Murder In The Heartland Part 18

With the media calling the house for comments and hovering around the end of the driveway, Judy's husband, Danny, drove down to the hardware store in Lyndon and picked up several orange-and-black No Trespa.s.sing signs. ("This oughta keep 'em away.") Danny liked chopping firewood in the forest by himself, hauling it back home, and stacking it. He took pleasure in the simple monotony of everyday tasks. All this attention was overwhelming, an invasion. Before marrying Judy, Danny had been with the same woman for twenty-three years. He'd fathered four children. He did time in 'Nam.

"Danny is strong-natured," Judy said of her fifth husband, "and can only take so much; then he nips it in the bud."

When he returned from the hardware store, six-foot, 215-pound Danny Shaughnessy stopped at the edge of the driveway, took a ball-peen hammer out of the back of his pickup, and tacked one of the No Trespa.s.sing signs to an old cottonwood standing guard over the property, facing the street. The others would be posted around the property in back.

"We did make a statement later to the Kansas City Star. But all others, 'no comment' they got the message!" she said.

Judy had traveled around the country and done things most in Melvern and Skidmore had only read about or seen on television. Now she felt her experience could help the family through it all. Yet no one was turning to her for guidance. She felt isolated, as if no one wanted to talk to her.

"The days following Lisa's arrest were hard for me," explained Judy. "I couldn't answer the phone. I didn't want to go anywhere. I stayed here on the farm. I couldn't eat. Sleep. All I did was drink coffee, smoke, and cry."

She'd called the Montgomerys to find out about the kids, but n.o.body was responding. She left messages.

"I felt that I was their grandmother and the Montgomerys were only step-grandparents. They didn't even have the decency to call me to tell me that the kids were okay or not okay. Not one call from the people in Melvern, not even Kevin. I was very hurt."

Judy was never one to choose her words carefully. Some viewed her manner as abrasive, even cold; but Judy was speaking her truth, as she saw it. She felt she deserved better treatment from those involved.

"At the time," she added, "the kids did believe their mother was pregnant, and I do think they had a hard time believing their mother did this. I had a hard time believing it myself. Lisa was capable of a lot of things, but I never thought she would do something like this. But I had to face reality-and it still haunts me."

Judy was also grieving for Bobbie Jo Stinnett and her family, along with the baby. "How could Lisa do this, having four children of her own? Taking a mother away from her baby.... Look what she lost."

On the day Lisa was arrested, Judy and Danny had taken Judy's grandson Justin to the Wal-Mart in Topeka to get holiday portraits done. "Right there, Justin, don't move. Smile now, son. Smile." After that mini fiasco, which they thoroughly enjoyed, Judy and Danny drove Justin over to his former foster-family's house. They were having a Christmas party. "I respected them. They needed to see him, too." Then they stopped and had a bite to eat before heading back home.

While Judy and Danny were out with Justin celebrating life, Lisa was reportedly in Skidmore, doing G.o.d only knows what. Judy couldn't comprehend how separated she was from the person Lisa had become. It was as if just when Judy thought things couldn't get any worse, something else happened. One kid in prison on a drug charge; another on her way on a possible murder rap. Was there an answer somewhere?

It had been a beautiful day, what with Judy and Justin and Danny just "hanging out" like a family. The sun was bright and powerful. There was a certain It's a Wonderful Life spirit in every handshake and "h.e.l.lo," tip of the hat and wave. People were happy and full of that joy only the holidays can bring.

But then everything changed-or, as Judy put it, "the nightmare began."

69.

Early Sunday morning, December 19, as Lisa Montgomery sat in an eight-by-ten-foot holding cell in Wyandotte County Detention Center in downtown Kansas City, Sunday services were concluded in Melvern and Skidmore. This morning would be a day of turning to G.o.d for answers.

Why had it happened?

In Skidmore, churchgoers sipped coffee, read the morning newspaper, and laid out their Sunday best. Today's prayer, hymns, and Scripture readings would be especially poignant. The supple words of the Bible, so rich in piety and grace, would carry a heavy burden this morning.

The Reverend Harold Hamon had relocated to Skidmore with his wife, Mary Lou, a little over four years ago. At seventy-seven, about five feet, five inches, 133 pounds, Hamon might have seemed to be a frail old man with sagging shoulders and paper-white hair. But Hamon, his congregation confidently knew, was a hulking giant in heart and mind. Hamon was no stranger to giving sermons under ominous circ.u.mstances. When he was twenty years old, just out of the navy, the first funeral he presided over was for a victim of suicide. The second, not too long after, was for a stillborn baby. Hamon knew suffering, but more important, he knew how to describe it to the people who looked to him for answers.

Since Bobbie Jo's death, Hamon had been asked by just about every major media outlet to appear on television. They wanted him to talk about the life Bobbie Jo would never have and how Skidmore had been affected by the crime. But Hamon thought it ill-advised to speak of such a beloved community member, who hadn't been buried yet, taking into consideration how Bobbie Jo's family must have been hurting. So he declined.

Hamon's refusal didn't stop the blitz of telephone calls his office had received since the murder-some of which, he pointed out later, were uplifting and consoling: well wishes sent by fellow ministers and pastors throughout the Midwest, offering their support.

"I told them," Hamon described later to a reporter, "to pray. America is a great nation. There's good people here."

Amen.

Harold Hamon's unwavering faith in G.o.d would carry him through the next few days. As members of his congregation flocked to the church at ten o'clock Sunday morning, seeking solace and rea.s.surance that life could go on in the face of evil, he sensed a collective conviction in town, which couldn't be dispirited in any way. This was significant. For it was a time when many might be asking themselves, if G.o.d truly existed, why would He allow a family to experience such an incurable pain? Bobbie Jo was so young. So well-liked and well-deserving. Ahead of her, she had a life many could only dream about. Who could make any sense out of it all?

"These tragedies come not just here," Hamon explained, commenting on how he handled Sunday service and preparations for Bobbie Jo's funeral, "but all over the place, the world. And G.o.d loves the world."

Over the past twenty-four hours, Hamon had turned to the one source he knew could offer him the answers the town, as well as his own spirit, so eagerly sought. The Bible was where Hamon believed he could find a similar experience and share it with his people. In the words of the Apostles, Hamon would help Skidmore understand that, even during a time of unspeakable tragedy, the Lord was working. Many would have a hard time accepting G.o.d's plan; but Hamon was sure, after reading several verses and relating them to Bobbie Jo's death, he could find a way to put it all into meaning and prayer.

The Skidmore Christian Church sat on a small hill just outside downtown. One hundred yards away stood the house Bobbie Jo and Zeb used to call home. Now it was a sad reminder to all who pa.s.sed by of what had taken place inside.

An una.s.suming building, no doubt converted from an old house, the Skidmore Christian Church was where many people of Skidmore gathered every Sunday to understand G.o.d and all He had to offer. The tannish brown stucco gave the dwelling a gingerbread look, and in winter months, with snow and ice capping the steepled rooftop, covering the shingles like frosting, it looked edible. A flag with baby blue and white, and a red cross where stars should be, hung outside the front door and flapped in the slight breeze. Like the white banner Welcome sign hanging below the north peak, the weathered white trim around the windows spoke to one of the church's core beliefs: the soul is what matters most, not what's on the outside-the heart, the body, the mind.

Hamon had a gift, some explained, for calming people. He could take a situation and make people understand its lesson. As the organ pumped the groan of a tugboat and people proceeded into the small church at a pace of bereavement, here would be Hamon's test.

This was the same church where Bobbie Jo and Zeb had been married, not even two years ago. ("Oh, they were such a lovely couple," said one man in town. "The pride and joy of this little town.") Many of the same people filing in now were there, celebrating the love Zeb and Bobbie Jo shared. After the ceremony, Bobbie Jo had given Hamon a card, thanking him for officiating. Hamon had kept the card. A note stapled to the back of the card was on his mind today: Bobbie Jo thanked Hamon for preaching the service at "my wedding," she wrote, but had crossed out "my" and replaced it with "our." She signed the card "Zeb and Bobbie Jo." Hamon knew, "being a man," he told a reporter, who "wrote that." It was Bobbie Jo, of course, speaking for her and Zeb as a team, a couple-that is, a married couple. She was proud to be able to thank the reverend on behalf of both her and her new husband.

That was Bobbie Jo's spirit, always putting others first. Victoria Jo would know that about her mother one day because people in town would tell the child when she grew up and could understand it.

Gene Day, Bobbie Jo's grandfather, later said, "It's hard most days and the nightmares never seem to go away. Every once in a while, I see someone come down the street, and I think it's Bobbie Jo-then I remember."

The Communion meditation on Sunday morning was based on the premise of forgiveness. A church member, standing in front of the congregation after everyone was seated, spoke of the virtues of forgiving others for their sins.

"There is no life apart from G.o.d's love," a verse in the Bible proclaimed. "Therefore, there is no life apart from forgiveness, for forgiveness is the seal, the mark, and the proof of Love. If we say we have love and cannot walk in forgiveness, we deceive ourselves, and our 'love' is only a parody of the real thing."

It was a quiet service, a solemn time of reflection. Hope hovered above the crowd as the pipe organ breathed sweet music. Congregants needed to feel something good, something they could use as means to forgive. After all, they had Victoria Jo back. They could embrace and rejoice. G.o.d was the Almighty. He had answered prayers already. Look at her.... Was there a more beautiful child?

"If you lose hope," someone noted afterward, "you've lost everything."

Optimism was indeed in the blue sky outside the church, in the stubble of the fields that would soon yield a new crop, in the crisp, fresh air, at the Sunday-dinner tables where people would bow their heads for grace.

One church elder got up and mentioned what had happened. "I ask you to pray for the baby and her family," the man said. "We give thanks she is alive and well."

Later in the afternoon came word from the hospital where Victoria Jo was being monitored: she might be able to go home to Zeb that night, or the following morning. It was one of G.o.d's little blessings, wasn't it? Bobbie Jo would live on through her own flesh and blood.

70.

With the exception of Kayla Boman, Lisa and Carl's children awoke on Sunday morning at Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery's house in Melvern. It was time to sit down and pray in the quiet solitude of the Lord's house.

Pastor Mike Wheatley's job in Melvern was to help his congregation understand how the Lord worked during such trying times. His task would be doubly tough this morning; as the community was facing another loss: a respected local man in his midforties had dropped dead on Friday. "The whole town was hurting over that, too," one of the kids said.

Wheatley wanted the service on Sunday morning to be about "worship," because Christmas was so near, as opposed to "grieving."

"I did the best I could to make it that way," Wheatley said later on television.

Wheatley had written the sermon for Sunday worship "before details of [Bobbie Jo's] death surfaced," he said. Quite prophetically, he had t.i.tled his sermon: "A Baby Changed Everything," referring to Baby Jesus, of course.

Now, though, the t.i.tle seemed to be a fitting foundation for the events of the past four days.

Kevin Montgomery showed up at Wheatley's church with Alicia, Ryan, Rebecca, and his parents. Tears were flowing before the family even sat down and bowed their heads in prayer. Kayla was still in Georgia and had no intention of returning. "Did I want to go home?" she asked herself that morning. "No!" Then, almost in the same breath, "Yes, in a way, I wanted to be around my family. But I did not want to go back to Kansas. I didn't want to be around any of that. I just had this feeling that I shouldn't go back, and trust me, I was asked more times than I can count."

Carl and Lisa's other three children sat in Wheatley's First Church of G.o.d listening to the organ welcome members. Pastor Wheatley announced he was going to read a statement Kevin had prepared. Kevin would have read it himself, but he was too distressed.

"As everyone here knows well," Wheatley read aloud from a piece of paper in front of him on the podium, "this hasn't been a very good week at all."

As Wheatley articulated Kevin's words, Lisa's oldest, Rebecca, broke down in quiet sobs. She was sitting with friends near Kevin and Alicia. Both Rebecca and Alicia had worked early shifts that morning. The past four days had been a blur. Mom in jail. Bobbie Jo dead. Their baby sister gone. ("What would you do," Rebecca asked later, "if you were told all this stuff? And then your dad comes and says he's taking your brothers and sisters away to go live with him. I'd never see my mom again.") "Our deepest sympathies," Wheatley continued, "also go out to the family of Bobbie Jo Stinnett."

A hush fell on the church. Many sat without moving or speaking. Some nodded in agreement with Kevin's words; others shook their heads in disbelief. What more could be said? How many tears would lessen the pain?

"This is going to be a long and difficult road for everyone to walk down," Wheatley continued, still speaking for Kevin, "but if we look, and hold out our hands, G.o.d is there to lead the way. Please keep Lisa, the kids, and I in your prayers."

As members bowed their heads together in prayer, the choir began a resonating version of "The First Noel." It was a fitting piece of music. Said to be first published in the mid-1850s, the holiday cla.s.sic carried a new message of comfort in Melvern that morning: The First Noel, the Angels did say Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay In fields where they lay keeping their sheep On a cold winter's night that was so deep.

Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel.

Born is the King of Israel.

When the congregation reached the song's second verse, Alicia, sitting next to Kevin, started crying. It was all too much.

"Staying at home would have been worse," one church member said later of the children and Kevin. "This is where they get their strength."

After the service, friends surrounded Rebecca, shielding her like bodyguards of a starlet at a film premiere. Flashbulbs popped. Microphones and microca.s.sette recorders were thrust in people's faces. Over here! Turn, please. Can we get a comment? Reporters had been hanging around outside the church, asking questions, looking for anyone with the surname Montgomery. "Do you know where the Montgomerys are? Where they live? Were Lisa Montgomery's children in church today?"

Sneaking by, Rebecca laughed to herself. They don't know who I am. She made it to her car, and locked the doors, her friends still by her side, without having to answer a single question.

71.

By early Sunday evening, the status of Victoria Jo became the topic of conversation for many in the regions affected by the crimes for which Lisa Montgomery had been arrested. No definitive word had come out of the hospital since early morning. By and large, the media had respected Zeb Stinnett's request to keep its distance.

At about six o'clock, Carol Wheeler, the acting spokeswoman at Stormont-Vail Regional Health Center, said, "She is considered a preemie. But neonatal specialists said she is responding as you would expect any child of her gestial age would."

Through Wheeler, Zeb wanted the public to know Victoria Jo was doing "fine" and would be released "soon." No other additional information regarding her condition was made available. The family wanted privacy.

Zeb hadn't left the hospital since Victoria Jo had been found-and wouldn't, he said, until she was released.

72.

Monday morning began as a flawless Midwestern winter's day in Melvern. The sun rose in a burst of fiery reds and yellows and, by 10:00 A.M., had burned off an early-morning fog. With the sun shining, people headed off to work, carrying on business as usual.

Along Main Street, shop owners and store clerks opened their doors. Diners, beauty parlors, and coffee shops would soon fill as reports of Lisa's first day in court trickled out through television sets sitting on oak entertainment centers and tag-sale TV stands, as it would in the dark corners of bars and restaurants. Households in the countryside would tune in, too. What would happen to Melvern's most infamous citizen?

The satellite trucks were still parked up and down Main Street. There they sat, broadcasting stories all across the world. Reporters were still scouring the town looking for filler stories, while waiting to learn what Lisa's first court appearance would divulge. The majority of the townspeople made it known they cared not only for Victoria Jo, Lisa's children, and Kevin Montgomery, but for the Stinnett family and the town of Skidmore, too.

Signs were taped to business front doors in downtown Melvern and nearby Lyndon, the county seat. "The Melvern Community Is Collecting Funds for the Bobbie Jo Stinnett Family, Skidmore, Missouri." The Lyndon State Bank, with branches spread across the region, posted similar notices. Understandably, Zeb wouldn't be going back to work for some time. He'd be raising a child on his own. Any contribution-a dime, nickel, dollar-would end up in good hands.

The local school district made counselors available for students and teachers to help them cope with their feelings. Many schools had the next two weeks off in observance of the Christmas holiday, but the school board felt students would somehow view the recent events as a reflection on themselves and the town as a whole. The people of Melvern took pride in their community. "So when tragedy strikes any of its members, the others also are hit hard. The same is true when a community member does something wrong," Ted Vannocker, the superintendent and princ.i.p.al of Marais des Cygnes Valley (High) School, told reporters.

For Kayla Boman, school had always been a release. Not that she enjoyed it all that much, or was glad she had to go. But still, she liked the social atmosphere of being around kids her age. This was probably a day Kayla needed to be in school more than any other-but it wouldn't happen. The holidays were here, school was closed.

Most parents felt that routine was best for kids during times of tragedy. To continue to do the same things as you might on any other normal day meant you had some sort of control over your life. Kayla wanted it back, but Lisa had stripped her of any sense of a normal life.

Some kids could be cruel. The story unraveling in Missouri certainly had worked its way into Georgia. If a kid put two and two together and figured out Kayla was Lisa's daughter, name-calling and family-bashing were sure to begin. Internet bloggers were publishing the kids' names on message boards. Any computer-savvy teen could log on and figure it all out.

Home at Aunt Mary's house was a good place for Kayla during those first few days after Lisa was arrested. "At least at Mary's house, I was busy, so I didn't think about 'it' a lot," Kayla a.s.serted.

On Monday, Kayla went to the hospital with Mary to visit Mary's mom, who'd had a brain aneurism a few days earlier. It was a helpful trip in more ways than one. Anywhere but Melvern, Kayla said. To be able to be there for Mary was a gift. It took her out of her own situation, if only for a day. At home, there would have been more reasons to think about everything.

Kayla said she tried talking to her sister Alicia, but Alicia had a completely different opinion about a lot of things, so it was just easier to talk to people who understood her. Ryan wasn't going to be any help, Kayla decided, because, "I don't talk about my mom too much to him. He was pretty sensitive about it, and I didn't want to stir up any emotions. He's a really good person to talk to when I just need to get something off my chest."

Ryan was only ten months older than Kayla, so the two of them had always been in the same grade. "Because of that, we have always been really close."

Carl and Kayla both agreed Ryan had a temper problem when he was younger-"when he would get mad, he would want to hit something"-but as he grew, he learned to manage it. One could speculate the chaotic life Lisa and Carl led as their two marriages imploded around the kids was partly responsible for the issues Ryan struggled with early on. The family had moved a lot, and Lisa and Carl were at odds much of the time during those years.

Rebecca had always been closer to her mom than the other children. "Mom was always the outdoorsy type of person, hiking and camping," she recalled. "She liked her animals; we had lots of animals. She just never took care of them. That was our job. She liked to read-a lot. Once Mom got into a book, you just didn't talk to her. You couldn't get her attention."

Taking care of her siblings was, Rebecca said, her "job" because she was the oldest. "Whenever they needed something, I took care of them."

"Although Rebecca is the bossiest of the four of us," remarked Kayla, "she is the most outgoing. She was in Future Farmers of America for four years, an officer for three, a cheerleader for two years, and I believe the school mascot for a year. She played basketball for two or three years, and was actively involved in journalism, writing articles for the school newspaper right up until her final year."

When their mom wasn't around, Rebecca would watch the other kids.

Kayla recalled, "At the time, it was just me, her, and Mom, who worked two jobs, so she wasn't home much. I was seven-and-a-half. In my opinion, Rebecca had to grow up way too fast. I guess you would kind of have to when you're just a kid (eleven years old) and you're put in charge of another kid."