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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? (14 page)

BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?
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My simple thanks seemed inadequate.
“From Frampton's call, I figured you guys must be staying in town. I knew you were a schoolteacher from what Scott had said.”
“What else did he say about me?”
“Not much.” He grinned. “He's very discreet, but you can't fool a real friend when you're in love. I guessed you might be off from school, so I thought I might come over.”
It turned out Frampton had called Courtland with the news first thing. He and his buddies had been carousing in various watering holes on Wells Street before they'd run into us. They'd attacked gays outside Bruce's before. This time, they'd got more than they'd bargained for. Frampton had thought Courtland would join him in universal outrage and condemnation of Scott. Mistake.
We talked until the front door opened. Scott entered the kitchen a minute later. He observed the sullen Frampton staring out the window at one end of the room while Doug and I sat at the kitchen table.
“Come here, you.” Courtland motioned Frampton over. “You got something to say to these guys, say it to their faces, not some sneaking coward bullshit.” Courtland glowered.
“I'm sorry about last night.” Frampton mumbled the apology. His brashness showed briefly. “I still don't like faggots.”
Courtland grabbed him. “Who don't you like?”
Frampton cast a guilty look at all three of us. “Gay people,” he muttered.
Courtland slapped him on the ass. “Good boy. There's hope for you yet. You're honest and you can learn.”
Scott said, “Jack, if you'd like to talk about it sometime or ask questions …”
“I guess I'd like to leave it alone for now,” Frampton said.
Scott offered him his hand. The kid looked surprised. He shook hands almost gratefully.
“I'd like to go,” Frampton said.
After he left, Courtland said, “You should have told me.”
“I was scared,” Scott said. “But what about Frampton?”
Courtland smiled. “Nothing about him. Let him talk. You're the best right-hand pitcher in baseball. What's to care? Besides, if he tells, you turn him in for assault. I already explained that to him.”
I pushed for turning Frampton in, but they convinced me he'd learned a lesson. Before Doug left, we agreed to be at his house the next Friday for dinner.
A half hour later, a rosy-cheeked Jeff strolled into the penthouse. We decided to do the last-minute Christmas shopping at Water Tower Place.
In the bedroom as we changed, I said, “Courtland's nice, funny. How do you feel about him coming here?”
“Stunned when I saw you guys. Great now that it's over.”
We took Jeff with us. Outside, the wind roared in off the Lake, the sun flaring off the winter whiteness. After twelve hours of steadily rising temperatures, it was all of five above. The prediction was for well below zero again by nightfall, another arctic blast marching in from Canada. The northeast wind pushed gray clouds in from Lake Michigan. The Lake level had fallen the past year, but at some points, waves still crashed high against the shore, spraying water over vulnerable sections of Lake Shore Drive.
We pulled off onto Michigan Avenue. It's hard to buy Christmas gifts for Scott, he being a fabulously wealthy millionaire. We get each other surprise gifts each year. I knew he'd never guess this year's. I picked up my father's shirts at Field's. Mom said he needed several. She usually has the lowdown on who needs what in the family. Scott and I give my nieces and nephews some of the best toys in the universe. We go equal shares on that.
We dumped the gifts at Scott's. I looked forward to a quiet leisurely afternoon. The phone rang. Scott picked it up in the kitchen. A minute later, he entered the living room, his face pale.
“What's wrong?” I asked.
“That was Frank Murphy at the River's Edge police station. Roger Daniels is dead.”
“Did Murphy say what happened?”
“No. He wants to see us.”
I told Jeff. “He can't be dead,” was his stunned response. “He was my friend. Next to Paul, my best friend at school.”
We drove to the River's Edge police station. As usual, a lone cop sat behind the counter. She directed us to one of the interrogation rooms.
We left Jeff in an out-of-the-way office, with a cup of hot chocolate. Frank had met Scott before. Murphy got us settled, then said, “This is pure hell.”
He told us they'd found Roger's body under the radio tower just east of La Grange Road near Tinley Gardens. Some kids were snowmobiling and found him. Somebody'd shot him gangland style—handcuffed, with a bullet through the back of his head.
“Why kill him?” I asked.
“We don't know that. All we do know is he died somewhere else. The killer or killers dumped his body there.”
I thought about how long Jeff had been gone that morning. Maybe a little over two hours. I dismissed the possibility. Not enough time and no transportation.
“You guys found anything new?” he asked.
I told him about Jeff's information the night before. When I finished, he shook his head. He sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup, and mumbled a curse. “Can't see where that will help. The drug stuff may give us a connection, but I doubt it. Susan and Roger were fringe players, if that much, in any kind of drug
scheme. We haven't found any such connection. I honestly don't think it has anything to do with the murder. I don't doubt you've uncovered something nastily illegal. Although except for the car tag you've played, you've witnessed nothing criminal.”
I started to protest. He held up a hand. “Wait. You keep implicating this Becky Twitchell, but we haven't been able to connect her to anything. She claims she never talked to Jeff at all about any threats.”
He stood up, walked around the room, kicked a table leg. He sighed. “What I've done is called all the parents and school officials together. I'll be meeting with them in a few minutes. The first thing we'll probably do is put cops in the high school for a while after vacation.”
“But the attacks weren't at school,” Scott said.
“No, but there's too much coincidence involved. Plus, I've had your superintendent on the phone three times today demanding extra protection. It probably won't do any good, but the community will see a real cop, so they may think we're doing something.”
“It'll shut a few people up,” I said.
“I hope. Second, I want you to be there when I meet with these people, unofficially, of course. We're setting up a task force. We've got to deal with the parents' and the community's fears. In fifteen minutes, I've got to cope with them. I'd like you both there if you're willing. You've found some information that may turn out to be useful.”
In the basement meeting room, bare pipes dripped cool water onto us. Two naked light bulbs glared overhead. Three metal couches with rummage-sale reject cushions sat against the walls. It was the kind of place where they used to torture prisoners in 1930s gangster movies. Frank introduced us to anyone we didn't know.
Carolyn Blackburn and Oliver Sandgrace sat on the couch directly opposite the door. The Twitchells filled another. Mrs. Conlan and Mrs. Bradford sat on the third couch. Their husbands
grouped themselves on metal folding chairs near the exit. Roger's parents, the Danielses, stood in a far corner of the room, looking dazed and forlorn. In the corner across from them sat the Warrens, Susan's parents. Mrs. Trask stood behind the Twitchells. Mr. Trask came in right behind us and stayed near the men at the door, the farthest point from his wife he could get.
The parents all talked at Murphy as soon as they saw him. Anxious queries turned to muttered anger when some of them saw Mr. Trask and me.
“He doesn't belong here.” Sandgrace pointed at me.
Mrs. Twitchell pointed to Mr. and Mrs. Trask. “I don't want the parents of a killer in here.”
Chaos ensued. Parents shouted; administrators and board members argued. Those who hadn't met Scott spent some time being awed by his presence. Parental concern quickly returned, however, and they went back to attacking Frank.
Scott and I remained to the left of the doorway. Murphy took an old lead pipe and bashed it against a radiator. It clanged resoundingly. They all shut up.
“Now,” Frank said. “You're all here by invitation of the police. We've got a dangerous situation. Someone has killed two children in this community and badly beaten another. We have mobilized city, county, and state task forces to deal with this problem.”
“Forget this task-force nonsense,” Mrs. Twitchell said. “Why are you bothering our children with accusations? What are you doing to catch the killer and protect our kids? When are you going to stop harassing us, and stop those two from causing trouble?” She waved bright orange fingernails at us. Her nails clashed horribly with her fluorescent blue skirt and tangerine-colored blouse. The blouse was sheer and tight, showing off her considerable endowments for anybody to appreciate.
Frank sighed audibly. “Everything humanly possible is being done, including calling you all here. If some of you object to
others, you'll have to ignore it for now. We need everybody's help. The murders and the beating seem to revolve around the kids who were at last Sunday's party at the Conlans'. The key is there.”
Parents erupted angrily. Finally, Mrs. Twitchell's voice prevailed. “How dare you imply one of our children murdered these two!”
Murphy spoke through clenched teeth. “Mrs. Twitchell, and the rest of you, please! I am not implying your kids are murderers. I think we need to be concerned about why two children from this group are dead. Another has been attacked and only saved by Mr. Mason and Mr. Carpenter. If there is some connection, we need to find it. In addition, we need to take precautions in case someone has singled out these kids for whatever reason. The school personnel are here so we can work out some strategies to keep the situation from getting beyond these two. I think we need to coordinate our efforts.”
Most parental and administrative heads nodded.
“What about Jeff Trask?” Mrs. Twitchell asked. “Isn't he your prime suspect?
“He was and is, for Susan's murder. But he has an alibi for Roger's. We need to cover any other bases in case we're wrong in suspecting him in the first murder.”
“Why attack these kids?” Mr. Bradford asked.
“That's what I hope we can work on,” Murphy said. For an hour, the parents discussed their kids. They added nothing to what Scott and I already knew. Their ignorance, illusions, or delusions about their children were profound. If I didn't know the kids personally, I doubt if I'd have recognized them from their parents' descriptions. The parents straggled out of the meeting. Most expressed anger and doubts about what had been or could be done.
A somewhat repentant Jeff left with his mother.
Oliver Sandgrace, Harry Conlan, and Mrs. Twitchell cornered Murphy after the other parents had left. “Mr. Mason has been
talking to parents and children, upsetting everyone. I'm sure the police disapprove of this, as I've already mentioned,” Mrs. Twitchell said. “I want to know what you intend to do about it.”
Murphy faced her. He said, “I'm not sure I understand the problem. Perhaps you could tell me exactly what it is you want.”
Mrs. Twitchell's smug look joined the tone of her voice as she said, “Mason has bothered people.” She tugged her pink calf-length down coat closer around her shoulders. “There have been complaints. I know the school board doesn't like it. He has to stop.”
Frank said, “Mrs. Twitchell, I suggest you leave the decision on what people can or cannot do in a homicide investigation in the hands of the police. If Mr. Mason is a problem at school, then you can deal with it any way you want. Here, I make the decisions.”
“Maybe you don't understand,” Mrs. Twitchell said. “We're taxpayers and we're demanding you take action. We can go to your superiors, you know.”
“If you want to talk to my boss, his secretary is down the hall.”
Mrs. Twitchell swung on the other two. “Well,” she demanded, “say something.” But they said little and did less. I wasn't their biggest problem. Someone was killing their kids. They had to do something about that. They left. Frank warned us to be careful and to call him immediately if there was danger or any problem.
The Danielses and Bradfords met us in front of the admitting desk. They wanted to talk. The cop on duty led us to the same interrogation room as on Monday night.
In the dreary room, I spoke words of comfort and regret to the Danielses. Mrs. Daniels, eyes red-rimmed from weeping but voice firm, said, “Mr. Mason, you were a great help to Roger when he was a freshman. We want your assistance now. We want to know why Roger died and who killed him.”
Mr. Daniels added, “We want more than the police. They're good at platitudes, but that's not good enough. This is our son. We need answers.”
The Bradfords, both short and tubby, expressed fear for their daughter's safety. “We appreciate your concern, despite what the board members said,” Mr. Bradford said.
Mrs. Bradford harrumphed, “Sally Twitchell is a social-climbing bitch. She thinks she's got power over people because she's head of that silly school board. They haven't made a sane decision in years.”
“How's Doris been taking all this?” I asked.
Mr. Bradford said, “That's the funny part. She acts cool and disdainful, as if it didn't touch her. As if she didn't care. Maybe she wasn't best friends with Susan, but she dated Roger occasionally, and now it's as if neither of them ever existed.”
Mrs. Bradford said, “We've tried to talk to her about it, without the least success. I think it's because she's so frightened, and we don't know why.”
“Do you have any idea why Roger died?” I asked the Danielses.
“No,” Mr. Daniels said. “He acted so different lately. This week, he stayed in his room, door shut, earphones clamped to his head. He took no interest in anything. We tried ignoring it at first, then we tried talking to him. Nothing worked.”
“Somebody murdered our son,” Mrs. Daniels said. “We want that person caught and punished. As we said, we want your help. We have confidence in you. We know you.”
“What have the police told you so far?” I asked.
“Beyond the facts on finding him, almost nothing,” Mrs. Daniels said.
We got a brief litany of suspicions about Becky Twitchell and another earful about her evil ways.
We talked awhile longer, but they had no further information. We promised to do what we could.
 
 
Outside, the sun had broken through the murky gloom of the late December day. It must have been nearly twenty degrees above zero. All the streets were clear. The drifts at the roadsides had begun their change from light gray to black encrusted.
The radio announcer predicted a 60 percent possibility of snow.
In the car, Scott said, “I am beginning to dread the name Becky Twitchell.”
“You should meet her up close and personal. Then you could truly dislike her.”
“How about if I get to meet her, instead of saying hello, I puke all over her?” Scott asked.
“Certainly an appropriate response.” I added, “Each set of parents has experienced increased negative feelings from or with their kids since the first murder.”
“The kids know who the murderer is and they're concealing it?” Scott asked. “Maybe Becky's the killer and she's got something on each one of them, including the adults, that can keep them quiet.”
I said, “Becky may be the world's most completely evil human being since Adolf Hitler, but I don't think she's capable on her own of causing all that's happened. She'd have to have some motivation to kill Susan. She'd have to have been able to attack and almost kill Eric, and drag him around the school on her own. The same for murdering Roger.”
“So she had an accomplice.”
“Certainly there are at least two in on this. I suspect more. My guess is the drugs and murders are connected. We simply have to find what the connection is. To me, the most obvious reason we're being hassled is that we're stepping on the toes of the drug crowd as we work on the murders.”
“If the drugs and murders are connected,” Scott said, “then the teachers are involved in the murders.”
I'd thought of that. We talked as I cruised toward Wolf Road on 159th Street. Scott tapped his coat-sleeve buttons on the side window. He said, “Could kids really keep the identity of a killer secret?”
“Maybe.”
In the next five minutes, he managed to ask all the exasperating questions that had been nagging at me. How did George and Pete get involved in the drugs and why? Who supplied them? Were they really in league with Becky? What possible reason could either of them have for killing Susan? No one we'd talked to said she was involved in the drug scene, or connected in any significant way to the adults involved.
BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?
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