I’m worried about her.”
The message was sent at 9:40 p.m. on Friday, May 13, 2005.
Sarah called him. There was an exchange of heated words.
“Karly’s got a knot on her head,” David began. “What happened?”
“She ran into a tree,” Sarah said.
“Really?” David replied, disbelieving. “She just ran into a tree? She couldn’t see the tree in front of her?”
“You know how clumsy she is.”
“No. No, I don’t, Sarah. I don’t know anything about Karly’s clumsiness. I think that maybe we ought to take her back to Dr. deSoyza. Have her take a look at Karly.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sarah said. “We can’t be taking Karly to the doctor for every bump or bruise she gets. She’s a kid. Kids run into things and get banged up all the time. I did it when I was a kid and my parents weren’t carting me to the doctor every single time I skinned my knee.”
“Yeah, well, when you were a kid, were state investigators involved in your life?” David prodded.
“Yes. Yes, they were,” Sarah snapped back.
David noted a marked difference in Sarah’s tone. In December, when she’d brought Karly to him so badly bruised and with her hair missing, Sarah had been conciliatory, apologetic. This time Sarah was defensive, accusatory.
“Karly is perfectly safe with me,” Sarah continued. “Besides, how do I know she’s not getting bruised with you? I’m going to start taking pictures when she arrives at my house.”
Sarah later testified that the picture-taking scheme had been Shawn’s idea. He wanted to document the bruises on Karly and use those photos as evidence so Sarah would get full custody of Karly, and the check that would go along with it.
Sarah knew as she argued with David that the bump on Karly’s forehead appeared after she left Karly alone with Shawn. The promise never to leave the two of them alone was one Sarah had broken early.
That next day, Saturday, May 14, David drove Karly to Pendleton for another short stay with her grandparents. By late Saturday, the bruising on Karly’s forehead had begun to seep downward, turning the corner pockets of her eyes a shocking blue. At dinner, Karly ate like a field hand. Later, while bathing her granddaughter before bedtime, Grandma Carol noticed scratches in Karly’s armpits, as if she had a rash of some sort. She dried Karly off and rubbed Neosporin under her arms.
After her bath, Karly began to cry. “I miss my daddy. I want my daddy. Can we call my daddy?”
Her grandparents were rattled by her cries. Every time they’d been around her since the previous fall, Karly had done the very same thing. And it didn’t seem to matter if it was day or night. Karly cried for her father; she did not cry for her mother.
Karly refused to sleep in her own bed. Her grandparents usually made her a bed on a cot in their room, but on this trip, even that wasn’t close enough to soothe Karly.
“She slept with me,” Carol said. “She was too scared to go anywhere else. She slept in my bed, right up next to me. She refused to go to bed unless she could lay right next to me.”
David called to check on Karly at least three times a day. Sarah rarely called. One afternoon, Carol and Karly were in the kitchen baking cookies. Karly told her grandma all about her daddy’s new girlfriend, Kendall, about how they sometimes made cookies together, too.
“I really like her,” Karly said. “She’s nice.”
“What about Shawn?” Carol asked. “Do you like him?”
“NO! Grandma!” Karly said.
Carol paused and studied her granddaughter for a minute, and then asked, “How come? Does he spank you?”
Karly looked down, averting her grandmother’s curious gaze. “No,” she muttered softly. Then, climbing down out of the chair, she went off to play by herself.
When Gene and Carol’s Bible study group came over for their weekly meeting, Carol put on a video for Karly to watch downstairs in the family room, as was their routine whenever their grandchildren came to visit. Distraught over being left alone, Karly began to sob uncontrollably, “I want my daddy! I want my daddy!”
Carol held Karly and soothed her throughout the rest of the evening. When David picked up Karly on Thursday, May 19, 2005, he told Gene and Carol he was planning to move with Karly to Portland in August.
“We love our daughter,” Carol said, “but Karly will be better off with you.”
The pockets around Karly’s eyes had really begun to turn a deep purple. David and Gene Brill talked about possible reasons why a child’s eyes might do that. Gene had worked for a medical lab. He urged David to get Karly in to see her doctor, to get a blood test. David called when he got back and scheduled Karly for a visit with Dr. deSoyza for the following Wednesday, May 25. David told the doctor what Sarah had told him, that Karly had run headlong into a tree almost two week previously, sustaining a significant bump and bruise on her forehead. Now she had two black eyes.
During the exam, Dr. deSoyza noticed Karly had some bruises on her back as well. She asked David if he had any idea how Karly got those.
David said he’d been working in the yard over the weekend and Karly had tripped over some rhododendron roots and fallen on her backside. David also told the doctor that when he’d picked Karly up from daycare on Monday she’d had a bruise on her left arm.
Dr. deSoyza made a note of the bruise on Karly’s left bicep and the bruises on her back. She told David she thought the black eyes were caused by the head bruise seeping downward. It would, she suggested, continue to dissipate and be absorbed by Karly’s body.
It wasn’t until after Karly died that Dr. deSoyza learned that the day Karly reportedly ran into the tree, she was not with Sarah—she was alone with Shawn.
“If I had known Karly was back in that same environment, I would have looked at the last visit in a totally different context,” Dr. deSoyza said. “But I didn’t know.
Nine days later, Dr. deSoyza received another call regarding Karly. This one came from a colleague who worked the emergency room at Good Samaritan Hospital.
“Karly Sheehan is dead,” he said. “I thought you’d want to know right away.”
The doctor who had attended to Karly from the moment of her birth hung up the phone, walked into the living room, sat in a chair, dropped her head into her hands, and wept.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sarah is angry with me.
I knew she would be. That’s why I put off calling her and telling her about this book.
I intended to sit down and talk to Sarah about it, but I knew before I wrote one word that Sarah wouldn’t like it. And I knew why. This book is nonfiction. Sarah prefers made-up stories, what David calls her alternate reality.
My cell phone rang the minute I walked out of the Benton County courthouse. It was the spring of 2007 and I’d come to town to pull some documents, and to visit with folks at the courthouse about the case. Sarah had been on my mind all morning long. A woman who knew the case intimately had pulled me aside earlier that day and warned me to be careful when going through the documents.
“Those of us who work around this stuff all the time were shocked by what we saw,” she said. “Don’t look at the photos. I’m warning you. They were the worst ever, even for those of us used to it.”
I thanked her for her advice, but assured her that as a former cop reporter, I’d seen my fair share of nightmares.
“Not like this,” she said. “And your relationship with the family and
all will make it even harder.”
Then she paused, placed her hand over mine, and added, “I understand her.”
“Sarah?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. Then taking me by the elbow and leading me to a quiet corner, she added, “My ex-husband was abusive. I understand how a woman can get caught up in a relationship like she did.”
She proceeded to tell me how she never knew when her ex would be in a foul mood, could not tell what little things would set him off. Finally, afte
r one terribly explosive evening, she called it quits. She left him.
“So I know how these things can happen,” she said.
“Did you have children?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Did he ever threaten or hurt your children?”
“Yes, once,” she said. “That’s when I made up my mind to leave.”
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s the difference between you and Sarah. You protected your children. She didn’t.”
The lady nodded her head in the knowing way of mothers and grandmothers and sisters the world over. We will take a heap of abuse ourselves, but God help the person who tries to harm one of our children. Scorn us thusly and most of us will storm the Gates of Hell and do hand-to-hand combat with legions of demons.
Sarah looked the other way in hopes of hanging onto Shawn.
It pleased Sarah that David didn’t like Shawn. And while David clearly had no affection left for Sarah at this point, Sarah fancied him jealous. And, in fact, told investigators David’s jealousy was the source of all of Karly’s problems.
Of course, I didn’t have a clear picture of what had happened the day Sarah called me, the way I do now after spending hundreds of hours studying court documents and after talking to the people involved, and reflecting on all of it as the years have passed. I’d put off telling her I was writing a book because I wanted to know more first.
But I wasn’t surprised when I answered the cell phone on the steps of the Benton County Courthouse and got an earful of Sarah’s ranting. She was pissed. Why hadn’t I called her? Didn’t I owe her that courtesy? It was the first of many such phone calls to follow. In each one, Sarah spoke harshly, yelling at times. Sarah is usually very soft-spoken. It’s part of her charm. She is usually so controlled, so controlling; she rarely allows her emotions to lead the way.
“I am sorry,” I said. “I should have called.”
Sarah grew quiet. We both did. There wasn’t much left to say.
Since that day on the courthouse steps, I have called Sarah periodically to keep her up-to-date. I have offered Sarah as much opportunity for input into this story as I’ve given David. I would have welcomed what Sarah had to say, but Sarah has resolutely refused to participate.
“I am barely over the trial and now this,” Sarah said. I’d called her from my home in Hermiston. “You don’t know me anymore.”
“True enough,” I said. I was standing at the kitchen counter, taking notes, and watching the dog run across the backyard. “But I did at one time.”
“The last time we spoke you bitched me out. You cut me out of your life,” Sarah said. “Why would I speak to you after that?”
She wasn’t referring to the very last time we spoke. We’d spoken several times lately. She was dredging up that awful phone call of February 2003.
“Because, Sarah, that’s what families do,” I said. “They get angry and say things, sometimes hurtful things, but then they get over it.”
“Not in our family!” Sarah snapped. “When I got angry, I got sent off to boarding school.”
This was exactly the sort of response I expected from Sarah. Whenever the conversation grows uncomfortable for her, Sarah brings up how it is somebody else’s fault her life got derailed. Her parents sent her away. Her mother didn’t like her. She was the outsider. No one ever really loved her. Sarah is skilled at deflections.
“It’s your fault I got involved with Shawn to begin with,” Sarah said, in her most accusatory tone.
That was a gut-kick I didn’t see coming. I moved from the kitchen counter to the living room. I curled over myself into the armless red chair. I felt queasy, clammy. No one can knock the breath out of me the way Sarah does.
“How’s that?” I asked. My voice was thin.
“Those things you said! Well at least one of them hasn’t come true.”
She was referring, of course, to when I said to her: “Listen, Sarah, you are not always going to be able to trade off your looks. One day you’re going to wake up old and ugly, then what?”
“I was very angry at you for a long time,” Sarah continued. “I thought, ‘Screw Karen. I found a guy better than David.’ Of course he wasn’t.”
Once Sarah had her say, she grew silent. I was pretty quiet myself. I was nauseated at the thought of my anger being a compelling reason for Sarah to get involved with a man like Shawn. On some level, I knew she was just making excuses. But on a deeper level, I also regretted, continue to regret, that during that 2003 phone call I didn’t offer to pray with Sarah, instead of yelling at her about her decision to leave David. I should have prayed for Sarah, for David, and most of all for Karly.
That what I was thinking, but what I asked Sarah was, “Wouldn’t you rather have someone who loves and cares for you write this?” I asked.
“No!” Sarah said. “I’d rather have someone who didn’t know me at all. How would you feel if someone decided to write about some of the painful things of your past? Interviewing your friends from childhood?
How would you feel?”
Sarah had told me about the breakdown in her relationship with her brother Doug.
Sarah and Doug had maintained a close relationship as they grew up, bonding in sibling solidarity. But that all changed once Karly died, and perhaps before.
During one of our last conversations, I asked Sarah about Doug, and she said, “I haven’t spoken to my brother.” I was surprised to hear that, knowing how much she had adored him. I told her so.
“Family members are fairly easy to replace,” she said. “You get a couple of new friends and move on. I don’t hate him. I’m at peace with my decision. You can’t keep people in your life forever.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Karly fashioned a game from her favorite movie Shrek. She and David played it a hundred times or more. The last time they played, it was on Monday, May 30, 2005, at the playground at Hoover Elementary School. The school is located a couple hundred yards from David’s house and within blocks of Shawn’s place.
It was Sarah’s week to have Karly. David’s coursework on his master’s program at George Fox University was winding up. Even though it was a holiday, he had a study group meeting in Salem, papers he needed to write, exams to study for, and his job to attend to. It was going to be a crazy, hectic week.
Father and daughter spent Saturday at the Oregon Zoo in Portland. They drove up in the morning, met up with David’s girlfriend, and rode MAX, the city’s mass transit system, out to the zoo. Karly loved seeing the hairy orangutan, the painted zebra, and the gangly-necked giraffe.
She ran from animal to animal, standing on her tiptoes, tugging on David to pick her up so she could better see the sleeping polar bear.
After Saturday’s outing, both father and daughter were so tired that on Sunday, after Mass, they puttered around the house all day. Monday morning, after breakfast and chores, Karly and David walked over to the playground at Hoover.
“Higher!” Karly cried, as David gave her a gentle push in the swing.
“Betcha can’t catch me!” she said, running from him. “Catch me, Daddy!” she commanded as she barreled down the slide on her tummy.
Then she climbed up on one of the play structures and spread across the colored tubing. She lay perfectly still, eyes closed, a slight grin on her face.
It was David’s cue.
She was a sleeping princess, like Shrek’s Fiona, who could only be awakened with a kiss from her daddy. And it had to be the perfect kiss or she would forever remain suspended somewhere between life and death. It was up to the prince to save her, to awaken her, and to bring her back to life. And love, true love, was the key.
David leaned over the sleeping Karly and kissed her. Then he stood back to wait her reaction. Ah. Nothing. The princess remained asleep. No magic in that kiss. He leaned over and tried again.
Aha! That’s the one. Her blue eyes popped open, reflective pools that mirrored her daddy’s eyes. The magic worked. Karly cl
asped her little hands around her father’s neck and whispered, “Thank you, Prince! You saved me!”
“Good thing,” David said. “Otherwise you might have missed your lunch.”
The two walked hand and hand back to David’s place. After a lunch of pizza, Karly’s favorite food, they gathered her things and stuffed them into her backpack.
“C’mon,” David said, “time to go.” He grabbed his books and opened the door.
Karly reluctantly pulled her backpack behind her. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know, honey, but we have to get going. Your mommy’s waiting for you and I’ve got to be in Salem soon.”
“But I don’t want to go to Mommy’s,” she whined.
David said nothing. Karly climbed into her car seat. He buckled her in as a fat tear rolled down her cheeks.
“I don’t want to go!” she cried.
David looked at his daughter in the rearview mirror. What could he do? It was Sarah’s week. If he refused to bring Karly, Sarah would raise holy hell. Probably call the police on him.
“I want to stay with you!” Karly was sobbing buckets now. Salty tears mixed with snot streamed down her face. “I don’t want to go!”
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “But your mommy wants to see you.”
“How many times will you pick me up?”
“What?”
“How many times are you going to pick me up, Daddy? How many times?” Karly demanded.
“I don’t know, Karly.”
“Are you going to pick me up? Are you, Daddy? Are you coming to get me?”
“Yes, honey. I’m going to come get you.”
“When?” Karly said, sucking back another sob.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe Friday.”
Karly would not be quieted. Her cries continued even as David pulled the car up to Sarah’s place, the apartment she kept with Shelley Freeland, Karly’s godmother. Karly loved “Auntie” Shelley, loved hanging out with her, but she did not want her daddy to leave her today, not for any reason. She continued pleading, “When? When are you going to come get me? How many times?” Karly continued to cry even as Sarah took her from David’s arms.
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