Free Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? by Mark Richard Zubro Page B

cleaning my office when the police left a half hour ago. They’ll start in here next.”
    I had the same feeling of loss and vulnerability you get when your home is broken into. Carolyn stood in the doorway as I toured the wreckage. On the blackboard, someone had written, “What happened to Susan Warren can happen to you.”
    I touched the slashed and torn bulletin boards. I straightened the one desk still whole and standing. The spines had been ripped off all the books on the shelves. The famous-authors posters for which I’d paid ten dollars a piece lay in tattered
ruins. Every drawer of every file cabinet lay exposed and empty, the contents tossed tornadically around the room.
    Only a fool isn’t frightened at the right moment, but I’d be goddamned if I’d be scared off. At first, it was helping Jeff and Mrs. Trask, one a student, the other a friend, but now it was personal; somebody was after me. That shit I would never put up with. Two janitors carried out the largest remnant of my desk. Carolyn and I were alone in the room.
    She said, “I’m going to tell you this, but if you repeat it or say it came from me, I’ll deny it and call you a liar.”
    I gave her a brief smile and nod that I understood.
    She walked to the window and looked out. She began speaking with her back to me. “I’ve taught for years. I know how school systems work, how parents and boards put pressure on us. I don’t think I’m naive.”
    She turned around. “But in my twenty years as an administrator, I’ve never had an experience like I’ve had here with the Twitchells.” She shook her head. “Dad is not rational when it comes to his daughter. From him, I get angry ravings. From the mother, I get that if I don’t let up on her kid, I’ll be in trouble.”
    She sat in the one desk, looked up at me, and pounded her hand softly on the fake wood surface. “That girl needs help. As much as I’ve ever seen in all these years.”
    She explained that when she’d come to Grover Cleveland, she’d watched carefully for potential problems. Early on, she’d discovered Becky was one of them. She talked to people. Those who would talk told her incredible stories. In seventh grade, in front of a whole class, Becky’d ripped all her textbooks to shreds after receiving an F for one quiz. The girl expressed no regret or remorse for this. The next day, her parents sent her with the money for an entire new set of books. Becky’s cruelties at lunchtime were legendary—picking on the most unpopular boys or girls, humiliating them, reducing them to tears.
    Earlier this year, a teacher tried to lead her by the elbow out
of his classroom. It was after school and he had tried to counsel her on her irrational behavior. He claims it was a harmless, caring gesture. At the instant of contact, she screamed rape and began sobbing.
    Carolyn shook her head. “Luckily, I’d been patrolling a nearby hall, and I got there before a crowd could gather. I’ll never forget that first talk with her. A thirty-year-old hooker might talk like she did. Still, I detected a kid’s vulnerability not far below the surface. I managed to defuse the situation for the unfortunate teacher. Becky is poison.”
    Carolyn had tried to check up on rumors and accusations that had followed Becky for years. “The few who dared confront her with this behavior,” Carolyn said, “report that she seemed totally unconcerned about punishment or repercussions. Remorse seems to be the farthest thing from her mind. If a teacher did confront her, something would happen to them within twenty-four hours: car windows broken, materials stolen from their classrooms. Up to about eighth grade, the threat of telling her father usually had an effect.” She shut her eyes and rubbed a hand across her chin, then shot me a look. “My guess would be some kind of abuse