CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
"Robert Yamada, fifty-three. Award-winning nature photographer—won the Minnesota Arts Council prize two years ago, same competition Derek Paulson won more recently.
His partner reported him missing around seven AM when he didn't respond to texts.
" James consulted his notes. "Yamada had told him he'd be shooting here this morning.
Planned to catch the falls at dawn, when the ice formations are most dramatic. "
"He knew about the previous murders?"
"According to his partner, yes. They'd discussed it. Yamada thought he was safe because he was a nature photographer, not a landscape artist—different circles, different competitions." James's voice tightened slightly. "He was wrong."
Isla moved past him toward the body, her boots crunching on frozen gravel. The technicians parted to let her through, and she forced herself to look.
Robert Yamada sat behind a camera mounted on a professional tripod, his body positioned with the same careful deliberation that had marked Derek Paulson and Jennifer Hayes.
His hands rested on his thighs, fingers curled loosely inward.
His head was angled toward the viewfinder, tilted just so, as if he'd frozen mid-shot while composing the perfect frame.
But something was different this time.
Isla crouched beside the body, studying the scene with the analytical detachment she'd spent years cultivating.
The positioning was precise—more precise than the previous victims, she realized.
Every element seemed intentional: the exact angle of Yamada's shoulders, the specific tilt of his head, the way his hands had been arranged with almost mathematical precision.
The killer was getting better.
Or they were getting more confident.
"The camera," she said. "What's on it?"
One of the technicians—a young woman with short dark hair and the particular focus of someone determined not to let the horror of the scene affect her work—answered.
"We haven't pulled the card yet, but based on the previous scenes, we're expecting the same pattern.
Single image, taken after death, showing the composition the killer staged. "
"Same as the others."
"Same as the others." The technician gestured toward the camera's position. "You can see where the body was adjusted after death, based on the lividity patterns. Whoever did this took their time getting everything just right."
Isla stood and moved around the body, studying the composition from different angles.
The camera pointed toward Gooseberry Falls—the upper cascade, specifically, where water plunged over dark volcanic rock into a pool of churning white foam.
Ice clung to the edges of the falls like frozen lace, catching the morning light and transforming it into something ethereal.
It was beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful.
And someone had turned that beauty into a frame for murder.
"I want a copy of this angle as soon as you've processed it," Isla said to the technician.
"The exact composition the killer used. There's something about it—" She trailed off, trying to articulate the intuition that was nagging at the edges of her consciousness.
The angle felt familiar somehow. She'd need to compare it to other photographs of this location, see if the killer was working from some kind of template.
She turned to James. "We need to dig deeper into historical photographs of these locations. All three crime scenes. If there's a pattern in the compositions the killer is choosing—"
"Already thinking the same thing." James moved to stand beside her, his presence a solid anchor against the cold wind cutting across the overlook.
"The university archives, the historical society, maybe even Kramer's collection if he'll let us access it.
Even if he's not our killer, his photographs might help us understand what we're looking at. "
Isla nodded, but the mention of Kramer sat uneasily in her stomach.
They'd been so certain he was involved—his philosophy, his blog posts, his collection of vintage photographs.
And now he was definitively cleared, sitting in his apartment under surveillance while another body appeared at another scenic overlook.
Whoever was doing this, they'd absorbed Kramer's worldview without ever needing his direct involvement. Or they'd developed the same twisted philosophy entirely on their own.
"Agent Rivers?"
The voice came from behind them—hesitant, uncertain, barely audible above the roar of the falls.
Isla turned to find a young park ranger hovering at the edge of the crime scene tape, his green uniform jacket too thin for the March cold, his face carrying the particular expression of someone who wanted to be anywhere else.
"Yes?"
The ranger glanced at James, then back at Isla, clearly trying to determine which of them was in charge. He settled on Isla—something about her posture, maybe, or the intensity in her eyes.
"I'm, um, I'm Ranger Hendricks. Brian Hendricks." He cleared his throat, his adam's apple bobbing nervously. "There's something I think—I mean, someone I think you should maybe know about."
Isla exchanged a glance with James. Witnesses who approached law enforcement voluntarily were either genuinely helpful or genuinely problematic. There was rarely a middle ground.
"Go on," she said.
Hendricks shifted his weight from foot to foot, his discomfort visible in every line of his body.
"It's one of my colleagues. Catherine Wells.
She's a ranger here—well, not here specifically, but she works the whole park system.
Has access to all the facilities, all the overlooks.
" He paused, seeming to gather courage. "She was the one assigned to patrol this area this morning. "
The words landed like stones dropped into still water. Isla felt James go still beside her.
"She was patrolling here? This morning?"
"Her shift started at five AM. She was supposed to walk the upper falls trail, check on the overlooks, make sure everything was secure." Hendricks's voice dropped. "But when we tried to raise her on the radio after the body was found, she didn't respond. We haven't been able to locate her."
"A ranger with access to all the parks," James said quietly. "Who was specifically assigned to this location on the morning of the murder."
"And who's now missing," Isla added. She turned her full attention to Hendricks, watching his face for any sign of deception. "Ranger Hendricks, what makes you think Catherine Wells might be involved? Beyond her assignment this morning?"
Hendricks's face flushed, whether from cold or discomfort she couldn't tell. "I'm not saying she's guilty. I don't—I mean, I've known Catherine for three years, and she's always been..." He trailed off, searching for words. "Professional. Dedicated. Really cares about the parks."
"But?"
"But she's been acting strange lately. The past few months, maybe.
More withdrawn than usual. Jumpy. She's been calling in sick more often, and when she is here, she seems distracted.
" Hendricks paused, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words.
"A couple weeks ago, I found her crying in the break room.
Wouldn't tell me what was wrong. Just said she was dealing with some personal stuff and needed space. "
Isla filed the information away, her mind already sorting through possibilities.
Strange behavior could mean a lot of things—personal problems, financial stress, health issues.
It didn't necessarily point to murder. But combined with her access to the parks and her conspicuous absence on the morning of a killing. ..
"Has she mentioned anything specific? Problems at home, relationship issues, anything that might explain the change in behavior?"
Hendricks shook his head. "Catherine keeps to herself mostly. Doesn't talk much about her personal life. I know she lives alone—has a cabin somewhere up near Split Rock, I think. But that's about it." He hesitated. "There's one other thing. Probably nothing, but..."
"Tell me."
"A few weeks back, I saw her talking to some guy in the parking lot after her shift.
Older man, maybe sixties, kind of rough-looking.
They seemed... intense, I guess. Like they were arguing about something.
When I asked her about it later, she said it was nothing.
Just someone asking for directions." Hendricks shrugged.
"I didn't push, but it stuck with me. Catherine doesn't usually get rattled like that. "
An older man, maybe sixties, rough-looking. The description nagged at something in Isla's mind, but she couldn't quite place it.
"Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?"
"Maybe. I didn't get a great look—it was getting dark, and I was across the lot. But he had a beard, I remember that. Gray beard, kind of scraggly."
Isla felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. Gray beard. Sixties. Rough-looking.
Robert Brune was sixty-five years old. A lifetime fisherman with a grizzled beard. The Lake Superior Killer, who had been hiding somewhere in this region for the past two months.
It was probably nothing. Plenty of older men in Minnesota had gray beards. But the coincidence sat uneasily in her stomach, another thread in a tangle she couldn't yet unravel.
"Where would Catherine be now?" Isla asked. "If she's not responding to radio calls, where might she have gone?"
"Her truck was parked at the ranger station when we checked, so she's still somewhere in the park.
She knows this area better than anyone—grew up here, basically.
There are dozens of places she could be.
" Hendricks's voice carried a note of apology, as if he felt responsible for not having better information.
"I'm sorry, I don't know if any of this matters.
I just thought—when I heard about the photographers, and then this happened on her patrol, I thought someone should know. "
"You did the right thing." Isla met his eyes directly, letting him see that she meant it. "Ranger Hendricks, I need you to keep this conversation between us. Don't mention Catherine Wells to anyone—not your colleagues, not the other officers on scene. Can you do that?"
He nodded, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Now—" Isla turned to James, their eyes meeting with the silent communication of partners who had worked together long enough to read each other's thoughts. "We need to find Catherine Wells. Quietly, before she realizes we're looking."