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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? (2 page)

BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?
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The scene at the front desk needed only machine-gun emplacements to complete an armed-camp effect. A young female cop and Mrs. Trask huddled at one end of the room. Mr. Trask, a burly male cop with a tattoo of a sailing ship on his arm, and the old guy from behind the desk scowled at each other in another corner.
A dapperly attired gentleman stood between the two groups resting his arm on the counter. His bored look told the world he'd been through this a million times. He introduced himself to Frank as Jeff's public defender.
The warring camps began to make stirring noises. Frank forestalled a resumption of hostilities by asking the lawyer and Mr. Trask to join him in the interrogation room He told Mrs. Trask she would be next. Frank didn't uninvite me, so I tagged along. The lawyer and I stood against the wall on either side of the door to the room. Frank and Mr. Trask sat at the table. Frank introduced us all.
Trask burst out, “I want to know what the hell is going on here. Why have you arrested my boy? What right do you have holding him?”
“Mr. Trask,” Frank began.
Trask thumped his fist on the table. “It's all his goddamn mother's fault, anyway. The kid's been trouble since he was five. She babies him. What he needs is some fast kicks on his backside. Then he'd know who was boss. That's what all these kids need today, if you ask me.”
Frank said, “Mr. Trask, when's the last time you saw your boy?”
“My wife only lets me visit him once a month. I've been busy lately. I drive a truck long-distance. But that doesn't mean I don't know my boy.” He thumped his fist against his chest. “He picked me last summer. He stayed three months. I knew this Susan Warren. You can't hide the kind of reputation she had. She filled him with all kinds of crazy notions. Don't get me wrong, I'm sorry she's dead, but facts are facts. He's better off with her gone.”
“What kind of reputation did she have?” the lawyer asked.
“Slut. Whore. Ask any of Jeff's friends. They'll tell you.”
“Who told you?”
“I don't memorize shit like that. You hear it around. You hear it enough, you know it's true.”
“What crazy notions did she give him?” I asked.
“Trips alone for the two of them. Jeff used to concentrate on sports. He could get into a good college if these goddamn teachers would give him a break now and then. He's a good enough athlete to be a pro someday.” He punctuated his tirades with waving fists. He told us that because of Susan, Jeff had talked about getting married right after graduation. Mr. Trask knew guys were supposed to be interested in girls at this age. He was sure his son was no virgin. Mr. Trask knew what it was like to be horny on a Saturday night. At that point, we got a leer and a loud manly chuckle as he said, “I mean, sure I wanted to get my rocks off when I was a teenager, but I kept my head. I didn't let some passing skirt keep me from my goals.”
“Did you tell him that?” Frank asked.
“Sure. I've got no secrets from my sons. We get along great. We're buddies. My boys confide in me. I've been to lots of Jeff's games, as many as I could, since way back when he started in fifth grade.”
For all of Mr. Trask's fabled closeness to his son, he could
give us no account of the boy's recent activities, including the status of his relationship with Susan. He ended the conversation with demands to see his son.
Frank told him they'd interview Mrs. Trask, talk it over with the lawyer, with Jeff, and get back to him. Mr. Trask adjusted his overalls, grabbed at his crotch, and walked out the door, grumbling that there'd better be some action around here pretty soon.
Frank returned with Mrs. Trask. Her firm-set jaw gave solid evidence that she was ready to take on a Marine battalion. I wouldn't have wanted to be the Marines.
She asked quietly, “When can I see my son?”
Frank explained the entire process that would take place. At the end, he said that bail, if granted, would be extremely high.
She blanched when she heard the amount it might take to free her son, then rallied quickly. I patted her arm sympathetically.
“I want to see him,” she said.
The lawyer, Frank, and the parents worked out logistics. Frank left to talk to Jeff. He came back with a puzzled expression on his face.
He pointed to me. “He wants to see you.”
“Why?” I asked.
Frank shrugged.
“He doesn't want to see me?” Mrs. Trask asked.
“No, ma'am, I'm sorry. He doesn't want to see his father, either.”
Mrs. Trask sat thoughtfully. Her puzzled look changed to one of confidence. “I'm willing to trust Mr. Mason, but I'd like to at least try and see him. Can you do that much?”
“If we let you see him, we'll have to let your husband in.”
“I can control myself, you just keep that son of a bitch out of my way.”
Sorting out who got to see whom when took some delicate
negotiations, but in fifteen minutes, six of us jammed into the room.
Jeff eyed us all suspiciously. After placing the lawyer in charge and warning the parents to observe the truce or face arrest themselves, Frank left.
Jeff wore faded jeans torn at the knees. His hair, usually moussed to spiky straightness, leaned over in sporadic sworls. He wore a black Iron Maiden T-shirt. He sat in the room's other chair. The lawyer and I remained near the entrance.
As soon as the door closed, Mr. Trask began to pace the floor and berate his son.
At first, the lawyer, a Mr. Dwyer, tried to shut Trask up. Nothing worked. Most of Trask's accusations played on the themes of “Look what this girl did to you” or “You should have listened to me.”
Three times, Dwyer tried to start a reasonable discussion. For one of the rare moments in my life, I almost felt sorry for a lawyer.
Mrs. Trask eyed her husband with contempt but remained silent.
After five minutes of listening to his dad, Jeff turned to face him. He said very quietly, “Shut the fuck up.”
Mr. Trask bellowed in rage and launched himself at his son. Jeff leapt to his feet, sending the chair crashing against the wall. They grappled briefly. Dwyer grabbed Trask. I held on to Jeff. Mrs. Trask didn't move. She sat with a satisfied smile on her face.
Frank Murphy rushed in. “What the hell's going on here?” he asked.
After a few seconds, Jeff ceased struggling. I released my grip on him. An angrily red Trask demanded to be left alone with his son.
“Keep that stupid shit away from me,” Jeff said. “I'd rather be in a cell than be alone with him.”
Dwyer stood in front of Trask, forestalling another attack.
Jeff said, “I asked to speak to Mr. Mason alone.”
Mr. Trask erupted again. Jeff shoved his hands into his pants pockets and looked down. After his dad finished fulminating, Jeff said to the floor, “I'd like to talk with Mr. Mason. Just me and him.”
“What about me, Jeff?” his mom asked.
Jeff looked as stubborn but less combative than he had with his dad. “I'm sorry, Mom. A little later, but I've got to talk to Mr. Mason.”
She stood up, faced me. “Be kind to my boy,” she said, and left.
Frank got Mr. Trask and the lawyer straightened out. When only Frank, I, and the boy were left, Frank said, “Tom, this is extraordinary even for you.” He eyed me carefully.
I remembered the time we'd stood together over the body of a seventeen-year-old honor student with a full scholarship to Harvard, a popular football player who'd committed suicide minutes before we'd arrived to stop him. I read the years of trust in Frank's eyes. “Do what you can,” he said, and left.
I sat on the table.
Jeff paced the room. “I hate him,” he said. He stopped and turned to me. “Why did I have to get an asshole for a dad?” He picked up the chair, placed it next to the table, and folded himself into it. He looked up at me. “What's going to happen to me?”
“I don't know.”
His shoulders slumped. He rested his elbows on his knees, swung his hands. “I didn't kill her,” he stated.
I nodded and waited, let the silence build, then asked, “Why did you want to see me?”
“You're the only one I can talk to. I know what you did for Eric. He swore me to secrecy. He's never told anybody else, don't worry.”
Over the years, some students had distorted my role in helping troubled kids. I know I have a dual reputation: one as an ex-Marine, a mini-Rambo, the other as a strict, boring English teacher. I preferred the latter to the former, and I knew which one was closer to reality. As for Eric: Outside the McDonald's on 159th Street one July evening, the cops had searched him for a kilo of crack I'd convinced him to hand over not five minutes before. I wasn't searched, and I kept my mouth shut. It would've meant a stretch in Stateville if the cops had found the drugs on the boy. I flushed the drugs down the nearest toilet while they interrogated the kid.
I decided to start with something simple. “Tell me about you and Susan, when you met, that kind of stuff.”
Jeff fidgeted in the chair, tapped his foot on the floor, and began cracking his knuckles. He scratched at an ugly pimple on his neck, a few inches below his ear. Finally, feet planted on the floor, hands resting on his widespread knees, he began.
They'd attended the same grade school, but hadn't gotten to know each other until the end of sophomore year. They dated that summer, and started going steady Christmas a year ago. “At first, it was great. She didn't make me nervous. I liked being around her. She listened to my stories.”
“What happened after ‘at first'?”
“I guess I have to tell you because it's all connected with last night.” He sighed, then continued. After a while, she'd changed, especially when she was with her friends. They'd laugh and make fun of him, tease him mercilessly. When they'd get alone, she'd keep teasing and then begin to nag and pick at him. He'd get pissed off, but she wouldn't stop. They'd end up screaming at each other. Then one time, she'd slapped him, and he'd hit her back.
He stopped the story. His eyes roved around the room worriedly, then came back to rest on mine. “Do I have to tell all this stuff?”
“Your choice. If you think I can help you without it, or if it's too embarrassing, fine. You decide. I suspect the police or your lawyer will need to hear all of it eventually.”
He gulped and then went on. The first time they'd hit each other, they'd said they were sorry and had made up that night. He couldn't look at me as he told the next part. “At the end of our dates, we usually made out for a while. We did that night, but it was as if the hitting each other made a difference. That night we went …” He stopped.
I waited a beat, then finished for him. “All the way for the first time.”
He nodded and resumed. “The next weekend, I wanted to do more than make out. You know. Do it again. She said no. We had a fight. Worse than before. She tried to slap me, but I grabbed her arm. She laughed at me. She made me so goddamn mad. We wrestled. I hit her a couple more times. She cried a lot. So did I.” His face turned red. He scratched at the zit again.
“Stop picking at that,” I said.
He looked at his hand guiltily. “Sorry,” he mumbled, then continued. “We made up and went all the way again. After a while, it got so I wanted to hit her. I knew it was wrong, but something would come over me. I wanted us to fight so I could get mad, and I knew we'd do it.”
“Did you ever discuss the fights with her calmly? Not on a date? When there was a chance you wouldn't fight?”
“I tried. She said she didn't want to talk about it, threatened to break up with me. I still wanted to go out with her. I knew what we did, the hitting and stuff, wasn't right. I wanted to stop. Then on our next date, we'd go through it all again.”
“Did either of you drink or do drugs on your dates?”
“We didn't do this stuff because we were drunk or high. We wanted to. The most we ever had was a few beers, maybe a couple hits of dope if somebody else had some.”
“What happened yesterday?”
He drew a deep breath. “Yesterday started out okay. We went to Paul Conlan's house to watch football and party.”
Paul Conlan lived the life of a cliché—star athlete in three sports, wealthy parents, handsome, popular.
“Paul's my best friend. Seven of us showed up. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to stop the fights even if it meant no sex. Even if it meant breaking up. I couldn't take the fighting anymore.”
He stood up and began to pace around the room. His untied tennis shoes flopped on his feet. He said, “I told her I wanted to leave early. She asked what for. I couldn't tell her in front of her friends. She and her buddies started teasing me. Even the guys joined in. I saw the whole thing starting all over.” He leaned against the wall and thumped his fists against his thighs. “I memorized what I was going to say. But all the teasing and hassling pissed me off. When we got in the car to drive to my house, I hated her. I told her it was over between us.”
BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?
3.39Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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