We make our way slowly down the hill, perspiration dotting Joe’s forehead, his muscles straining. We finally reach the metal double doors of the basement. Wearing a latex glove, I remove the key ring from an evidence bag and find the basement key among several hanging together. The lock clicks open easily enough with little sound, and I swing the door open.

The musty, pungent smell hits us. It has probably been here for decades, adding a little to the stench after the years and animal carcasses had their turn. Mrs. Bradley said that no one went down here much anymore. No one has actually hunted here since Dr. Bradley’s father, more than twenty years ago. And when the doctor and Mr. Westmore came up here to fish, they usually threw back their catch. They didn’t clean the fish down here.

I flip on the overhead light, a dim, sickly fluorescent tube suspended on the low arched ceiling. It hums overhead, adding eerie background noise. The table, with its wall-mounted pegboard over it, sits just as we’d found it last time we were here. But forensics has been through, and tiny, yellow, numbered tents mark the areas where the spilled nails and box were found on the floor, as well as the drops of blood under the table.

“Creepy place,” Agent Metz says.

“Yeah. But a perfect place to . . .” Chase says, coughs.

Because of the state of the body, it was impossible to tell if Ms. Robb had been raped, but there was some reason he brought her here. Maybe just to finish what he started in the road. Maybe she started to stir from the head injury. We’ll never know unless he decides to tell us. But the important thing is that we find justice for her and her family by putting the bastard away for good.

Joe has finished looking around and rejoins us by the doors. “Let’s walk over to the burial sight.” He picks up his bundle where he’s laid it on the concrete floor next to the drain.

Outside the air is cold but fresh, and I draw a deep breath. We walk down the lawn, slipping in the snow. The footbridge is slick with a thin layer of ice, and we’ve got to hold on to the handrail to keep from falling. The river below is gray and, as it’s late January, running fast with melted snow. The sound of the current makes conversation nearly impossible, so we silently press ahead and make our way to the spot where Ms. Robb’s body spent the last six months.

Crime-scene tape marks off a rough rectangle. Agent Metz wipes the sleeve of her jacket across her mouth and nose. “Why bury her so close? Pretty sloppy, huh? Why didn’t he go farther into the woods? It didn’t take much erosion here to expose her.”