Ambushed Becky Slabaugh's marriage would not end amicably
(Editor's note: This story was originally published on July 10, 2005)
William F. Slabaugh was watering the flowers when his wife, Becky, drove around the corner and spotted him. Initially, she thought about turning around, but the job had to be done.
In the basement were boxes filled with the couple's last 10 years together that needed to be divided, his and hers.
As Becky approached, she cringed at the thought of having to put up with Bill's crap yet again. For sure, he didn't want the divorce and he had told her so. But in the days leading up to her move out of their Lake Township home two weeks earlier, he kept her up late into the night hashing the same things over and over.
He told her how much he liked having people see her on his arm, how he loved having sex with her, and how he couldn't imagine never seeing those legs again.
But the words from Bill, 20 years Becky's senior, pushed her even further away. What Becky, 48, really wanted was a partner -- a friend who would take the time to ask her about her day, not a guy who escaped to the confines of his den when she came home each night from her work at Tallmadge's Heather Knoll Nursing & Rehabilitation Center.
Though he had begun changing his daily routine to spend more time with Becky, it was too late to salvage the marriage.
Becky had moved in with her daughter, Erin Burtoft, who lived about five miles away in Springfield Township. Erin had planned to come along to help her mom pack. But the morning was cool on July 10, 2004 -- a perfect Saturday for putting in a new lawn, so she decided to remain at home and help her husband, Greg, with the yardwork. Besides, Bill, a retired attorney, was supposed to be working at the golf course that morning.
The last time Erin had been in her mother's home was six days earlier. She had gone there with Becky to gather some belongings. As expected, Bill had left for the golf course before they had arrived -- but not before leaving a note for his estranged wife.
He told her he could no longer tolerate the pain she had inflicted upon him. Near the letter, prominently displayed on the kitchen counter, were 16 Tylenol cold tablets popped out of their blister packs.
She reasoned that his implied suicide threat was just another one of her husband's manipulations to persuade her to stay.
Becky never felt fearful of her husband. Bill was a dignified man who had never raised his voice at her, let alone his fist.
He was utterly controlled, always impeccably dressed and his hair perfectly groomed. A former colleague once compared the man, a church usher and volunteer for mission trips to Russia, to Mother Teresa. So fearing that Bill might physically hurt her never crossed Becky's mind as she climbed out of her Volkswagen Jetta.
"Hi, Bill," she said, dreading the task that needed to be tended to in the basement.
Following a discussion about millipedes in the yard, the couple went to the cellar. They were cordial, engaging in small talk.
"Do you want the big Christmas tree? Because I really don't care which one I get," Becky said.
She decided to put the items she wanted in the back corner of the basement and the stuff that was Bill's in another spot. While she opened and resealed the boxes, he was busy at work, often running up and down the stairs. So, after a half-hour or so, she didn't even notice when he came up behind her.
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The next thing I know . . . he was spraying me in the face. When he did it, it was immediately excruciating and shocking. He didn't just do that and stop, he tried to overpower me and get me to the ground.
I remember thinking, "If I can stay upright, I can get away."
. . . He had me down on the ground in the perfect hold. I'm perfectly flat, he's behind me with his legs on my shoulders. I couldn't move my arms or torso. I could kick my legs around, and I could move my face from side to side, but he's spraying me square in the face.
I was on fire. I was screaming. I fought the entire time. My mind was racing -- How could I stop him? I tried to bite him, but he had on jeans. He felt nothing. I looked above me, and his face showed nothing. Just calmness.
I tried to butt him with my head, but I couldn't reach. As I screamed and screamed and screamed, "Why are you killing me? Why are you killing me? Why do you want to kill me?"
He didn't say anything for a long time. Then he got real, real, quiet and said, "If I can't have you, no one can."
It was eerie. It wasn't like he was upset.
I kept on screaming, "Why are you killing me? Why do you want to kill me?"
And his only other words were "I'll make sure no one ever wants you."
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Becky was certain those haunting words were the last she would hear. Bill outweighed her by more than 50 pounds and she couldn't stop him from spraying her from head to toe.
But then she felt his grip loosen. The lid on the plastic bottle had come off and some of the solution had spilled on him.
It was her chance to escape. She leapt up and ran for the steps, certain he would follow. As she climbed the stairs, she heard him speak, coolly: Call 911.
Becky's skin felt as if it were on fire when she ran through the house and into the garage. As a nurse, she knew she was badly injured. She turned on the faucet and dragged the hose as far as it would stretch down the driveway.
Standing on the concrete with the cold water running down her face and onto her body, she reached for the cell phone clipped to her belt and dialed 911, but the call never connected. She tried again and again -- but nothing. She dropped the phone.
"Somebody help me! He's going to kill me!" she screamed, unable to leave the water that offered some relief. "Help me! Help me!"
The Shepherd's Gate was a new development, a place where neighbors barely knew each other. And the Slabaughs' seven-month-old home was on a dead-end street with little traffic.
To her elation, Becky spotted a car coming in her direction. She believed it was her only hope to stay alive.
"Help!" she cried. "He's going to kill me!"
But the automobile slipped into a nearby garage, and the door closed.
This article originally appeared on Akron Beacon Journal: Ambushed Becky Slabaugh's marriage would not end amicably
