CHAPTER EIGHT
"His sister confirms he was having marital problems," James said from across her desk, phone pressed to his ear.
"But nothing serious enough to... yes, thank you.
If you think of anything else, please call.
" He ended the call and added another note to their rapidly expanding case file.
"That's the last of the close family. Nobody saw this coming. "
Isla rubbed her eyes, feeling the familiar burn of exhaustion. They'd been at this for twelve hours straight—interviewing Langford's relatives, friends, coworkers, anyone who might shed light on why someone would lure him into those steam tunnels to die. The answer remained frustratingly elusive.
"What about his social media?" she asked, though she'd already reviewed his profiles twice.
"Nothing unusual. Posts about his kids' hockey games, shares about Vikings games, some fishing photos from last summer." James scrolled through his phone. "The most controversial thing he ever posted was complaining about snow removal delays last February."
Isla stood and moved to the whiteboard they'd set up, where David Langford's life had been mapped in marker and photographs.
Married seventeen years to Jennifer Langford, two kids—Sam, fifteen, and Ashley, twelve.
Worked for Duluth Public Works for fifteen years, exemplary record until the complaint three weeks ago.
No criminal history, no debts beyond a reasonable mortgage, no obvious enemies.
"The complaint has to be the key," Isla said, tapping the notation she'd made in red marker. "Someone knew about it and used it to craft those text messages. The question is who."
They'd spent most of the afternoon interviewing Thomas Sanders and Rebecca Whitmore—the other two thermal systems technicians named in Langford's complaint.
Both had solid alibis for the night of the murder.
Sanders had been home with his wife and teenage son, confirmed by multiple texts and phone calls throughout the evening.
Whitmore had been at a friend's birthday party with twenty witnesses who'd posted photos to social media at regular intervals.
"Neither of them seemed particularly upset about the complaint," James noted. "Sanders said he expected it to be dismissed as baseless, which it probably would have been, according to HR. Whitmore was annoyed but not angry enough to kill someone over it."
"And neither of them has the systems knowledge to modify those temperature controls," Isla added.
She'd confirmed that with Carol Martinez earlier—Sanders and Whitmore were technicians, skilled at repairs and maintenance, but the kind of sophisticated override they'd found in the D-8 chamber required deeper expertise.
James leaned back in his chair, the old furniture creaking. "So, we're looking for someone with advanced knowledge of the thermal system, access to information about internal complaints, and a grudge against David Langford.”
Isla moved to the window, staring out at the dark expanse of Lake Superior. Somewhere out there, Robert Brune was hiding. And here she was, chasing a different killer entirely, feeling like she was failing on both fronts.
Her phone buzzed with an email—the additional phone records she'd requested from the carrier, showing all calls and texts to Langford's number in the week leading up to his death. They’d had access to the days before, but only now was the full week available.
Isla pulled them up on her laptop, scanning through the data with the methodical attention that had become second nature.
Calls from his wife. Texts from his kids. Work-related messages about shift schedules and maintenance requests. Everything ordinary, everything normal, until—
"James, look at this." Isla turned her laptop so he could see. "Three days before the murder, Langford got a call from a number registered to Duluth Public Works. But according to the employee directory, that extension isn't assigned to anyone currently employed."
James moved closer, his blue eyes sharp despite the late hour. "An inactive extension? Could it be a mistake?"
"Or someone accessing the system remotely." Isla's mind raced through possibilities. "If they had the right credentials, they could route calls through old extensions, make it look like official city business."
"The same way they could get current access codes for the tunnels," James said, following her logic. "We're looking for someone with IT knowledge, not just thermal systems expertise."
Isla pulled up the Public Works organizational chart, looking for positions that would have both types of access.
The list was depressingly long—dozens of employees who worked with both physical infrastructure and digital systems, any one of whom could theoretically have the skills and access they needed.
"This is going to take days to narrow down," she said, frustration creeping into her voice. "Background checks, interviews, alibi verification for everyone on this list. And meanwhile, whoever killed Langford is—"
Her phone rang, the sudden sound making both of them jump. Isla glanced at the screen, expecting Kate or maybe one of the crime scene techs with an update. Instead, she saw a number with a Minnesota area code she didn't recognize.
"Rivers."
"Agent Rivers, this is Deputy Marshal Nicole Barrett with USMS." The voice was crisp, professional, humming with barely contained excitement.
"We have a credible sighting of Robert Brune.
He was spotted at the Pine Ridge Motel, three hours northwest of Duluth near Grand Rapids.
We're mobilizing response teams now and wanted to keep you in the loop. "
Isla's heart lurched, her exhaustion evaporating in an instant. "How credible?"
"Motel clerk called it in. Said a man matching Brune's description checked in this afternoon using cash and a fake name. The clerk recognized him from the news coverage. We've got units converging on the location now, state police helicopter in the air, the works."
Three hours away. Isla could be there in less if she left now, if she ignored traffic laws and pushed the Bureau sedan to its limits. She could be there when they brought him in, could see his face when they finally cornered him after two weeks of fruitless searching.
"What's the game plan?" Isla heard herself ask, her hand already reaching for her car keys.
"Surround and contain, standard fugitive apprehension protocol. We'll have the area locked down within the hour. Local PD is clearing civilians from adjacent rooms. If he's still in there, he's not getting out."
If he's still in there. The doubt in that single word made Isla's chest tighten. Brune had evaded capture for two weeks, had disappeared like smoke every time they'd gotten close. What were the odds he'd still be sitting in a motel room three hours away, waiting to be arrested?
"I'm coming there," Isla said. Across the desk, James straightened, his expression shifting to concern. "I need to be there when—"
"Agent Rivers." Deputy Marshal Barrett's tone was firm but not unkind.
"I appreciate your investment in this case—god knows you earned it by identifying Brune in the first place.
But this is a tactical apprehension now.
It's what we do. The best thing you can do is stay where you are and let us bring him in. "
The words stung, though Isla knew they were reasonable. The Marshals Service specialized in fugitive apprehension. They had training and protocols specifically designed for situations like this. She was an investigator, not a tactical operator.
But Brune was her case. Her identification. Her failure to catch when she'd had the chance two weeks ago at North Pier.
"Keep me updated," Isla said, her voice tight. "Every development, I want to know."
"Will do. We'll call as soon as we have him in custody."
The call ended, and Isla stood frozen by her desk, keys still clutched in her hand.
Part of her wanted to run for the elevator, to race toward Grand Rapids and whatever confrontation was unfolding there.
But a larger part—the professional part, the part that had learned painful lessons about staying in her lane—knew Barrett was right.
"They've got a Brune sighting," she said to James, her voice hollow. "Three hours northwest. Big response, helicopter, the works."
James was watching her carefully, reading the conflict on her face with the perceptiveness that came from almost two years of partnership. "You want to go."
It wasn't a question. Isla set her keys down on the desk, the small sound of metal on wood feeling like surrender. "Yes. But it's not my job anymore. I did my part by identifying him. Now I need to let the experts bring him in."
"That's very mature of you," James said, though his tone was gentle rather than mocking. "I know it's not easy."
Isla moved back to the window, pressing her palm against the cold glass.
Out there, three hours away, tactical teams were converging on a motel room where Robert Brune might or might not be waiting.
The manhunt that had consumed her thoughts for two weeks was potentially reaching its conclusion, and she wasn't even going to be there to see it.
"I keep thinking about when I confronted him at North Pier," she said quietly. "I was so close, James. Close enough to see every line on his face. And I let him run."
"You didn't let him do anything. He made a choice to flee, and you made a choice not to shoot an unarmed man in the back." James's reflection appeared in the window beside hers. "That's called being a good agent. Being a good person."
"Being a good person doesn't catch serial killers."