“Lights?”

“Yeah, like he was getting rid of her at night. They found marks in the dirt that suggested some heavy-duty or high-powered spotlights, run from a battery or a gas-powered generator.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because to break those down and move them takes effort. And time. If he got spooked by a passerby, it’s hard to imagine he took the time to douse the lights and disassemble the stand but didn’t bother to bury the body.”

“Yeah,” Livia said, still paging through the photos. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Homicide is working to track down anyone who might’ve been in the area over the last week or so. Haven’t found anyone yet. But the fear is that if the only reason we found Paula D’Amato was because this guy got interrupted digging her grave, how many more girls are out there?”

Livia nodded. She pretended to continue looking over the photos, but her vision faded as Dr. Rettenburg verbalized her thoughts. The only thing Denise Rettenburg failed to mention was that one of those girls was Nicole.

“Are you okay, Dr. Cutty?”

Livia looked up from the photos, shaking the image out of her mind. “Sorry. Tell me about the autopsy.”

Dr. Rettenburg slid a folder across her desk. She spoke from memory while Livia paged through the report. “We figured she was dead for two days when she was found. Body showed signs of restraint, specifically chafing to the left ankle. Signs of sexual abuse, likely repeated and chronic.”

“When did she go missing?”

“Two years ago.”

“Christ,” Livia said.

“Acute physical abuse,” Dr. Rettenburg continued. “Bruising to the face, head, arms, and torso. Damage to the strap muscles from manual strangulation. She fought, too. Broken toes from kicking. Bruising to her knuckles. Defensive wounds to her forearms.”

“Were there signs of chronic abuse?”

“Sadly, yes. She had a poorly healed fibula fracture estimated to be from roughly a year ago, and a broken rib in the early phases of healing. Plus an array or abrasions and scars of various age. Sexual abuse was clearly chronic.”

“So for two long years, the son of a bitch had his way with her until he decided he’d had enough?”

“I’ll let the detectives determine that, Dr. Cutty.”

Livia turned the page. “Can you tell me about the toxicology report?”

“We did find ketamine in her system, along with diazepam. It was recently administered not long before death, based on the level of metabolism. It looks like it was ingested in lemonade.”

Livia shook her head. “The Virginia case was a straight ketamine overdose—both ingested orally and injected intramuscularly. No acute physical abuse. So, either by accident or with intent, he killed Nancy Dee by administering too much ketamine. Why not do the same here? Why give her the meds and then beat and strangle her?”

“Maybe the two cases are not related. We can only tell the story the body tells us, Dr. Cutty. Leave the speculation to the detectives.” Dr. Rettenburg waited as Livia wrestled with the limitations of their profession. “What are the links to the other cases?” she finally asked.

“Ketamine is the strongest,” Livia said.

“Yes, that was an odd finding. Usually used in veterinary medicine.”

“Right, and I can link it to two other cases.”

“The girl in Virginia and who else?”

“Megan McDonald.”

“Megan McDonald of Emerson Bay?”

Livia nodded. “The night she escaped, she was found to have a large amount of ketamine in her system.” Livia looked up from the report. “This guy OD’d Nancy Dee, perhaps tried to do the same to Paula D’Amato until he took measures into his own hands, and filled Megan McDonald with ketamine just before he meant to kill her. She escaped from that bunker and ran for her life until Arthur Steinman picked her up on Highway Fifty-Seven.”

Denise Rettenburg slowly nodded her head. “That’s some good detective work from a Gerald Colt fellow.”

Livia paged again through the autopsy report. “The other connection comes from the fibers found in the girls’ hair. The same fibers discovered in Nancy Dee’s hair were discovered in Megan McDonald’s the night she was brought to the hospital. From Megan’s recounting of the night she escaped, we know a burlap bag was placed on her head. This bag was recovered from the bunker. Fiber analysis from the material in Megan’s hair not only matched the bag they recovered, but also fibers found on Nancy Dee’s body. It was the same burlap, at least.”

“Well, now that’s interesting.” Dr. Rettenburg paged through the photos that sat in front of Livia, then slid one out into the open. “The D’Amato girl was found with a burlap sack over her head.”

Livia looked more closely at the photo. She hadn’t noticed it the first time. “A sack over her head and inside a body bag?”

“Correct.”

“Did you run that sack?”

Dr. Rettenburg paged through a folder and slid the fiber analysis across her desk.

Livia pulled a copy of Nancy Dee’s and Megan’s fiber analyses from her purse and laid all three in front of her for comparison. “They all come back as hemp woven burlap. Same fiber width, same grade.”

Livia looked up at Denise Rettenburg, who raised her eyebrows.

“I’d say you have a compelling case, Dr. Cutty.”

*

Livia helped Denise Rettenburg reorganize the D’Amato file, then followed her out into the hallway and waited in front of the elevator doors.

“Gerald Colt was a year ahead of me in medical school,” Dr. Rettenburg said.

“Oh yeah?” Livia said. “Dr. Colt is a great mentor.”

“I hear he’s doing wonderful things in Raleigh.”

The elevator doors opened and they both entered. Dr. Rettenburg pressed the button for the lobby, and Livia waited for the doors to close.

“Is Gerald the one who made the ketamine connection?” Dr. Rettenburg asked.

“No,” Livia said. “I found it.”

“It’s a great catch. I thought perhaps Gerald’s wife played a role.”

Livia started to say something, then stopped. Confused, she finally said, “This case wasn’t on Dr. Colt’s radar. Otherwise I’m sure he’d have picked this up.”

“Of course,” Dr. Rettenburg said. She pressed the button to hurry the process of the elevator doors closing. In the lobby, she walked Livia to the front door.

“Thanks for taking the time on a Saturday,” Livia said.

“Good luck to you.”

Dr. Rettenburg watched Gerald Colt’s fellow drive away, then headed back to her office. She thought perhaps she’d misspoken in the elevator by suggesting Gerald’s wife had helped make the ketamine connection. At her computer, Dr. Rettenburg typed her query into the search engine and waited for the results. She scrolled down and read. Yes, she thought she was correct.

Gerald Colt’s wife was a veterinarian with a large clinic in Summer Side, just north of Raleigh.

CHAPTER 37

Butted up against Virginia, on the northern border of North Carolina, Tinder Valley consisted of eighty-two cabins set along a tributary to the Roanoke River. The cabins were made from galvanized log, and slept as few as two in the cozy models, and as many as eight in the larger ones with spacious floor plans. Located on the banks of the river, each cabin promised beautiful views of the water. Constructed in the eighties, Tinder Valley was, for a short time, a majestic lakeside resort where families escaped for long weekends. It was where kids steered paddleboats around the clear water while Mom and Dad watched from lounge chairs. Where couples walked the beach with dogs in tow, carving footprints in the sand. But Tinder Valley did not stay majestic for long. Over the years, poor management had allowed riverfront property to falter. Ownership changed hands many times, each new deed holder believing they could turn the place around.