CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The building on East Fourth Street looked even more weathered in the harsh light of late morning, its brick facade bearing the scars of decades of Minnesota winters.
Isla climbed the front steps and found the security door propped open with the same folded newspaper—a continuity that seemed almost absurd given everything that had happened since her last visit.
Thomas Kramer answered her knock after a long pause, his thin frame appearing in the doorway with the careful deliberation of someone who had learned to negotiate every movement with a body that was failing him.
His wire-rimmed glasses sat slightly askew on his face, and his cardigan—the same one he'd been wearing before, or one identical to it—hung on shoulders that seemed even more diminished than they had two days ago.
“Agent Rivers.” His voice carried no surprise, only a kind of weary resignation. “I wondered when you’d be back.”
“May I come in?”
He stepped aside without answering, gesturing her into the apartment that had become a temple to the photography he’d devoted his life to preserving.
The walls still pressed in with their burden of images—the vintage prints, the framed reproductions, the endless documentation of Lake Superior and its shores captured across more than a century of photographic history.
“I assume this isn’t a social call,” Kramer said, shuffling toward his worn armchair. “Have there been more murders?”
“One more. This morning. Robert Yamada, at Gooseberry Falls.”
Something flickered across Kramer’s face—not surprise, exactly, but a deepening of the sorrow that seemed to have settled permanently into his features. He lowered himself into the chair with a soft grunt, his trembling hands gripping the armrests for support.
"Yamada," he repeated quietly. "I knew his work. Nature photography, mostly birds, wildlife, the creatures that make their homes in these landscapes. He was talented, in his way. Less derivative than some."
“But still derivative?”
Kramer’s eyes met hers with unexpected sharpness. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“I’ve been trying to understand.” Isla moved to stand before the wall of photographs, her eyes tracing compositions that suddenly seemed to carry new weight.
“The staging of the bodies—the way they’re positioned, the angles of the cameras—it’s not random, is it?
The killer is recreating something specific.
Historical photographs that the victims allegedly copied. ”
“You’re asking me to help you.”
“I’m asking you to tell me what you see.
” Isla pulled out her phone and held it toward him, navigating to the crime scene photographs one by one.
Kramer leaned forward in his chair, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light as he studied each image in silence.
His expression didn’t change—no flinching, no recoiling from what the photographs contained.
He looked at them the way he looked at everything on these walls: with the careful, absorbing attention of a man who had spent his life reading pictures.
After a long moment he pushed himself up from the chair and moved to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. His hands trembled as he pulled open a drawer, but his movements were purposeful, certain.
“Hawk Ridge at sunrise,” he murmured, flipping through folders with surprising speed. “Foreground rock, harbor below, horizon at one-third...” He extracted a photograph and turned to show her. “Like this?”
Isla’s breath caught.
The image was black and white, its edges yellowed with age, but the composition was unmistakable.
The exact angle, the exact framing, the exact relationship between elements that she’d seen in the crime scene photographs.
The rocky outcropping. The distant harbor lights. The vast expanse of water meeting sky.
“When was this taken?”
“1978. By Harold Benson.” Kramer’s voice had taken on a lecturing quality, the tone of someone slipping into familiar territory.
“Benson was the definitive landscape photographer of this region for almost two decades. His work defined how people saw Duluth, shaped the tourism imagery that brought visitors from across the country. He understood these landscapes in a way that few photographers ever have.”
“And Derek Paulson copied his composition.”
“‘Copied’ is a generous word. ‘Stole’ would be more accurate.” Kramer set the photograph on a side table and moved back to his files.
“Paulson won the Minnesota Arts Council prize two years ago for a sunrise shot at Hawk Ridge that replicated Benson’s 1978 composition almost exactly.
Same angle, same framing, same relationship between foreground and background.
The only difference was color versus black and white. ”
Isla felt the pieces clicking into place, the pattern finally becoming visible. “The other victims. Jennifer Hayes, Robert Yamada—did they also copy Benson’s work?”
Kramer was already pulling more photographs from the files.
“Hayes won multiple awards for wildlife images that bore striking similarities to Benson’s nature studies from the 1980s.
He wasn’t primarily a wildlife photographer, but he documented the fauna of this region extensively.
And Yamada...” Kramer paused, extracting another image.
“Yamada’s prize-winning shot of Gooseberry Falls was virtually identical to Benson’s 1975 composition.
Same angle, same time of day, same ice formations. ”
He arranged the photographs on the table beside his chair—three vintage images that matched, almost perfectly, the compositions the killer had staged at each crime scene.
Three moments in time, captured by Harold Benson decades ago, recreated by photographers who had won awards for work that was, essentially, theft.
“These photographers,” Isla said slowly, “they never credited Benson’s influence? Never acknowledged that they were building on his compositions?”
“Of course not. That would have required admitting that their ‘original’ work was nothing of the sort.” Kramer’s voice carried the bitter edge she’d heard in his blog posts, the accumulated resentment of someone who had watched an art form he loved be corrupted by people who called imitation innovation.
“The modern photography world doesn’t reward homage.
It rewards the appearance of originality.
So they took Benson’s visions and presented them as their own, and the critics and judges who should have known better applauded them for it. ”
“What happened to Benson?”
Kramer was quiet for a moment, his eyes drifting to the photographs on the table.
“He died five years ago. Alone, in a nursing home in Cloquet. Eighty-seven years old, half-blind, his archive donated to the historical society because there was no one left to preserve it.” His voice softened with something that might have been grief.
“Digital photography made his techniques obsolete. The magazines that had published his work for decades stopped calling. The awards went to younger photographers with Instagram accounts and drone cameras. By the end, Harold Benson was forgotten by everyone except the few people who understood what he’d accomplished. ”
Five years ago. The same year Catherine Wells’s brother had died, though Isla doubted there was any connection.
But the timing nagged at her anyway—five years of Benson’s work gathering dust in historical society archives, five years for someone to study his compositions and grow increasingly furious at the photographers who had stolen them.
“Who would have access to Benson’s archive?” she asked.
“Anyone, theoretically. The historical society makes their collections available to researchers, students, the general public. You’d just need to request access and sign in.
” Kramer’s eyes met hers. “But understanding the collection—knowing which compositions were significant, which ones had been copied by specific photographers—that would require study. Dedication. Someone who had immersed themselves in Benson’s work the way I’ve immersed myself in the history of landscape photography. ”
“Someone like one of your students.”
The question landed between them with the weight of implication. Kramer’s face went still, the trembling in his hands momentarily stilled by something that looked like shock.
“I’ve told you about my students,” he said carefully. “I gave you the lists.”
“And we’ve been working through them. But this narrows things considerably.
” Isla gestured at the photographs on the table.
“Whoever’s doing this isn’t just angry about modern photography in general—they’re specifically targeting photographers who copied Harold Benson’s work.
That suggests someone who knew Benson, studied his archive, felt a personal connection to his legacy. ”
“Harold had many admirers over the years.”
“Like who, Professor Kramer? Who loved Benson’s work enough to kill for it?”
Kramer was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the photographs that had defined his mentor’s career. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“Harold had a son.”
The words hung in the air between them. Isla felt something shift in her chest—the particular sensation of a case finally cracking open.
“A son?”
Kramer nodded slowly, his gaze distant with memory.
“Ethan. Ethan Benson. He would be... mid-forties now, I believe. Harold didn’t speak of him often—there was some estrangement, I gathered, during Ethan’s younger years.
But they reconciled later in life. Ethan moved back to the area to care for Harold during his final years. ”
“He was here when Harold died?”
“He was the only one here.” Kramer’s voice carried a weight of unspoken implication.
“Ethan watched his father fade into obscurity. Watched the nursing home bills drain whatever savings Harold had left. Watched the photography world that had once celebrated Harold Benson forget he ever existed.” He paused, his trembling hands gripping the armrests of his chair.
“That kind of thing... it changes a person.”
Isla’s mind was racing, cataloging the implications. A son who had witnessed his father’s decline. A son who would have had intimate access to Harold’s archive, his compositions, his vision. A son who would know exactly which photographers had built their careers on stolen work.
“What do you know about Ethan? Where does he live? What does he do?”
“I don’t know much, I’m afraid. Harold was protective of him—kept that part of his life separate, even in our correspondence.
” Kramer’s brow furrowed with the effort of memory.
“I believe Ethan works with his hands—construction, maybe, or something similar. Physical labor. He would have the strength that I lack.”
The strength to overpower three healthy adults. The strength to stage bodies at remote overlooks. The strength to turn murder into a statement about art and theft and the corruption of everything his father had represented.
“Did Ethan inherit anything when Harold died? Besides the nursing home bills?”
“The archive went to the historical society—Harold wanted it preserved for future generations, even if he doubted anyone would care.” Kramer’s voice carried a note of irony.
“But Ethan would have inherited personal effects. Photographs that weren’t part of the official collection.
Letters, journals, the private documentation of a life spent in service to an art form that ultimately abandoned him. ”
Private photographs. Personal compositions that the historical society wouldn’t have. Images that only Ethan Benson would know existed—images that might match, perfectly, the staging of the murders.
“I need to find Ethan Benson,” Isla said. “Current address, employment, anything recent.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Harold was protective of him—kept that part of his life separate, even in our correspondence.
” Kramer’s gaze returned to the vintage prints spread across the table.
“But you’ll find him. That kind of thing leaves traces, even when a person doesn’t want to be found. ”
Isla’s phone buzzed in her pocket—a text from James, referencing his work on the Brune case. Found something at the scrapyard. Signs of recent habitation. Continuing search.
She typed a quick response—Keep me updated—and turned back to the door.
“Agent Rivers,” Kramer said. She turned back to find him watching her with an expression that was difficult to read.
“Ethan... if he’s doing this, it’s not because he’s evil.
It’s because he loved his father. Because he watched Harold die forgotten and alone, and he couldn’t bear to let that be the end of the story. ”
“I understand,” Isla said. And she did—understood how grief could curdle into rage, how love could twist into something unrecognizable, how the desire to honor the dead could lead to unspeakable acts against the living.
But understanding didn’t change what needed to happen.
“He’s still killing people, Professor. Whatever his reasons, whatever his grief—three people are dead, and there will be more if we don’t stop him.”
Kramer’s eyes dropped to the photographs on his table—the compositions that had defined Harold’s career, the images that someone was willing to kill for. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”
Isla stepped out into the gray March afternoon and pulled out her phone. She needed to run Ethan Benson through every database they had access to—DMV records, employment history, known addresses, criminal background. If he was the killer, he’d left traces somewhere.
Everyone slipped up eventually.
She took out her phone and dialed James’s number. If he had time to step away from the scrapyard, then she’d rather not go into the next phase alone.