Making a Murderer: confessions of the mother of a serial killer

When a lunatic murders an innocent stranger, hacks him into small pieces and feeds the pieces into a food processor, the press always interviews his neighbors. "What can you tell us about Lester?" Mrs. Smith, "He was so polite. Always held the door for me." Mrs. Jones, "His children appeared very well cared for." Mr. Doe, " Just because the cops found an elbow in his cuisinart, doesn't mean he did it. The cops plant evidence all the time. He was a good boy." Mr. Miller, " I liked him. We watched Fargo together 13 times. I thought we shared a zany sense of humor." Not being of a generous nature, I thought the neighbors were deluded morons. How could they have missed signs of viciousness, depravity, evil? Anyone with a modicum of observational powers and intelligence should have been able to perceive the devil within. I was wrong. I adopted my precious baby girl a year ago. She had been in a shelter, then a foster home. Unscarred by her difficult background, she was beautiful, affectionate, loving. As a single parent, I doted on her, permitting her to sleep in my bed and sit in my lap for long swaths of time. In all honesty, I can't say she was polite, as she is mostly silent, and I can't say she is bright, as, after a year, she still does not know her name. I've been told that children are very expensive to raise, but it was evident from the beginning that she would not be going to college--- public vocational school, at best--and she did not have expensive taste in food, so she would not deplete my 401k. In all, she was the perfect child and, I thought, I was the perfect mother. Thursday morning, October 6 I exit the bathroom and observe grey feathers on the floor of my bedroom. I am not partial to feathers and had never seen them there before. Had Tessa ripped open a pillow? No, the pillows were in tact. I walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. More feathers. Tessa. A tiny gray bird. Tessa, closely watching the bird. The bird, not looking its best. I approach the bird. It moves. Tessa pounces, grabs it in her mouth, runs with it into the living room. The bird is looking its all-time worst. Tessa looks at me with her beautiful green eyes. No sign of remorse. Living room floor covered with feathers. I dispose of bird down the compactor chute. I reassure myself. This was simply a murder of opportunity. The bird must have flown into the apartment through the terrace door and Tessa,(being more discerning than I, you have probably deduced she's a cat)annoyed at its intrusion into her domaine, dispatched it. Oh how a mother can delude herself. Friday morning, October 7 I'm sitting on the couch, enjoying my coffee. I hear bird noises emanating from the same hallway where yesterday's unfortunate incident occurred. I run toward the hallway. A few feathers. Tessa. A bigger, black, white and red bird,on the floor, wings flapping, screaming for help. Tessa's fast, but I'm faster. I throw a dishtowel over the bird and take it out to the terrace. It flies off. Probably to succumb to mortal injuries shortly thereafter, but I reassure myself that its injuries had been only superficial. Hard to tell if Tessa is showing signs of remorse, She does look a little disgruntled, but I suspect it's because she only succeeded in attempted murder. I try to tell myself, that this too was an attack of opportunity. Another bird has just happened to fly into the apartment. I want to believe it, because to believe otherwise would mean I've raised a being who deliberately hunts and kills prey. Tuesday morning, October 10 Tessa is sitting on the kitchen window sill eyeing a tiny bird on the floor of the terrace. She's in a hunting pose, rear end twitching. Not entirely stupid, I hope to avoid the inevitable. I open the terrace door and try to shoo away the bird. It doesn't move. I relax on the couch. If the bird doesn't move, she won't bother it. Not a minute later, the bird is in the living room being tossed around like her toy mouse. Not sure if she killed it or if was already dead, but based on her priors, she's not getting the benefit of the doubt. She is a serial killer. I rack my brain, wondering if there were warning signs. She tore apart several water bugs. I thought that was praiseworthy behavior. She sharpened her claws 100 times a day, until they were as sharp as scalpels. I rationalized that she had OCD. She occasionally sank her teeth into my arm, while tearing at it with her back claws. I thought this was ordinary play-- she was pretending I was a mouse. She rarely drew blood. Am I responsible for her behavior? Should I have been less indulgent? Fed her generic cat food? Bought her fewer toy mice? I'm sure the mother of every serial killer harbors the same doubts. In the meantime, since she still doesn't know her name, I'm changing it to Crazy Eyes Killa.