A warning to our viewers. What you are about to watch is a true story. The following program contains content that some viewers may find disturbing. Viewer discretion is strongly advised. December 7th, 2009. 3 days after her daughter vanished, Barbara Ross’s phone lit up with a text message. It was from Rebecca’s number.
Her heart leaped. Maybe she was alive. The message read, “Dan has me tied up in a basement somewhere. I don’t know where I am. Please help me.” Barbara called back immediately, screaming for her daughter to dial 911. But Rebecca Koster couldn’t call anyone. Because at that very moment, Rebecca’s mutilated, burned body was already lying in a Connecticut field.
Her fingers cut off. Her face sliced away. Her tattoos carved from her skin. The person sending those texts wasn’t Rebecca. It was her killer. And he was just getting started with his sick game. More texts followed. “Don’t tell Dan or he’ll kill me.” Each message a calculated act of psychological warfare. Each ping of Barbara’s phone another twist of the knife.
The family raced across Long Island, banging on doors in industrial parks, screaming Rebecca’s name into empty buildings. Desperate, frantic, clinging to hope. While they searched for a living woman, she had already been dead for days. This is the story of Rebecca Koster, a 24-year-old woman who went out for a normal night with friends and never came home.
But this isn’t just a story about murder. It’s about something darker, something more twisted. What kind of monster doesn’t just kill, but torments the grieving? What you’re about to bear witness to is the true story of a real crime that took a young woman’s life in the most brutal way imaginable. This case involves graphic violence, extreme mutilation, and psychological torture.
Some viewers may find the content deeply disturbing. Viewer discretion is once again strongly advised. Welcome to the Shadow Files crime series. Tonight, we venture into a nightmare so evil, it defies comprehension. Take a moment to hit subscribe, drop a like, and please let us know where you’re watching from.
And now, we begin. Rebecca Koster was born in the summer of 1985 in Medford, Long Island. From the moment she could walk, she had this energy about her. The kind that filled every room she entered. Her mother, Barbara, worked grueling night shifts as a nurse to provide for the family. Her stepfather, Larry Ross, stepped into the role of father with genuine love, treating Rebecca as his own daughter.
And her brother, Damian. Protective, loyal, the kind of sibling bond most people only dream of having. Friends and family all say the same thing about Rebecca. It was rare for her to have a bad day. She was extroverted, bubbly, genuinely joyful. One friend described her as mesmerizing. Not just because she was beautiful, which she was, but because there was something magnetic about her warmth.
That laugh of hers, it was infectious. The kind that made everyone around her start laughing, too, even if they had no idea what was funny. After graduating from Patchogue-Medford High School in 2003, Rebecca chose a path that surprised no one who knew her. She became a home health aide, caring for elderly patients and autistic children.
It wasn’t glamorous work. The hours were long, the pay modest. But for Rebecca, it was exactly what she wanted. Her patients didn’t just appreciate her, they loved her. She wasn’t just professional, she was genuinely caring. She remembered birthdays, stayed late when someone needed extra help, treated each person with dignity and kindness.
Her best friend, Nicole Longo, had known her for years. The kind of friendship where you finish each other’s sentences, where you don’t have to explain yourself because the other person just gets it. Rebecca had a tight-knit circle like that. Friends who genuinely cared for each other, who went out together, who looked out for one another.
Her uncle, Carl, had summed up her essence perfectly. She enjoyed herself to the fullest, which means everyone else did, too. By December 2009, Rebecca was 24 years old and living her life. She’d recently started dating Dan Meyer, who was 28. It was casual. They’d only been together a few months. Dan was known to Rebecca’s friends and family. He seemed like a decent guy.
Nothing concerning. The relationship wasn’t super serious, just two people figuring things out, but they were comfortable together. Rebecca’s approach to life was simple. She trusted people. She saw the good in others. She believed in giving chances. Her mother had one small ritual that she asked Rebecca to honor.
Whenever she went out at night, Barbara wanted a text when she got home safely. Just a simple “I’m home” message so a mother working the night shift could breathe easier. Those little details. Rebecca’s car in the driveway. Her purse on the table. The routines of a life fully lived. They mattered. In December 2009, Rebecca was surrounded by people who loved her, working a job that mattered, enjoying her youth the way a 24-year-old should.
The cruel irony? A woman who spent her days caring for the most vulnerable people in society would become the most vulnerable of all. And the trust she extended so freely to others would be the very thing a monster would exploit. Thursday night, December 3rd, 2009. Rebecca was getting ready to go out with Dan and some friends.
The plan was simple. Bar hopping in Suffolk County. Nothing unusual. Just a fun night out. They hit their first stop, a local bar. Drinks flowed, conversation came easy, and the group enjoyed themselves. Rebecca was her usual self, laughing, socializing, completely at ease. Everything was normal. But at one of these bars, something happened that would only make sense in hindsight.
Surveillance cameras captured a moment that seemed insignificant at the time. Rebecca was sitting alone at a small two-seater table near the bar. Suddenly, a large man approached her. His name was Evans Ganthier, 33 years old, a complete stranger. The interaction was sudden, forward, aggressive in its confidence.
The footage shows Ganthier talking to Rebecca, who looks visibly caught off guard, uncomfortable. Then he does something deeply unsettling. He takes her phone right out of her hand. He types his own number into her contacts, texts himself from her phone so he has her number, too. The entire exchange lasts less than a minute.
Then he’s gone, disappearing as quickly as he appeared. Rebecca’s reaction is captured on camera. A visible “What the hell was that?” expression on her face. But here’s the thing. Her friends didn’t see this interaction. They were elsewhere in the bar, completely unaware that a predator had just marked their friend. The night continued. Around 3:00 a.m.
, the group arrived at their second venue, Butcher Boys Bar and Grill in Holbrook, Long Island. By this point, Rebecca was extremely intoxicated. The bartender that night, Angela Smith, remembered her clearly. Angela’s exact words, “She was annihilated. She couldn’t talk. She came from another bar.” It was time to call it a night.
The responsible thing to do was get Rebecca home safely. At 3:20 a.m. on December 4th, Dan and two friends left Butcher Boys with Rebecca. The drive back to her house in Medford was short. Dan’s account has never wavered. He dropped Rebecca at her door around 3:30 a.m. and watched her go inside the house. He saw her enter, then drove away, assuming she was safe at home.
The two friends in the car corroborated everything. Everyone agrees on the timeline. What should have happened next was simple. Rebecca texts her mom, “I’m home.” Goes to sleep. Wakes up for work. A normal end to a normal night. But that’s not what happened. Approximately 4:00 a.m.
, Rebecca’s phone received a call from a Boston area number, a prepaid AT&T cell phone. The first call’s duration is unknown. But then came a second call. This one lasted 17 minutes. 17 minutes. Think about that. What was said in those 17 minutes? Who was on the other end? Rebecca was extremely intoxicated, probably disoriented, vulnerable.
Did she answer thinking it was someone she knew? Did the voice sound friendly, unthreatening? Did someone convince her to meet them, maybe claiming they had something of hers, or offering a ride, or spinning some story that made sense to her impaired mind? We’ll never know exactly what was said, but we know what happened next.
Sometime between 3:30 a.m. and dawn, Rebecca left her house. Her car stayed in the driveway. Her purse remained inside on the table. But Rebecca and her cell phone? Gone. In just a few hours, the sun would rise on December 4th, and Rebecca Koster would never be seen alive again. Friday morning, December 4th. Barbara Ross arrived home from her night shift at the hospital around 7:00 a.m.
The first thing she noticed was Rebecca’s car in the driveway. That was a good sign. Walking inside, she saw Rebecca’s purse on the table. Relief washed over her. Rebecca made it home. But then Barbara walked to her daughter’s room. Empty. The bed hadn’t been slept in. She checked her phone. No, I’m home safe message.
That wasn’t like Rebecca. Barbara called her daughter’s number. It rang, but no answer. And the phone clearly wasn’t in the house. The worry started to build. Rebecca had work that day. She never missed work. Never. By afternoon, when Rebecca didn’t show up for her shift, Barbara knew something was very wrong. She filed a missing person report.
Police began their investigation immediately, and their first stop was obvious. Dan Mayer, the boyfriend who dropped her off last. Dan told them exactly what happened. He was cooperative, took a polygraph, answered every question. Police were satisfied. Dan was telling the truth. He wasn’t a suspect.
But if Dan didn’t have Rebecca, then where was she? Rebecca’s large extended family sprang into action. Uncles, cousins, friends, everyone mobilized to search. Someone discovered that Rebecca’s phone had GPS location services enabled. They pulled up the tracker, and there it was. Her phone was pinging, moving, changing locations across Long Island.
She had to be alive. Why else would the phone be moving? They made flyers with Rebecca’s smiling face, hundreds of them. They knocked on doors, covered entire neighborhoods, asked everyone they encountered if they’d seen her. “We couldn’t find her.” Barbara would later say, the helpless frustration clear in her voice.
Friday became Saturday. Saturday became Sunday. With each passing hour, the fear grew heavier. But the family refused to give up. They clung to hope. She was alive somewhere, maybe hurt, maybe trapped, but alive. She had to be. Then came December 7th, 3 days after Rebecca vanished, 11:40 p.m. Barbara’s phone lit up with a text message. It was from Rebecca’s number.
The message read, “Dan has me tied up in a basement somewhere in Commack. I don’t know where I am. Please help.” Barbara’s world exploded. She called Rebecca’s phone immediately, screaming for her daughter to dial 911. The family and police converged on Dan Mayer’s house. When they arrived, police were already there, questioning Dan again based on the text.
They tore through his house, searching every room, every closet, the basement, the garage. No Rebecca, no evidence of Rebecca, nothing. Dan was just as confused and terrified as everyone else. He had no idea what was happening. He passed another round of questioning. The police cleared him again. But then hours later, another text came through to Barbara’s phone.
“Don’t tell Dan, or he’ll kill me.” The family pulled up the GPS tracker again. The phone wasn’t pinging from Dan’s location at all. Instead, it was coming from an industrial area in Commack, about 20 miles from Medford. The family didn’t wait for police. They couldn’t. They drove straight there in the middle of the night.
Picture this scene. Barbara, Larry, family members, friends, all running through industrial parks in the darkness, banging on metal doors, screaming Rebecca’s name into the void. They searched warehouses, yelled into empty buildings, checked loading docks, peered through chain-link fences. Desperate, frantic.
But the phone kept moving, pinging from one spot, then another, leading them on a cruel chase across Long Island. Every time they got close, it moved again. “I wanted to believe that so bad.” Barbara later said, her voice breaking. Everyone wanted to believe it. The texts continued over the next few days, each one more tormenting than the last, each one giving just enough hope to keep the family searching, just enough detail to seem real.
The messages painted a picture of Rebecca in danger, alive but captive, desperate for rescue. But something about them felt wrong. Why would Rebecca text her mother instead of calling 911? Why wouldn’t she try to escape? Why these specific accusations against Dan when he clearly didn’t have her? The family didn’t want to think about the alternative, that maybe Rebecca wasn’t sending these messages, that maybe someone else had her phone, that maybe the person texting them was the same person who made her disappear.
For 6 agonizing days, the family existed in a special kind of hell, not knowing where Rebecca was, who had her, whether she was hurt or scared or fighting to stay alive. They bounced between hope and despair, driven forward by texts that promised she was out there somewhere waiting to be found. While they searched desperately across Long Island, following GPS pings and cryptic messages, the truth was far more horrific than any of them could have imagined.
Rebecca wasn’t hiding in a basement. She wasn’t tied up in Commack. She wasn’t waiting to be rescued. The person sending those texts knew exactly where Rebecca was because he’d put her there himself. As we go into the most chilling details of this documentary, take a brief moment to like and subscribe to our channel if you haven’t already for more in-depth investigations and analysis of significant cases like this.
December 4th, 2009, 7:23 p.m. Just 1 day after Rebecca vanished. North Stonington, Connecticut, a small rural town 85 miles from Rebecca’s Long Island home. Jeremy Hill Road near the intersection of Mystic Road. An isolated area off the main route, the kind of place where you could go hours without seeing another car.
A motorist was driving by when they noticed smoke rising from a field. At first, they thought it was a brush fire. But as they got closer, something looked wrong. The shape in the flames looked almost human. The 911 call came in. “There’s a brush fire, and I think there might be a body.” North Stonington Fire Department responded, along with Connecticut State Police.
When they arrived at the scene, they realized immediately, this was not a brush fire at all. A human body was actively burning, flames still consuming flesh. The smell was overwhelming. Emergency personnel pronounced death at the scene. This was clearly a homicide. The victim had been wrapped in layers, plastic bags, blankets, duct tape.
Someone had taken great care to conceal what they’d done. The Connecticut State Police Eastern District Major Crime Squad took over the investigation. Jeremy Hill Road was shut down completely from Route 184 to Route 201. Full scene lockdown. Initial assessment, female victim. But identification would prove nearly impossible because what the medical examiner discovered when they began processing the body wasn’t just murder, it was the complete obliteration of identity.
The victim had been stabbed, a fatal wound to the liver. She would have bled out in agony. But the killer didn’t stop there. What came next was postmortem mutilation specifically designed to prevent anyone from knowing who she was. All 10 fingertips had been cut off, removed completely, no fingerprints. All 10 toes had been severed, eliminating another potential identification method.
Her tattoos, any distinctive body art that could identify her, carved from her skin. Her face had been completely cut away. Nose, ears, facial features removed. Some sources even report complete dismemberment, possibly decapitation. And then, the burning. A final attempt to destroy evidence, to turn flesh to ash, to erase this person from existence.
But the killer made one mistake. He left her teeth intact. The body was listed as Jane Doe. Connecticut State Police broadcast the information to all regional police departments, hoping someone, somewhere had reported a missing woman who might match. For 6 days, from December 4th through December 10th, Connecticut investigators worked desperately to identify Jane Doe.
Dental records became the only viable method. They reached out to surrounding states, asking for missing persons reports, dental records of women who fit the general description. Suffolk County Police provided information about Rebecca Koster. On December for the dental match came through. On December 10th, 6 days after she disappeared, Barbara Ross received the phone call every parent dreads.
Her daughter was dead. “We just lost our daughter to some psychotic maniac.” Barbara said through tears. But the horror wasn’t just that Rebecca was dead. It was how she died. The brutality, the mutilation, the calculated erasure of her identity. “And we can’t even have an open casket.” Barbara said, her voice breaking, “because of the finalities of what you did.
” While the Costers family had been searching industrial buildings in Long Island, following GPS pings and responding to cruel text messages, Rebecca’s body had already been lying in a Connecticut field for days. The texts weren’t from Rebecca. They never were. Someone had her phone. Someone who wanted to torture her family.
Someone who wanted to watch them suffer. Now the question became, who did this? And why? Connecticut State Police and Suffolk County detectives launched a joint investigation. They needed to find out who Jane Doe was and more importantly, who killed her. Once they identified the body as Rebecca Koster, investigators immediately pulled her phone records from December 4th.
And there it was, the first real break in the case. Two calls from an unknown number had come in after Dan dropped Rebecca off at home. Around 4:00 a.m. One of those calls lasted 17 minutes. 17 minutes. What was discussed? What was said that convinced an intoxicated young woman to leave her house in the middle of the night? Detectives traced the number.
It was a prepaid AT&T cell phone with a Boston area code. With cooperation from the phone company, they identified who purchased it. Evans Ganthier, 33 years old from Port Jefferson Station. That name meant nothing to Rebecca’s family. They’d never heard of him. But police had one more thing to check, the surveillance footage from the bars Rebecca visited that night.
They reviewed the tapes and found him. The large man who approached Rebecca’s table. The man who took her phone right out of her hand and programmed his number. The same Evans Ganthier. Police brought him in for questioning. His response, total denial. He claimed he had nothing to do with Rebecca’s disappearance, didn’t know her.
Never saw her after the bar, had no idea what they were talking about. At that point, police didn’t have enough evidence to hold him. They had to let him go. But now they had probable cause. They secured search warrants for Evans Ganthier’s home and his vehicle. The home search revealed something immediately suspicious.
Evidence of recent, thorough, extensive cleaning, particularly on the garage floor. Luminol testing showed chemical cleaners had been used in an apparent attempt to remove biological evidence. There was no obvious blood in the house, but it was clear someone had tried very hard to clean something. Then they processed his SUV.
And that’s where the truth was waiting. Blood evidence, not just traces. Pooled blood beneath the front seat near the center console. The amount was significant, consistent with fatal blood loss from a stabbing. Forensic analysis confirmed it. The blood matched Rebecca Koster’s DNA. The reconstruction became clear.
Rebecca was stabbed to death in that vehicle. Additional evidence supported it. Soil samples matching the Connecticut crime scene where her body was found. Fiber evidence consistent with the blankets and materials used to wrap her body. But investigators needed something airtight, something undeniable. Back at the Connecticut crime scene, the forensic team was still processing evidence, including the duct tape that had been wrapped around Rebecca’s body.
They dusted the adhesive side of the tape searching for prints. They found one. A single fingerprint. They ran it through AFIS, the automatic fingerprint identification system. The match came back. Evans Ganthier. His fingerprint was on the duct tape that wrapped Rebecca’s body. He handled that tape.
He wrapped that body. There was no explaining that away. On February 8th, 2010, more than 2 months after Rebecca’s murder, an arrest warrant was issued. The next morning, February 9th, Evans Ganthier was arrested at his workplace without incident. The monster who had tortured Rebecca’s family with those texts, who had led them on a cruel chase across Long Island while their daughter lay dead in Connecticut, was finally in custody.
When police first questioned Evans Ganthier, his story was simple. “I didn’t do it. I don’t know anything.” But after investigators presented the evidence, the blood in his car, the fingerprint on the duct tape, the phone records, his story changed completely. Suddenly it became, “Okay, yes, she came to my house.
” And then came the absurd explanation. According to Ganthier, Rebecca got suddenly sick after arriving at his place. She started foaming at the mouth. She was walking in his garage when she tripped over dumbbells he had lying around. She fell, hit her head and died instantly. He panicked, he claimed. Scared of being blamed for an accident, he decided to hide her body.
The mutilation? Just wanted to prevent identification because he was panicking. He drove to the Port Jefferson Ferry, took the car carrier across Long Island Sound to Connecticut and dumped her body. Set it on fire to complete the cover-up. Just a tragic accident followed by bad decisions, he insisted. What he conveniently ignored, the stab wound to her liver.
The 17-minute phone call luring her out of her house. The taunting texts sent to her family while they searched desperately for her. On February 9th, 2010, Evans Ganthier was arraigned in First District Court in Central Islip. He was charged with second-degree murder. He pleaded not guilty and was held without bail.
When the trial finally came, Ganthier maintained his accidental death story. But the prosecution presented overwhelming forensic evidence that tore his lies apart piece by piece. The blood in his car, the amount and location proved she was stabbed there. Not in any garage. The medical examiner testified that the fatal stab wound to Rebecca’s liver was not consistent with falling on dumbbells.
Rebecca had defensive wounds. She fought for her life. This was no accident. Prosecutors highlighted the psychological torture inflicted on the family through those texts. The deliberate, extensive mutilation designed to hide Rebecca’s identity. These were the actions of a calculated killer, not a panicked, innocent man.
In June 2013, the jury deliberated. The defense’s story simply didn’t hold water. On September 30th, 2013, the verdict came down. Guilty of second-degree murder. State Supreme Court Justice Richard Ambro looked directly at Evans Ganthier and said, “Makes no sense. Neither I nor the jury believes you.” Ganthier was sentenced to the maximum penalty, 25 years to life in prison.
His reaction, stone-faced, no remorse, no apology to the Costers family sitting in that courtroom. Evans Ganthier will be eligible for parole in 2035. And when that day comes, Rebecca’s family has promised they will be there to make sure he never walks free again. Barbara Ross lost her daughter to incomprehensible evil.
But the torture didn’t end with Rebecca’s death. “It was torture.” Barbara said of those texts, “False hope weaponized against a grieving mother.” Her brother Damian couldn’t understand it. “She’s the nicest person. No one knows who could hate Becky enough to do something like that.” Her uncle Khalid spoke for the entire family.
“He could have gotten 100 years to life and that wouldn’t make it right.” But the family has made a promise. When Evans Ganthier comes up for parole in 2035, they will be there to make sure he never walks free. Barbara has a message for the world, delivered through tears but with fierce determination. “There are monsters out there and they look like people.
Becky trusted and she paid dearly for it. If I could reach just one person, male or female, make them think twice about trusting someone they don’t know and save their life, then she didn’t die in vain.” Barbara wears a photo of Rebecca around her neck every single day. And when she speaks about Evans Ganthier, she refuses to use his name.
She calls him it, refusing to humanize the monster who destroyed her family. Questions still haunt this case. Why did he do it? What did he say during that 17-minute phone call that convinced Rebecca to leave her house? Why send those texts? Was it pure evil or in to cover his tracks. Could this have been prevented? Were there warning signs that were missed? Rebecca’s friends remember the woman who lit up every room, who dedicated her life to caring for vulnerable people.
Nicole Longo’s last words to her, “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you later.” still haunt her. Rebecca was 24 years old, full of joy, building a career helping others, her entire future ahead of her. She deserved to grow old, to find love, to keep spreading light in the world. Instead, a monster saw her as an object and stole everything.
December 3rd, 2009. Rebecca Koster went out for a normal night with friends. A stranger took her phone number. In less than 24 hours, he had taken her life. Not content with murder, he mutilated her, burned her, and taunted her family while they searched desperately for her. Evil doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it smiles at you in a bar.
Rebecca Koster trusted the wrong person one December night and paid with her life. Evans Ganthier didn’t just murder her. He tried to erase her completely. But Rebecca won’t be forgotten. Not by her family, not by her friends, and not by us. This is her story, and she deserves for it to be told.
