The woods in New London are quiet now. Leaves rustle, birds call, and the wind moves through the trees like it always has. But for the investigators walking the trails of the Esther Currier Wildlife Management Area this October, the silence carries weight. It’s the same place where Catherine Millican’s body was found in 1978. And it’s where, nearly half a century later, the New Hampshire Cold Case Unit is searching again.
Catherine Millican was 27 years old when she went missing. She had told friends she was going birdwatching. Her brown Volkswagen Rabbit was found near the wetlands entrance. Her body was discovered the next evening, stabbed multiple times, just a few hundred yards into the woods off Route 11. No one was ever charged. No one was ever named. Her case faded into the background, like so many others.
But Catherine wasn’t just a case file. She was a person. An artist. A photographer. A national sailing champion. Her family described her as vibrant, curious, and full of life. She lived in Sunapee, a small town where people know each other’s names and stories. Her death shook the community. Her absence left a hole.
Now, 47 years later, the Cold Case Unit is back. They’re using new forensic techniques, combing the area for physical evidence, and releasing previously unseen photographs of Catherine. The timing isn’t random. It’s the anniversary of her death. And it’s a reminder that justice delayed doesn’t have to mean justice denied.
For those of us studying public health, this kind of story hits differently. It’s not just about crime. It’s about trauma. About what happens to families when closure never comes. About how communities carry grief in ways that aren’t always visible. There’s no vaccine for loss. No prescription for unanswered questions. But there is something powerful in the act of remembering.
Cold cases are often framed as puzzles. Pieces missing. Clues scattered. But they’re also about people. About lives interrupted. About the systems that failed to protect them and the ones trying, years later, to make things right. The Cold Case Unit isn’t just solving crimes. They’re restoring dignity. They’re saying: we haven’t forgotten you.
Catherine’s story also raises questions about how we treat violence against women. How many cases go unsolved because the victim was alone, or young, or female? How often are their stories sidelined, their names reduced to footnotes? And what does it mean when a state decides to invest in remembering them?
The renewed search in New London is a step. It’s not a guarantee. Evidence may not surface. Leads may not emerge. But the act itself matters. It tells Catherine’s family—and the public—that her life still matters. That her death still demands answers. That silence isn’t the end.
There’s something deeply human about returning to the place where someone was lost. It’s not just about evidence. It’s about presence. About walking the same paths. About standing in the same space. About imagining what she saw, what she felt, what she hoped for. It’s about honoring her story, not just solving her case.
For students like me, who spend time in clinics and community centers, this kind of work feels familiar. It’s about listening. About showing up. About refusing to let people be forgotten. Whether it’s a patient whose symptoms don’t make sense or a family whose grief stretches across decades, the principle is the same: every life matters. Every story deserves attention.
Catherine Millican’s murder is still unsolved. But her memory isn’t. The investigators in New London are walking through the woods with purpose. They’re carrying tools, yes—but also care. They’re looking for evidence, but also for something harder to define: a way to say, after all these years, that someone still sees her.
And maybe that’s the beginning of healing. Not just for her family, but for all of us. For every cold case that still waits. For every community that still mourns. For every person who wonders if their story will be remembered. In times when campus unease and broader social tensions seem to dominate our headlines, there’s something grounding about returning to these fundamental questions of justice and remembrance.
Justice isn’t always swift. It isn’t always clean. But it starts with showing up. With asking questions. With walking the woods again, even when the trail is old and the answers are uncertain. Sometimes, as we’ve seen in other contexts, communities must gather to process trauma and find ways to honor those who are absent.
Catherine Millican went birdwatching on a fall day in 1978. She never came home. But this October, someone went looking for her again. And that, in itself, is a kind of hope.
