The Girl Who Was Taken Read online

  For the random items, Nicole grabbed a jigsaw puzzle, an ugly plastic plant, and a set of barbecue tools that came packaged in a worn, wooden box.

  PART IV

  “I know you think everyone has forgotten about Nicole.

  But I never have.”

  —Megan McDonald

  CHAPTER 28

  October 2017

  Thirteen Months Since Megan’s Escape

  Monday morning, her first day back in the morgue after ride-alongs, Livia draped the surgical smock over her scrubs and slipped her feet into thin blue booties. She tied her hair into a tight bun and pulled on a surgical cap. Her face shield completed her personal protective equipment, and she approached the body that lay on her autopsy table. Carmen Hernandez was a forty-five-year old female who died during a house fire. As the deceased didn’t have a single burn on her body, Livia already had a working diagnosis of asphyxiation secondary to smoke inhalation—after inhaling smoke-filled air, the victim’s lungs filled with soot until she eventually suffocated. Her first case back after ride-along week, Livia had something to prove to Dr. Colt after her fall-victim disaster of ten days before. She blocked from her mind all she had learned in the last week about Nicole and Casey, the Capture Club, Nancy Dee, and the ketamine connection to Megan McDonald. She compartmentalized it all and went to work on the body in front of her.

  After ninety minutes, Livia completed her autopsy of Carmen Hernandez and handed the body off to the autopsy technician who would begin the process of suturing the body back together, repairing the craniotomy, and making the body presentable for the mortician. Livia finished the morning assisting with other cases and observing in the derm-path lab. She spent time in the afternoon preparing for rounds, and when they all gathered in the cage at three o’clock, Livia was the first to present.

  “Findings, facts, and feedback,” Dr. Colt said, staring down through his cheaters as he read the chart in front of him.

  “Forty-five-year-old female victim of a house fire last night. Pronounced dead on the scene by firefighters, found holed up in her bedroom. Transported by MLIs to the morgue last night. Autopsy performed this morning at 9:04 a.m.”

  “Length of exam?” Dr. Colt asked.

  “Ninety minutes,” Livia said.

  Dr. Colt pouted his bottom lip and gave an approving nod.

  “External exam was unremarkable for burn wounds. Congestion in the soft tissue of the cheeks and periorbital region was noted.” Livia snapped the Smart Board to life and a photo of Carmen Hernandez’s body appeared. A facial shot showed the swollen cheeks and eyelids. “There were slicing wounds found on the right hand and forearm.” Another photo appeared, this one showing the jagged incisions on Carmen Hernandez’s hand and arm. “Three, five, and six inches in length. All one half inch deep.”

  Another photo appeared of Carmen Hernandez’s mouth and nostrils.

  “Internal exam showed classic signs of smoke inhalation. Dirty airway, with soot lining the mucous membranes of the mouth, tongue, throat, and nose. Trachea was edematous and soot-streaked. Small bronchioles of the lungs were stenosed, with both lungs containing a large amount of ash. QuickTox showed carboxyhemoglobin levels greater than seventy percent.”

  “The house fire occurred at night,” Dr. Colt said. “Did you consider a blood alcohol level to see if the victim was under the influence during the fire, which may have hampered her escape and could have implications for insurance coverage?”

  “Tox results were negative for drugs or alcohol. The victim was a healthy forty-five-year-old and was taking no prescription medications.”

  “The wound on the hand, Dr. Cutty? How is this explained?”

  More photos appeared. These had been taken by Sanj and displayed scene details. In one was a broken window, and in another, Carmen Hernandez lying lifeless on the floor beneath the windowpane.

  “From the scene investigator’s photos, it appears the victim punched her fist through the glass window in an attempt to escape the bedroom. Based on the blood pattern, amount of loss, and clotting, she died soon after this act. Glass sequestered from the scene matches the size and shape of the slicing wounds to the hand and arm. Fire marshal informed me this afternoon that the house had been recently painted. The windows on the entire upper floor were, sadly, sealed shut by the paint. This explains why she tried to punch her way out instead of opening the window.”

  The room was silent as Dr. Colt read through the rest of the report. “Questions?” he finally asked the gallery. There were none.

  “Welcome back, Dr. Cutty.”

  * * *

  She had made the phone call over the weekend, on Saturday afternoon, and left a voice mail. Earlier today, as Livia pored through forensic textbooks and journals researching smoke inhalation cases, her phone rang. She was surprised by the nervousness she felt, unsure how to channel her emotions. But the conversation was quick, fifty-three seconds when Livia went back and checked. Livia had prepared a long statement about why they needed to meet and what she hoped to gain from the discussion. But it was unnecessary. The answer came immediately.

  “I’ll meet with you tonight,” the quiet voice had told her.

  So Livia found herself, just free from afternoon rounds at five p.m., driving east again toward Emerson Bay. It was close to seven p.m. when she pulled into the parking lot of the Montgomery County Federal Building. She walked to the plaza in front of the building with twilight still burning the horizon. As promised, Livia found her waiting on a bench outside the courthouse.

  “Megan?” Livia asked to be sure, although she’d seen Megan McDonald’s photo—dozens of them while she read Missing—and knew Megan’s face well from the time immediately after the girl’s escape. But this real-life Megan was different from the girl in the photos and on TV. That girl was happy and vibrant, with eyes filled by something missing from this real-life version of Megan McDonald. It took Livia a moment to define it, but when she came face-to-face with her, Livia was able to see it. The photos that covered the pages of the book were all taken—and likely carefully chosen—from before Megan was abducted. In them, Megan’s eyes had a conquering effect to them. There was something in the pupil and iris and adnexa that announced she was ready for the world and for the future. But more than that, those bright eyes on the page were enjoying the present life they were watching. These new eyes, however, the ones that were now the windows through which this girl witnessed the world, were vacant of passion and empty of the ambition that had so badly irked Livia as she read Megan’s words. These true-life eyes were sad and lonely, and certainly had no propensity for optimism. They were stuck on today, and today was not as bright as it once had been.

  “Hi,” Megan said.

  “I’m Livia. Nicole’s sister.”

  Megan nodded. “I’ve met you before. A long time ago, when Nicole and I were in grade school.” She allowed a small smile. “You seemed really old back then, I remember.”

  Livia had memories of her early high school days when Nicole, in third grade then, ran with her friends through the sprinkler in the backyard. Livia’s mind wandered back to those sunny summer days, when Nicole danced with her friends through the twirling water, their skinny, childish bodies sporting swimsuits, their feet peppered with blades of grass, and their braided hair dripping before the sun could dry it. Livia imagined one of those girls as Megan McDonald, dancing with Nicole through the sprinkler. Livia had a powerful urge to go back to that warm summer day and broadcast to the world what was coming for those two innocent girls. She wanted to go back and warn them, protect them, and scoop them up and stop what was to come a decade down the road.

  “I don’t remember you and Nicole being friends,” Livia said.

  “Until middle school. Then we kind of lost touch.” Megan avoided Livia’s eyes. “In high school we didn’t hang out much.” Megan forced a laugh. “I actually think Nicole thought I was annoying, or something.”

  “Really? You guys didn’t get along?”r />
  “No. It wasn’t like that. We just hung out with different crowds.”

  “Jessica Tanner told me Nicole was bitchy to you. Tried to steal your boyfriend?”

  Another forced laugh from Megan. “Matt? No. We were never dating. That was just a confusing summer.”

  “Mind if we sit?” Livia asked.

  They both sat on the bench and watched the activity outside the county courthouse, a scant two hours after the official close of business. Still, in the fading light, late-working lawyers walked the boulevard in blouses with their blazers hung on their shoulder bags, or with ties loosened at the neck and sleeves rolled to their elbows.

  “I read your book,” Livia said.

  “Oh yeah?” Megan shrugged. “It’s not really mine, but thanks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t write it, not much of it anyway. Most of it was my shrink.”

  “It’s written in first person.”

  “Yeah. My publisher insisted on that. Made it more personal, they told me. But my doctor did most of the writing. He asked, like, a thousand questions and then pieced it together. I mean, I read through everything he wrote and made it accurate.” Another shrug. “I was told that’s how a lot of books are written. On the cover, Dr. Mattingly’s name should be bigger than mine, but he’s not the star, you know?” Megan took a deep breath and looked up into the evening sky. “I’m sorry about the book. I’m embarrassed that you read it.”

  “Why?”

  Another shrug. “The book wasn’t my idea. I never wanted to write it or be part of it. I never wanted the thing to exist. But so much was going on after that summer. My parents wanted their daughter back, and I haven’t had the courage to tell them she’s long gone. Haven’t found a way to break it to them that that girl doesn’t exist anymore.”

  Megan paused a moment.

  “You know, I was missing for two weeks and was completely alone, never felt so alone. Then, when I escaped and came home, I never had a minute to myself. Someone was always with me in those first few months, too afraid to leave my side. My parents smothered me. My shrink was all over me to write the book. Then publishers approached me. Some agents. I used the book as a way to get them all off my back. I used the book to escape, as a way to buy some anonymity from those closest to me. It worked, too. As long as I was working on that stupid book, they all left me alone. My parents used the book as a distraction as much as I did. As long as my mother believed I was writing, it relieved her need to check on me every minute of the day and ask if I had decided on college and about what I was doing with my life and my future. As long as I was writing that book, my parents believed I was in some magical place of healing. And now look at me. The book that was supposed to bring me anonymity has brought celebrity. The book that was supposed to bring healing has only reopened all my wounds.”

  Megan looked at Livia.

  “I wanted to include more about Nicole, but they all told me not to. Dr. Mattingly strictly warned against it, and my agent and editor greatly revised what I had written.”

  Livia heard through Megan’s words the voice of a girl trapped and haunted by the past. It was a voice very different from the one her mind heard as she read Megan’s book.

  “Have your parents read the book?” Megan asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Livia lied.

  “Don’t let them, okay? It’s not right for them. It’s a goddamn celebration of my life and triumphs that completely ignores that someone else was lost that night.”

  “Thank you,” Livia said. “I’ll keep them away from it. Can I ask? Why was everyone around you so adamant about excluding Nicole?”

  Megan shook her head. “Nicole is not a feel-good story. The editor was very specific that he wanted a triumphant story. He wanted the gritty, disturbing details because that’s what sells. Because, really, that’s why people buy the book. But the story needed to end with my victory, not with Nicole’s tragedy. They have some formula they actually showed me about memoirs with dark themes that ended triumphantly for the victim versus the same books that ended in defeat.”

  “Based on sales, I’d say they know what they’re talking about.”

  “Lucky me,” Megan said.

  There was a short pause. “I came here tonight worried that I’d hate you,” Livia said. “Because I only know you from the book and your interviews. But I have a very different opinion of you right now.”

  Megan shrugged again. “You said you wanted to talk about the case. The funny thing is, besides Dr. Mattingly, no one has talked to me about what happened. Not for a long time. I mean, the police initially, and that was mostly my dad. Later, detectives. But after that initial surge? Nothing. I’ve tried to get updates, but there’s not much to talk about. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I suspect it’s partially true. They don’t have much. But I also know it’s this group of do-gooders around me, led by my parents, who want to protect me and help me move on. What no one understands is that I’m not capable of simply burying those two weeks as if they never happened.”

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you, Megan. And I do want to ask you some questions about that night, if you’re comfortable talking with me.”

  “Yes,” Megan said. “I mean, I’m comfortable telling you anything I know. You said on the phone you came across something?”

  “I did. The night you were found wandering Highway Fifty-Seven. The night you escaped. At the hospital, a large amount of a chemical called ketamine was found in your bloodstream.”

  “Yeah. Dr. Mattingly tells me I was likely sedated to some degree for most of my time in captivity, based on my memory lapses and what he’s discovered during therapy sessions. Through those sessions, with the help of hypnosis, I’ve been piecing things together about those two weeks. Which is another reason the book is such a joke. I know so much more now than I did when that book was written. But, you know, gotta strike when the iron is hot. So what about the ketamine is peculiar?”

  “Do you know much about ketamine?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a unique sedative. It’s fast-acting and, besides sedation and anesthesia—it’s two main uses—it can cause of number of side effects, including confusion, disorientation, memory loss, and impaired motor skills. When dosed correctly, ketamine causes conscious sedation, where the patient is awake but detached from their body and their surroundings. But if dosed incorrectly, if ingested in too great a quantity and combined with other drugs, ketamine causes respiratory failure and death.”

  Megan took her gaze from the evening sky and looked at Livia. “Dr. Mattingly told me some of this. That’s why he thinks my suppression of certain aspects of my captivity has been so hard to overcome.”

  “Ketamine is also unique because we don’t see it a lot in mainstream medicine. It’s used mostly by veterinarians, not too often by medical doctors. So when we see it, it stands out. At least to me it does.”

  “Stands out how?”

  “There was a girl who went missing a couple of years ago, more than a year before you and Nicole were taken. Her name was Nancy Dee. She was from a small town in Virginia and she disappeared one day after volleyball practice. This was back in March of 2015. Her body was found six months later and told a story of captivity—chronic bruising to her ankles and wrists commonly found when someone is restrained for long periods. Sexual abuse, as well. A jogger found her body in a shallow grave along a wooded running path. I had a look at the autopsy and toxicology report. Nancy died of respiratory distress from an overdose of ketamine.”

  Livia let the implication settle in.

  “Ketamine?”

  Livia nodded.

  “You think my case is connected to this other girl?”

  “I think it’s a possibility,” Livia said.

  “Like, the same person who took me, took this other girl?”

  “Yes. The same person who took you and Nicole.”

  An uneasy look came over Megan’s face a
nd Livia recognized it immediately.

  “Look, Megan, I know I’m springing this on you, and I know I don’t have much to back up my theory. But my sister is gone, and I need some answers to what happened to her. Some closure. At least some attention. I feel like this town has forgotten her. This town, the county, the whole goddamn state and country have forgotten Nicole Cutty ever existed. Maybe all these months later, I’m starting to forget, too.

  “I want to look into this ketamine connection. See if there are any other similarities between your case and Nancy Dee’s. I’m going to need help. My contacts include the detectives I work with at the medical examiner’s office, but I know they won’t give my theory much time. Especially since Nancy was from Virginia, which is out of their jurisdiction and beyond their interest. So, if you’re on board here, I was hoping you might ask your dad for help on this.”

  Megan looked briefly at Livia and then diverted her eyes, nodding her head. “I can ask him. And I will, if we have to.” She paused. “It’s just that my dad’s had a harder time with this than anyone. I know he blames himself for what happened to me. Right afterward, before my mother became the zombie she is today—so focused on the book and the money and paying for the college I don’t attend—I heard her mention to Dr. Mattingly how helpless my dad felt during my captivity. Impotent was the word she used. My dad is in charge of the county’s police force and I know he still carries guilt for what happened to me. He’s torn up that I was taken, as any father would be. But what killed him was not finding me. He used to tell me, right after I made it home, that he didn’t sleep for the entire two weeks I was gone because his mind was working every second on ways to find me. I know he wants my forgiveness, but I’ve never blamed him for what happened to me so I don’t know how to give it to him.”

  Megan shook her head and wiped her eyes before they had a chance to shed tears.

  “He’s not the same since this happened. None of us are. So, I’ll ask him for help. I will,” Megan said. “I promise. But if we want to look into my case, I’d rather start elsewhere first.”