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"Any of the others?" she pressed, handing him the next photograph.
"Uh, yeah," he said, nodding slowly as he gazed at an image of Amy Sanderson. "She was in here a few times too. She mostly talked about herself, got really drunk, and bought a lot of drinks. I had to cut her off."
"Anyone else?" Morgan asked, her voice barely more than a whisper now as she handed him another photo – this one of a young woman with dark hair and a shy smile.
"Her too," he replied, hesitating for a moment before continuing. "She didn't say much, at least not till you got a few drinks in her. Then she was an open faucet."
As the bartender continued to recognize each of the victims, Morgan's heart pounded in her chest. The connection between the bar and the murders was stronger than she'd anticipated, and it filled her with a renewed sense of urgency.
Morgan looked around the dimly lit bar, taking in the cracked leather stools and neon beer signs that cast a hazy glow over the room. She could almost taste the desperation clinging to the air, heavy with the scent of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke. It was exactly the kind of place where people came to forget their troubles, to pour out their souls.
"By the way," Morgan said, her voice steady despite the pounding in her chest, "what's your name?"
The bartender wiped down the counter with an old rag before answering, "Davis Smith."
"Nice to meet you, Davis," she replied.
"Likewise," Davis responded, nodding. He leaned against the bar, his hands gripping the edge as he spoke. "You know, people come in here all the time, have a couple of drinks, and start talking. Sometimes they tell me things – personal stuff. It's part of the job, I guess. Just listening."
Morgan studied Davis's face, trying to discern if there was something he wasn't telling her. With every victim having been in this bar at some point, it seemed unlikely that he wouldn't have heard anything that could be relevant. But she couldn't force him to talk – she needed him to trust her.
For all she knew, Davis could be their killer.
"Is there anything you've heard recently that might help me?" she asked carefully, her eyes never leaving his. "Anything unusual or out of the ordinary?"
Davis rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he considered her question. "There's always something unusual going on in a dive like this," he muttered, chuckling dryly. "But I haven't noticed anything particularly strange lately. At least, nothing I can put my finger on."
Morgan's mind raced, her instincts telling her that Davis knew more than he was letting on. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself and formulate a plan. If she wanted to get the information she needed, she would have to play this smart – and patient.
"Can I see a list of your staff, Davis?" Morgan asked, her eyes scanning the dimly lit room for any clues that might help her case. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke clung to the air, making her feel even more on edge.
"List?" Davis chuckled, the sound echoing through the empty bar. "It's just me, sweetheart. Well, it was just me and a barback, but he up and vanished a few days ago. No notice, nothing. Left me in the lurch."
"Really?" Morgan said, an icy chill running down her spine as she considered the implications. A sudden disappearance so close to a murder scene couldn't be coincidental. "What did this barback look like?"
"Ah, I dunno. Average height, brown hair, kinda scruffy-looking," Davis replied, shrugging his shoulders.
Morgan's gaze drifted over to a Christmas photo hanging on the wall, the cheerful faces of the bar's patrons contrasting sharply with the grim reality outside.
Among them, a young man in a uniform stood out, a pair of gloves on his hands. Her heart tightened in her chest as she recognized him instantly.
"Wait a minute…" Morgan breathed, her voice barely a whisper. She moved closer to the photograph, feeling a cold sweat break out on her brow. It was him.
Joe Dancer.
"Is that your barback?" she asked, pointing at the man in the photo. Her mind raced, her thoughts a jumbled mess of fear, anger, and regret. How could she have been so blind?
Davis squinted at the photo, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, that's him. John, or whatever his name is."
"Joe Dancer," Morgan said.
"That's it," Davis replied. "You know him?"
Morgan clenched her fists, the weight of guilt bearing down on her like a thousand-pound anvil. She had been so close – so close to cracking this case wide open, and she hadn't even realized it. But now she knew, and there was no turning back.
"Thanks, Davis," she said, her voice firm and resolute. "You've been more helpful than you know." As she turned to leave the bar, a fire burned within her, fueled by both her desire for justice and her need to right a wrong that had haunted her for far too long. This time, she would catch the killer – no matter what the cost.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
