CHAPTER EIGHT #2
"These aren't serial killings. Not in the traditional sense.
" Isla turned to face him, her mind racing through the implications.
"Traditional serials have cooling-off periods.
Days, weeks, months between kills. This is two victims in less than twenty-four hours.
That's not compulsion—that's mission-oriented. Someone with an agenda and a timeline."
James was quiet for a moment, navigating around a delivery truck that had double-parked on Superior Street. "You think they're sending a message."
"I think they're making a statement. The staging, the photography angle, the scenic locations—it's all deliberate. Theatrical. Like they want us to see something specific."
"See what?"
"I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out."
***
The drive to the Lester River overlook took twenty-five minutes—twenty-five minutes of silence punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the police scanner and the steady rhythm of James's hands on the wheel.
Isla spent the time reviewing what little they knew, turning the facts over in her mind like stones in a tumbler.
Derek Paulson. Forty-three. Award-winning landscape photographer. Killed at Hawk Ridge, positioned behind his own camera as if capturing the sunrise.
And now another victim. Another scenic location. Another photographer, presumably, if the pattern held.
Two photographers. Two overlooks.
Whatever message the killer was sending, they were sending it fast.
The overlook near the Lester River was smaller than Hawk Ridge, more intimate—a rocky outcropping that jutted over a frozen meadow, surrounded by dense stands of pine and birch.
Two Duluth PD cruisers blocked the access road, their lights casting red and blue shadows across the snow.
An ambulance idled nearby, its crew standing in a loose cluster with the particular posture of people waiting for permission to do their jobs.
Isla badged the officer at the perimeter and ducked under the crime scene tape, her boots crunching on frozen gravel.
The trail to the overlook wound through skeletal birches, their white bark stark against the gray sky.
She could hear voices up ahead—the low murmur of crime scene technicians, the occasional click of a camera shutter.
Dr. Patricia Henley met her at the edge of the clearing.
The medical examiner looked tired—more tired than usual, the lines around her eyes deeper than they'd been yesterday morning. She'd probably been called straight from Derek Paulson's autopsy, summoned to another scene before she'd even finished documenting the first.
"Agent Rivers," Henley said. "Déjà vu doesn't begin to cover it."
"Time of death?"
"Within the last hour. Maybe ninety minutes at the outside." Henley's voice was flat, professional, but Isla could hear the strain underneath. "Body temperature's barely dropped. Whoever did this, they did it recently."
Within the last hour. Which meant Marcus Lang, who had been leading a photography workshop in front of a dozen witnesses, could not possibly have been here.
"Walk me through it," Isla said.
Henley led her toward the overlook, picking her way carefully along the flagged path the technicians had established.
"Hiker found her at eleven forty-two. He was coming up the trail from the south, saw what he thought was another photographer working the scene.
Didn't realize anything was wrong until he got close enough to see the blood. "
"Did he see anyone else? Hear anything?"
"Nothing. He says the area was deserted when he arrived. No vehicles in the lot except hers—a silver Subaru Outback, registered to a Jennifer Hayes."
Jennifer Hayes.
The name triggered something in Isla's memory—a connection she couldn't quite place. She filed it away for later and kept walking, following Henley toward the cluster of technicians gathered at the overlook's edge.
And then she saw the body.
Jennifer Hayes sat behind a camera mounted on a professional tripod, her body positioned with the same careful deliberation that had marked Derek Paulson's murder.
Her hands rested on her thighs, fingers curled loosely inward.
Her head was angled toward the viewfinder, tilted slightly, as if she'd frozen mid-shot while composing the perfect frame.
But unlike Paulson, whose camera had been pointed at the lake, Jennifer Hayes's equipment faced the meadow below.
A long telephoto lens—the kind used for wildlife photography—extended from the camera body like an accusatory finger, pointing toward the open ground where something had clearly been moving.
"She was a wildlife photographer," Isla said. It wasn't a question.
Henley nodded. "Based on her equipment and the images on her camera, yes.
She appears to have been photographing a great gray owl when she was attacked.
" The medical examiner consulted her notes.
"There are dozens of shots on the memory card—the owl perching, flying, hunting.
And then one final image, taken after she was already dead. "
Isla felt her stomach turn. "Like Paulson."
"Exactly like Paulson. The killer positioned her body, adjusted her camera angle, and then used her own equipment to capture the scene.
" Henley's voice tightened. "The final photograph shows the meadow she was documenting.
It's beautiful, actually. Perfect composition, perfect light.
You'd never know the person who took it was already dead. "
Isla crouched beside the body, forcing herself to look past the horror and see the details.
Jennifer Hayes had been a small woman, mid-forties, from the look of her, with the weathered hands and practical clothing of someone who spent her life outdoors.
Her jacket was high-end—the kind of technical gear that cost hundreds of dollars and was designed for extended exposure to harsh conditions.
Her boots were caked with snow and mud, suggesting she'd been here for hours before the attack.
The wound was at the base of her skull, just like Paulson's. A single blow, delivered from behind with enough force to be instantly fatal. Whoever had done this had known exactly where to strike, exactly how much force to apply.
They'd practiced. Or they'd done this before.
"Any sign of a struggle?" Isla asked.
"None that I can see. Like Paulson, she appears to have been caught completely off guard.
The blow came from behind while she was focused on her equipment.
" Henley paused. "There's something else.
Her phone was in her pocket—unlocked, with several missed calls from her mother.
I didn't scroll through the messages, but I noticed the call log.
The mother called three times this morning, starting around nine AM. "
"She was worried about her daughter."
"Given what happened to Derek Paulson, I imagine a lot of people are worried about photographers right now."
Isla stood, her knees protesting against the cold, and turned to survey the scene.
The overlook offered a stunning view of the meadow and the forest beyond—the kind of landscape that would attract wildlife photographers and nature enthusiasts from across the region.
Jennifer Hayes had probably come here dozens of times, knew every angle and sightline, felt safe in a place she considered her own.
And someone had used that familiarity against her.
"Agent Rivers."
She turned to find James approaching, his phone pressed to his ear, his expression carrying news she already knew she didn't want to hear.
"I just got off with dispatch," he said. "Jennifer Hayes was a professional wildlife photographer. Award-winning, like Paulson—won four different competitions in the past five years, had work featured in national magazines."
"They knew each other."
"They moved in the same circles, at least. Small community.
And there's something else." James consulted his phone.
"I had someone at the office pull her social media.
She and Marcus Lang have been in contact.
Multiple exchanges over the past six months—he was apparently trying to recruit her for some kind of gallery collaboration. "
Isla felt the pieces shifting, rearranging themselves into a new pattern. Two victims, both successful photographers. Both connected to Marcus Lang, however tangentially. Both killed in scenic locations, positioned with their own cameras, their deaths staged like twisted works of art.
But Lang had an alibi for both murders. Airtight, witnessed, documented.
"He's not doing this himself," Isla said slowly, thinking out loud. "But he might still be connected. Someone who knows him, knows his world, knows which photographers to target."
"Or someone who's targeting that world specifically." James moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his heavy parka. "The photography community. The people who make their living capturing beautiful images of this region."
"Why?"
"That's the question, isn't it?"
Isla turned back to the body, to Jennifer Hayes sitting frozen behind her camera, her final photograph a landscape she would never see.
The staging was identical to Paulson's—the positioning, the angle of the head, the hands arranged just so.
But there was a difference too, something she'd been struggling to articulate since she'd first seen Derek Paulson's body at Hawk Ridge.
It came to her now, with the sudden clarity of a puzzle piece clicking into place.
"They're part of it," she said.
James frowned. "Part of what?"
"The landscape. The scene." Isla gestured at the overlook, the meadow, the forest stretching toward the horizon.
"Paulson was positioned to capture the sunrise over Lake Superior.
Hayes was positioned to capture wildlife in the meadow.
The killer isn't just murdering photographers—they're incorporating them into the photographs.
Turning them into subjects instead of artists. "
"Living postcards."
The phrase sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Exactly. The photographers become part of the scenery they were trying to capture. Frozen in place, permanent fixtures in the landscape they loved."
"That's..." James shook his head, searching for words. "That's insane."
"That's vision." Isla's voice came out harder than she intended.
"Twisted, psychotic vision—but vision nonetheless.
Whoever's doing this isn't killing randomly.
They're creating something. Some kind of statement about photography, about art, about the relationship between the observer and the observed. "
"And they've done it twice in less than twenty-four hours."
The weight of that fact settled on her shoulders like a physical burden. Two victims. Two perfectly staged crime scenes. Two photographs taken with the victims' own cameras, capturing moments of beauty that would be forever tainted by the horror of how they'd been created.
And the killer was still out there, probably already planning the next one.
"We need to warn them," Isla said. "The photography community. Anyone who fits the victim profile—professional, award-winning, works in outdoor landscapes. They need to know they might be targets."
"That's going to cause a panic."
"Good. Panic might keep people alive." She turned to face him fully, meeting his eyes with an intensity that bordered on desperation.
"James, we've got someone killing photographers at scenic overlooks.
Two in one day. That's not a pattern anymore—that's a spree.
And spree killers don't stop until they're caught or killed. "
"Or until they've accomplished whatever they're trying to accomplish."
"Do you want to wait around to find out what that is?"
James held her gaze for a long moment, and she could see the same calculations running through his head that had been running through hers.
The risks of going public, the potential backlash, the possibility of sending the killer underground.
Versus the near-certainty that more people would die if they didn't act.
"I'll call Kate," he said finally. "We'll need to coordinate with local PD, get a statement out to the media."
"And I want every photographer in this region contacted directly.
Professional associations, gallery networks, anyone who might know potential targets.
The killer is choosing victims based on some criteria we don't fully understand yet, but success seems to be part of it.
Award winners. People with public profiles. "
"That's going to be a long list."
"Then we'd better start making calls."