CHAPTER TEN
The whiteboard had become a monument to failure.
Isla stood before it in the conference room, her arms crossed, her eyes tracing the web of photographs and timelines and red string connections that should have led somewhere by now.
Derek Paulson's face stared back at her from the left side—the professional headshot they'd pulled from his website, all confidence and artistic gravitas.
Jennifer Hayes occupied the right side, her image cropped from a candid shot at some wildlife photography awards ceremony, her smile genuine in a way that made Isla's chest ache.
Two photographers. Two scenic overlooks. Two bodies staged like grotesque installations.
And absolutely nothing connecting them to a killer.
The clock on the wall read 2:17 PM. Wednesday, March 8th. Almost eight hours since Derek Paulson's body had been found at Hawk Ridge, and they were no closer to catching whoever had done this than they'd been when the first call came in.
"The shipyard search is winding down."
Isla turned to find Kate Channing in the doorway, her silver-gray hair immaculate as always, her expression carrying the particular weight of someone delivering news no one wanted to hear.
The SAC moved into the room with deliberate grace, her heels clicking against the floor, and came to stand beside Isla at the whiteboard.
"The Marshals are pulling back to a skeleton crew," Kate continued. "They've been over every inch of that grid three times. If Brune was there, he's not anymore."
"He was there three weeks ago. He killed Mitch Connelly somewhere in that area."
"Three weeks is a long time when you're running from a manhunt.
" Kate's voice was gentle but firm—the tone of someone who had learned to deliver hard truths without flinching.
"He could be anywhere by now. Wisconsin, Michigan, Canada.
The ice on the lake is breaking up—if he had access to a boat, he could have slipped across to the Canadian shore and disappeared entirely. "
Isla wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that Robert Brune was sixty-five years old with no resources, no network, no obvious means of fleeing the region unless he had stolen a boat, which was possible, but risky with the coast guard all over the place.
But the evidence—or lack thereof—spoke for itself.
They'd searched every building, every container, every abandoned corner of the industrial district. They'd found nothing.
The Lake Superior Killer had vanished like smoke.
"Keep a surveillance presence at the shipyard," Isla said finally. "Reduced, but present. If he's still in the area, if he tries to go back to familiar ground—"
"Already arranged." Kate nodded toward the whiteboard. "Now tell me where we are on the photographer case."
Where we are is nowhere, Isla thought. But she didn't say it.
"Marcus Lang is still under surveillance, but his alibi for both murders is solid.
Twelve witnesses put him at his studio during the Hayes killing, and traffic cameras confirm he was driving to work during the Paulson window.
" Isla gestured at the timeline she'd constructed, the careful documentation of Lang's movements that proved nothing except his innocence.
"If he's involved, he's using someone else to do the actual killing. "
"Any evidence of that?"
"None. His phone records are clean, his financials are clean, his known associates have all been interviewed. If he hired someone, he did it in a way that leaves no trace."
Kate studied the whiteboard for a long moment, her gray-blue eyes cataloging every detail. "What about other suspects? The victims must have had other enemies, other conflicts."
"Paulson had plenty of conflicts—mostly with other photographers who he accused of copying his work.
We're working through the list, but so far everyone has alibis or no apparent connection to Jennifer Hayes.
" Isla paused, the familiar frustration building in her chest. "That's the problem.
Paulson and Hayes didn't have overlapping enemies.
They weren't rivals, weren't competing for the same awards or clients.
They moved in adjacent circles—same general community, but different specialties. Landscape versus wildlife."
"So whoever killed them wasn't targeting them specifically. They were targeting photographers in general."
"That's what it looks like. Professional, award-winning photographers who work at scenic locations.
" Isla turned to face her boss fully. "We've issued warnings to everyone who fits the profile.
Local photography associations, gallery networks, the university's art department.
But this is a region built on outdoor photography—there are hundreds of potential targets, and we can't protect all of them. "
Kate was quiet for a moment, processing. Then she asked the question Isla had been dreading: "What's the profile? Who are we looking for?"
"Someone with a deep connection to photography, probably personal rather than professional.
The staging of the bodies shows an understanding of composition, of how photographs work.
They're not just killing these people—they're turning them into subjects.
Incorporating them into the landscapes they were trying to capture. "
"That's artistic vision."
"Twisted artistic vision. But vision nonetheless.
" Isla turned back to the whiteboard, to the crime scene photographs that showed Derek Paulson and Jennifer Hayes frozen behind their cameras.
"This isn't random violence. It's not even traditional serial killing.
This is someone with a message, a purpose.
They're trying to say something about photography, about the relationship between photographers and the landscapes they document. "
"Any idea what that message might be?"
Before Isla could answer, the conference room door opened and James Sullivan walked in, his tablet tucked under his arm, his expression carrying the particular energy of someone who'd found something.
"You need to see this," he said.
He moved to the whiteboard and pulled up an image on his tablet, holding it so both women could see. It was one of the crime scene photographs from Hawk Ridge—Derek Paulson's body positioned behind his camera, the sunrise painting Lake Superior in shades of gold and rose.
"I've been going through the photos from both scenes," James said, "trying to understand why the killer chose these specific locations, these specific angles. And I noticed something."
He swiped to a second image—the final photograph from Paulson's camera, the one the killer had taken after staging the body.
The composition was stunning: the rocky outcropping in the foreground, the harbor lights below, Superior stretching toward a horizon line that divided the frame into precise thirds.
"This is the photo the killer took with Paulson's camera. Perfect composition, professional quality." James swiped again, pulling up a similar image. "And this is the photo from Hayes's camera—the meadow she was documenting, captured at the moment of her death."
"We've seen these," Kate said. "What are you showing us?"
"Look at the angles." James zoomed in on the Paulson image, highlighting the specific way the foreground rock related to the harbor below.
"This isn't just a beautiful photograph.
It's a very specific composition—the exact angle, the exact framing, the exact relationship between elements.
And Hayes's photo is the same way. Not just pretty, but precise. "
Isla felt something shift in her mind, a connection forming that she couldn't quite grasp. "You think the killer was recreating something."
"I think the killer was forcing the victims to recreate something.
" James set the tablet down on the conference table and turned to face them fully.
"The bodies weren't just positioned at scenic overlooks—they were positioned at specific spots, angled in specific ways, their cameras pointed at specific compositions.
It's like the killer had a template. A reference image they were trying to match. "
"A reference image," Kate repeated. "Like an older photograph?"
"That's my theory. Someone who has a collection of historical images, vintage photographs of these locations, and is staging murders to recreate them.
" James's jaw tightened. "The victims aren't just becoming part of the landscape—they're becoming part of a specific vision of the landscape. Someone else's vision."
Isla stared at the images on James's tablet, her mind racing through the implications. Historical photographs. Vintage compositions. Someone with a deep enough knowledge of Duluth's photographic history to identify the exact spots where famous images had been captured.
"We need to research the locations," she said. "Hawk Ridge, the Lester River overlook. Find out if there are historical photographs that match the compositions the killer was recreating."
"Already started." James pulled up another window on his tablet.
"I've been digging through the University of Minnesota Duluth's archives, the St. Louis County Historical Society, local photography collections.
These locations have been photographed for over a century—there are thousands of images to sort through. "
"Then we narrow the focus. Look for photographs that match the specific compositions in the crime scene photos. Same angle, same framing, same relationship between elements."
James nodded, already typing something into his tablet. "I'll need help. This is a lot of material to sort through."
"Take whoever you need from the bullpen. This is priority one."
Kate had been quiet through the exchange, but now she spoke up. "If the killer is recreating historical photographs, that suggests a personal connection to those images. Someone who owns the originals, or has studied them extensively."
"A collector," Isla said. "Or an academic. Someone who specializes in the history of landscape photography."
"The university would be a good place to start. Art history department, photography program. Someone who teaches about the evolution of landscape photography in this region."
Isla felt the familiar quickening of her pulse that came when a case started to take shape. It wasn't much—a theory, a direction, a thread to pull. But it was more than they'd had an hour ago.
"I'll make some calls," she said. "See who at the university might have expertise in historical Duluth photography."
"Keep me updated." Kate moved toward the door, then paused. "And Rivers? Don't forget about Brune. I know the photographer case is urgent, but the Lake Superior Killer is still out there. We can't lose sight of that."
"I won't."
Kate left, and Isla turned back to the whiteboard. Robert Brune's face stared at her from the LSK section—the grizzled fisherman, the quiet man who'd spent forty years feeding bodies to the lake. He was still out there somewhere, hiding, waiting, planning his next move.
But right now, there was another monster to catch.
"James," she said without turning around. "What do you know about photography professors at UMD?"
"Not much. But I know someone who might."
Isla finally turned to face him. He was already on his phone, scrolling through contacts with the focused efficiency she'd come to appreciate over three years of partnership.
"Who?"
"Patricia Henley. Her husband taught at the university before he retired—something in the arts department, I think. She might know who to talk to."
"Call her."
Twenty minutes later, they had a name.
Thomas Kramer. Former associate professor of photography at the University of Minnesota Duluth. Specialization: the history of landscape photography in the Upper Midwest, with particular focus on early twentieth-century documentation of the Lake Superior region.
"He was denied tenure in 2019," James read from the screen, scrolling through the faculty records that Patricia Henley had helped them access.
"According to the department chair's notes, there were concerns about his 'increasingly confrontational attitude toward colleagues' and 'fundamental disagreements about the direction of the program. '"
"What kind of disagreements?"
"It doesn't say specifically. But there are references to complaints he filed with the administration, accusations of 'commercialization of artistic education' and 'betrayal of traditional photographic values.
'" James looked up from the tablet. "Sounds like he had strong opinions about how photography should be taught. "
"Strong enough to get himself fired."
"Denied tenure," James corrected. "There's a difference, technically. But the effect is the same—he was out of the university by the end of 2019. Hasn't been affiliated with any academic institution since."
Isla moved to her desk and pulled up the university's archived faculty pages.
Thomas Kramer's professional photo showed a man in his late sixties, thin and angular, with wire-rimmed glasses and the particular intensity of someone who had spent his life devoted to a single passion.
His biography listed publications on the history of Duluth photography, exhibitions of vintage prints from his personal collection, and awards from regional photography societies.
His personal collection.
"Does it say anything about his collection?" Isla asked. "What kind of photographs he owns?"
James scrolled further. "According to his faculty page, he has one of the largest private collections of vintage Duluth landscape photography in the region.
Over three thousand prints dating back to the 1880s.
He's been quoted in local papers talking about preserving 'the authentic vision of early photographers before it was corrupted by commercial interests. '"
"Corrupted by commercial interests." Isla turned the phrase over in her mind. "Like the kind of interests that might lead a photographer to win awards for capturing beautiful landscapes."
"Like Derek Paulson and Jennifer Hayes."
The connection was thin—circumstantial at best, speculative at worst. But it was more than they'd had an hour ago.
A man with a grudge against modern photography, denied tenure after conflicts with colleagues, possessing an extensive collection of vintage images from the exact region where the murders had occurred.
"We need to talk to him," Isla said.
James was already gathering his coat. "His last known address is on record. Apartment building in the East Hillside neighborhood, about fifteen minutes from here."
"Then let's go have a conversation with Professor Kramer."