My GPS led me to a gravel road that had fallen into disrepair. After driving down it for about a quarter of a mile with dense forest on either side, it opened up to a clearing with a small pond. I pulled up at the edge of the gravel and got out of my car. I could see remnants of a campfire near the pond. I walked over to it. The ashes were still warm. I sighed with relief. My son had found a quiet field with a pond in the middle of nowhere and was swooning his dates under the stars. I was almost proud of him, and then I noticed the footprints leading toward the pond. It looked like someone had dragged something heavy to the edge of the water.

I walked closer to the edge and stared into the murky water. I turned back towards the fire pit and noticed bloodstains on the grass behind me. With some trepidation, I waded into the water and about 10 feet out my worst fears were confirmed. I stepped on something hard. I reached down to feel what it was and it was a thick logging chain. I pulled on it to reveal a waterlogged body wrapped in a blanket. I pulled away the cloth to reveal a bloated face. It was Rochelle. I quickly wrapped her body back up and pushed it under the water. I ran back to my car and sped home.

I sat in the driveway trying to figure out if I was having a panic attack or a heart attack. My heart pounded in my chest so hard that it hurt. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to rationalize what I had found. I tried to convince myself of 50 different conspiracy theories that explained why my son was innocent. Someone knocked on the driver’s side window of my car and I about jumped out of my skin. It was James.

I climbed out of the hesitantly and he immediately wrapped his arms around me. “Whatever it is, it’s okay dad. Just tell me what happened.”

He was such a good son. For a brief moment, I forgot about the pond and his mother’s body. I followed him inside and after changing into some dry clothes I joined him in the living room. I sat in my easy chair as he sat across from me on the couch.

I stared at the floow. “I found your mother,” I whispered.

“Oh,” he responded.

I don’t know what I expected him to say, but his response hit me hard. It wasn’t surprise or even anger. It was that same flat affect he showed on the rare occasions I had caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to do.

“Please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid son.”

He looked off to the side. “Define stupid.”

“Goddammit James,” I said, raising my voice. “Did you kill your mother?”

He started to laugh. “The bitch was dead a long time before I clocked her over the head and dragged her to my car,” he said. “Any bitch that would try to sell her son for dope has been dead for a long time.”

I couldn’t speak. I had always wondered about that night, but James never talked about it.

“You know really, I lucked out,” he continued. “The bastard that paid for me gave me a ride home and told me never to go back to my mother. I guess it could have been a lot worse, but that…that was the day I really snapped. I understood how meaningless life really was. Of course I killed her. That bitch deserved to die six times over.”

Tears filled my eyes as my son confessed to more than fifteen murders. I sat there dumbfounded as he gave details and descriptions that no child his age should have been able to produce. When he finished telling me everything I just sat in my seat. What could I say? What should I have said? My son confessed to being a serial killer and the only thought going through my head was trying to figure out how to make sure it didn’t ruin his life.

I finally worked up the nerve to say something. “We need to get you help son. This isn’t healthy —”

James cut me off. “No therapists are going to help me, dad. You’ve been good to me so I’ll spare you the bullshit. We both know that I turn 18 in about a month. I’ll be out of your hair. And besides, I have bigger plans.”

I stared at my son and tried to wrap my mind around the beautiful monster he had become. Seventeen years of being his parent and I had never in a million years imagined that he would turn out so broken. I quit my job about a week later. By his 18th birthday I had burned through most of my savings with drinking and trying to forget what I had learned. Sure enough, the day after his 18th birthday, he was gone. Any part of me that held hope for him was lost a few weeks later when police discovered the bodies in the pond. By that point he was long gone.

I received a post card a few weeks ago. It was a picture a sandy beach. On the back was a sentence written in his familiar handwriting: “Hey Dad, just letting you know I’m fine.

I tossed it on the table next to the door and went back to drinking. Part of me wants to go to the police and tell them everything. It probably wouldn’t be that hard to track him down. Still, he’s my son. I’m willing to do plenty of things, but serving my son up for crimes that would land him on death row sits outside my level of civic duty. The guilt gets a little worse each day.

For now, all I can do is hope that he really is fine. I have no idea where he is. I don’t want to know. All I can do is hope that he’s stopped killing. He really was a good boy. He’s tall and charismatic. I’m sure he’d make it big if he just tried.