CHAPTER TEN
The Monday morning frost had turned the shipyard's windows into abstract art—crystalline patterns that caught the pale January sunlight and threw it back in fractured rainbows.
Isla sat in the same cramped HR office where she'd started this investigation less than twenty-four hours earlier, but everything felt different now.
Sarah Quinn's murder had transformed her suspicions into official FBI business, complete with Kate Channing's full authorization and a directive to treat all related deaths as connected homicides.
The refined employee list spread across the desk before her looked deceptively manageable—thirty-seven names instead of the original sixty-three, winnowed down through a combination of boot size analysis, shift schedules, and employment timelines.
Each remaining candidate had worked at Northern Star for at least twenty years, wore size eleven work boots, and had been present during the time periods when their suspected victims had died.
"Agent Rivers?" Beth Kowalski's nervous voice interrupted her review of the files. "Your first interview is here. Frank Morrison from the welding department."
Morrison entered with the cautious shuffle of someone who'd been called to the principal's office, his weathered hands clasped behind his back and his eyes darting between Isla and Sullivan as if trying to gauge the severity of whatever trouble he might be in.
At fifty-eight, he had the permanent squint of someone who'd spent decades staring through welding masks, and his fingertips bore the burn scars that marked his profession.
"Have a seat, Mr. Morrison," Isla said, gesturing to one of the folding chairs Beth had arranged. "We're investigating some incidents around the port community, and we're hoping you might be able to help us with some background information."
"What kind of incidents?" Morrison's voice carried the wariness of a man who'd learned that conversations with law enforcement rarely ended well for working-class people.
Sullivan pulled out his notebook with practiced ease. "We're looking into a series of accidents around the lake over the past few years. People drowning, falling through ice, that sort of thing. Since you've been here so long, we thought you might remember if any coworkers had been involved."
Morrison's expression shifted from defensive to puzzled. "Accidents? Well, sure, people have accidents on the lake. It's dangerous out there, especially in winter. But I don't know what that has to do with the shipyard."
Isla leaned forward slightly. "Can you tell us about your activities outside of work? Do you fish? Boat? Spend much time on the water?"
"Used to fish more when I was younger," Morrison replied, his shoulders relaxing as the questions moved away from potential workplace violations. "These days, I mostly stick to the rivers. Lake Superior's gotten too unpredictable for an old guy like me."
The interview continued for fifteen minutes, with Morrison providing a consistent picture of someone whose life revolved around work, family, and the quiet routines of approaching retirement.
His boots didn't match the impression from Alex Novak's murder scene—the tread pattern was completely different, and the wear showed he favored his left leg rather than his right.
When Isla asked about his whereabouts during specific dates over the past year, Morrison consulted a pocket calendar with the methodical care of someone who actually tracked his schedule.
"January fifteenth, you said? That was a Tuesday. I was home with the flu—my wife can tell you, I was flat on my back for three days straight."
By the time Morrison left, Isla had already mentally crossed him off the list. His alibi for Sarah Quinn's murder was solid, his boot pattern didn't match, and his general demeanor suggested someone more concerned with avoiding trouble than seeking it.
The second interview proved equally unproductive.
Gary Jones from the maintenance department had worked at Northern Star for twenty-six years and wore the right size boots, but he'd been in the hospital during two of the key incident dates and could provide documentation to prove it.
His boots showed the heavy wear pattern of someone who walked primarily on concrete and metal surfaces—consistent with shipyard work but inconsistent with someone who spent time stalking prey on varied terrain.
The third candidate, Robert Smith from loading operations, initially seemed more promising.
His employment record showed perfect attendance, his boots matched the general size and brand, and he had no clear alibi for several of the incident dates.
But as the interview progressed, Isla realized his lack of alibis stemmed from a lifestyle so routine it bordered on pathological.
Home by five-thirty every day, dinner at six, television until nine, bed by ten.
His wife confirmed his schedule with the exasperated precision of someone who'd been living with the same routine for thirty years.
"Bob hasn't varied his schedule in twenty years," she told Isla over the phone during a break between interviews. "I couldn't get him to stay out past ten o'clock if I paid him. And he hasn't been fishing since our son graduated high school."
Three interviews down, three names crossed off the list.
The pattern continued through the morning.
Michael Torres from the crane operations crew had been laid up with a back injury during Alex Novak's murder.
Dennis Wright from the paint shop wore size thirteen boots that left completely different impressions than the evidence they'd collected.
James Murphy from security had alibis for three of the five dates Isla had identified as significant, and his work schedule would have made it impossible to establish the kind of victim surveillance patterns their killer seemed to prefer.
By noon, Isla had eliminated twelve of her thirty-seven suspects, each interview revealing inconsistencies that removed them from consideration.
The methodical approach was working—too well, perhaps.
She was efficiently narrowing the field, but with each elimination, the weight of the remaining possibilities felt heavier.
The January sun had reached its brief peak and begun its inevitable slide toward another early dusk when Sullivan returned from interviewing three suspects in the dry dock area. His expression told her everything she needed to know before he even spoke.
"Two more eliminated," he said, settling into the chair across from her makeshift desk.
"Peterson's got rheumatoid arthritis—can barely grip his tools some days, let alone handle the kind of precision work we're looking at.
And Williams has been working double shifts for the past six months, trying to pay off medical bills.
His supervisor confirms he's been here during the time windows for three of our incidents. "
He paused, consulting his notes. "Also heard back from the Minneapolis tourists who were with Brennan yesterday morning. Jim Peterson confirmed they were on the ice with him from six-thirty until mid-afternoon. His alibi checks out completely."
Isla updated her list, drawing lines through Peterson's and Williams' names, then added a note about Brennan's confirmed alibi. The remaining viable suspects had dwindled to fewer than ten men, a number that should have felt encouraging but instead filled her with growing unease.
"James, what if we're wrong about this?"
Sullivan looked up from his notes. "Wrong about what?"
"The whole approach. The assumption that our killer works here, that he's one of these long-term employees." She gestured at the remaining files scattered across the desk. "What if the boot print was a coincidence? What if someone just happened to be in that area for completely unrelated reasons?"
"You don't believe that."
"No, I don't. But look at what we're doing here.
" She stood and walked to the small window that offered a view of the shipyard's main assembly area.
Workers moved between buildings with the purposeful efficiency of people accustomed to dangerous, precision work.
Any one of them could be her killer, but with each interview, she was becoming increasingly certain that none of them were.
"We're conducting official FBI interviews with men who've worked the same jobs for decades. Word's going to spread, James. If our killer is here, he knows by now that we're looking for him."
Sullivan joined her at the window, his proximity sending that familiar flutter through her chest that she'd been trying to ignore for months. "So we're making him nervous. That could work in our favor."
"Or it could make him more dangerous. Push him to accelerate his timeline, or change his methods, or just disappear entirely.
" She turned away from the window, forcing herself to focus on the case rather than the way Sullivan's presence affected her concentration.
"Serial killers who've been successful for years don't usually panic when law enforcement gets close. They adapt."
The thought that had been nagging at her all morning finally crystallized into words: "What if we're on the right track with the shipyard connection, but Sarah Quinn was killed by the same person who murdered Alex Novak and the others? What if Brennan was just a convenient cover?"
Sullivan was quiet for a moment, considering the possibility. "You think our killer used Brennan's public conflict with Sarah to deflect attention?"
"Think about it." Isla returned to the desk, spreading out the timeline she'd constructed over the past year.
"Look at this. Sanchez—connected to the port through her job at the shipping company.
Marcus Webb—worked part-time at the marina.
Alex Novak—shipyard employee. All clear connections to this community. "
She pointed to Sarah Quinn's photograph, which she'd added to the timeline that morning.
"Sarah Quinn doesn't fit the pattern of port connections, but she was killed using identical methods—artificially weakened ice, body positioned to look like an accident.
And her murder came right when we started asking questions about Alex Novak. "
"You think our killer knew about her conflict with Brennan?"
"I think our killer is smart enough to monitor local news and community conflicts.
Sarah's environmental activism was well-publicized, her disputes with recreational fishing guides were documented online.
It would have been easy for someone to identify her as a potential victim whose death could be blamed on existing tensions. "
Sullivan sat on the edge of the desk, close enough that she could smell his aftershave mixed with the coffee he'd been drinking all morning. "So what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking we may be dealing with something more complex than a simple serial killer.
" Isla stared at the photographs of their victims, trying to see past the patterns she'd constructed to whatever truth lay beneath.
"Sarah Quinn's murder fits our killer's methods perfectly—artificially weakened ice, body discovered in circumstances that initially appeared accidental.
But the victim selection is different enough to suggest either adaptation or coincidence. "
"Adaptation to what?"
"To law enforcement attention. If our killer has been monitoring police activity—and serial killers often do—he would know that we've been asking questions about port-related deaths.
Sarah Quinn's murder gives him a victim who doesn't fit the established pattern, since she had no connection to the port.”
The possibility sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the January air seeping through the building's inadequate insulation. A killer smart enough to deliberately muddy his victim patterns was far more dangerous than someone simply preying on targets of opportunity.
"We need to finish the interviews," she said, though her conviction in the approach had weakened considerably. "Even if our killer isn't among these employees, we can't afford to leave possibilities unexplored. But we also need to start looking at this from a different angle."
"Such as?"
"Such as the possibility that our killer doesn't work at the shipyard at all. That he's someone with access to the port community—a vendor, a contractor, someone whose job brings them here regularly but who isn't a permanent employee."
Sullivan nodded, already reaching for his phone. "I'll get Kate to authorize expanded background checks. Anyone with regular access to Northern Star over the past five years."
As he made the call, Isla returned to the window, watching the afternoon shift change bring fresh workers onto the yard.
Somewhere in the sprawling industrial complex, or in the wider community it supported, a killer was going about his routine.
Confident in his ability to avoid detection.
Secure in the knowledge that his crimes would continue to be mistaken for accidents.
But he'd made two mistakes—the boot print that had started this investigation and the evidence of the tampered ice. And mistakes, Isla had learned over her years with the FBI, had a way of multiplying once you knew where to look for them.
The question was whether she could identify the next mistake before he claimed another victim. Because whatever else she was uncertain about, one thing remained clear: the killer who'd taken Alex Novak and the others wasn't finished. He was simply waiting for his next opportunity.
And in Duluth's harsh January climate, opportunities to make murder look like accident were never in short supply.