West Virginia 2010 Cold Case Solved — Arrest Shocks Isolated Mountain Community | HO!!

A little more than half an hour later, security cameras at Birch River One-Stop captured three of the teenagers at 1:48 a.m., passing through the lobby area and then exiting frame toward the parking lot. That clip became the only solid image of them in the gap between the party and the disappearance, the only timestamp that refused to blur.

By morning, panic spread through families like wildfire through dry brush. Calls went unanswered. Messages stayed unread. Parents checked cabins, ramps, familiar spots around the lake, then called each other as if comparing notes could turn fear into certainty. By 9:15 a.m., Nicholas County Sheriff’s Office received an official report: six teenagers missing at once.

*And that was the hinged sentence: six kids didn’t “run late” together—six kids vanished together, and that changed what the town believed was possible.*

The on-duty unit recognized immediately that this wasn’t typical. Six teens disappearing at the same time without a single device responding raised the urgency past anything routine. Missing-person protocol kicked in fast: collect identifying details—height, weight, hair color, last seen clothing, shoes, personal items—then verify timelines with parents. Most confirmed their kids left home between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m., saying they were going to a spring break gathering near Long Point and had no plans to go elsewhere.

Investigators built a list of party attendees from texts, statements, and confirmations from other parents. The list grew past thirty names. They focused on last confirmed sightings. Multiple witnesses kept landing in the same window: the six left the cabin between 1:00 and 1:15 a.m., then split into two groups. That detail mattered because it matched the Birch River footage—three kids on camera, three kids not.

Transportation didn’t explain the gap. The teens hadn’t arrived in one vehicle. Two were dropped off by parents early and planned to “find a ride.” Two rode in Mason Grady’s small pickup. Two were dropped at the trailhead by a friend. Mason’s pickup was found near Long Point, locked, no keys inside, consistent with leaving on foot. No additional vehicles tied to the group were recorded at the marina or Battlerun launch. Phones stopped responding from early morning, even though families insisted most were fully charged.

That afternoon, deputies returned to the party site and interviewed everyone present, dividing them into those who left early, those who stayed late, and those who interacted directly with the six. The party started around 9:00 p.m. Witness accounts aligned enough to build a broad activity timeline, but exact timestamps got fuzzy in a cabin party where people move constantly. The critical point—the departure—stayed a window, not a pin: 1:00 to 1:15 a.m.

That created the time block investigators couldn’t account for: the thirty-plus minutes between leaving Long Point and the 1:48 a.m. appearance at Birch River One-Stop. In a place where roads twist and trails cut through forest like shortcuts locals don’t think twice about, thirty minutes could hide a lot.

Deputies pulled every camera angle they could. Birch River’s exterior camera showed the three teens entering from the east side of the lot and moving diagonally before disappearing toward the side bordering US 19. With limited traffic cameras in 2010 and most business cameras pointed inward, the trail went dark quickly. Another store a few miles away had low-resolution footage that showed no obvious group of pedestrians between 1:45 and 2:10 a.m. That suggested a route away from the highway—forest roads, lakeside trails, places with no light and no lenses.

Based on the movement corridor, investigators narrowed search focus to the lake’s edges, especially two points reachable on foot from Birch River’s direction: Summersville Lake Marina and Battlerun Boat Launch. The sheriff’s office split into a field team and an analysis team. Field teams carried high-powered lights, measuring tools, scene photography gear, and kits to collect mud, water, and trace samples. The analysis team built maps and timelines, trying to turn witness windows into routes.

*And that was the hinged sentence: the case didn’t stall because nobody cared—it stalled because the mountains offered more places to disappear than cameras offered places to confirm.*

At the marina on March 20, investigators divided the area into sections: main dock, secondary docks near the water, and the ramp down to the pier. Footprints overlapped on wood planks—fresh and old, impossible at first glance to tie to anyone. But in the darker secondary dock area, they noted faint streaks and slight drag-like marks pointing toward the water. They documented everything, measured distances, collected mud and soil samples from clearer prints, and checked water-level reports. The lake level had stayed stable overnight—no dam release, no sudden rise or fall to erase traces.

The marina manager provided a logbook: only two boats had gone out earlier in the evening and both returned before 10:00 p.m. No official departures after 11:00. The main dock was locked; secondary docks weren’t. Anyone who knew the layout could enter unseen.

Later that day, the team moved to Battlerun Boat Launch. Quieter than the marina, less lit, more open. Here the wood and dirt held clearer stories. On the pier near the water, they found long streaks—straight scratches more than a meter long, parallel, directed toward the lake. They photographed and marked them with reflective stakes. At the junction between pier and dirt, semicircular wear points suggested something heavy had rested there before being moved.

In the dirt behind the pier, they found tire tracks in dried mud—small, consistent with light trailers or hand-pulled carts—running toward the pier and breaking up where footprints overlapped. Some shoe prints were deeper than normal, as if the ground had borne weight while something was moved. They extended the search radius along lakeside trails and documented scattered prints, though none were clear enough for identification.

Witness statements started to pull toward the same window. A resident near Battlerun reported hearing an unstable small engine around 2:30 a.m.—a brief sputter, then silence. Another couple farther off reported a loud male shout after 2:00 a.m., not playful, more like a command. A third witness at a rental cabin described a small white light moving on the water around 2:00 a.m. for a few seconds before vanishing. None of these statements proved the same event, but all lived inside the same dark gap between 1:48 and 3:00.

Then came the first concrete anomaly that didn’t depend on interpretation. While inventorying moored vessels, police found an empty spot at the marina where a Boston Whaler replica should have been. The mooring line had been untied neatly—no cutting, no damage—like someone who knew what they were doing had worked fast. The owner confirmed he hadn’t taken it out and hadn’t authorized anyone else.

At Battlerun, DNR staff noted a white-and-green pedal boat missing from its usual place. Its stake was displaced, soil disturbed, and its front line appeared untied in the same clean manner—coiled, not torn. Two missing vessels, two different locations, same night, same general window. Investigators had to treat it as more than coincidence.

In the first 72 hours, the sheriff’s office coordinated sonar searches based on wind and drift modeling: wind 4–7 mph west-to-east, stable lake level, predicted accumulation zones along the eastern shore. Two survey boats ran grid patterns. The 2010-era sonar struggled in rugged terrain. Returns looked like rock shelves and submerged logs. No clear hull shapes. No obvious pedal boat signature.

Shoreline searches found footprints too blurred to match. Forest searches near Long Point found no stable K9 trail beyond a couple hundred meters and no fresh disturbances in abandoned cabins. After the second expanded sonar round still produced no credible targets, the case slid into the painful category no family ever accepts: inactive, pending new information.

*And that was the hinged sentence: the file wasn’t closed—just shelved, like a door left unlocked because nobody could find the handle.*

Years passed with almost nothing to hold onto besides the 1:48 a.m. video and the empty spaces the teens left behind. The case became a ghost in Nicholas County weekly reports—mentioned in periodic updates, revisited during evidence inventories, then returned to storage. Families called, hoping new technology could do what old tools couldn’t. Most years, investigators had to answer with the same sentence in different forms: we don’t have anything new.

In mid-2012, Deputy Mark Hollis, newly assigned to archives and case review, rewatched the Birch River One-Stop footage in slow motion. At 0.25 speed, he stared not at the teenagers but at the dark edge behind them where the store lights faded into black. After looping the segment, he noticed a faint shape—more shadow than person—moving a beat behind the three teens. It looked like a human pace, but too blurry to describe. He enhanced contrast with basic tools and captured key frames. The file was updated with a note: possible trailing figure. Not enough to reopen. Flag for future cross-reference.

Between 2013 and 2014, evidence reviews went nowhere. Fibers were too degraded to match confidently. Plastic fragments from the shoreline couldn’t be tied to a specific source. Shoe print photos lacked sharp tread lines. Everything stayed possible and therefore not provable.

From 2015 to 2018, the case froze harder. New traffic cameras came online years too late. Rumors and false sightings flared and died. Lake drawdowns for dam maintenance produced nothing visible. No personal belongings washed ashore. No boat debris surfaced. Community interest faded because constant grief is exhausting to carry out loud.

In late 2018, Hollis transferred to Charleston PD and joined a cold case unit with better tools. During internal training, he chose the Summersville Lake file, still haunted by that faint shadow in the Birch River video and the long drag marks at Battlerun that had never fully made sense.

He started with the Battlerun crime scene photos. Using newer enhancement software, the “scratches” on the dock clarified into deeper parallel grooves across wood grain, consistent abrasion pointing toward the water. He overlaid directions with clearer tire-rut images from the dirt lot and saw alignment: ruts toward pier, grooves toward lake, as if something had been dragged down with intention. Still, it wasn’t enough alone. It became another flag.

Then, in 2020, Charleston’s unit tested an AI-assisted video enhancement program through a federal assistance pipeline. Hollis uploaded the Birch River One-Stop footage. Processing took hours. When the output finished, the “shadow” behind the teens was no longer amorphous. It became a silhouette—adult-sized, walking in the same direction, emerging about 0.7 seconds after the teens crossed frame. No face, no identifying clothing label, but a gait pattern: a subtle outward rotation in the right foot, a particular hip tilt, a rhythm that suggested a muscular adult over 5’10.

Hollis dug into older minor disturbance files from the Summersville Lake area. One name surfaced in reports and dash cam clips: Raymer Cobb, a local man known for appearing near trails and boat access areas late at night, often alone, often unwelcome but tolerated because he mostly kept to himself. Hollis compared Cobb’s dash cam movement to the enhanced silhouette. The gait similarities were enough to elevate Cobb from “local oddity” to person of interest. Not courtroom-proof, but investigative value.

*And that was the hinged sentence: the case didn’t change because time passed—it changed because technology finally made the darkness give up a shape.*

In 2021, the West Virginia DOT and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers began upgrading underwater topographic mapping at major lakes for dam management and safety assessment. Summersville Lake was included, this time using 3D sonar and underwater lidar—tools far beyond what the 2010 search boats had. Hollis requested focus around Battlerun and the eastern basin where steep crevices had defeated old sonar. The Army Corps identified dozens of points inadequately scanned in 2010, including slot-canyon-like fissures along the eastern rim.

In early 2023, dam maintenance required a staged drawdown. By late February, the lake level dropped more than 40 feet below average winter operating level, exposing rock ledges and crevices unseen in decades. For engineers, it was inspection work. For Hollis, it was a rare chance for the lake to physically reveal what screens never could.

In early March, workers inspecting rock slopes near the eastern edge of Battlerun noticed an object wedged between two ledges—curved, unnatural among stone. At first it looked like debris. Then a protruding shape resembled the bow of a small vessel. They probed it and heard the unmistakable knock of hard composite, not rotted wood. Following protocol, they marked and cordoned off the area and notified law enforcement, referencing the case identifier Hollis had asked to be included in the survey files.

When investigators arrived, the bow’s worn paint and composite surface matched a Boston Whaler replica reported missing in 2010. The position—deep in a crevice unscannable with older sonar—explained why two sonar rounds had come up empty. The recovery was slow, recorded, careful, because anything inside could be fragile after thirteen years underwater.

At the forensic facility, technicians opened compartments under controlled protocols. Mud was removed with specialized vacuum equipment. Beneath sediment, they found human remains—enough to tell quickly that the case had crossed a line it hadn’t been able to cross in 2010. They also recovered a sneaker, a small cross pendant on a chain, and fabric pieces consistent with clothing described in the original missing-person files. Each item was documented, bagged, and entered into chain of custody with a precision that felt almost reverent.

Over eight weeks, forensic analysts cleaned and examined the remains and extracted DNA from preserved bone. In mid-May 2023, the match came back: Caleb Rowan. Thirteen years after six teenagers vanished, one finally came home in the only way the lake would allow.

Forensic pathologists then examined trauma indicators on the skull and determined the fatal injury occurred before the body entered the water. They ruled out drowning as cause of death. The manner of death was classified as homicide. In one report, the case shifted from “missing persons” to “murder investigation,” and Summersville’s long limbo hardened into something darker and more specific.

The lake terrain analysis followed. Lidar and 3D modeling showed the boat’s lodged position didn’t fit a purely natural drift path under the mild west-to-east wind that night. Rock abrasion marks suggested multiple contacts before the boat became wedged, consistent with some level of steering or force applied. The model also suggested the pedal boat had traveled farther than drift alone would predict, implying it had been occupied, towed, or propelled, not merely abandoned.

With Caleb identified and the lake evidence pointing to human intervention, investigators executed a search warrant on Cobb’s cabin—close to the lake by trail, isolated by design. Inside, they found fibers consistent with Logan Pierce’s hoodie material, a stain that tested presumptively positive for blood, a marked map of Summersville Lake with pencil circles and lines—one circling the exact cove where the boat was found—plastic fragments consistent with pedal boat material, and work boots with wide soles that matched the silhouette’s footwear profile. In a shed, they found rope with unusual knots consistent with descriptions from 2010.

Alone, any one item could be argued away. Together, they formed a chain.

Then, after news broke that the boat had been found, a man named William Ridgley called in. He’d lived near Battlerun in 2010 and moved away in 2011. He said he’d heard an argument after 2:00 a.m., an older male voice giving harsh commands, a heavy thud against wood or metal, then a small engine struggling to start—details that matched the investigative timeline and forensic conclusions that had not been released publicly. When investigators played Ridgley a recording of Cobb’s voice from a prior disorderly conduct file, Ridgley reacted immediately. “That’s the voice,” he said. “I’m not 100%, but it’s close enough to give me chills.”

*And that was the hinged sentence: the lake gave up the boat, the lab gave up Caleb’s name, and the town finally gave up the one sound everyone had dismissed in 2010 as “just noise.”*

By early September 2023, Nicholas County issued an arrest warrant. Cobb was taken at 6:40 a.m. near Birch River One-Stop where he routinely stopped for coffee. The arrest was calm, almost clinical. Cobb didn’t fight. He didn’t shout. Investigators later said his composure felt rehearsed.

During interrogation, Cobb claimed he’d been asleep at his cabin the night of March 19 into March 20, 2010. Then his story shifted in minutes—“Not sure,” then “If I did go out, it was only a few minutes.” Investigators confronted him with the map markings, the cabin fibers, the presumptive blood stain, the plastic fragments, the rope, the gait analysis from the enhanced Birch River video, and Ridgley’s voice identification. Cobb leaned back, avoided eye contact, and returned to one line: “You can’t prove I did it.”

In November 2023, trial began in Nicholas County court. The state’s case was built on the unified chain: Caleb’s identification and cause of death, the recovered boat and how it lodged, the terrain reconstruction showing unnatural trajectories, evidence from Cobb’s cabin, Ridgley’s testimony, and the enhanced video analysis indicating Cobb’s presence near the teens at Birch River One-Stop in the crucial window.

The jury saw a 3D reconstruction of lake terrain and drift paths. They saw how the boat’s entry into that crevice didn’t match the wind-driven model. They heard forensic testimony about pre-water trauma. They saw the map circle around the cove Cobb couldn’t explain. They heard Ridgley describe the argument and the thud and the engine, then identify Cobb’s voice as the same harsh tone he’d heard that night.

The defense argued circumstantial evidence, no direct eyewitness to the assault, no fingerprints preserved after thirteen years underwater. The prosecution countered with a simple point: water and time erase fingerprints; they don’t erase patterns when enough pieces align.

After eight hours of deliberation, the jury returned a verdict: guilty of second-degree murder in the death of Caleb Rowan. Six weeks later, at sentencing, Judge Elaine Mercer described the prolonged concealment and harm to the community and sentenced Raymer Cobb to 34 years in prison, with no parole eligibility in the first 20.

The investigative report finalized in late December 2023 exceeded 200 pages. It didn’t assign blame to individual investigators from 2010. It laid out limitations—low-resolution sonar, unscanned crevices, poor video enhancement, incomplete residential canvassing—and credited what ultimately changed the outcome: AI video enhancement, 3D sonar and lidar mapping, the rare 40-foot drawdown, modern DNA sequencing, and one citizen’s late but precise memory.

The Summersville 6 file was closed with an official conclusion: Caleb Rowan’s death was homicide due to blunt-force head trauma, and Raymer Cobb was legally responsible. The remaining five teenagers remained missing, their status unchanged until new evidence emerges.

In Summersville, people talked about the arrest the way mountain towns talk about earthquakes: quietly, with disbelief, with a sense that the ground they stood on had been stable until it wasn’t. Some locals remembered Cobb as the odd man near the lake, the one people avoided but didn’t report. Others insisted they’d always felt something off but never had anything concrete. The case forced the community to admit what it had normalized.

Years from now, folks will still reference the 1:48 a.m. time stamp like it’s etched into the county’s memory, because that camera clip became the thread everyone kept tugging until the whole story finally moved. And the U.S. flag magnet at Birch River One-Stop—the small, stubborn hook that showed up on the morning of Cobb’s arrest—will keep clinging to metal under fluorescent light, a reminder that in places like this, ordinary objects outlast terrible secrets, and sometimes the truth takes thirteen years, a drained lake, and one sharpened shadow to finally step into view.

A chilly September morning in 2023 began with a disturbance so quiet it felt louder than sirens. Three unmarked vehicles rolled up the access road to Birch River One-Stop and settled into the gravel like they belonged there. The convenience store was the kind of place locals used as a landmark—coffee, a few groceries, a bulletin board with phone numbers for odd jobs. A U.S. flag magnet clung to the cooler door inside, sun-faded and slightly crooked, the kind of small patriotic thing that survives years of fingerprints. At 6:40 a.m., officers in tactical gear moved with a precision that made the parking lot go still, as if the mountains themselves had leaned in to listen. Behind the glass doors, Raymer Cobb, 62, was stirring his morning coffee—same habit, same hour, same reclusive routine he’d kept for more than a decade while living alone near Summersville Lake. The knock landed hard on the doorframe. “Raymer Cobb,” an officer called. “Nicholas County Sheriff’s Office. We have a warrant for your arrest in connection with the disappearance at Summersville Lake in 2010.” Officers later said Cobb’s hand trembled when he set the cup down, but his face stayed unnaturally calm, like a man who had been waiting thirteen years for the world to finally catch up.

Summersville, West Virginia sits in the hilly eastern part of the state where rocky slopes drop toward the deep, clear water of Summersville Lake, a man-made reservoir that draws anglers, divers, and seasonal tourists. Around the lake, forest dominates—trails cutting through steep terrain, high outcroppings overlooking dark water at night, and a handful of boat ramps that go quiet after midnight. In this small community, six teenagers—Caleb Rowan, Jesse Hart, Logan Pierce, Evan Dodson, Travis Cole, and Mason Grady—grew up together, knowing every curve of the road circling the lake, gathering at campsites and rental cabins during holidays like the lake was their backyard.

On March 19, 2010, the group went to a spring break party near the Long Point trailhead. Several dozen kids, music, small bonfires, people drifting in and out of a cabin at the edge of the woods. The night stretched past midnight. Around 1:00 a.m., the six left the cabin area and started down the dirt road toward the parking lot. Witnesses later said the group split into two smaller clusters—three walking ahead, three lagging behind. Between 1:00 and 1:15 a.m., multiple partygoers saw them heading south toward the route that led to both the marina and Battlerun Boat Launch. After that, nobody at the party saw them again.

A little more than half an hour later, security cameras at Birch River One-Stop captured three of the teenagers at 1:48 a.m., passing through the lobby area and then exiting frame toward the parking lot. That clip became the only solid image of them in the gap between the party and the disappearance, the only timestamp that refused to blur.

By morning, panic spread through families like wildfire through dry brush. Calls went unanswered. Messages stayed unread. Parents checked cabins, ramps, familiar spots around the lake, then called each other as if comparing notes could turn fear into certainty. By 9:15 a.m., Nicholas County Sheriff’s Office received an official report: six teenagers missing at once.

*And that was the hinged sentence: six kids didn’t “run late” together—six kids vanished together, and that changed what the town believed was possible.*

The on-duty unit recognized immediately that this wasn’t typical. Six teens disappearing at the same time without a single device responding raised the urgency past anything routine. Missing-person protocol kicked in fast: collect identifying details—height, weight, hair color, last seen clothing, shoes, personal items—then verify timelines with parents. Most confirmed their kids left home between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m., saying they were going to a spring break gathering near Long Point and had no plans to go elsewhere.

Investigators built a list of party attendees from texts, statements, and confirmations from other parents. The list grew past thirty names. They focused on last confirmed sightings. Multiple witnesses kept landing in the same window: the six left the cabin between 1:00 and 1:15 a.m., then split into two groups. That detail mattered because it matched the Birch River footage—three kids on camera, three kids not.

Transportation didn’t explain the gap. The teens hadn’t arrived in one vehicle. Two were dropped off by parents early and planned to “find a ride.” Two rode in Mason Grady’s small pickup. Two were dropped at the trailhead by a friend. Mason’s pickup was found near Long Point, locked, no keys inside, consistent with leaving on foot. No additional vehicles tied to the group were recorded at the marina or Battlerun launch. Phones stopped responding from early morning, even though families insisted most were fully charged.

That afternoon, deputies returned to the party site and interviewed everyone present, dividing them into those who left early, those who stayed late, and those who interacted directly with the six. The party started around 9:00 p.m. Witness accounts aligned enough to build a broad activity timeline, but exact timestamps got fuzzy in a cabin party where people move constantly. The critical point—the departure—stayed a window, not a pin: 1:00 to 1:15 a.m.

That created the time block investigators couldn’t account for: the thirty-plus minutes between leaving Long Point and the 1:48 a.m. appearance at Birch River One-Stop. In a place where roads twist and trails cut through forest like shortcuts locals don’t think twice about, thirty minutes could hide a lot.

Deputies pulled every camera angle they could. Birch River’s exterior camera showed the three teens entering from the east side of the lot and moving diagonally before disappearing toward the side bordering US 19. With limited traffic cameras in 2010 and most business cameras pointed inward, the trail went dark quickly. Another store a few miles away had low-resolution footage that showed no obvious group of pedestrians between 1:45 and 2:10 a.m. That suggested a route away from the highway—forest roads, lakeside trails, places with no light and no lenses.

Based on the movement corridor, investigators narrowed search focus to the lake’s edges, especially two points reachable on foot from Birch River’s direction: Summersville Lake Marina and Battlerun Boat Launch. The sheriff’s office split into a field team and an analysis team. Field teams carried high-powered lights, measuring tools, scene photography gear, and kits to collect mud, water, and trace samples. The analysis team built maps and timelines, trying to turn witness windows into routes.

Late that first day, one exhausted deputy told a mother, “We’re treating this like an emergency,” and she answered, voice thin and furious, “Then why does it feel like you’re guessing?” He didn’t have a comforting reply. All he could do was keep asking questions and keep walking ground that had too many hiding places.

*And that was the hinged sentence: the more the lake refused to give up a clue, the more every ordinary footprint started to look like a message.*

At the marina on March 20, investigators divided the area into sections: main dock, secondary docks near the water, and the ramp down to the pier. Footprints overlapped on wood planks—fresh and old, impossible at first glance to tie to anyone. But in the darker secondary dock area, they noted faint streaks and slight drag-like marks pointing toward the water. They documented everything, measured distances, collected mud and soil samples from clearer prints, and checked water-level reports. The lake level had stayed stable overnight—no dam release, no sudden rise or fall to erase traces.

The marina manager provided a logbook: only two boats had gone out earlier in the evening and both returned before 10:00 p.m. No official departures after 11:00. The main dock was locked; secondary docks weren’t. Anyone who knew the layout could enter unseen.

Later that day, the team moved to Battlerun Boat Launch. Quieter than the marina, less lit, more open. Here the wood and dirt held clearer stories. On the pier near the water, they found long streaks—straight scratches more than a meter long, parallel, directed toward the lake. They photographed and marked them with reflective stakes. At the junction between pier and dirt, semicircular wear points suggested something heavy had rested there before being moved.

In the dirt behind the pier, they found tire tracks in dried mud—small, consistent with light trailers or hand-pulled carts—running toward the pier and breaking up where footprints overlapped. Some shoe prints were deeper than normal, as if the ground had borne weight while something was moved. They extended the search radius along lakeside trails and documented scattered prints, though none were clear enough for identification.

Witness statements started to pull toward the same window. A resident near Battlerun reported hearing an unstable small engine around 2:30 a.m.—a brief sputter, then silence. Another couple farther off reported a loud male shout after 2:00 a.m., not playful, more like a command. A third witness at a rental cabin described a small white light moving on the water around 2:00 a.m. for a few seconds before vanishing. None of these statements proved the same event, but all lived inside the same dark gap between 1:48 and 3:00.

Then came the first concrete anomaly that didn’t depend on interpretation. While inventorying moored vessels, police found an empty spot at the marina where a Boston Whaler replica should have been. The mooring line had been untied neatly—no cutting, no damage—like someone who knew what they were doing had worked fast. The owner confirmed he hadn’t taken it out and hadn’t authorized anyone else.

At Battlerun, DNR staff noted a white-and-green pedal boat missing from its usual place. Its stake was displaced, soil disturbed, and its front line appeared untied in the same clean manner—coiled, not torn. Two missing vessels, two different locations, same night, same general window. Investigators had to treat it as more than coincidence.

The first sonar search came next, guided by drift modeling: mild west-to-east wind, stable lake level, predicted accumulation zones along the eastern shore. Two survey boats ran grid patterns. The 2010-era sonar struggled in rugged terrain. Returns looked like rock shelves and submerged logs. No clear hull shapes. No obvious pedal boat signature. Shoreline searches found footprints too blurred to match. Forest searches near Long Point found no stable K9 trail beyond a couple hundred meters and no fresh disturbances in abandoned cabins. The second expanded sonar round also came up empty, and the case slid into the category no family ever accepts: inactive, pending new information.

*And that was the hinged sentence: the file wasn’t closed—just shelved, like a door left unlocked because nobody could find the handle.*

Years passed with almost nothing to hold onto besides the 1:48 a.m. video and the empty spaces the teens left behind. The case became a ghost in Nicholas County weekly reports—mentioned in periodic updates, revisited during evidence inventories, then returned to storage. Families called, hoping new technology could do what old tools couldn’t. Most years, investigators had to answer with the same sentence in different forms: we don’t have anything new.

In mid-2012, Deputy Mark Hollis, newly assigned to archives and case review, rewatched the Birch River One-Stop footage in slow motion. At 0.25 speed, he stared not at the teenagers but at the dark edge behind them where the store lights faded into black. After looping the segment, he noticed a faint shape—more shadow than person—moving a beat behind the three teens. It looked like a human pace, but too blurry to describe. He enhanced contrast with basic tools and captured key frames. The file was updated with a note: possible trailing figure. Not enough to reopen. Flag for future cross-reference.

He drove out to Birch River One-Stop that week, not because he expected a miracle, but because he needed the place to match the pixels in his head. He bought a coffee he didn’t drink and stared at the doorway where those kids had passed. The cashier watched him with the careful curiosity people in small towns reserve for someone poking at old pain.

“You working that missing-kids thing again?” she asked.

Hollis nodded. “Just reviewing. Trying to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

She tilted her chin toward the security camera above the door. “That thing’s been replaced twice,” she said. “If it helped, it would’ve helped by now.”

Hollis’s eyes drifted to the cooler where the crooked U.S. flag magnet stuck. He realized then how places keep living even when people don’t get to. He also realized something uglier: time doesn’t erase a crime; it just makes everyone else tired.

Between 2013 and 2014, evidence reviews went nowhere. Fibers were too degraded to match confidently. Plastic fragments from the shoreline couldn’t be tied to a specific source. Shoe print photos lacked sharp tread lines. Everything stayed possible and therefore not provable.

From 2015 to 2018, the case froze harder. New traffic cameras came online years too late. Rumors and false sightings flared and died. Lake drawdowns for dam maintenance produced nothing visible. No personal belongings washed ashore. No boat debris surfaced. Community interest faded because constant grief is exhausting to carry out loud.

In late 2018, Hollis transferred to Charleston PD and joined a cold case unit with better tools. During internal training, he chose the Summersville Lake file, still haunted by that faint shadow in the Birch River video and the long drag marks at Battlerun that had never fully made sense.

He started with the Battlerun crime scene photos. Using newer enhancement software, the “scratches” on the dock clarified into deeper parallel grooves across wood grain, consistent abrasion pointing toward the water. He overlaid directions with clearer tire-rut images from the dirt lot and saw alignment: ruts toward pier, grooves toward lake, as if something had been dragged down with intention. Still, it wasn’t enough alone. It became another flag in a file full of flags.

Then, in 2020, Charleston’s unit tested an AI-assisted video enhancement program through a federal assistance pipeline. Hollis uploaded the Birch River One-Stop footage. Processing took hours. When the output finished, the “shadow” behind the teens was no longer amorphous. It became a silhouette—adult-sized, walking in the same direction, emerging about 0.7 seconds after the teens crossed frame. No face, no identifying clothing label, but a gait pattern: a subtle outward rotation in the right foot, a particular hip tilt, a rhythm that suggested a muscular adult over 5’10.

Hollis dug into older minor disturbance files from the Summersville Lake area. One name surfaced in reports and dash cam clips: Raymer Cobb, a local man known for appearing near trails and boat access areas late at night, often alone, often unwelcome but tolerated because he mostly kept to himself. Hollis compared Cobb’s dash cam movement to the enhanced silhouette. The gait similarities were enough to elevate Cobb from “local oddity” to person of interest. Not courtroom-proof, but investigative value.

*And that was the hinged sentence: the case didn’t change because time passed—it changed because technology finally made the darkness give up a shape.*

In 2021, the West Virginia DOT and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers began upgrading underwater topographic mapping at major lakes for dam management and safety assessment. Summersville Lake was included, this time using 3D sonar and underwater lidar—tools far beyond what the 2010 search boats had. Hollis requested focus around Battlerun and the eastern basin where steep crevices had defeated old sonar. The Army Corps identified dozens of points inadequately scanned in 2010, including slot-canyon-like fissures along the eastern rim.

In early 2023, dam maintenance required a staged drawdown. By late February, the lake level dropped more than 40 feet below average winter operating level, exposing rock ledges and crevices unseen in decades. For engineers, it was inspection work. For Hollis, it was a rare chance for the lake to physically reveal what screens never could.

In early March, workers inspecting rock slopes near the eastern edge of Battlerun noticed an object wedged between two ledges—curved, unnatural among stone. At first it looked like debris. Then a protruding shape resembled the bow of a small vessel. They probed it and heard the unmistakable knock of hard composite, not rotted wood. Following protocol, they marked and cordoned off the area and notified law enforcement, referencing the case identifier Hollis had asked to be included in the survey files.

When investigators arrived, the bow’s worn paint and composite surface matched a Boston Whaler replica reported missing in 2010. The position—deep in a crevice unscannable with older sonar—explained why two sonar rounds had come up empty. The recovery was slow, recorded, careful, because anything inside could be fragile after thirteen years underwater.

At the forensic facility, technicians opened compartments under controlled protocols. Mud was removed with specialized vacuum equipment. Beneath sediment, they found human remains—enough to tell quickly that the case had crossed a line it hadn’t been able to cross in 2010. They also recovered a sneaker, a small cross pendant on a chain, and fabric pieces consistent with clothing described in the original missing-person files. Each item was documented, bagged, and entered into chain of custody with a precision that felt almost reverent.

Over eight weeks, forensic analysts cleaned and examined the remains and extracted DNA from preserved bone. In mid-May 2023, the match came back: Caleb Rowan. Thirteen years after six teenagers vanished, one finally came home in the only way the lake would allow.

Forensic pathologists examined trauma indicators on the skull and determined the fatal injury occurred before the body entered the water. They ruled out drowning as cause of death. The manner of death was classified as homicide. In one report, the case shifted from “missing persons” to “murder investigation,” and Summersville’s long limbo hardened into something darker and more specific.

Terrain analysis followed. Lidar and 3D modeling showed the boat’s lodged position didn’t fit a purely natural drift path under the mild west-to-east wind that night. Rock abrasion marks suggested multiple contacts before the boat became wedged, consistent with some level of steering or force applied. The model also suggested the pedal boat had traveled farther than drift alone would predict, implying it had been occupied, towed, or propelled, not merely abandoned.

With Caleb identified and the lake evidence pointing to human intervention, investigators executed a search warrant on Cobb’s cabin—close to the lake by trail, isolated by design. Inside, they found fibers consistent with Logan Pierce’s hoodie material, a stain that tested presumptively positive for blood, a marked map of Summersville Lake with pencil circles and lines—one circling the exact cove where the boat was found—plastic fragments consistent with pedal boat material, and work boots with wide soles that fit the silhouette’s footwear profile. In a shed, they found rope with unusual knots consistent with descriptions from 2010.

Alone, any one item could be argued away. Together, they formed a chain.

Then, after news broke that the boat had been found, a man named William Ridgley called in. He’d lived near Battlerun in 2010 and moved away in 2011. He said he’d heard an argument after 2:00 a.m., an older male voice giving harsh commands, a heavy thud against wood or metal, then a small engine struggling to start—details that matched the investigative timeline and forensic conclusions that had not been released publicly. When investigators played Ridgley a recording of Cobb’s voice from a prior disorderly conduct file, Ridgley reacted immediately. “That’s the voice,” he said. “I’m not 100%, but it’s close enough to give me chills.”

*And that was the hinged sentence: the lake gave up the boat, the lab gave up Caleb’s name, and the town finally gave up the one sound everyone had dismissed in 2010 as “just noise.”*

By early September 2023, Nicholas County issued an arrest warrant. Cobb was taken at 6:40 a.m. near Birch River One-Stop where he routinely stopped for coffee. The arrest was calm, almost clinical. Cobb didn’t fight. He didn’t shout. Investigators later said his composure felt rehearsed.

During interrogation, Cobb claimed he’d been asleep at his cabin the night of March 19 into March 20, 2010. Then his story shifted in minutes—“Not sure,” then “If I did go out, it was only a few minutes.” Hollis sat across from him and kept his voice even.

“Raymer,” Hollis said, sliding the marked lake map onto the table, “tell me what this circle is.”

Cobb leaned back. “Fishing spots,” he said.

“Which one?” Hollis asked. “Point to the fishing spot.”

Cobb’s eyes stayed on the table edge. “I don’t remember,” he muttered.

“Convenient,” the sheriff’s rep said quietly.

They confronted him with the cabin fibers, the plastic fragments, the rope, the gait analysis from the enhanced Birch River video, and Ridgley’s voice identification. Cobb’s answers narrowed until they weren’t answers at all.

“You can’t prove I did it,” he repeated, like it was a prayer he’d practiced.

In November 2023, trial began in Nicholas County court. The state’s case was built on the unified chain: Caleb’s identification and cause of death, the recovered boat and how it lodged, the terrain reconstruction showing unnatural trajectories, evidence from Cobb’s cabin, Ridgley’s testimony, and the enhanced video analysis indicating Cobb’s presence near the teens at Birch River One-Stop in the crucial window.

The jury watched a 3D reconstruction of the lake basin and the crevice that had hidden the boat for thirteen years. They heard forensic testimony explaining that Caleb’s fatal injury came before water contact. They saw the map circle around the cove Cobb couldn’t explain. They heard Ridgley describe the argument and the thud and the engine, then identify Cobb’s voice as the same harsh tone he’d heard that night.

The defense argued circumstantial evidence, no direct eyewitness to the assault, no fingerprints preserved after thirteen years underwater. The prosecutor answered with a sentence that landed like stone. “Water erases prints,” he said. “It doesn’t erase choices when enough choices leave a pattern.”

After eight hours of deliberation, the jury returned a verdict: guilty of second-degree murder in the death of Caleb Rowan. Six weeks later, at sentencing, Judge Elaine Mercer described the prolonged concealment and harm to the community and sentenced Raymer Cobb to 34 years in prison, with no parole eligibility in the first 20.

The investigative report finalized in late December 2023 exceeded 200 pages. It didn’t assign blame to individual investigators from 2010. It laid out limitations—low-resolution sonar, unscanned crevices, poor video enhancement, incomplete residential canvassing—and credited what ultimately changed the outcome: AI video enhancement, 3D sonar and lidar mapping, the rare 40-foot drawdown, modern DNA sequencing, and one citizen’s late but precise memory.

The Summersville 6 file was closed with an official conclusion: Caleb Rowan’s death was homicide due to blunt-force head trauma, and Raymer Cobb was legally responsible. The remaining five teenagers remained missing, their status unchanged until new evidence emerges.

In Summersville, people talked about the arrest the way mountain towns talk about earthquakes: quietly, with disbelief, with a sense that the ground they stood on had been stable until it wasn’t. Some locals remembered Cobb as the odd man near the lake, the one people avoided but didn’t report. Others insisted they’d always felt something off but never had anything concrete. The case forced the community to admit what it had normalized.

Families of the missing learned to live in two worlds at once—the world where a court verdict feels like an ending, and the world where five names still don’t have locations. One father said to Hollis after sentencing, voice rough, “So what now?”

Hollis answered honestly. “Now we keep digging,” he said. “We keep checking the lake every time it gives us a chance. We keep listening for the one detail nobody thought mattered.”

Years from now, folks will still reference the 1:48 a.m. timestamp like it’s etched into the county’s memory, because that camera clip became the thread everyone kept tugging until the whole story finally moved. And the U.S. flag magnet at Birch River One-Stop—the small, stubborn hook that showed up first as background, then as a place-marker for an obsessed investigator, then again on the morning Cobb was taken—will keep clinging to metal under fluorescent light, a reminder that in places like this, ordinary objects outlast terrible secrets, and sometimes the truth takes thirteen years, a drained lake, and one sharpened shadow to finally step into view.