Three hardwood steps led down into a family-room with soft, buttery-yellow walls adorned with framed oil pictures of seascapes. A soapstone fireplace took up the far wall, the charred remains of a fire still visible in the hearth.

Pictures of the family were scattered around the kitchen and family-room. David Downes was a thin, bald man with a slight overbite and nerdy appearance – a man who probably wore socks with his sandals. His wife, Laura, was a homely woman with curly brown hair and a bright smile. She tried to hide her ample figure with oversized tees and sweaters, all of which gave her a tent-like appearance. Samantha seemed to be their sole child, as she was the only one who featured prominently in the photos.

A big, L-shaped couch faced a flat-screen TV. Darby imagined the family on the brown sofa with its soft, deep cushions, everyone watching TV as a fire popped and hissed, the trio oblivious to the horror that awaited them one night after they went to bed.

Located ten or so feet behind the sofa was a sliding glass door. Wind blew through a rectangular-shaped hole that had been cut into the glass.

In her mind’s eye Darby saw a gloved hand reaching through the hole and clicking back the lock. Pictured the faceless intruder carefully sliding open the door and then stepping into the living-room … and then what? What did you do first?

We know you brought a glass-cutter, zip ties, duct tape and bags. You wouldn’t have carried those things in your pockets – at least not in the beginning. You would have stored them in something, wouldn’t you?

Darby imagined him setting a backpack on the floor, then pulling out the items he needed and sticking them in his pockets. After that, he would head to Samantha’s room: grab the daughter and the parents would co-operate.

Darby was sure the killer had a gun. Even a small revolver would enforce immediate group compliance. People played hero all the time with knives. They took risks. That wasn’t the case with guns.

Darby moved back to the kitchen and down a short hall that led to a dark bedroom. The door was open. Samantha’s bedroom. It had a hardwood floor, and the blinds were drawn so there was no need to turn off any lights.

Coop moved next to her, a DSLR camera gripped in his hands, as she knelt and plugged the ALS unit into a socket. She turned on the unit, its fan whirring and a small motor throbbing, and picked up the attached wand. She held the wand at a very sharp, low angle just above the threshold, turning the beam of intensely bright white light to the right side of the neatly made bed.

Visible in the dust were several footwear impressions.

Coop carefully entered the bedroom, evidence markers in his hand. ‘No tread marks,’ he said. ‘He must’ve been wearing cloth booties over his sneakers or whatever was on his feet.’

‘He was wearing something with a soft sole. He wouldn’t want to make any noise.’

Darby shut off the unit. Disappointment growling in her stomach, she used her pen to flick the bedroom light switch.

6

Underneath a ceiling light that, oddly, resembled a large breast with a big metallic nipple, Darby saw a framed Les Misérables print hanging on a wall above a poster bed adorned with bright cushions to bring out the colours in the old Americana quilt.

The bed was neatly made. Everything in her line of vision appeared orderly and clean, as though Samantha had tidied up before leaving for the day.

Darby entered the bedroom. The corner shelving installed between the closet and the window held stuffed animals, makeup and back issues of Vogue and Cosmo, and an iPad with one of those foldable covers that doubled as a stand. Darby saw her reflection in the screen.

While Coop took general photos – used to give an idea of the overall condition and layout of the scene – Darby sketched and mapped the area, taking detailed notes. She noticed that there weren’t any personal pictures on the walls, bureau or desk. She didn’t find any inside the desk either – which wasn’t necessarily odd, as Samantha Downes had been raised in the digital age, when every movement and thought, no matter how inane, was documented and captured by a smartphone or tablet and posted on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, tumblr. – the list of social media sites was endless.

Darby finished her notes and sketch. ‘I’m going to check the area in front of the sliding glass door,’ she said, unplugging the ALS unit.

Past the glass door she saw a deck made of pressure-treated wood, the floor damp from the melting blocks of ice clogging the gutters. There was more snow in the backyard. Had the killer walked through there and left footprints, or had he simply walked up the driveway and up the back porch?

There was no question he had stood on the back deck while he worked on cutting the glass. If the wood were wet or damp that night, when he stepped inside the house he would have left a footwear impression on the living-room’s hardwood floor.

The words meticulous and careful echoed in the back of her mind as she turned on the unit, holding the wand at different angles against the floor, hoping the oblique lighting source would find an impression.

There weren’t any. And there wasn’t any dust.

Coop entered the living-room. ‘Anything?’

‘No. He definitely wiped down this area here before leaving.’

‘Told you we’re dealing with a new strain of pervert.’

Darby pictured the killer kneeling on the deck, the upper half of his body leaning inside as his gloved hand rubbed a cloth or towel over the hardwood. Did he bring his own cloth or towel with him? Or had he used one from inside the house? And where did you dump the cloth or towel and the cut section of glass? She made a note on her clipboard to check the trash cans.

Darby removed her facemask and leaned her face close to the floor.

‘Don’t smell bleach or any other cleaning product,’ she said.

‘We’ll check later just to be sure,’ Coop replied, placing an evidence marker on the floor. They’d use luminol or, more preferably, BlueStar, a more chemically potent reagent, to check for blood and bleach, both of which reacted to the chemical. Smart killers – and there was no question in her mind the Red Hill Ripper belonged in this category – used bleach to destroy DNA evidence. She wondered what else he might’ve cleaned up in here as she stood and moved to the window above the kitchen sink.

The rolling hills of backyard snow were pristine. Undisturbed.

Darby returned to the living-room, where Coop was busy taking general photographs.

‘Don’t see any footprints out back,’ she said.

Coop spoke as he angled the camera lens. ‘He probably parked at one of the nearby vacant houses. Walked straight up the driveway and right up the back deck. I didn’t see any sensor lights on the garage or along the side of the house.’

‘I wonder if that’s part of his selection methodology – choosing victims who live in remote areas in order to decrease his chances of being spotted by a witness. The other families – did they live in remote or secluded areas?’

‘Everyone here lives in a remote and secluded area. This isn’t like where we grew up, with houses practically sitting next to each other. A town like this is a perfect hunting ground.’

Then Coop moved the camera away from his face and walked to the right of the sliding glass door. ‘Check this out,’ he said, pointing to the cut, square-shaped hole.

Darby moved in front of Coop and looked at the exterior glass. It was covered in dirt and grime – except for the area around the hole, which had clearly been wiped down. There was also some sort of film on the glass.

‘What do you think it is?’ Coop asked.

‘Might be kerosene.’

‘Kerosene?’

‘It ensures a smoother, crack-free cut.’ Darby left the room and came back with a pair of orange goggles. She slipped them on and then she moved the handheld forensic light-source device that had been tucked in her pocket around and around the film.