. I hoped the kids were distracted enough to not notice me sneaking into the kitchen to rummage through the junk drawer.

  Finding the long-handled BBQ lighter, I tiptoed back to the garage.

  Carrying the coffee can outside, I set it down on the driveway, clicked the lighter, and watched the flames devour the photos. Once the photos were nothing but ashes, I tossed a handful of dirt into the can.

  I glanced over at the sheets and towels and decided I didn’t want to have anything in my home that didn’t belong to the Bower children. I grabbed the linens and threw them away. This was only two bags. Can I do the rest?

  I went into the house to wash up. Though my hands were scrubbed clean, I still felt dirty and tainted. It wasn’t the lewdness in the pictures that upset me as much as the evil I felt from the eyes of the man. His eyes and smile sent a haunting chill through me. And in my mind, I could see Karen wrapped in his arms, like an unsuspecting fly caught on a sticky bug strip.

  Over the next several days I found energy to keep unpacking the bags. I would open them, pull out the children’s clothes and toys, and separate their personal items from everything else. Then I would wash the clothes and clean the toys for the children. Out of all the heartache, confusion, and turmoil, this was something I could do to bring some joy to Karen’s children and partial closure to my own broken heart.

  One morning, after dropping the kids off at school, I went into the garage to finish the job. Within a week’s time, I had gone through all but two bags. I pulled one across the cement floor and ripped into the plastic. Inside I found Karen’s clothes, her wallet, and shoes. A pair of sandals with wooden soles fell out of the bag with a clunk, and I scooted away quickly. The sight of the shoes sent my mind into an instant flashback of my first visit with Karen in jail when she described to me what had happened the night Hannah died. Tears filled my eyes as I replayed the horrific details of Karen kicking Hannah all over her entire body, including the powerful blows to her head that had crushed her skull.

  I sat frozen for several minutes, staring at the shoes in front of me. Were these the murder weapons? Reluctantly, I picked up one in each hand and held them against my chest and squeezed my eyes shut. If only I could have kept these from you, I cried out to Hannah. If only I could have protected you from the blows. Silently, tears streamed down my face as I embraced the shoes. I found myself gently rocking back and forth as if I were holding Hannah. A verse came to my mind.

  I have told you all this so that you will have peace of heart and mind. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrow; but cheer up, for I have overcome the world.

  JOHN 16:33, TLB

  I could sense Jesus saying, “You could not have protected Hannah her whole life. You cannot protect your own children from the sin in this world. But out of what Satan uses for evil and what sinful man can do, I can bring life and restoration. Trust me. There is life, love, and hope beyond what you see. Beyond what you are experiencing now.”

  A silent wailing scream stuck in my throat. My hands trembled as I carefully set the shoes down. My mind kept telling me to breathe, but I couldn’t. I started getting dizzy, and I knew I would pass out if I didn’t force myself to inhale. Taking small breaths in between, I sobbed as if there would be no end to it.

  Twenty minutes passed. I was numb, but numb was a good place to be at that point. I prayed and thanked God for being with me in the garage as I grieved. I was being given a breath of his strength. Gathering the contents of the bag, including the shoes, I threw them into the trash can. Leaving the last bag unopened, I just threw it away. I was done.

  I swept the corner clean with a broom. It was over. Now it was time to wash the last of the children’s clothes, clean up their toys, and take a step toward hope.

  “Lord,” I prayed, “please cleanse our garage and our home. Bring peace to us and guide me to what you would have me to do.”

  Next, I called Jill. She was now the caseworker in charge of the Bower children. She didn’t answer, so I left a voice mail, asking her to call me. Within minutes, she called
back.

  “Hi, Deb . . . this is Jill. I got your call. What can I do for you?” Ever since we’d been awarded custody of Courtney, she’d always sounded a little guarded when we spoke. I understood and tried not to react to it.

  “I wonder if you could help me with something. I have . . . uh . . . collected the Bower children’s clothes and toys that had been left at their home. I was thinking that I could have lunch or a cookie and milk reunion for them at my home and give them their things. What do you think?”

  Silence.

  I chewed my thumbnail and paced the kitchen floor. “Jill, are you there?”

  “I’m here. Just thinking. I will have to ask my supervisor. If he says I can call the families who are caring for the children now, and they agree, then maybe we can work it out. The children haven’t seen one another in months. One is undergoing serious counseling, and I am not sure if that child would be able to come. I don’t know if it would be too emotional for them all or if it would be a good thing. I’ll get back to you,” she said, with compassion in her voice.

  “Thank you. It may be something that brings some happiness to the kids. I will wait to hear.” I was hopeful when I hung up.

  Days later, Jill called back. The children could come, and their guardians would bring them to our home for the get-together. Even Karen’s parents agreed DeAnn could attend. I couldn’t have been happier. I planned it for a Saturday afternoon. My daughters helped plan the menu and were excited to be part of the event.

  The big day came. I put the last plate of cookies on the kitchen table just as I saw a few cars making their way up the dirt road. Excited but nervous, I called out to my children, “They’re here!”

  The first car pulled through the gate and parked in front of our home. Two children climbed out. Their faces were serious, somber. I wondered what they could be thinking. The doorbell rang. I opened the door and gave them a big smile. “Kyle! Kyra! It’s so good to see you.” They smiled short, quick smiles. Apparently nervous, they walked a bit stiffly, so the woman accompanying them nudged them into the living room.