Forty-five years after Brenda Spencer stood at her bedroom window and opened fire on Cleveland Elementary School, ending two lives with the chilling explanation, “I don’t like Mondays,” the now 62-year-old has been denied parole for the seventh time. The decision, handed down by the California parole board on February 21, 2025, ensures that Spencer will remain behind bars at the California Institution for Women in Chino, her home since she was sentenced as a teenager. That Monday morning in 1979 left an indelible mark on San Diego and the nation, claiming the lives of Principal Burton Wragg and custodian Mike Suchar while wounding eight children and a police officer. For the survivors and the families of the deceased, each parole hearing rekindles the pain of a tragedy that unfolded in mere minutes but has lasted a lifetime. Spencer’s latest rejection leaves her with no chance at freedom until at least 2028, raising the persistent question of whether she will ever walk free.
The story begins in a modest San Diego neighborhood, where Spencer lived with her father in a house across the street from Cleveland Elementary School. Born in 1962, she was a slight, red-haired girl whose life was already unraveling by her mid-teens. Her parents’ divorce had left her in a turbulent home environment, and neighbors later recalled a child who seemed withdrawn and troubled. In the months before the shooting, a school counselor flagged her behavior, noting signs of depression and a disturbing interest in violence. A psychiatric evaluation urged hospitalization, but her father declined. Instead, he gave her a semi-automatic rifle for Christmas in 1978—a .22-caliber Ruger with a telescopic sight. On January 29, 1979, she turned that gift into a weapon of devastation.
It was a crisp winter morning when Spencer aimed at the schoolyard, where children waited to start their day. She fired 36 rounds over about 20 minutes, striking Wragg as he rushed to shield his students and Suchar as he tried to assist. Eight children, some as young as 6, suffered injuries ranging from bullet wounds to shrapnel cuts. A police officer, arriving to secure the scene, took a bullet to the neck but survived. Barricaded in her home, Spencer held authorities at bay for six hours. When a journalist managed to reach her by phone, her flippant response—“I don’t like Mondays. This livens up the day”—stunned the world with its casual cruelty. She surrendered that afternoon, her youth contrasting sharply with the adult weight of her actions.
At 17, Spencer faced trial as an adult and pleaded guilty to two counts of murder and assault with a deadly weapon. Her sentence of 25 years to life began in 1980, and since 1993, she has periodically sought parole. At each hearing, she has offered explanations: a childhood shadowed by alleged abuse, a reliance on drugs and alcohol, and a father she holds partly responsible for her instability. Yet the parole board has consistently found her arguments lacking, pointing to an absence of genuine remorse and insufficient evidence of rehabilitation. In her most recent appearance, survivors like Cam Miller, who was 9 when he was shot, and Crystal Hardy, who still carries the emotional scars, spoke against her release, their testimonies underscoring the enduring toll of that day.
Spencer’s crime reverberated beyond San Diego, inspiring a chart-topping song by the Boomtown Rats and fueling debates about youth, violence, and accountability. Now in her early 60s, she remains a figure of contention—some see a broken child shaped by circumstance, others a calculated killer whose punishment is just. As her next parole date looms three years away, the families she shattered and the community she scarred wait to see if time will soften the consequences of a Monday she claimed to despise. For now, Brenda Spencer stays confined, her fate a lingering echo of a tragedy that refuses to fade.