Three weeks later, John and Lisa Connelly and their sixteen-year-old daughter, Stacey, were found dead by John’s sister, who had arrived from San Diego to spend Christmas and the New Year with her brother’s family.

No semen was found at any of the crime scenes or on the bodies. The medical examiner found no evidence of penetration. The breasts of the female victims showed extensive bruising, the result of having been pinched and twisted.

Darby spent most of her time on the bedroom pictures. With the exception of the victims, the crime scenes were nearly identical: same plastic bindings and duct tape; same seating arrangement; and the same black garbage bag tied around the father’s or husband’s head. The killer had entered the home by cutting a hole through a window or sliding glass door.

Darby arranged the bedroom photographs on the quilt and stared down at them, willing a thought to come to her. She paced around the room, thinking. She could see only carnage and desperation.

Darby pinched the bridge of her nose and blinked her eyes several times, trying to get some moisture into them. Then she arched her back and stretched. She was thinking about heading into the shower when she recalled the bar across the street, the one with the big wagon wheel out front. Samantha Downes had worked at a bar called the Wagon Wheel Saloon.

The shower could wait. Darby picked up her jacket and headed back out.

17

The Wagon Wheel Saloon was one of those local tourist traps designed to give people an authentic old-time cowboy experience: duckboards covered with green sawdust; oak timber beams and wood walls festooned with antique six-shooters; and black and white pictures of cowboys, miners and settlers; wood-bladed ceiling fans; and a long, handcrafted mahogany bar with brass poles, its top polished to a high shine.

The dining area, which made up the entire left side of the room, consisted of a dozen or so tables covered with red and white checked tablecloths. About half were occupied, either by elderly couples eating in silence or by haggard-looking couples who were unwinding after work or enjoying some peace and quiet away from their kids. They all looked like what she called the ‘God Bless America Crowd’ – people who, she suspected, listened to country music and went to church every Sunday, organized bingo fundraisers and did potluck get-togethers with other couples. An archway in the corner led to a room with a pool table, and, on the other side of it, a jukebox swirling with neon colours.

Darby approached the lone man standing behind the bar, at the far end, loading draught beers on to a waitress’s circular carrying tray. He had a bowling-ball-shaped head and greying brown hair thick with some sort of styling product designed to give him that I-just-got-out-of-bed look.

She leaned against the bar, waiting for him to finish, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a group of men seated at a nearby table stop their conversation and take turns checking her out. They didn’t go about it surreptitiously, either. All five of them turned and gawked. Three continued to stare brazenly, one pretended to be busy with his phone, while another raised his beer in salute and winked at her. He had cold blue eyes and a promising future as a wife beater.

Had the Ripper sat at one of these tables, watching Samantha Downes delivering drinks and food? Had she ever waited on him? Had they talked? Or had he, like the majority of sexual predators, watched her covertly, circling her like a shark and collecting information?

The bartender stepped up to her. He wore a black polo shirt, the sleeves stretched around biceps the size of grapefruits, and he had a blue and red tattoo of a snake along his right forearm.

‘If you’re here to eat, you can go on and grab a seat.’

‘The owner around?’ Darby asked.

‘Why, you looking to buy?’

Darby showed him her federal ID.

The man sighed heavily. ‘I was wondering when you guys were going to show up,’ he said.

‘Why’s that?’

‘You’re here to talk to me about what happened to Sammy Downes, right?’

‘You already heard what happened?’

‘Yeah,’ he said sadly.

‘From who?’

‘Everyone’s talking about it. And it’s posted on the Item’s website. That’s our local newspaper, the Red Hill Evening Item.’

Then she remembered: a young-looking photographer had snapped pictures of the black body bags being removed from the house while a reporter from the Red Hill Evening Item, a chubby man with a full beard and a tweed jacket, got a brief statement from Ray Williams. They had been the only two onlookers who had showed up at the house.

‘I am the owner, by the way. J. D. James Doherty.’

She shook his hand. ‘Darby McCormick. How well did you know Samantha Downes?’

He shrugged. ‘As well as an employer can know his employee, I guess. She worked for me for … five months? She was …’ His thoughts drifted for a moment. Then he leaned forward and gripped the edge of the bar. ‘Sammy was the kind of kid you’re always rooting for, you know? Smart, worked hard, had her shit together. Good kid, quiet, kinda kept to herself.’

‘And pretty.’

‘That too.’ He sighed heavily and then was quiet for a moment, locked on a private thought. ‘Goddamn waste.’

‘Any guys ever bother her?’

‘There were guys who hit on her – guys her own age. If someone was bothering her, she never mentioned it to me.’

‘What about an older guy, forties or fifties, who came in here alone and asked to be seated at one of her tables, maybe asked questions about her? Someone who might’ve given you or one of your employees or customers a bad vibe?’

J. D. was shaking his head the entire time. ‘I’ve been racking my brain about that all day,’ he said. ‘Is it possible someone like that was in here? Sure. But if he was, I didn’t see him. Believe it or not, this place gets hopping, and when it does I’m balls-to-the-wall. You should ask Evelyn. She’s one of my waitresses. Evelyn Roy.’

He pointed to a short woman dressed in tight black jeans and a black polo-style shirt who was in the process of transferring red baskets of onion rings and barbeque chicken wings with cups of blue-cheese dipping sauce from her carrying tray to a table where two middle-aged women were seated. Both women had round faces and wore oversized sweaters to hide their ample curves.

‘Evelyn can give you a better idea about Sammy,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know her beyond the employer–employee relationship. She was a great worker, showed up on time, never gave me any guff.’

‘What about the Red Hill Ripper? What’s the scuttle-butt around town?’

‘The scuttle-what?’

‘The gossip. Your employees and regular patrons, friends, people you talk to, what are they saying?’

‘I hear some people are trying to take out home equity loans to get burglar alarms installed. God knows I’ve changed my locks. I’ve got two kids. My wife makes me sleep with a baseball bat next to the bed.’

‘What about you? What do you think’s going on here?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I haven’t given it much thought. The main thing on my mind is how to keep my head above water, financially. I know that sounds cold, but, well, I’m being honest. Something to drink?’

Darby ordered a Maker’s Mark. When he returned with the glass, she gave him her business card, along with a twenty, and told him to keep the change.

The waitress, Evelyn Roy, was twenty-two and wore a lot of foundation to try to hide her blemished skin. She had a degree in English and, like Samantha Downes, was having trouble landing what she called ‘a real job’. The young woman couldn’t recall seeing any older men who had given Samantha trouble or had come in there alone and watched her.

Evelyn said she didn’t know Sammy that well. ‘She was kind of … not shy but private,’ she said. She had a high-pitched nasal voice and a small chip along the bottom of a front tooth. ‘I kinda got the feeling she was under a lot of pressure.’