The Girl Who Was Taken

by Charlie Donlea

  “You remember this girl?”

  Nate looked at the page, saw Paula D’Amato’s face. “’Course I do.”

  “How’d the club get onto this one?”

  “Casey was into that one. He was on it right away, and we talked about her a bunch. He was sort of fixated on her.”

  “You remember much about this girl?” Livia asked.

  “Georgia Tech freshman. Cops found her jacket in the woods off a trail that students take on the way back to campus. Arrested her boyfriend, but let him go after a while. I guess they’re questioning him again now. Plus some other fraternity guys. I’ve been watching that one closely since the other day, you know?”

  “Since the other day?” Livia asked, holding the open binder. “What happened the other day?”

  Nate let a slow smile form on his face as though Livia were playing a joke on him. He blew diluted smoke from the corner of his mouth. “They found her body. Like, three or four days ago.”

  “Paula D’Amato?”

  Nate nodded.

  “Where?”

  “You didn’t hear about this?” His voice carried the excitement of a sports fan reliving an extraordinary play from the previous night. “Thought that’s why you guys were here.”

  “No,” Livia said. “We didn’t hear.”

  He pointed his cigarette at the binder. “Details are still coming in. Her body was found in the woods, down in Georgia. It was zipped in a body bag and lying next to a hole in the ground. Like someone dug the grave but never buried the body. Really weird!” Nate smiled and then sucked again on his cigarette.

  “This was a few days ago?”

  “Yeah.”

  Livia handed the binder back to him. “We’ve got to run.”

  Nate pointed to Megan. “I thought you said I’d get to ask her some questions.”

  “Sorry. Some other time.”

  Livia took Megan by the wrist and hurried back to the car. “What about signing my book?”

  “Another time,” Livia said before pulling away. She took a hard right and stepped on the gas. “Sorry to put you through that. You okay?”

  “I dealt with worse during my initial book tour. Who’s Paula D’Amato?”

  “Another girl I think Casey took. I’m going to have to make a trip down to Georgia, see if I can meet with the medical examiner who did the autopsy. If the same findings are present that link you and Nancy Dee, you think we’ll be able to get your father on board?”

  Megan nodded. “Probably. But I don’t understand. If you think this guy, the guy who was dating Nicole, was involved with these girls and had something to do with their disappearances, and mine . . . he’s dead, right? So what are we looking for?”

  “If Paula D’Amato’s body was just found, I want to know when she died. If it was recently, Casey wasn’t alone. Someone else is still out there.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The thousand-watt twin adjustable LED lights brightened the forest as he dug. The earth was wet and the dig was easy, the shovel slicing effortlessly into the mud under the weight of his foot. The woods were quiet at night, its residents mostly tucked away under the cover of leaves or logs. Of course, the nocturnal hunters would be out—the owls and bats and coyote. But the lights by which he worked would hold them off, despite the lure of bitter odor her body gave off as it lay on the forest floor secured in black vinyl and waiting to be covered by the earth he was moving.

  When he heard it, he stopped. With his foot on the shovel, he listened. Heard it again. He looked over at the black bag and then stumbled backward when he saw it move. Crinkling in the middle, the bag creased in a ninety-degree angle, as though she had sat up. He dropped the shovel and staggered away from her body until he fell into the shallow grave he had dug. He scrambled to get to his feet but his limbs were frozen with fear. She had unzipped the bag and her torso appeared above him. With unblinking eyes, she picked up the shovel and dumped dirt onto his shoulders. He clawed and begged, managing for a moment to get to his knees, but she was relentless with her efforts. The weight of the earth was finally too great, and he collapsed onto his stomach as she shoveled more dirt over him. The burden of the soil became so great that his lungs could no longer expand under the pressure. He looked up at her just before a final pitch of ground covered his face and his vision went black.

  * * *

  He sat straight up in bed now, grasping at the covers the way he’d been clawing at the sides of the grave in his nightmare. Inhaling deeply, he savored the air that was missing from his dream. Night sweats had soaked his clothes and sheets.

  “What’s the matter?” came the groggy voice next to him.

  It was amazing how even her concern disgusted him. She did not love him, not any longer, and her feigned worry turned his stomach. Part of him blamed her for what he had become. Blamed her for the emptiness inside of him. The vacancy he tried so desperately to occupy with the girls he held captive and offered to love and care for.

  “Nothing,” he said, out of breath.

  “Bad dream?”

  Without answering he climbed from bed and walked down to the kitchen for a cup of water. His T-shirt stuck to his chest and he peeled it away as he swallowed the water. The last year had gone wrong. So terribly wrong. Things had gotten far away from him, and he didn’t want to admit that it all might be falling apart. The debacle last year—with the bunker and escape, the hunt and the pressure and the media—should have been enough to stop him. To wake him up and bring to him the realization that things could not continue without great wreckage finding him. Yet he was helpless. He could no more convince himself to stop than he could convince the girls he loved to love him back. On this front, though, he was sure things were changing. He simply needed more time.

  He knew, however, that he could not sustain this level of incompetence and expect to survive. His sloppiness since the bunker escape last year could not be ignored. He had spent his life on details, and warned his underlings against shoddy work. Taught those around him the need for precision and accuracy. The necessity of paying attention to every facet. Now he had fallen prey to the same careless errors he preached to avoid. The body turning up in the bay was a direct result of panic and inattention to detail. The knots securing the body to the cinder blocks were not closely considered; the consequences of this error were still unknown. The press had lost interest after the initial story broke, and the passing weeks had given him hope that he might be able to dodge the bullet. But more errors had followed. The careless application of the plywood that secured the cellar window had nearly allowed another escape. And his desire to make her comfortable by providing a frame for the box spring was an error so egregious he was sickened every time he thought of it. The quarrel that followed was unfortunate, and losing his temper was a sign of incompetence.

  The sloppiness of his actions was dangerous, and he was scared. His trepidation had caused him to run from the woods the other night, too afraid to dump her body into the grave he dug. And now, so soon after their time together ended, she had been found. They called her Paula, and it sickened him. Just like before, when the jogger and his dog had disturbed the resting place he’d created for his last love and the news anchors called her Nancy. The names insulted him. He was offended by how the media spoke of his loves as though they knew them, used foreign names to label them and displayed pictures of their faces for all to see. They pretended, sitting in their studios and staring into cameras, that they held a connection to his girls. The truth, he knew, was that the media had done nothing but forget these creatures existed.

  He walked up the stairs and threw his soiled shirt into the laundry basket. Instead of climbing back into bed, he took his pillow to the couch and lay down. Things needed to change, but he wasn’t sure it was possible. Under the guilt and fear, beneath the ugly image of the latest one’s bloated face zipped and stashed in black vinyl, was something else. He tried to ignore it, but knew he couldn’t. However subtle at the moment, his thirst would
grow. Unquenchable by the woman who lay upstairs, oblivious to his needs. It was a thirst for connection. For trust and dependency. He knew he would someday find it. Perhaps he already had.

  And though the heavy burden of melancholy sat on his shoulders from the way things had ended with his last love, there was hope buried under those emotions. Hope and desire. He knew they were the dominant emotions that would prove victorious. For now, he would weather this latest storm and bide his time. Get through these missteps. Let things settle and calm. Then focus on what’s important.

  He tossed on the couch as he fell asleep. Night sweats found him as the image returned. The black vinyl bag uneven with her remains.

  CHAPTER 36

  Saturday morning, Livia was on the road before dawn. She passed the occasional eighteen-wheeler making a long haul from the north, but otherwise the highway was hers. She considered Casey Delevan, Nancy Dee, Paula D’Amato, Megan McDonald, and whether she could convince the police that a connection existed between them all. She wondered if Nicole played into that connection, and whether the delusional grandeur of a demented club had anything to do with all these missing girls.

  Livia’s mind returned to her fellowship interview, where she stored in her suppressed thoughts the idea that Nicole’s body could turn up the same way Nancy Dee’s and Paula D’Amato’s had. She thought of Nicole’s body being transported to her autopsy table, where it would silently beg Livia to find the answers it held and put to rest the many questions Livia and her parents still asked about the night Nicole disappeared. Instead though, Casey Delevan had arrived in her morgue. And in place of answers, the case had only caused more speculation that sent Livia into bordering states searching for revelations about other missing girls.

  As the sun crested the horizon behind her and stretched the shadow of her car into a thin black ghost along the road in front of her, Livia realized she was chasing more than the ghost of her lost sister. Maybe it had taken Casey Delevan’s decomposed body to force her into action. Maybe a year of denial and avoidance had finally run its course. Perhaps action was the only logical next step if forgetting about Nicole was the alternative. Whatever the reason, Livia knew she couldn’t stop until she possessed the answers she craved. And if those answers didn’t fully provide closure for herself, or quell the guilt about her fledging relationship with Nicole, perhaps finding a resolution for the Dee and D’Amato families would provide something else. A balm needed to heal wounds that would otherwise remain exposed and gaping.

  She had pulled all the strings her feeble position as a fellow in forensic pathology allowed in order to convince the coroner of Decatur, Georgia, to meet her on a Saturday. The sun was at its peak by noon when she found the headquarters building of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. The parking lot was mostly empty. Livia entered the front door and gave her name to the security guard behind the desk. He picked up the phone to announce Dr. Cutty’s arrival, and a few minutes later a fiftysomething woman entered the lobby.

  “Hi,” she said. “Denise Rettenburg.”

  “Livia Cutty. Thanks for meeting me today.”

  “I’ve got a case, so I had to come in anyway,” Dr. Rettenburg said. “Follow me. Thanks, Bruce,” she said to the security guard before leading Livia into the building. They approached an elevator where Dr. Rettenburg pressed the up button.

  “So why is Raleigh so interested in Paula D’Amato?”

  The doors opened and Livia followed Denise Rettenburg into the elevator.

  “Maybe for no reason,” Livia said. “But we’ve seen a few cases of young women with similar findings, so I wanted to have a look to see if we can make any connections.”

  “Sounds like police work.”

  “Right now, it’s nothing more than suspicion. I need some facts before I take anything to the police.”

  Dr. Rettenburg smiled. “You sound like a Dr. Colt fellow. Facts first.”

  The doors opened and they shuffled out of the elevator and walked the empty hallway.

  “So this is a personal inquisition, or does Dr. Colt know about it?”

  “Dr. Colt is familiar with the case that got me onto my suspicions. A homicide case from late summer. But about the D’Amato case, I’m down here now on my own.”

  Dr. Rettenburg seemed to analyze this last statement. “Who are the other cases?” she asked. “The other girls you think D’Amato is connected to.”

  “Two others. One is a girl named Nancy Dee. You know anything about that?”

  “No. A Raleigh case?”

  Livia shook her head. “Virginia. But same MO as D’Amato—her body was found in a shallow grave in the woods. She died of an acute overdose of ketamine.”

  Dr. Rettenburg looked at Livia as they walked. “Ketamine?”

  “Yeah. Tell me, was ketamine found in Paula D’Amato’s toxicology report?”

  “It was.”

  “Was that the cause of death? Ketamine overdose?”

  “No.” Dr. Rettenburg slowed and pointed to the doorway of her office. “She was beaten to death.”

  * * *

  The autopsy photos were fanned out on Dr. Rettenburg’s desk and Livia took her time studying them. They showed Paula D’Amato’s body on the morgue table, her skin pale and blue and stretched in the same bloated way she’d seen so many other bodies in the last few months. Paula D’Amato had died recently, that was certain. Her body was not decomposed and death had come shortly before the autopsy exam.

  “What sort of timing did you come up with?” Livia asked.

  “About forty-eight hours at time of exam. In the woods for two nights, we suspect. The only thing that slowed down the carnivores was the body bag.”

  Livia leafed through crime scene photos next, which showed a black vinyl body bag lying in a wooded area heavily covered by leaves. Corners of the bag were ragged from the animals eager to get at the rotting flesh it held. The body sat on the precipice of a shallow grave, a mound of dirt next to it.

  “What are the thoughts on the crime scene?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question,” Dr. Rettenburg said. “No one quite knows what to make of it. Detectives figure the perp got interrupted in the middle of digging the grave. The site wasn’t too far into the woods, so it’s possible someone spooked this guy and he had to abandon the disposal. That’s the working theory currently. Problem is, Homicide thinks the guy had lights set up.”

  “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.”

&n
bsp; “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.”