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

from the father, physical or mental, something. But she comes back with Mom’s protection. She’s got the game of playing one parent off against the other perfected beyond any art—she’s the Picasso of manipulative kids. Something is very odd and very wrong there.” She drummed her fingers on the desktop. “I’m stumped about what to do.” She eyed me carefully, judging me on how much I could be trusted, I guessed. “Then, at ten o’clock last night, I got a call from the superintendent telling me to lay off Becky Twitchell. The warning from the superintendent was clear and genuine: Leave Becky alone. And I can’t possibly prove abuse. No one anywhere has reported bruises, markings. Certainly, I’ve never seen such a thing.”
    In Illinois, teachers are required to report any case of suspected child abuse. Numerous times, I’d reported my suspicions,
to see nothing come of them. The system here clanks along with as many inadequacies as anywhere else.
    Carolyn said, “I’ve got a friend in the Department of Children and Family Services who I’ll talk to about this, but I don’t hold out much hope.” She stood up. “And it’s my first year on this job. I’d like to keep it to retirement. I don’t know how far I’m willing to go with this.” She gave me a wintry smile. “I’ve read your record, evaluations. You care about kids a great deal. In my limited way, I’ll help you, but don’t expect much. I know you don’t trust me yet; no administrator could expect that.”
    We discussed possible ramifications of my involvement. She neither encouraged nor discouraged my talking to people, saying it was my decision. She explained that her goal was to help the kid if at all possible.
    At least she’d been honest, a rare and valued commodity, something you didn’t see in administrators very often. I told her I appreciated it.
    Before she left, I got her to agree to take Roger Daniels and Doris Bradford out of their classes so I could talk to them during my first-period planning time. I met them in a blank-walled, gray-painted, cheerless room near the main office. The furniture consisted of a dull metal desk, matching dull metal chairs, and a black couch covered in cheap vinyl.
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    Doris came in first. She had long black hair to her waist—a slender cheerleader who’d been elected junior prom queen the year before. She wore tight blue jeans and a letterman’s sweater. I’d never had her in class. I explained to her about helping Jeff.
    Doris wouldn’t give me even the benefit of nods and shakes of the head. I got monosyllabic mutterings and no information. After I finished with her, I might have been able to swear she’d been at Sunday’s party, but not with any certainty. After ten minutes of fruitless questioning, I asked her who she thought might have a reason to kill Susan. She finally came to life, looked at me for the first and only time during the conversation.

    â€œI don’t have to answer your questions. You’re not a lawyer. This isn’t a court. You can’t make me answer.”
    I took a stab in the dark. “Is that what Becky told you?”
    After that, she clamped her mouth firmly shut, and I didn’t get even monosyllables.
    Roger shuffled in next. Almost as wide as he was tall, he moved awkwardly. He played starting left tackle on offense and defense on the football team. His brush-cut red hair glistened. I’d taught him freshman English. Back then, Roger’d been a shorter, squatter version of his present self. I told him what I was trying to do.
    He squirmed in his seat, gazed at the barren gray walls, and looked over my shoulder to the parking lot outside. Finally, his eyes rested on me. He giggled. I’d never seen a six-foot block of teenage muscle omit such an incongruous sound. I asked him what he remembered about Sunday.
    He