CHAPTER SIX
The fluorescent lights of the Duluth FBI field office felt harsh after the dim tunnels, making Isla squint as she dropped into her desk chair.
Her shirt had finally started to dry, leaving uncomfortable salt stains at the collar and under her arms. She should have gone home to shower and change, but the case wouldn't wait for her comfort.
James appeared in her doorway holding two paper bags from the bagel shop down the street, and the smell of fresh-baked bread made Isla's stomach clench with sudden hunger. She couldn't remember when she'd last eaten—yesterday's sandwich with James felt like days ago.
"Cinnamon raisin with cream cheese," he said, setting one bag on her desk. "And coffee, because you look like you need it."
"I look that bad?" Isla accepted the coffee gratefully, the cup warm against her palms.
"You look like someone who spent an hour in a steam tunnel processing a murder scene at dawn." James settled into the chair across from her desk with his own breakfast. "So, pretty much how anyone would look."
Isla unwrapped the bagel and took a bite, surprised by how good it tasted.
The sweetness of the cinnamon cut through the lingering metallic taste of the tunnels—that combination of hot metal and death that seemed to coat her throat.
She washed it down with coffee that was mercifully strong and not yet cold.
"Kate wants updates every two hours," she said between bites. "And the Director's office is already asking questions about whether this could be connected to Brune."
"What did you tell them?"
"The truth. That I don't know yet." Isla pulled her laptop closer, opening a new browser window. "But I need to understand those tunnels better. If we're going to figure out how the killer moved through that system, I need to know what we're working with."
James nodded, pulling out his own phone. "I'll start on Langford's background. Personnel files, work history, anything that might tell us why someone would target him specifically."
They worked in companionable silence for several minutes, the only sounds the clicking of keyboards and the occasional rustling of paper bags.
Isla found herself falling into the familiar rhythm of investigation—the systematic gathering of information, the building of context that would eventually reveal patterns and connections.
The Duluth steam tunnel system, she learned, was more extensive than she'd initially thought.
Constructed in phases beginning in the 1920s, it had been expanded over decades to serve a growing downtown area.
The network stretched nearly two miles end to end, with seventeen official access points and hundreds of junction chambers like the one where David Langford had died.
The system carried superheated water and steam from a central plant to dozens of buildings—offices, warehouses, residential complexes, even some of the newer structures near the waterfront.
Temperatures in the main corridors typically ranged from 100 to 130 degrees Fahrenheit, uncomfortable but manageable for short periods with proper equipment.
But some sections—older pipes, poorly insulated chambers, areas where multiple lines converged—could reach temperatures exceeding 150 degrees. Those sections required special safety protocols, protective gear, and were supposed to be accessed only by trained personnel working in pairs.
Isla pulled up a PDF of the safety manual that Carol Martinez had emailed her. The document was dense with technical specifications and warning labels, but one section caught her attention:
CRITICAL: Steam tunnel temperatures can cause heat exhaustion, heat stroke, and death within minutes in poorly ventilated areas.
All personnel must carry temperature monitoring equipment and maintain constant radio contact.
Failure to follow these protocols may result in termination and criminal prosecution.
David Langford would have known these protocols. He'd worked for Public Works for fifteen years, spent countless hours in those tunnels doing maintenance and repairs. He would have understood the dangers.
So why had he gone into the D-8 chamber at nearly 1 AM, alone and without proper equipment?
"James," Isla said, not looking up from her screen. "Did Morrison send over Langford's phone records yet?"
"Checking." James scrolled through his email. "Yeah, came through about ten minutes ago. Why?"
"Because I want to know if anyone contacted him before he showed up at that access point. Text messages, calls, anything that might explain why he was there."
James opened the file and started scanning.
Isla returned to her research, pulling up building schematics that showed how the tunnel system connected to various structures throughout downtown.
The complexity was staggering—hundreds of pipes, thousands of connections, enough passages and chambers that someone could theoretically spend days down there without being found.
It might even be a good place for someone like Robert Brune to hide out.
"Isla." James's voice had changed, taken on the sharp focus that meant he'd found something significant. "Langford got three text messages between 11 PM and midnight last night. All from the same number."
Isla looked up from her laptop. "What did they say?"
"First message at 11:17 PM: 'Need to talk about the complaint. Tonight.' Second message at 11:34: 'Access Point 7, 12:45 AM. Come alone.' Third message at 11:52: 'Don't involve HR or I'll make sure everyone knows what you did.'"
The words settled between them like stones. Isla felt her pulse quicken with the recognition of a lead, something concrete to follow.
"The complaint," she said. "Martinez mentioned Langford had filed some kind of formal complaint recently. Did she say what about?"
"No, but I can find out." James was already dialing, phone pressed to his ear. After a moment: "Carol Martinez? This is Agent Sullivan. I need information about a formal complaint David Langford filed recently... Yes, I'll hold."
Isla opened a new window and started searching for the phone number that had sent those messages. A reverse lookup showed it was registered to a prepaid burner phone, purchased six weeks ago at a convenience store in Superior, Wisconsin. No name attached, paid for in cash.
Dead end. Or rather, exactly what you'd expect from someone planning a murder.
"Got it," James said, ending his call. "Langford filed a complaint three weeks ago against several coworkers.
Claimed they were misusing city equipment for personal projects, falsifying time sheets, and creating a hostile work environment.
" He consulted his notes. "Three names on the complaint: Russ Bellamy, Thomas Sanders, and Rebecca Whitmore. All thermal systems technicians."
"Where are they now?"
"Sanders and Whitmore still work for the city. But Bellamy—" James paused, scrolling through something on his phone. "Bellamy was fired six months ago. Unauthorized access to city systems, specifically the tunnel network's digital controls."
Isla felt something click into place, like tumblers aligning in a lock. "The temperature controls. The modifications we found. That would require specialized knowledge of the system's digital infrastructure."
"Exactly what a thermal systems technician would have," James finished.
They looked at each other across the desk, both recognizing they'd just found their first solid lead.
Someone with the knowledge to manipulate the tunnel's heating system, someone who'd been fired but clearly retained access to city infrastructure, someone who might have had reason to target David Langford.
"Pull everything you can find on Russ Bellamy," Isla said, already typing his name into her database search. "Employment records, financials, criminal history, known associates. I want to know where he is right now and whether he has an alibi for last night."
The FBI database returned results within seconds.
Russ Bellamy, age thirty-seven, Caucasian male, last known address in the Lakeside neighborhood.
Six months ago he'd been terminated from Duluth Public Works for policy violations related to unauthorized system access.
Before that, he'd worked for the city for twelve years with what appeared to be an exemplary record.
No criminal history beyond a DUI from 2018. No outstanding warrants. On paper, he looked like an ordinary city employee who'd made a bad decision and lost his job.
But Isla had learned long ago that paper rarely told the whole story.
She pulled up his social media profiles—a Facebook account that hadn't been updated in eight months, a LinkedIn page showing his terminated employment status, and an Instagram account set to private.
Nothing immediately suspicious, but also nothing that suggested he'd moved on with his life after losing his job.
"His last paycheck from the city was deposited six months ago," James said, reading from his own screen. "Since then, nothing. No unemployment claims filed, no new employment on record. Either he's working under the table or he's living off savings."
"Or he's been preparing for something." Isla pulled up property records.
"He owns his house outright, bought it eight years ago.
No mortgage, no liens. Tax records show he's current on payments.
" She scrolled down. "But there's a flag here from the city's utility department.
Three complaints from neighbors in the last four months about excessive power usage at his address, potential safety hazards. "
"Excessive power usage," James repeated slowly. "What would he need that much electricity for?"
Isla had a theory forming, but she needed more information to confirm it. She opened a new search window and started looking for permits, renovation records, anything that might explain what Bellamy had been doing in his house for the past six months.