We parked at the station and made another round of the bars on foot. By now, word had spread, and the bartenders and waitstaff were expecting us. Tim Bradley at the Merryman was fairly sure he hadn’t served any of the three, but a waitress named Lucy Briggs working the outside deck thought she might remember them. No one at Bob’s Bar and Grill could make a positive ID. Rosalind Meeks, the first bartender we asked at Bazooka Joe’s, where the threesome had allegedly been for last call, just laughed at us.

“End of the night? Are you kidding me?” She gestured around. It was a vast, cavernous space smelling of stale beer and mildewed carpets. “If they came in now, sure, I might remember them. But last call?” She shook her head. “This place is wall-to-wall with college kids, and let me tell you, they all look alike after a while.”

Cody leaned forward. “You know we’re not looking to get anyone in trouble, right? We’re just trying to verify these kids’ story.”

Rosalind gave him a world-weary smile. “Honey, you don’t need to whisper sweet nothings to me. I understand there’s a boy dead.” She took another look at Thad Vanderhei’s photo. “Twenty-one years old, probably still excited he could get into a bar legally. But I’m sorry; I honestly can’t say.”

“Thanks for trying.” Cody gathered the photos.

“Anytime.” This time, her smile had more wattage. “You’re Caleb Fairfax’s younger brother, right? I went to school with him. How’s he doing?”

“Good.”

“Married?”

Cody nodded. “Married, two kids.”

“Ah, well.” Her wattage dimmed. “You tell him Rosalind says hi. We dated for a month or two, you know.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him.”

We got the same story when we questioned the rest of the bartenders, waitstaff, and bouncers on duty, and I didn’t have the sense any of them were lying. Truth was, there was nothing especially distinctive about the trio. Three average-looking white boys in college T-shirts, board shorts, and flip-flops. You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting one of those in Pemkowet in the summer.

The lack of resolution was frustrating, and by the time we finished, I felt like throwing a rock at someone.

“Why couldn’t one of them have flaming red hair?” I muttered. “Or a birthmark, or a distinctive tattoo, or . . . or six fingers on one hand or something.”

“Is that from a movie?” Cody sounded tired.

“Don’t tell me you never saw The Princess Bride.” I stifled a yawn. “I swear, when this is over, I’m going to make you come over to watch a movie marathon with Mom and me.”