Lizzie Borden: I Don't Think She Did It

Lizzie Borden: I Don't Think She Did It

There are some true-crime cases where the evidence practically screams the answer.

And then there is Lizzie Borden.

For more than 130 years, we have been staring at two bodies, a house in Fall River, Massachusetts, a hatchet, a mountain of circumstantial evidence, and a woman who was accused of one of the most infamous double murders in American history.

Then came the rhyme.

Lizzie Borden took an axe...

Four lines of playground poetry turned an accused woman into an American monster.

Netflix's Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story takes that legend and runs straight into the darkness with it. The series presents Lizzie as a woman trapped inside a brutal Victorian household, pushed toward violence by cruelty, repression, humiliation, and rage. It gives her an accomplice. It gives her a romantic relationship with Bridget “Maggie” Sullivan. It turns suspicious circumstances into deliberate acts. It even connects Lizzie to another murder.

It is compelling.

It is disturbing.

It is very much television.

And here's where I part company with the series:

I don't think Lizzie Borden killed her father and stepmother.

And if she did?

I don't think she did it alone.

That is not the same thing as declaring Lizzie innocent beyond all doubt. There is too much strange behavior surrounding this case for that kind of certainty.

But after separating the historical evidence from Netflix's dramatic reconstruction, I am left with far more questions than answers.

And that, to me, is the real Lizzie Borden story.

Let's Start With the Bodies

August 4, 1892.

Fall River, Massachusetts.

Andrew Borden was found dead on a sofa inside his home.

His skull had been brutally fractured.

Upstairs, his wife, Abby Borden, was discovered in a guest bedroom.

She had been attacked repeatedly.

The famous rhyme says Andrew received 41 blows and Abby 40.

That isn't what happened.

The historical record indicates Abby was struck 19 times and Andrew 11. Even without the nursery-rhyme embellishment, the murders were horrifyingly violent.

And immediately, the question became:

Who did this?

The answer eventually became:

Lizzie.

But there was a problem.

The evidence wasn't nearly as neat as the story eventually became.

The Netflix Version Gives Us an Answer

Netflix doesn't leave the viewer sitting comfortably in the gray area.

Its Lizzie is abused and increasingly resentful.

Her household becomes a pressure cooker.

Her relationship with her parents deteriorates.

Bridget becomes her confidante and lover.

And eventually, the two women commit the murders together.

That is an extremely satisfying narrative structure.

Cause.

Effect.

Motive.

Opportunity.

Execution.

It turns a 130-year-old mystery into a story with a beginning, middle, and end.

But history doesn't work that way.

Netflix's own account acknowledges that the series uses real people and events but fictionalizes major portions of the story. The show's creators describe the Lizzie portrayed onscreen as a fictionalized interpretation built from historical details.

And that distinction is absolutely crucial.

Because once you start pulling at the threads, some of Netflix's certainty begins to unravel.

The Abuse Question

This is one of the show's biggest narrative choices.

Netflix portrays Andrew and Abby as cruel, oppressive parents who help create the monster Lizzie eventually becomes.

It's a powerful idea.

It's also exactly the sort of explanation modern audiences are trained to recognize.

Someone is abused.

Someone is trapped.

Someone reaches a breaking point.

Someone finally explodes.

It's psychologically satisfying.

But the historical record doesn't give us the same neat picture.

There were tensions within the Borden household.

Lizzie and Emma had a strained relationship with their stepmother.

There were disputes involving money, property, and family relationships.

Lizzie reportedly did not call Abby “Mother.”

So yes, there was family conflict.

But that's very different from proving that Lizzie was systematically abused in the manner depicted by Netflix.

And that's one of my biggest problems with the show's interpretation.

It takes an ambiguous historical relationship and turns it into a motive.

That's a huge leap.

Then There's Bridget

This is where the show gets really interesting.

And really fictional.

Netflix turns Bridget “Maggie” Sullivan, the Borden family's Irish maid, into Lizzie's lover and eventual accomplice.

It's a bold choice.

Because suddenly, one of the biggest logistical problems with the Lizzie-did-it theory has a convenient solution.

Lizzie didn't have to do everything herself.

She had help.

But here's the important part:

There is no established historical evidence that Bridget was Lizzie's lover or murder accomplice.

Netflix has essentially taken an unanswered question and supplied a dramatic answer.

And while that answer makes for fascinating television, it doesn't make it historical fact. Netflix explicitly acknowledges that Bridget's role was changed for the series.

That distinction matters enormously.

Because I actually think the idea of an accomplice is worth discussing.

I just don't think we can automatically leap from:

“Maybe Lizzie had help”

to:

“Bridget helped her.”

Those are two completely different claims.

The Window-Washing Alibi

This is another clever piece of Netflix storytelling.

Bridget's window washing becomes suspicious.

The show portrays it almost like theater.

A performance.

Something designed to create the appearance of innocence.

It's wonderfully sinister.

It's also fictionalized.

The real Bridget did wash windows that morning.

Netflix takes that genuine historical detail and changes its meaning.

And this is a recurring pattern throughout Monster.

The show doesn't necessarily invent everything from scratch.

Instead, it takes real facts and rearranges them.

It changes their context.

It changes their timing.

It gives them new motives.

That is arguably more dangerous to historical accuracy than inventing completely fictional events because the audience recognizes the real pieces and assumes the rest must be true too.

The Prussic Acid

Now we get to something that really does make Lizzie look suspicious.

Before the murders, Lizzie attempted to purchase prussic acid.

That's real.

And prussic acid is poisonous.

That sounds awful.

Until we remember that we have to separate:

“Lizzie attempted to obtain poison.”

from:

“Lizzie attempted to poison her parents.”

Netflix chooses the second interpretation.

The series actually depicts a failed poisoning attempt.

That creates an elegant escalation.

First, poison.

Then, when poison fails, the hatchet.

It's a terrific murder narrative.

But the historical evidence does not establish that Lizzie actually attempted to poison Andrew and Abby.

Netflix itself identifies this as one of the major ways the series transforms a real incident into dramatized events.

And this is where I find myself pushing back.

If we're going to convict Lizzie in our minds, we need to convict her using evidence.

Not storytelling.

The Dress

Then comes one of the most suspicious pieces of evidence in the entire case.

Lizzie burned a dress.

After the murders.

Her explanation was that the garment was damaged and no longer useful.

Suspicious?

Absolutely.

Would it make me raise an eyebrow?

I'd probably raise both.

But again:

Suspicious does not equal proven.

The problem is that people often look at one suspicious fact, add another suspicious fact, then another, and eventually decide that the collection itself constitutes proof.

It doesn't necessarily.

It constitutes a reason to investigate.

And Lizzie was investigated.

She was prosecuted.

She was tried.

And she was acquitted.

The Library of Congress identifies August 4, 1892 as the date of the murders, August 11 as Lizzie's arrest, and June 20, 1893 as the date of her acquittal. It also explicitly states that whether Lizzie committed the murders remains unresolved.

That last sentence is worth remembering.

Unresolved.

Not “secretly guilty.”

Not “probably guilty.”

Not “Netflix solved it.”

Unresolved.

And Then There Is the Timeline

This is where my skepticism really kicks in.

Abby was upstairs.

Andrew was downstairs.

Two separate victims.

Two separate locations.

A brutal weapon.

A bloody crime scene.

And Lizzie was apparently able to move through all of this without suffering an injury herself.

Could one person have done it?

Yes.

Of course.

People are physically capable of extraordinary violence.

But the question isn't whether it was physically possible.

The question is whether the evidence proves that Lizzie did it.

And that's where I stumble.

Because the historical case gives us an enormous amount of circumstantial evidence, but no definitive piece of evidence that simply says:

Lizzie Borden killed Abby Borden.

Or:

Lizzie Borden killed Andrew Borden.

There is no surviving eyewitness who saw her do it.

No confession.

No definitive forensic evidence.

No indisputable murder weapon tying her to the crime.

No accomplice who was successfully identified and prosecuted alongside her.

Instead, there are suspicious circumstances.

Lots of them.

But circumstances aren't automatically certainty.

And This Is Where Netflix Loses Me

The show wants us to understand Lizzie.

It wants us to see her anger.

It wants us to understand her oppression.

It wants us to believe that the murders were the inevitable result of a woman being pushed too far.

That's an interesting interpretation.

But it is still an interpretation.

The historical case does not come with a narrator standing over Lizzie's shoulder explaining her motivations.

We don't get her inner thoughts.

We don't get her secret conversations.

We don't know what she was thinking.

We don't know whether she was plotting murder.

We don't know whether she was terrified.

We don't know whether she was protecting someone.

We don't know whether she knew more than she admitted.

We don't know whether she knew less than investigators assumed.

We don't know.

And that uncertainty is exactly what makes this case so fascinating.

The Bertha Manchester Problem

Netflix takes things even further by connecting Lizzie to the murder of Bertha Manchester.

That is one of the show's most dramatic inventions.

In the series, Manchester becomes almost a rehearsal.

A trial run.

A stepping stone toward the Borden murders.

It's chilling.

And it's also not historical fact.

Bertha Manchester really was murdered.

But there is no established evidence that Lizzie Borden killed her.

A Portuguese immigrant named José Correa de Mello was falsely convicted of Manchester's murder.

Netflix takes that real murder and inserts Lizzie into it.

This is exactly the kind of thing that makes me want to put a giant red stamp across the screen:

THIS PART DID NOT HAPPEN.

Because if someone watches the series without knowing the case, they could easily walk away believing Lizzie was responsible for an additional murder.

She wasn't convicted of it.

There is no established evidence proving she committed it.

The show invented the connection.

Nance O'Neil Gets Moved Through Time

Then there is Nance O'Neil.

The real Lizzie did become friends with actress Nance O'Neil.

But that friendship began in 1904.

Lizzie had already been acquitted for more than a decade.

Netflix moves their relationship backward and has O'Neil play a role in Lizzie's trial preparation.

Again, fascinating television.

Historically wrong chronology.

Netflix itself acknowledges the alteration.

And this illustrates the larger problem beautifully:

The show is not pretending to be a courtroom transcript.

It's telling a story inspired by a historical case.

Those are two very different things.

So Let's Talk About Lizzie Herself

Was she strange?

Possibly.

Was she evasive?

At times.

Did she make statements that raised suspicion?

Yes.

Did she have potential motives?

Certainly.

Did she have opportunity?

Yes.

Was she in the house?

Yes.

Was she acquitted?

Absolutely.

And that last part matters.

A jury heard the prosecution's case.

A jury heard the defense.

A jury examined the evidence available in 1893.

And that jury found Lizzie not guilty.

The Library of Congress preserves extensive contemporary newspaper material surrounding the arrest and trial and identifies the acquittal as the outcome.

People can disagree with the jury.

They can believe Lizzie was guilty.

They can believe she got away with murder.

But they cannot honestly rewrite the historical outcome.

Lizzie Borden was acquitted.

But Here's What Really Bothers Me

If Lizzie did it, why does the case feel so unfinished?

That's the question I keep coming back to.

A murder mystery usually becomes clearer as evidence accumulates.

The Borden case somehow becomes murkier.

Every answer creates another question.

If Lizzie did it, why are there so many alternative theories?

If she acted alone, how exactly did everything unfold?

If she had an accomplice, who?

If the accomplice was Bridget, where is the evidence?

If it wasn't Lizzie, who had the motive and opportunity?

If it was someone outside the household, how did they enter and leave?

If it involved someone inside the household, who was protecting whom?

Every door opens into another hallway.

And somewhere down those hallways are two dead bodies and a woman who walked away from a murder trial without a conviction.

The Accomplice Theory

This is where I admit something:

The accomplice possibility fascinates me.

Not because I think Netflix proved it.

It didn't.

And certainly not because I think Bridget Sullivan should be retroactively convicted by a television script.

She shouldn't.

But because an accomplice could potentially explain some of the problems with the single-killer theory.

If Lizzie participated, another person could have helped with:

the timing,

the physical violence,

the movement through the house,

the concealment of evidence,

or the aftermath.

An accomplice could also potentially explain why certain pieces of the story don't fit comfortably together.

But there is a major distinction.

“Lizzie may have had help” is a theory.

“Bridget Sullivan helped Lizzie” is an allegation.

And “Netflix portrayed Bridget as the accomplice” is a fictional plot point.

Those three things should never be confused.

Maybe We Have Been Asking the Wrong Question

For more than a century, we've asked:

Did Lizzie Borden kill her parents?

Maybe the better question is:

What actually happened inside that house that morning?

Because those aren't necessarily the same question.

Maybe Lizzie did it.

Maybe she didn't.

Maybe she knew who did.

Maybe she knew something and protected someone.

Maybe someone else committed the murders and Lizzie's strange behavior made her the easiest suspect.

Maybe there was more than one person involved.

Maybe the truth is something nobody has seriously considered.

That's the maddening beauty of an unsolved historical crime.

The evidence doesn't get up one morning and confess.

It just sits there.

Waiting.

And Then Came the Rhyme

This may be one of the greatest injustices done to the historical Lizzie Borden.

A nursery rhyme turned an accused woman into a cultural monster.

The rhyme simplified everything.

No trial.

No ambiguity.

No circumstantial evidence.

No conflicting testimony.

No questions.

Just:

Lizzie.

An axe.

Her parents.

Forty whacks.

And that was it.

Except it wasn't.

The real case was vastly more complicated.

And even Netflix acknowledges that the rhyme exaggerated the number of blows. Abby suffered 19 blows and Andrew 11, not the ridiculous 40-and-41 numbers that became embedded in popular culture.

The rhyme gave America something the actual case couldn't:

certainty.

And perhaps that's what we've been chasing ever since.

My Verdict on the Netflix Verdict

Here's where I land after separating the show from the history.

I think Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story is fascinating.

I think it takes the historical case and builds a compelling psychological interpretation around it.

But I don't think viewers should confuse that interpretation with what we actually know.

The real Lizzie Borden case is much messier.

Much stranger.

And, frankly, much more interesting.

Because Netflix can tell us that Lizzie did it.

The historical record cannot.

The series can give her a motive.

History gives us possibilities.

The series can give her an accomplice.

History gives us a question mark.

The series can show us exactly what happened inside that house.

History cannot.

And that's the difference between true crime and historical fiction wearing true crime's clothing.

So... Did Lizzie Borden Do It?

I don't think she did.

There.

I said it.

Not because I believe Lizzie was incapable of murder.

Not because I think every suspicious piece of evidence against her can be neatly explained.

And certainly not because I believe every alternative theory floating around the Borden case.

I simply don't think the surviving evidence gives us enough certainty to declare that Lizzie was the person who swung that weapon.

She was suspicious.

Absolutely.

She was strange.

At times.

Her behavior raises questions.

A lot of questions.

But questions aren't convictions.

And suspicion isn't proof.

The historical reality is that Lizzie was arrested, tried, and acquitted. The murders remain officially unresolved.

So I don't think Lizzie Borden did it.

But if she did?

I don't think she did it alone.

And that possibility may be the most interesting unanswered question of all.

Because if Lizzie had help, then the story we've been telling for 134 years is wrong in an entirely different way.

Maybe the mystery was never:

“Did Lizzie Borden kill her parents?”

Maybe the mystery was:

“Who else was inside that story?”

And somewhere in the shadows of that old Fall River house, there may still be an answer we will never find.

Two people died.

A woman was accused.

A jury said not guilty.

And the truth walked out of that courtroom with nobody holding its hand.

That's why, more than a century later, I'm still not ready to put the axe in Lizzie Borden's hand.

Not without one hell of a lot more evidence.