Where the Blame Lies

by Mia Sheridan

  It was early, she thought. Two or three weeks maybe, though she’d been sleeping a lot lately again, too much probably, and she’d lost track of the days. It was the depression—the fear, the hopelessness—but there wasn’t much she could do about that except turn inward where life was flourishing, somehow, impossibly, blooming under a sunless sky.

  She’d taken control of her food intake, and there had been plenty of water lately as the weather had turned cold, melting snow running down the crack in the wall and providing her hydration. She’d done all she could to help her malnourished body support her pregnancy and bring her baby to full term, give him or her life. And now, here they were. She’d done it—or very close, close enough that he or she would be healthy, or so she prayed. She had nothing. No one. But she couldn’t stop this from happening.

  Her baby was coming.

  She ran a hand over her belly, feeling the tiny beloved being move within. “We’re going to be okay,” she said. “We’re going to do this together, you and me, all right? We’ve come this far, we just need to go a little bit fur—”

  She groaned, curling into herself as the pain stole her words, her breath.

  She labored through that day and into the night, alone and terrified, the pains coming faster and stronger, crushing. Josie panted and groaned, dripping with the sweat of exertion as she reached blindly for anything to hold on to. But there was nothing, just the empty air. So she dug deep and held on to herself, gripped fast to her control, her courage, the baby within her who was depending on her to bring it safely into the world. She would not—could not—think beyond that.

  As the stars appeared in the slip of lavender sky she could see outside the small window, her water broke in a gush of warm fluid, soaking into her mattress, the next contraction gripping her so hard she screamed with the intensity. She floated between contractions, drawing inward, existing in a space that was both half-conscious and razor focused.

  When the burning of her body stretching began, Josie hauled herself into a sitting position so she could reach between her legs with her unshackled hand. Her other hand gripped the mattress behind her, pressing into the foam as she suddenly curled forward, her muscles contracting as her body began pushing of its own avail. She’d watched shows before where people around the laboring woman instructed her when to start and stop pushing, but that must have been inaccurate, or maybe that’s what pain medication allowed for, because Josie experienced nothing of the sort. Her body simply took over, bearing down with each contraction, working to push her baby out, whether she was ready or not.

  She panted and wailed through the pain, feeling herself tear as her baby’s head emerged. She reached down with her shaking fingers, running a hand over her baby’s wet head as another contraction gripped her and she curled forward, the rest of the infant sliding out and landing gently on the mattress beneath her.

  Only Josie’s sobs filled the space, her heart slamming against her ribs. She picked up her baby from between her trembling thighs, bringing him—him, it was a him, she had a son—to her chest and rubbing him dry with the pile of napkins she’d saved. He was so slippery, and she was exhausted, but she managed to get him to her and lean back so he didn’t slip down her shirt. She patted his back gently, fear rising when he didn’t make a sound. She turned him over and ran a finger inside his mouth. His little chest rose suddenly as he inhaled a big breath, his eyes opening as he gazed at her.

  Josie gazed back, her entire being filled with relief and gratitude and love like she’d never felt before. She wrapped him in a corner of the quilt and covered his head, scooting up on the mattress so she could gaze into his tiny face.

  Caleb.

  Her son. Her reason.

  He didn’t cry, though he seemed fine, his chest rising and falling as he continued to breathe in the air of the hell he’d been born into. He blinked at her, his tiny lips puckering and her heart constricted so tightly it was a physical pain.

  But then another contraction tightened her abdomen. It wasn’t nearly as strong, but she cringed through it. The placenta. She still needed to deliver the placenta. She curled around her newborn as she delivered the organ that had kept her baby alive, filtering the small, rationed meals she’d fed her body. Josie had no tools, nothing sharp, so she brought the umbilical cord to her mouth and used her teeth to bite through it as an animal would, and then pinched it between her fingers until it stopped pulsing.

  Josie put her infant to her breast and collapsed back onto the mattress, bringing the quilt around them both with her unshackled hand. She knew she had to do something to stop the bleeding, but what? What could she do? In her overwhelming fatigue, all she managed was to feed her baby. Caleb’s warm mouth suctioned her nipple, and he stared up at her with curiosity, trust. Josie watched the tiny miracle in her arms for a moment, his eyes drifting shut. She felt so powerless . . . small. Forgotten.

  She raised her gaze to the window where she could see the stars far, far away. One twinkled brightly and for a moment, Josie almost believed some benevolent force looked down on mother and infant where they lay on a blood-soaked mattress in a bitterly cold cement cell. “We did it,” she whispered to her baby boy. “We did it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Gather around, everyone,” Sergeant Woods instructed as Zach took a seat near the front and the other detectives and officers who had been assigned to the copycat case pulled out chairs around the conference table.

  Zach glanced up at the board in the front of the room where pictures of Josie Stratton, Aria Glazer, and Miriam Bellanger hung. Zach’s gaze snagged on Josie’s smiling face for a moment. She looked a little younger, hair blowing in a gentle breeze, and she was smiling brightly as though she didn’t have a care in the world—obviously a snapshot from before the crime. Although, from what Zach knew of Josie’s past, there had never been a time when she’d been completely carefree. His eyes moved to Aria Glazer and then Miriam Bellanger, both pretty, young women with long hair and bright smiles. The copycat was obviously following a pattern as far as physical attributes, along with the other similarities in the crimes. His heart felt heavy as he looked from one woman to the next.

  “From here on out, this is the designated incident room for this case,” Sergeant Woods said. “Anything related will go on that board and we’ll meet daily to discuss new leads and information.” He paused, his lips thinning as he glanced around. “I know you’re all already aware of the three women on that board and the details of the case thus far. The victim found yesterday in the abandoned basement has been positively identified as Miriam Bellanger, the UC student who was reported missing a little over six weeks ago.” He looked around. “As I’m sure all of you already know, her father is a member of city council so there will be extra media attention aimed at this case, including political scrutiny.”

  There was a small murmur among the group before the sergeant started speaking again. “The Chief has scheduled a news conference for noon today where we plan on updating the public—especially the university—about the link between the original victim, Josie Stratton, and the two copycat killings. All three women attended classes on the campus. Josie Stratton and Miriam Bellanger were full-time students, while Aria Glazer took night classes that she’d dropped months prior to her abduction. Still, there’s a possibility that the killer is targeting UC students, because it’s a similarity to the Stratton case.”

  Zach listened as the sergeant went through the results from both autopsies, the starvation, the words carved into each victim’s thigh. Several officers visibly cringed when crime scene photos were passed around the table.

  “If you haven’t met Reynard Pickering, he’s a retired detective and profiler who worked in the department for almost thirty years. He’s studied the facts of this case and is prepared to offer his initial thoughts.”

  The older man with the glasses and puff of white hair nodded at Sergeant Woods then stood and faced the group. “First, let’s talk about a copycat
killer in general, and then I’ll get to what I believe, based on the facts of this case so far, you should look for.” He paused, using two fingers to smooth his mustache. “A copycat killer most often seeks to adopt a persona in order to justify their violent actions. This is called depersonalization. In essence, they become the killer they are mimicking, therefore it is not them committing the crime, not them who must account for what has been done.”

  Zach remembered using similar words to describe a general copycat killing to Josie as she stood across from him in her kitchen. He glanced out the window. He wondered what she was doing right now. Jimmy had arrived at her house at ten, along with a locksmith who would change her front door locks so her prick of a cousin couldn’t use his spare key if he had one, and Zach had driven straight to this meeting. Despite that he was itching to dig into this case, he needed at least a few hours of sleep if he was going to function later and be on his toes when he needed to be.

  “Copycats also thrive on attention. He will watch every news conference, including the one today. He will read every article, every blog post on the crimes. They are very important to him. He will derive much satisfaction through them. Because of this, you may address him and rest assured he’s listening from wherever he is.”

  Detective Pickering paced once, lacing his fingers behind his back. “Now to the man you’re looking for. I believe he is in his late twenties or early thirties. Caucasian.” He glanced around. “By a wide margin, serial killers target those of their same race. He has a vehicle, most likely a low-level job where he performs well yet keeps to himself. He grew up in an abusive household, most likely with an absent or emotionally checked-out father and an aggressive mother. He blends in well on a college campus, and he has access to a computer.” The man paused, looking around. “He’s very organized. Well put together. Clean. He is intelligent, and he is purposeful. Know this, detectives—you will likely only find what he wants you to find.”

  Zach wasn’t sure that profile advanced them any further in the case, but it was still good to have confirmation of what he and Jimmy had already determined. And as more evidence emerged, he knew the profile would expand. He nodded at the retired detective as he again took a seat. He considered the fact that the part about the absent father and the aggressive mother applied to Josie Stratton as well. It was a constant wonder to him how one human being rose above bad circumstances, while another who had experienced almost the exact same thing, became either a victim or a predator. What was that certain something in a person that gave them the strength to overcome what others could not? He sighed. He supposed if he had that answer, he could bottle it and fix the world.

  Too bad humans were far more complex than a one-elixir-fits-all.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I know this has been a quick briefing, but we’ll reconvene here tomorrow with any updates. We’re also in the process of looking at similar crimes in other states. Detectives Copeland and Keene are the main points of contact on this case. But they’ll need your assistance as, along with the Oxford Department, they’re also ensuring the safety of Josie Stratton, who may or may not be a target of this copycat. Like I said, this case is going to have a lot of eyes on it, and political ramifications. We cannot afford to bungle this investigation. Not only that, but our city deserves our very best effort here.” He looked pointedly around the table, his eyes landing on Zach.

  “Let’s get this maniac off our streets.”

  **********

  The house in Indian Hill was large and luxurious. Zach pressed the doorbell and heard the chime echoing from within, looking off behind him at the immaculately manicured lawn. A man pulled the door open, his expression stoic.

  “Councilman Bellanger.” He flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Copeland with the Cincinnati Police Department. We spoke on the phone.”

  The man whom Zach recognized from seeing him on the news and around the courthouse nodded, pulling the door open so Zach could enter. “My wife is in the living room with family,” he said. “If you’d wait in here”—he pointed into a room that looked like an office but also featured a sitting area—“I’ll get her.”

  Zach entered the room, taking a seat in one of the chairs facing the small sofa. He could hear the low whisper of conversation from another part of the house, and another moment later, footsteps moving toward the room where he waited. He stood, turning as Julian Bellanger entered, his hand on the elbow of a slim woman with blonde hair pulled back into a bun. Her eyes were swollen and rimmed in red. Mr. Bellanger led his wife to the sofa where they both sat across from Zach.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said.

  Mrs. Bellanger winced slightly and dabbed at her nose with the crumpled tissue in her hand. “Thank you, Detective.”

  “I won’t take much of your time. I just have a couple of questions I need to ask you so we can find the person who did this to your daughter.”

  Mrs. Bellanger made a quiet mewling sound and brought her hand to her mouth, and Mr. Bellanger put his arm around her, pulling her close to him. Zach gave them a moment.

  “Whatever we can do,” Mr. Bellanger said once his wife had composed herself, “to catch this monster, we will do.”

  “I feel the same way, sir. The whole department does. We are going to find out who did this to Miriam. We will not stop until we do.”

  Mr. Bellanger held eye contact, and though pain flashed in his eyes, he nodded, appearing strengthened by Zach’s words. He exhaled a deep breath. “Hattie, show Detective Copeland what you found this morning.”

  Hattie Bellanger reached into the drawer of a table next to the couch and extracted a red journal. Her hand shook as she held it toward Zach. Confused, Zach took it. “It’s my daughter’s diary,” she said. “I didn’t even know she kept one.” She sniffled, blotted her nose. “As I’m sure you know, she lived in the dorms at UC, but she had spent the night here a couple of days before she disappeared. I . . .” Her face crumpled slightly but she took a deep breath, gaining control of her emotions once more. “I can still smell her on the pillowcase. I go in there sometimes just to . . . feel her presence.” Her voice faded away for a moment and Zach waited. She pulled her shoulders straighter. “Anyway, this morning I lay down on the bed and caught a glimpse of something red behind the bed, through the wrought iron slats. When I pulled the bed from the wall, I found that”—she nodded to the journal—“on the floor against the wall as though it’d fallen there the last time she’d slept in that bed. She probably hadn’t even realized.”

  Zach’s heart was beating more swiftly. “Have you looked through this, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Bellanger nodded, her face taking on a strange expression. Guilt? Almost as though, even in death, she feared she’d invaded her daughter’s privacy. Or maybe she was disturbed by what she’d read. “It sounded like she was sleeping with someone,” she said, her eyes downcast. “But she hadn’t said anything about a boyfriend, and she was usually open about that stuff . . . dating and whatnot.”

  “Did she give a name?”

  Mrs. Bellanger shook her head. “No, but she apparently met him on Wednesday nights.”

  Wednesday nights. “Any indication why that night in particular?”

  “No, but she had to have met him after class. Wednesday night she took an English literature class from five to seven. It was the only time the class was available, even though she preferred to take morning classes and study in the evenings.” She looked down. “Miriam had a learning disability. School was always a bit of a struggle for her. But we were so happy when she got accepted to UC. It’s a good school, she’d worked hard, and it was right here in town.” Grief passed over her expression and her eyes welled with tears.

  Zach tapped the notebook on his knee. “Thank you for this, Mrs. Bellanger. It could help.” He paused. They both looked incredibly tired, haunted. He would ask only the most important questions and then leave them to their family. “And it will help me understand Miriam’s state of mind prior to he
r disappearance.”

  She glanced at her husband. “There are personal things in there, Detective, things that—”

  “No one will look at this journal except the people investigating this crime, Mrs. Bellanger, you have my word.”

  Mrs. Bellanger nodded. “I’d lain down on that bed before, Detective,” Mrs. Bellanger murmured, her eyes going distant, “and I’d never seen the journal. At some point, it must have shifted from where it’d fallen so I could see it.” She paused, dabbing at her reddened nose. “It almost felt like Miriam was reaching out from the grave. Giving us the clue we needed to find the person who took her from us.”

  **********

  Zach sat at his desk, reading through Miriam Bellanger’s personal account of her last months on earth. Most of the entries were short, listing the date, where she’d gone, the initials of the people who had been there, and a brief description of the event. Zach referenced her case file as he used a stickie pad below the entries to write out the whole name of each friend the police had interviewed when Miriam was reported missing. She had a regular crew, it seemed. Her roommate, two female friends who also lived in the UC dorms, and a couple guy friends who lived in a fraternity house off campus.

  Included among the bar and club outings, parties, Zumba classes, hair appointments, and dinner dates, were indications that she was meeting someone at least once a week and that they were having sex. Zach tapped the page that read: Feb. 8, Sex on PMs desk, so hot. W. almost caught us. Oops.

  PM. Zach leafed through her case file again, looking for someone with the initials PM, but didn’t find anything. Wednesday nights. English Lit. He’d need to get a class list from three months ago, see if anyone she’d attended class with had those initials. Maybe Miriam had met someone in her class who she hadn’t mentioned to her parents because she wasn’t interested in dating him, per se, but in a casual hookup. Not exactly the kind of thing a college girl tells her mom and dad about.