Lost Girls Part 7

"This is an anomaly," he said. "Don't worry."

Dormer and his team avoided all talk of a serial killer in the days that followed-"Anything is possible at this point," said Deputy Inspector William Neubauer, "because there's so many unanswered questions"-even as they kept searching for more bodies. They shut down ten miles of Ocean Parkway, between Tobay Beach and the Robert Moses Causeway, as teams of officers and dogs combed the bramble. The police from neighboring Na.s.sau County were reviewing their open cases, too, searching for possible ident.i.ties for the skeletons. On Friday, they joined the search effort along with the New York State Police, moving west toward Jones Beach, shutting down the highway most of the day. Snowfall was expected that weekend, adding to the pressure. "We want to make sure we don't miss anything," Dormer said.

What he wasn't saying was how unprepared his people were. Four sets of remains found along a beach would be more than enough for any police jurisdiction to deal with. Suffolk County medical examiner Yvonne Milewski guessed the skeletons had been left there for a year or longer, though it was possible that the wind, rain, and salt air along the beach had accelerated their decomposition. It wouldn't be long before, on TV and in print, criminologists and self-styled serial-killer experts would start speculating whether the killer ritualistically cleaned the bones of flesh before shrouding them in burlap and placing them at careful intervals along the highway. Many of the bones were so fully decomposed that it wasn't clear at first whether all four sets of remains had been female. Milewski sent the four skeletons to the New York City medical examiner's office, where a team led by a nationally recognized forensic anthropologist named Bradley Adams set about a.n.a.lyzing them for DNA and signs of trauma. As soon as his DNA a.n.a.lysis was complete, he would upload the information into the Combined DNA Index System, or CODIS, the FBI's national DNA database, to search for ident.i.ty matches.

The one thing Milewski's team didn't need New York City's expertise for was a ruling on whether any of the four bodies was Shannan. Alex Diaz's punch had left Shannan with a unique distinguis.h.i.+ng characteristic. There was no t.i.tanium plate in any of the four jaws. On December 16, the same day as Dormer's first press conference at Oak Beach, the police announced that none of the bodies was a match for Shannan.

Joe Brewer, having decamped to his mother's house in Islip, seemed only marginally relieved. Even if he really had no idea why Shannan had gone running that night, he knew he'd never be entirely free of scrutiny, and no matter where Shannan was, the four bodies on the beach would be linked to her case. "My life is ruined. I will still be judged forever. I'll have to move. I feel for my daughter," he said. "This has been a rough time for me, but I'm not the victim here. Those four girls are the real victims. I just hope there is some sort of ending that will give these families some peace."

For the second time in under a week, Mari Gilbert was brought low. "I'm confused," she told reporters. "Where is she?" Then she got angry, complaining that the police had ignored the case for months, taking it seriously only after four more bodies had turned up. "They were acting like it didn't happen," she said. A sister of Mari's back in Pennsylvania, Lori Grove, brought up that the police hadn't made it to Oak Beach until over an hour after the start of Shannan's 911 call. "If somebody had gotten there within ten or fifteen minutes, my niece, most likely, would be alive," she said. "She was on the phone with police for more than twenty minutes. Why did no one get there?"

Neighbors maintained their standoff with the news trucks in the parking lot, resenting the attention, wondering when life would go back to normal, and while the police awaited word from New York City on DNA matches, the search for Shannan went on. From the Robert Moses Causeway to the Na.s.sau County line, the police charted out a search area, breaking it down into eight four-foot sections of maps they kept in a mobile command center. The highway was marked with bright orange arrows, pointing north to each spot where the remains had been found. Fluorescent orange flags were planted in the earth on each of the four sites. Officers started to weed through the bramble, fanning outward from the flags. Only when the first heavy snows came, just after Christmas, did the police bring the search to a halt. The plan was to come back after the first spring thaw, before new foliage had a chance to grow.

The people of Oak Beach had a reprieve, albeit a temporary one. The investigation entered a quiet period: no arrests, no confirmed ident.i.ties for the bodies, and no more daily police updates from Oak Beach. Dormer created a task force with three supervisors and a dozen detectives, including specialists in cell-phone technology and computer forensics. The task force sought advice from the FBI's Behavioral a.n.a.lysis Unit in Quantico, and in February, a team of federal investigators spent a few days touring the sites, looking at the evidence, and sitting at a round table to brainstorm. Through most of January, they refused to speak publicly about the case. If they found a clue or a suspect, they weren't saying.

Producers for cable TV news have a stable of pundits they turn to during hot crime stories-medical examiners, criminologists, forensic scientists, former prosecutors-and the serial-killer category has its own roster of subspecialists, ready to chime in on what could be learned from bones exposed to weather for eighteen months or longer, and what the burlap and the location might say about the killer's signature. They could fill the airtime talking about how Gary Ridgway was called the Green River Killer because he buried his victims in shallow graves near the river of that name in the state of Was.h.i.+ngton, and how Denis Rader became B.T.K. when it came out that he bound, tortured, and killed his victims. "It's a calling card," explained Vernon Geberth, a retired commander from Bronx homicide who has become something of a scholar of serial killers. Based on the placement and reported condition of the bodies, Geberth told The New York Times that he was convinced the killer was a local, familiar with the area. "He has a reason to be there," he said. "The biggest thing on his mind now is whether or not he's going to be linked to this."

Geberth wasn't alone in that opinion. As early as the first week, CNN was airing speculation that this killer was a clam fisherman who could come to the barrier island undetected from the Great South Bay. Geberth went deeper with the idea on his media rounds, suggesting to the Daily News that the killer had placed the bodies so that he could find them again, returning to the burial ground "to relive the murders for s.e.xual gratification." Others concurred that the killer was every bit as systematic and intentional as Joel Rifkin-that his need for intimacy announced itself in the care he took; that he shrouded them in burlap, protecting them from the elements; that he seemed to want to control every aspect of their lives through their deaths, and to continue his relations.h.i.+p with them past death. Now that the bodies had been discovered, Geberth suggested that the killer was "in a panic state," but that was no reason to believe he wouldn't kill again.

For the ultimate expert opinion, the Daily News approached Joel Rifkin himself. Living out his days in an upstate prison, Long Island's most famous and prolific murderer couldn't resist critiquing this new killer for leaving all the bodies in one place; Rifkin, at least, had been savvy enough to sprinkle his victims' remains across the tristate area. Yet he suspected that they had a lot in common: growing up lonely, mocked, and bullied; grappling with anger. "America breeds serial killers," Rifkin said. "You don't see any from Europe." As for the victims, Rifkin said that prost.i.tutes were obvious targets for any serial killer. "No family," he explained, occasionally breaking into laughter. "They can be gone six or eight months, and no one is looking." This was not a novel insight about serial killers and their choice of victims: The Green River Killer, during his admission of guilt at his 2003 sentencing, had said essentially the same thing.

There was one important and obvious difference between this killer and his predecessors. In Rifkin's day, Craigslist and Backpage didn't exist. Neither did cell phones with GPS. Common sense dictated that technology would help find this killer. The original Craigslist killer, Philip Haynes Markoff, left a digital trail traceable through the Erotic Services page of Craigslist in Boston. He wasn't even a serial killer: He had just one victim, and he'd been found in a matter of days. How hard could it be to find a killer of four?

When, in late January, the DNA samples from all four sets of remains were positively identified, the idea of a signature became impossible to ignore. Maureen Brainard-Barnes, Melissa Barthelemy, Megan Waterman, and Amber Lynn Costello were all about the same age. They all did the same thing for a living. And they all came from other towns, some settling nearby to work. Shannan's disappearance had taken place in the middle of the time line of the other four: Maureen went missing in 2007 and Melissa in 2009, but Megan disappeared just a month after Shannan, and Amber vanished that September. If all five were linked, it meant the killer continued to abduct and murder women even after Shannan's disappearance.

On January 25, Dormer and the Suffolk County district attorney, Thomas Spota, formally acknowledged that the police were looking for a serial killer. Spota took the extra step of appealing to other women to come forward with any information about missing friends or suspicious johns. "I find it very hard to believe that people engaged in the same business as them [don't] know something," he said. But Spota didn't seem to understand how dramatically the business was changing, or had already changed. In the Craigslist era, no one knew anyone. Pimps and madams were becoming a thing of the past. Escorts can work from a hotel with a laptop, or in a car on a smartphone. Alone. A missing girl is missing only to the people who notice.

Are you f.u.c.kin' kidding me, Maureen?

Sara Karnes had been gone barely an hour from the Super 8 in Times Square, and Maureen was already calling. It was 12:27 P.M., and Sara was in Matt's car, stuck in traffic on the West Side Highway. All Sara wanted was to get some sleep. She didn't answer.

Back in Connecticut that night, Sara got a call from Al, the big Italian guy she'd met at Tony's p.o.r.n office on her first weekend in the city. "You hear from Maureen?" he asked.

"No."

"She called me."

"Why?"

" 'Cause she couldn't get ahold of you. She got robbed. She said that guy you guys met last night-the guy with the dreads-robbed her for five grand."

Right away, something seemed out of place. "How the f.u.c.k did he rob her for five grand? She didn't have that much when I left."

"Well, she obviously must've pulled something out of her a.s.s," Al said.

Sara hung up and called Maureen's phone. No answer. She left a voice mail: "I heard what happened. You need to call me back."

That same night, Maureen had called her sister Missy, at home in Groton with her husband, Chris Cann, and their three children. On the phone, Maureen kept things light. She didn't say anything about getting robbed or being in trouble, or how she had to be in court the next day, or that she needed cash or she'd be out on the street. She said she was calling from Penn Station. "Can Chris come pick me up?" she asked calmly.

"Maureen, it's eleven-thirty," Missy said. "Chris has to work in the morning."

"I'll call Will."

A moment later, Missy's phone rang again. Will had to work, too. Maureen said she had enough money to take the train and would take the next one.

On Tuesday, Missy called Maureen, but she wasn't answering. Maybe she was sleeping, she thought, or maybe her phone was out of minutes.

Will called Missy on Wednesday. He hadn't heard from Maureen, either. Her phone was going straight to voicemail.

On Thursday, Missy and Will called the Norwich police. As soon as they learned what Maureen was doing in Manhattan, the officers stopped taking them seriously. She was an escort in financial trouble; maybe she'd dropped off the grid until she made enough money to set things right. Missy knew that couldn't be true. Maureen would never be willingly out of touch with Caitlin and Aidan for that long.

Missy learned from Sara Karnes where they had been staying. Will and Chris got on their motorcycles for Manhattan. The clerks at the Super 8 blithely claimed to have no memory of the dark-haired woman who had just spent days on end in room 406. The hotel records showed Maureen checking out not on Monday but on Tuesday, the day she was supposed to be back in court. They learned later that she had not kept the appointment to look at the sublet. She didn't get back in touch with Al, either.

Missy rushed to her sister's apartment in Norwich. The entire place had been cleared out. All her sister's things were in a dump truck out front or gone-all of her composition books and all the books she loved to read aloud to her children. Her clothes were gone, too. A friend of Maureen's had taken them all, telling Missy that Maureen had said she could. A short time later, the police told Missy that Maureen's food-stamp EBT card had been used in Norwich. Missy and Will started searching all over Norwich until they discovered that the same friend was using it.

Missy logged in to her sister's e-mail-Maureen had shared her pa.s.sword-searching for clues but also for anything left of the sister she knew. She moved on to the Web, looking for photos of Maureen on adult websites, stories of unidentified bodies, or even women with amnesia. Weeks turned into months, and Missy never stopped calling the police in Groton and New York, pus.h.i.+ng for word on any progress. When an internal-affairs detective took pity on her, Missy learned that one of the last people known to have responded to Maureen's Craigslist ad had been a New York police officer, a Staten Island resident ultimately cleared of any involvement in her disappearance. Then came more silence, more waiting, until Missy learned that the police had picked up a ping from her sister's cell phone-someone trying to access her voice mail, perhaps. The signal registered at a water tower on Fire Island. Police with cadaver dogs and helicopters searched the area but didn't find anything. At the time, Missy was confused; as far as she knew, Maureen never did outcalls on Long Island.

Missy didn't know what to do with her frustration. Once, when she thought of Maureen, it had been about what book she was reading, or who would do the shopping for the kids' birthday parties. Now it was about Craigslist, and incalls and outcalls. She began neglecting her kids, her husband, her job. She forced herself to think of any scenario in which Maureen might be alive. She ran into Maureen's friend Jay DuBrule and started talking about how Maureen might have gotten drugged up and abducted by a s.e.x slaver and forced to work for a human-trafficking ring. Jay found himself hoping right along with her. Better, at least, to think she was alive.

While Missy became obsessed, her brother cast about, adrift, enraged, and morose. And then, he, too, was gone. On August 14, 2009, Will-the baby of the family, a muscular, square-jawed, hard-partying football star from Fitch High School, whose anguish over the loss of Maureen was so intense that he had his sister's name tattooed on his chest-was on his Harley before sunrise near Exit 78 on Route 95, a tricky merge that has since been marked by a traffic sign. Will had been at a party that night with other members of his motorcycle club. A few of his friends were with him on the road. He was out in front, as usual. There was a truck in front of him; the police said its lights were either off or dim. Will seemed to notice the truck only when he was a few feet from the back of its trailer. He slammed his brakes, but it was too late. The bike broke in half, and Will died on impact.

When Missy was seventeen, she'd almost died in a car crash. Maureen, nineteen and already a mother, had sat with her at the hospital, coaxing her back into consciousness. Maureen, Missy, and Will had always taken care of one another. Now there was just Missy, left with nothing but an inkling that it was never supposed to work out this way.

As horrible as Will's death was, even that presented Missy with a strange sense of possibility-a new scenario. She couldn't help playing it out like a movie trailer in her mind: Maureen running away and reinventing her life somewhere; Maureen walking through the door, embracing her, ready to grieve for their brother as a family, ready to come home.

When Maureen didn't show up at the funeral, that put an end to it. Missy knew she was gone for good.

Amanda received eight calls in all. Whoever it was always phoned in the evenings, speaking briefly and calmly, taunting Amanda in a low voice. "Is this Melissa's little sister? I hear you're a half-breed."

Amanda's father was black. The caller knew what Amanda looked like.

Her mind flooded. Had this man captured Melissa? Was he holding her prisoner? Was she dead already? Or was this some sort of joke? Amanda seemed to be the only one he would talk to. The time Lynn answered, he hung up.

Steve Cohen, the Barthelemy family's lawyer, told the police about the calls. Only then did they seem to take Melissa's disappearance seriously. Starting with the third call, police traced the signal to cell towers in Times Square and Madison Square Garden. Detectives showed Melissa's picture around at strip clubs. They wondered if the caller worked in midtown and commuted from Long Island. The calls were too short to narrow down the location.

After the third call, Amanda, just fifteen years old, was being asked to function as bait. If he called, she was supposed to draw him out, keep the conversation going. She and her mother spent the next several weeks waiting for another call. Every time the phone would ring, she'd wonder, Is this him, is there another clue? Once, the caller seemed to toy with Amanda, asking if she knew what Melissa did for a living. Another time he said, "Are you gonna be a wh.o.r.e like your sister?" Little by little, he dropped more hints. He said he knew where she lived, and he suggested he might come after her. Amanda thought he knew exactly what he was doing; that he was enjoying it, controlling every second, revealing himself with steady precision.

The last call came on August 26, 2009: "I'm watching your sister's body rot."

Amanda was driven almost hysterical by the calls, not just because Melissa might be dead but because she had been keeping her sister's secret. She had been the only one in the family who traveled to New York and spent time with Melissa, the only one with anything close to an authentic glimpse of what her life was like. Lynn had heard about how they went for mani-pedis and visited the Statue of Liberty. Now Amanda told her the rest: how she would hear Melissa on the phone making dates, and see her on the computer posting photos of herself. She told her mother that Melissa had a car service ferry her back and forth while Amanda waited in the house for her to call and say she was okay.

Lynn had always considered her older daughter a force of nature, independent and self-reliant. Now all she could do was wonder what more she and Jeff could have done to persuade her to come home.

Amanda had a hard time in school, missing cla.s.ses and staying home, depressed. A full year pa.s.sed with no word. Lynn and Jeff threw themselves into their work. Lynn had retired from making meals at Manhattan Manor to help out at the latest incarnation of Jeff's diner. Jeff had pulled up stakes at his inner-city location in Lovejoy, where Melissa had worked some s.h.i.+fts after beauty school cla.s.ses, and found a new spot in Cheektowaga, a suburb to the east of Buffalo. The new diner, called JJ's Texas Hots, was on a four-lane commercial strip lined with dollar stores and Goodwill and Chick-N-Pizza and the Polish Villa and 7-Eleven. Across the street was Resurrection Church, dominating the intersection with an electronic bell that played on the hour. JJ's new building used to be a Dunkin' Donuts, and it showed: the floor-to-ceiling windows around the perimeter, the Formica tables. The doors had handwritten signs on whiteboard in different-colored markers, reading SORRY WE CANNOT TAKE CREDIT CARDS OR DEBIT CARDS and RESTROOM FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY. n.o.body paid attention to either of them. After a while, Lynn and Jeff knew most of the patrons and what they were going to order. The term Texas Hots referred to the sauce as much as the dog-a mild meat sauce with a nice bite; hot enough but not super-hot. It was a family recipe. The connection to Texas was tenuous at best. Jeff's father, a Buffalo native, had opened the original JJ's thirty years earlier.

If the loss of Melissa hung over their emotional lives, JJ's had become the center of their financial anxieties. On bad days, it resembled a house of cards. It had cost Jeff and Lynn about twelve thousand dollars to open the location. It would have cost more, but he brought in some equipment from the old place in Lovejoy. They borrowed the money from relatives of Jeff's, and they felt horrible about the timing. A few months after they opened, the market crashed and the relatives lost their life savings. Not once did they ask for any money back. And when they came in to eat, they got angry if Jeff gave them free food. Both Jeff and Lynn spent nearly every waking hour there, each working seventy-two hours a week or more. Lynn's little sister, Dawn, came by to work a s.h.i.+ft after her full-time job as a bank teller. Lynn's father, Elmer, washed dishes after pulling a full s.h.i.+ft as a maintenance worker at Canterbury Woods, a well-heeled a.s.sisted living community that opened after Manhattan Manor. Lynn's mother, Linda, had helped get the place ready, scrubbing the floors and walls and painting.

The older generation was overextended. Linda had taken advantage of the loose standards for credit and signed a home-equity loan to buy a new in-ground swimming pool. When she died of heart failure just weeks after Melissa disappeared, the debt was on her estate. Elmer got a lawyer to tell the pool company that if he declared bankruptcy, everything he had would go toward the mortgage. They gave up trying to collect. He never declared bankruptcy, and he kept the pool.

Melissa's grandmother had lived just long enough to learn the truth about what her granddaughter had been doing in New York. Elmer, Lynn, and Dawn were convinced that the loss broke her heart. Elmer put on a brave face for a few months but soon sank into a deep depression. When he wasn't helping out behind the counter, he'd be sitting in the restaurant, telling strangers about his wife and his granddaughter, telling old stories about them both, treading lightly on the reasons for Melissa's disappearance. Elmer had failed a stress test but refused to do anything about it. If his time was up, he said, he was ready to join his wife. Lynn worried about him. So did Dawn, who from time to time tried to snap her dad out of his funk. "I know how you feel," she'd say. "I don't have it as deep as you, but you really have to snap out of it. You have to see the light. There is light . . . No child can do anything wrong."

Then came the day in December when Lynn, craning her neck up from the cash register at JJ's Texas Hots, saw the reports on television: four bodies on a Long Island beach, all presumed to be prost.i.tutes. She burst into tears. It took until the end of January for her to learn that Melissa was the one John Mallia and Blue had discovered on December 11-the first of the four to be found.

Lorraine Waterman was never really rid of any of her history. She carried it with her in the form of guilt or anger: She was the real victim; the children, Megan and Greg, were stolen from her. No one understood her. She wore her story on her body now, for all to see. The initials of her boyfriend, Bill, were tattooed on her right shoulder. On her left arm, after the DNA match came back, she got a tattoo that read MEGAN RIP.

Lorraine's hard drinking was far behind her. Sober ten years, she was working on getting a medical-a.s.sistant degree from Kaplan University, around the corner from her home in South Portland. The program was supposed to last two years, but she was taking an extra cla.s.s each semester so she could finish early. At night, she worked at the Domino's managed by her boyfriend. Like Buffalo, Portland had lost most of its blue-collar jobs, but it had become a booming health-care town, with hospitals expanding all over and state laws facilitating the funding of a.s.sisted-living facilities. Even so, Lorraine thought that getting a medical-a.s.sistant job would be difficult, with so many younger people competing. It took two or three interviews to even be in the running for a job, and Lorraine wasn't exactly spry. Her mother, Muriel, and big sister Liz called her a hypochondriac-"Every time somebody has an ailment, Lorraine has it, too," Liz said-but Lorraine maintained that she suffered from bad kidneys, diabetes, and arthritis of the spine.

Lorraine's two-story detached house on a quiet wooded street smelled of cigarettes, with deep red curtains blocking the light in the living room. There was a fifty-five-gallon aquarium, two torn-up beige Barcaloungers, a large TV, and an inscription on the wall from the children's book Guess How Much I Love You: I love you right up to the moon and back. She shared the house with Bill, one of Bill's daughters, and Bill's three-year-old grandson, David, just a little younger than Megan's daughter, Lili. On any given day, Lili's toys would be strewn about the floor, and David often played with them. But Lili did not live here. She lived with Lorraine's mother, Muriel, just as Megan had for most of her childhood.

In the official version of Megan's life story-the one generally accepted by everyone in the family other than Lorraine-Megan and her brother were rescued as babies from a neglectful and sometimes abusive situation. For decades, Lorraine held on to her dissenting view: that Muriel took Megan and Greg away from her. Once the worst had befallen Megan-once she had become a murder victim-Lorraine was ready to lay that at Muriel's feet, too. She blamed Muriel's overprotectiveness for everything. "My mom defended Megan, protected Megan, lied about Megan," she said. "She got kicked out of school. She beat up the teachers. And my mom always protected her. Megan knew that, 'Hey, Nana and Grandpa are going to come bail me out.' If they had not covered for her, I think Megan would've smartened up."

When Megan disappeared, her estranged family wasn't in much of a condition to rally a search. Still, they tried. They held a vigil nineteen days after she was last seen-on June 25, 2010-in the bandstand area of Congress Square in Portland. Volunteers gathered at the Scarborough Walmart parking lot on Gallery Boulevard the next morning to hang Missing posters. Others, including Megan's brother, Greg, and her friend Nicci Hayc.o.c.k, had done the same in Hauppauge, Long Island, a few weeks later in July. Local newspaper and TV news shows took notice. By August, when CNN's Jane Velez-Mitch.e.l.l put Lorraine on for a few minutes to talk about Craigslist, the short version of Megan's story wasn't exactly flattering. "I've got to ask you, Lorraine, did you try to stop your daughter from getting involved in this escort business?" Lorraine answered as honestly as she could: "Yes. Me and my whole family have. We have told Megan how dangerous it is for her to be doing that. And she did it anyways. She didn't listen."

Muriel and others were horrified. Some of Megan's friends were astonished to see Lorraine acting as the family spokesperson. "I was working with Lorraine and didn't even know she was Megan's mom until Lorraine was on TV," said Rachel Brown. "That's how involved Megan's mother was."

Lorraine saw only after the fact how terrible it looked to say such a thing in public. From then on, she and others in the family made sure to cast Megan as a victim. In September, Lorraine told one reporter that Akeem Cruz, now in jail, had been "her boyfriend-slash-pimp," who "told her how she could make easy, quick money, and he got her hooked on Craigslist. Her att.i.tude, her personality-all of it changed when she met him." This wasn't exactly true-she'd been an escort before Vybe came along-but all the momentum was s.h.i.+fting against him. The family would call Akeem Cruz what anti-s.e.x-trafficking activists call a Romeo pimp. He'd romanced Megan only to control her, they said; then he brought her to Hauppauge and abandoned her. Maybe he even had something to do with what happened.

That fall, the family planned another benefit to raise money for a reward: a spaghetti supper and silent auction with door prizes, a raffle, and a DJ. It was during the planning that Lorraine discovered that Muriel was taking steps to share custody of Lili not with Lorraine but with Lorraine's oldest sister, Liz Meserve. Lorraine lashed out at Liz; Liz unfriended Lorraine on Facebook; and the fund-raiser fell apart. If the feud had started with a struggle for control over Megan's memory, then Lili had become another front in the same war.

By December, when Lorraine got the call from Suffolk County that four skeletons had been found on Ocean Parkway, no two members of the family seemed to be on speaking terms. When Lorraine went on Nancy Grace, the others watched from home, amazed yet again by the performance. She wasn't a mother in real life, but there she was, playing one on TV.

The police came to Portland to tell Lorraine about the DNA match on January 20, the day after what would have been Megan's twenty-third birthday. Again, the family ceased hostilities, this time just long enough to plan the funeral. Five-year-old Lili, her hair in cornrows, wore a maroon velvet dress with a bow in the back and black Nikes with pink swooshes. The minister got a few laughs when he said, "You couldn't tell Megan anything was a bad idea. We all remember the way she liked to jazz people up. Megan was strong-willed. Her friends loved to follow her in her adventures and escapades."

A half sister, Amanda Gove, went to the pulpit and started to speak but broke down in sobs. Greg came up to finish her speech, but he, too, was overwhelmed. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say," he said. "But I'll tell you what. Megan had the best heart of just about anybody I've ever met in my life. There isn't a thing that girl wouldn't do for anybody."

Since Amber disappeared in September, Kim had been a hard woman to find. She changed her cell number constantly, avoided voice mail and e-mail, rarely texted, and visited her Facebook account once every three or four months. All her children went for months without knowing where she was or if she was all right. Whenever Kim resurfaced, it was usually with a wink and a smile. "Ahm not off the grid," she'd say in her North Carolina drawl. "Ahm just hard to track."

Kim had a way of starting practically every sentence with "Ahm not gonna lie." She wouldn't, to a point. She had a way of muddying the waters when it came to subjects that, seen clearly, revealed her more calculating side-like who tried the hardest to get Amber into rehab (that would be Dave Schaller), and why she might not have filed a police report about her sister's disappearance (she didn't want to get into trouble herself ), and what she did with Amber's ashes once the remains came back to her (she wouldn't say). None of this meant that Kim didn't love Amber dearly or that she didn't feel the loss. What many of Kim's detractors-and there are many among Amber's old friends-choose to ignore are Kim's own demons, her own addictions. The only one who might have understood Kim's troubles was her sister. And now, with Amber gone, there was nothing left for Kim to do but run-from the law, from the guilt, from herself.

The news about the bodies on Gilgo Beach found Kim in North Carolina as she visited her father at a Wilmington nursing home. A friend called her cell phone: "Girl, you need to put on the news." She couldn't avoid the truth anymore. After months of dodging Dave Schaller's calls, she had known it was only a matter of time before an ID came back positive. She called the Suffolk County police and arranged to send a swab of her own DNA. She came back to Long Island in January, in time for the funeral in Lindenhurst. The service had been arranged largely by Dave, who had received money from a local pastor to cover the burial.

Kim took Amber's ashes and the cash from the pastor and promised to bury them in Wilmington and have another service, but that never happened. Kim was in the wind again, answering no texts. Dave, who had gone through a round of rehab himself after Amber vanished and was living sober, suspected her of absconding with the money. So did Amber's old childhood friend Melissa Wright, who contacted the funeral home and learned that Kim had picked up the ashes. Since then, she said, Kim had called saying her car had broken down. Kim asked Melissa to wire her some money to bring Amber's remains to Wilmington. Melissa sent some cash. Years later, she was still waiting for Kim to come to Wilmington with her old friend's ashes.

The second Missy saw the news about Gilgo Beach, she knew that Maureen had to be one of them. That cell signal from Maureen's phone registering on Fire Island in 2008 finally made sense.

While waiting for a DNA match, Missy became desperate for something to do. Prowling the Web, she read a news story about Megan and found her mother, Lorraine, on Facebook. Weeks before either Maureen or Megan were confirmed as victims, Missy and Lorraine were talking on the phone every day-Missy, the younger of the two yet three years ahead in dealing with the loss. Missy wanted to tell Lorraine that the pain would go away. "But it doesn't," she said. "It gets harder as time goes by. And you've just got to know that it's coming and be strong."

By the time all the victims had been identified in late January, Missy and Lorraine's circle had widened to include Sherre and Mari; then Dawn, Melissa's aunt; and Kim. The Web, which once facilitated their lost loved ones' careers, now brought them all together. They convened on a memorial Facebook page that Mari had started for Shannan, where she posted several times a day with complaints about the press coverage and an occasional poem she'd written about her daughter (I hold onto nothing but my nightmares / That one day I can finally leave this place / I hold onto nothing but my dreams / That one day both of us will meet again). Missy started a similar page for Maureen and the other three Ocean Parkway victims. Lorraine dutifully went on Facebook every night after coming home from cla.s.ses, posting throughout the day about everything she felt and thought (Lorraine just discovered who loves her today; Lorraine just discovered who missed her today; On this day, G.o.d wants you to know . . . ).

On the phone and on Facebook, they searched for connections that might help the investigation: Were their daughters and sisters linked in some way? Did they know one another or have the same drivers? They pinged one another with daily affirmations, memorial videos, text message prayers, and curses at the press and the police. They stood by one another during the funerals. They held out hope that the visibility of the case meant it might be solved, the killer found.

And they called one another in shock when the police found more victims.

The police started up again on March 29, staking out a seven-and-a-half-mile stretch of bramble and poison ivy along Ocean Parkway, from Oak Beach to the Na.s.sau County line. The first day they found nothing. But the next day, a cop driving slowly down the parkway, scanning dunes flanking Cedar Beach, noticed something on the side of the road and stopped the car. Cadaver dogs had searched many times already, but there it was: a fifth.

Again they thought it was Shannan, and again they were wrong. There was no t.i.tanium plate. Moreover, this set of remains was different from the first four-located a full mile from where the other bodies were found, and not on the edge of the bramble like the others but some thirty feet in from the highway. Dormer knew the search had to continue, but the method had to change. They needed to search the entire swath of bramble, even the parts too thick for a dog to penetrate. Where before the goal had been to search for clues around the grave sites, now they had to clear the brush entirely: If there was even one more body part in the fifteen-mile stretch of Ocean Parkway and beyond, they needed to find it.

More police came-150 officers on loan from the state police, the state park police, the police from neighboring Na.s.sau County, and a busload of police recruits. They brought fire trucks with long ladders extended out and over the brush. Some sat in the elevated buckets and peered down; others scratched themselves up in the bramble below, wearing gardening gloves and high boots, using shovels and tree clippers and chain saws to slice through the brush and poison ivy. Still others donned diving gear and searched underwater, back off the dunes to the south and along Oak Beach, taking turns in pairs in Hemlock Bay. The FBI sent a Black Hawk helicopter and a fixed-wing aircraft to conduct flyovers with high-resolution cameras said to be able to clearly depict any object bigger than an inch-burlap, bones, signs of digging. Workers from the city medical examiner's office were on standby to look over all findings, distinguis.h.i.+ng the animal bones from the human.

Five days later, on April 4, they found three more bodies. None of these was Shannan, either, and the new bodies also didn't fit the initial pattern. They were deeper in the underbrush, weren't wrapped in burlap, and had been left for a longer period of time. One was connected to a torso found a few years earlier farther out east in Manorville, Long Island. (The remains discovered on March 29 would also be linked to a torso found in Manorville, a twenty-year-old prost.i.tute named Jessica Taylor killed in 2003.) Another wasn't a woman at all but a man, small and Asian, with what appeared to be women's clothes. Still another was a child, no bigger than a toddler, wrapped in a blanket. All the new finds were sent to New York City. This time the DNA a.n.a.lysis was complicated by the body parts having been found strewn about. Rather than taking one sample from each find, they had to take multiple samples, extracting DNA from any number of loose bones. Once that work was complete, they could make comparisons among the sets, then cross-check any matches against the FBI's DNA database.

That sort of work can take months. Dormer struggled to manage expectations. "Please keep in mind this is not an episode of CSI," he fumed at a press conference. But reports circulated that Steve Levy, the Suffolk County executive, had given Dormer a month to clean out his desk and leave, supposedly for sharing too many details about the bodies: "the burlap bags, that the victims were all on Craigslist, that they were prost.i.tutes," a source told the Post. Levy was forced to issue a statement of support.

Daily rotations of camera crews descended on Oak Beach again. The neighbors couldn't believe it wasn't over. Oak Beach became the site of vigils, press conferences, and impromptu searches. Even Brewer said he thought that Shannan would be found soon. "I really do believe she's alive. What did she do? Just drop dead walking down the road?"

Few people following the case chose to believe that the killer's trail couldn't be traced in some way. A photograph from a traffic-light camera, say, outside Amber's place on America Avenue or where Maureen might have been picked up at Penn Station. A commuter on the Long Island Rail Road caught on video calling Melissa's sister from midtown. A voice recording of any person of interest-Brewer, Pak, even Coletti-that Melissa's sister could listen to and say whether it sounded like the man who had called her almost two years earlier.

Online, in print, and on TV, no rumor went unaired. The killer knows the area like the back of his hand . . . He's a local clammer, with lots of access to burlap . . . He's a cop, or a retired cop, or a disgraced cop . . . He's my husband (the last of which came from two different women). For a time, four victims of a killing spree in Atlantic City several years before seemed linked; one victim had even spent a few weeks on Long Island before she vanished. Dormer denied any connection. Then two NYPD officers, one active and one retired, were said to be under suspicion. Police denied those reports, too. It wasn't clear whether one of them had been the john of Maureen's that Missy had been told about. When the FBI filed an application seeking access to Akeem Cruz's laptop, reporters speculated on what Vybe might know about Megan's last night at the Holiday Inn Express in Hauppauge and whether he could have killed them all; that theory fizzled when the police didn't bite. Amber, too, seemed to have some potential suspects in her orbit: angry, ripped-off johns who had posted on Longislanderotic.com, lambasting her and her sister. Could the killer have been out for revenge?

The phone calls to Amanda had been well covered in Buffalo in 2009, and the media circled back to Melissa's family for more details. One reporter even reached Blaze, who, quoted by his given name, Johnny Terry, claimed he'd also received strange calls-about thirty, he said, over eight months-from someone he described as a "white guy." "He was threatening me," he said. "He said, 'You liked to do some crazy stuff with Melissa. I know where you be at.' " The police traced the caller's number not to Melissa's cell but to a disposable phone registered in the name of Mickey Mouse.

The search continued for weeks along the parkway, fanning westward toward Fire Island, the case warping into something beyond anyone's capacity to understand. Mari Gilbert started to dread the ring of her phone, expecting each time to hear news of another body. When the police stopped calling altogether, she felt shunted aside. She lost her patience when a lead detective in the case, Richard Higgins, asked her not to talk to the press. "Channel 7 calls me before the police," she said. "If you're not going to do anything, I'm going to talk." On April 6, on her front porch in Ellenville with Channel 2, she claimed that her persistence was the only reason the police kept searching for Shannan months after she was gone-and, she implied, the only thing that had brought the officer and his dog to Ocean Parkway. The next day she told the Times that Shannan, so complicated in life, was in death simply a hero: "If it wasn't for my daughter, these bodies never would have been found. Everyone has their destiny. Maybe this was hers." Soon Mari was fielding questions she wasn't ready for. Asked if she thought police would find Shannan with the other bodies, Mari paused before answering, "She's not there." Asked where she thought Shannan might be, Mari couldn't answer at all.

Like Lorraine, Mari was straining to recast her relations.h.i.+p with her daughter; to make amends. Kim was doing the same for her sister. Without fanfare, the same day Mari was opining from her front porch, Kim drove into the Oak Beach parking lot, hoping to see all the sites she'd been seeing on TV-Joe Brewer's house, Gus Coletti's house, the water, the beach, the highway. It happened that Kim had turned up on a day when the police were ferrying photographers on a bus to take photos of the ongoing search along the parkway. Kim boarded the bus and was quickly recognized. The reporters welcomed her; the day's story got that much better. When the bus stopped along the highway, Kim was disappointed by what she saw. To her, the whole thing seemed staged-two dozen cops walking through the bramble, as if on cue, just as the photographers arrived. The real search seemed to be happening somewhere else, farther down the road. Kim was frustrated, and when the police learned she was on the bus and got angry that she had been allowed on, that sent her over the edge. The video from Ocean Parkway that ran on the news that night was the sister of a Gilgo Beach victim leaving the scene in tears. "It's sad," Kim said on the air, "and I just wanted to get a chance to see where my sister was, but now I can't. And that's all I have to say."

Nothing about the family members held the media's attention for long. Soon enough, reporters went back to monitoring the search for new bodies. When some tried widening the lens of the story-discussing the dangers faced every night by escorts, hearing from a litany of advocates and activists who wanted to decriminalize prost.i.tution, lock up johns, or shut down Craigslist and its compet.i.tor, Backpage-that only angered Mari more. Shannan hadn't even been found and was being held up as a poster child for the dangers of prost.i.tution. Some of the frustration seeped out when Mari commented on an online story about Shannan: Shannan Maria Gilbert did NOT use any heavy drugs. She was a wonderful daughter, a best friend, a great sister, a special aunt, a good friend, and a nice cousin. What she chose to do takes NOTHING away from who she is to the people who love her . . .

Reporters waiting for word from the police in the Oak Beach parking lot kept knocking on doors, trolling for rumors behind the gate. On April 9, the Post published a story about an unnamed "forty-eight-year-old drifter with a penchant for strippers" said to have been at Brewer's house the night Shannan came out. The story ran a quote from the mother of the drifter, saying she thought her son had gone to Georgia. The police would continue to insist that Brewer was not a suspect.

Brewer offered more details of his evening with Shannan, all of which conveniently absolved him of any wrongdoing. Not only did he have nothing to do with Shannan's disappearance, now he was saying he hadn't even wanted to sleep with her. He told the Newark Star-Ledger that he'd been turned off by Shannan when she asked if he'd ever "come across any transvest.i.tes" when hiring escorts. Brewer said the comment made him wonder if she had something to hide-if she was really a man, or used to be. "I wanted her out," he said. That, he said, was when Shannan's behavior turned "erratic." "She saw things weren't going as she had hoped," he said. Of all the theories, only this one seemed too implausible for any other media outlet to pick up.

On April 11, the body count jumped to ten. The police made two more discoveries along the parkway to the west in Na.s.sau County. Just a mile and a half from Jones Beach, they found human bones in a plastic bag. Four hours later, a Suffolk cop and cadaver dog found a human skull-most likely a woman's-in a wildlife sanctuary a mile away, west of Tobay Beach. Like Jessica Taylor's, these bodies would eventually demonstrate links to other unsolved cases farther out on Long Island. The head, hands, and right foot of a Jane Doe found along Ocean Parkway would be linked to a female torso discovered in Manorville in 2000. The head of another woman was discovered to be from the same victim as a pair of severed legs discovered in a black plastic bag in April 1996, along Blue Point Beach on the bay side of Fire Island, about a mile west of Davis Park.

The signature of these new finds didn't seem the same. Unlike the women in burlap, these remains had been scattered. The district attorney, Thomas Spota, suggested for the first time that while the four bodies in burlap were linked, the others might have been murdered by someone else, or even several killers. "It is clear that the area in and around Gilgo Beach has been used to discard human remains for some period of time," he said. "As distasteful and disturbing as that is, there is no evidence that all of these remains are the work of a single killer." The police's theory seemed to be changing. Gilgo Beach and its environs were, it seemed, a dumping ground, and more than one murderer was on the loose. Maureen, Melissa, Megan, and Amber were one small part of a continuum of murder that stretched for miles and miles along the South Sh.o.r.e of Long Island, from Jones Beach out east to Manorville.

Shannan was still missing, and the search continued. Na.s.sau and state police officers with protective gear were using chain saws to cut through the bramble around Tobay and Jones Beach, clearing the land for helicopter flyovers. Suffolk was sending more divers around the docks and jetties on the bay and south sides of Oak Beach. If any casual observer still seemed fixated on a killer or killers, the victims seemed all but overlooked. "I think they look at them like they're throwaway," Mari told the Times. "They don't care." Her cause wasn't helped when, at a public-safety hearing in Suffolk County in early May, Dormer's chief of detectives, Dominick Varrone, called it a "consolation" that the killer didn't appear to be "selecting citizens at large-he's selecting from a pool." The girls who used Craigslist, he said, "are very available, they're very vulnerable, they're willing to get into a car with a stranger."

The chief's message was clear: If they had been successful and well educated, like the Son of Sam's victims, all of Long Island might have been in a panic. But these were prost.i.tutes. Of course they'd been killed.

Mari was losing hope. She had been patient-or patient enough-with the police, with the neighbors, and with the media, and her daughter's disappearance was being subsumed by a murder case that threatened to overlook her altogether. She decided to go public with information that, until then, had been kept strictly between her family and the police.

On April 12-just after the ninth and tenth sets of remains were found-WCBS 880, a twenty-four-hour local news radio station in New York, introduced a new angle on what might have happened to Shannan. In a segment picked up right away by her compet.i.tors, Sophia Hall became the first to report that just a few days after Shannan went missing, Mari had received a call at her home from someone identifying himself as Dr. Peter Hackett. "The doctor told them that Shannan was incoherent," Hall said. "So he took her into his home rehab to help her, and the next day, a driver came and picked her up."

Asked to comment, Hackett-speaking publicly for the first time about the Gilbert case-didn't confirm that he'd seen Shannan. But he didn't deny it, either. Instead, he said he had spoken to the police about Shannan. Then he made an anodyne speech about the case: "This is important that this is done, because these people need closure. And we need to find this girl if she's alive." The word we seemed to suggest that Hackett, as much as anyone else, was playing an active role in the search effort.

The same day, ABC News went to Hackett and ran his denial about seeing Shannan: "Of course not," he said. "That's ridiculous." It was too late. The next day, the local CBS News website recycled Hall's radio story from the day before, reporting that Hackett "said he saw Gilbert running at night near Oak Beach, looking both sick and distressed."

Hackett was not quoted directly in either report. There was no audio or video of him saying it. It was possible that the echo chamber of competing news reports had reprocessed Mari's claim into a reported fact, something that happens all too often in the scrum of a compet.i.tive news story. But for anyone looking to point fingers at Oak Beach neighbors-or wondering why more of them weren't speaking out-the Hackett subplot was a gift. The very possibility that he'd seen her that night shot new energy into the story. After months of reporters going back to Brewer and Coletti for new insights, the locked-room mystery of Oak Beach had an intriguing new character.

Reporters rushed to the doctor's cottage. A TV segment captured him walking outside, tall with slumping shoulders, wearing a baggy untucked oxford with an errantly knotted necktie flopped over a boulder-sized potbelly. Hackett had a round and boyish face with a double chin, sandy-gray hair, and deep-set eyes with dark circles beneath them. The limp from his false leg came off as more of a robust lurch. He glared at the camera with what seemed like a sneer.

For two days, all any reporter at Oak Beach wanted to know about was Peter Hackett. Mari couldn't help but be pleased, even if the doctor was still denying ever having spoken to her. On April 14, Hackett, wearing a tan windbreaker, a pink polo, and dark aviator sungla.s.ses, was cornered by a camera crew from the CBS Early Show. "This has been a tough couple of days," he said, with his wife at his side.

"Did you see Shannan Gilbert that night?" asked the reporter, Seth Doane.

"Never," Hackett said.

"How could we?" said Barbara. "She was missing."