CHAPTER TWELVE
James appeared in her doorway holding two large coffees and a white paper bag that smelled like salvation.
"Breakfast sandwiches," he said, setting both on her desk with the careful precision of someone who understood that food was currently more important than conversation. "Eat first. Talk second."
Isla unwrapped the sandwich—egg, cheese, and what tasted like bacon on a toasted bagel—and took a bite before her brain fully registered what she was doing. The warmth, salt, and protein hit her system like a drug.
"Thank you," she managed around the second bite.
James settled into the chair across from her desk with his own breakfast, and they ate in companionable silence for several minutes.
This was one of the things Isla had come to appreciate most about their partnership over the past three years—James understood when she needed quiet, when conversation would only be noise against the static of her racing thoughts.
Through her office window, she could see the rest of the field office slowly coming to life.
Agents arriving for the morning shift, administrative staff settling in at their desks, the perpetual hum of investigation and bureaucracy that kept the Duluth FBI office running.
Normal work for a normal Thursday, except two people were dead in the steam tunnels and Isla had no idea who'd killed them or why.
She finished her sandwich and was reaching for her laptop when her email pinged with a new message from Morrison. The subject line read: Graves' phone records - expedited.
"Morrison came through," Isla said, clicking to open the attachment. "Linda Graves's cell phone records just landed."
James set aside his coffee and moved around to look over her shoulder as Isla scrolled through the data. Call logs, text messages, timestamps—the digital footprint of Linda Graves's final hours laid out in clinical detail.
"There." Isla stopped scrolling, her finger tapping the screen. "Unknown number, first contact at 10:31 PM last night."
The text message thread was short but devastating in its simplicity:
10:31 PM - Unknown: Ms. Graves, it's Jessica. I need to talk. I'm going to do something bad. Please help me. Can you meet me? I'll be near the old maintenance building on Harbor Drive. The one by the steam tunnels. I can't go anywhere public. Please come.
10:47 PM - Linda Graves: Jessica, I'm concerned about you. Are you safe right now? Can you tell me more about what's happening?
10:49 PM - Unknown: Please hurry. I don't know how much longer I can hold on.
10:52 PM - Linda Graves: I'm on my way. Stay where you are. We'll figure this out together.
Isla felt her jaw tighten as she read the exchange.
Linda Graves had done exactly what a compassionate crisis worker should do—she'd responded to someone in apparent distress, tried to gather information, then moved quickly when she sensed urgency.
Her professional training had been weaponized against her.
"Jessica," James said quietly. "Do we know if Graves had a client by that name?"
"Morrison's team is checking her caseload, but I'm guessing whoever sent these knew enough about her work to make it convincing." Isla scrolled down, looking for more messages. "Here, after Linda said she was on her way, there's one more exchange."
11:03 PM - Unknown: I'm at the tunnel entrance on the left side of the building. A maintenance worker let me wait inside where it's warm. He said he'd watch for you.
11:07 PM - Linda Graves: I see the building. Coming now.
That was the last message Linda had sent before the text to her daughter at 10:53 PM—the one giving her location and the thirty-minute check-in window that had ultimately led police to find her body.
"A maintenance worker," Isla repeated, the words heavy with implication. "Someone in a position of authority, someone who would seem safe and helpful. The killer positioned themselves as an escort, a guide."
"Same pattern as Langford," James said, returning to his chair. "Lured by messages that exploited their sense of duty, then guided into a trap by someone who seemed trustworthy."
Isla pulled up the phone number that had sent the messages, running it through the Bureau's database. The results came back within seconds, and she felt her shoulders sag with unsurprised disappointment.
"Prepaid burner phone," she said. "Purchased three days ago at a gas station in Cloquet. Cash transaction, no ID required."
"Different phone than the one used to contact Langford," James noted, checking his own records. "That one was bought six weeks ago in Superior, Wisconsin. Our killer is careful—new burner for each victim, purchased in different locations."
"I'll submit it to tech anyway," James said, pulling out his own phone to send the request. "See if they can trace where the calls originated, maybe pull cell tower data. But I've got a feeling we're not going to get much. Whoever this is knows how to stay invisible."
Isla stared at the text messages on her screen, at the careful manipulation that had drawn Linda Graves out of her home and into those tunnels.
The killer had known Linda was a social worker, had known she would respond to a client in crisis, had crafted a scenario designed specifically to override her professional caution.
"They're studying their victims," Isla said slowly. "Learning their routines, their pressure points, what buttons to push. This isn't random—it's research."
"Which means they probably knew Langford would respond to messages about workplace complaints, just like they knew Graves would respond to a client threatening self-harm." James's expression was grim. "They're finding each victim's weakness and exploiting it."
Isla pulled her laptop closer, the familiar ritual of investigation providing structure against the chaos. "Let's start with victimology," she said, her voice rough from lack of sleep. "Two very different people, two very different careers. What connects them beyond the method of contact?"
James had already opened his own laptop, and Isla heard the rapid clicking of keys as he pulled up their case files.
"David Langford, forty-three, pipe fitter with Public Works.
Fifteen years with the city, generally solid performance reviews until recently.
Linda Graves, fifty-one, social worker with County Family Services.
Twenty-three years in the field, extensive experience with crisis intervention and domestic violence cases. "
"Different departments, different job functions, probably never worked together directly.
" Isla opened a new document, starting to map out what they knew.
"Age gap of eight years. No obvious social connection—I checked their social media last night, and they don't have any friends in common, no shared photos or interactions. "
"So if they're connected, it's through something less obvious than friendship or family ties." James scrolled through David Langford's personnel file, his blue eyes sharp despite the early hour and lack of sleep. "What about complaints? Official or unofficial grievances?"
Isla pulled up the files Morrison had sent over yesterday, the ones detailing Langford's workplace issues.
The formal complaint he'd filed three weeks ago was there, along with his performance reviews going back fifteen years.
Most were routine—satisfactory marks across the board, occasional commendations for quick response to emergency repairs, nothing that jumped out as unusual.
But there, buried in the notes from his annual review eight months ago, was a comment from his supervisor: David continues to demonstrate strong technical skills, but has received multiple complaints from residents regarding his interpersonal approach during service calls.
Recommend additional training in customer service and de-escalation techniques.
"Complaints from residents," Isla said, highlighting the passage. "About his interpersonal approach. What does that mean, exactly?"
James was already digging deeper, pulling up the actual complaint forms that had been filed through the city's public feedback system.
"Let's see... March of last year, a resident on Fourth Street complained that Langford was 'aggressive and dismissive' when responding to a heating issue.
Said he was rude, made her feel stupid for not understanding how the system worked, and left without fully explaining the repairs. "
He scrolled down. "May, similar complaint from someone in the Lakeside neighborhood. 'Condescending attitude,' 'treated me like I was wasting his time,' 'made me feel unwelcome in my own home while he worked.'"
More scrolling. "July, August, September—they keep coming. Not a huge volume, but consistent. People saying he was short-tempered, impatient, talked down to them." James looked up from his screen.
Isla absorbed this, adding notes to her document.
David Langford, by all accounts a skilled technician, but someone who'd developed a reputation for being difficult with the public he was supposed to serve.
Not enough to get him fired—the complaints were never about his actual work quality, just his manner—but enough to create a pattern of negative interactions.
"Now pull up Linda Graves's record," Isla said, a suspicion forming in the back of her mind.
James switched files, and within minutes, a similar pattern emerged.
Linda Graves had been a social worker for over two decades, working primarily with vulnerable populations—domestic violence survivors, families in crisis, children in difficult situations.
Her performance reviews were generally positive, noting her efficiency, her thorough documentation, her ability to handle high caseloads.
But there were complaints here too, a steady trickle over the years that painted a troubling picture.
"Client complaint from two years ago," James read.
"Mother of three said Graves was 'cold and judgmental' during home visits, made her feel like a bad parent instead of someone who needed help.
The woman said Graves seemed more interested in checking boxes on her forms than actually listening to the family's situation. "
He scrolled down. "Here's another one, sixteen months ago.
Father, going through custody issues, said Graves was 'clinical to the point of cruelty,' that she delivered difficult news about his case without any apparent empathy.
Said it felt like she viewed him as a problem to solve rather than a human being in pain. "
More complaints followed, each one variations on the same theme.
Linda Graves was efficient, thorough, professional—but she lacked warmth.
She maintained clinical distance to the point where clients felt dehumanized.
She did her job well by the metrics that mattered to her supervisors, but the people she was supposed to help often came away feeling worse than before they'd encountered her.
"Jesus," James muttered, reading through the file. "This woman worked in social services. Her entire job was supposed to be about helping people, supporting them through difficult times. But client after client says she made them feel small, judged, inadequate."
Isla leaned back in her chair, staring at the two open files on her screen.
David Langford and Linda Graves, two people in service professions who were apparently terrible at the "service" part.
Both had maintained their jobs because they were technically competent—Langford could fix pipes, Graves could process cases—but both had reputations for treating the public poorly.
"That's the connection," she said slowly. "Not their careers or their departments or any social relationship. It's their reputations. Both of them were seen as people who should have been helping others, but instead made things worse through their attitudes and behavior."
James was nodding, following her logic. "Langford went into people's homes supposedly to fix their heating, but made them feel stupid and unwelcome.
Graves was supposed to help families in crisis, but made them feel judged and dehumanized.
They both wore the uniform of public servants while treating the people they served like inconveniences. "
"Hypocrites," Isla said, the word tasting bitter. "That's how our killer sees them. People who present themselves as helpful professionals—city workers, social workers, people in positions of trust—but who actually treat others with contempt."
She stood and moved to the whiteboard, adding this new information to their profile.
The killer knew the steam tunnel system intimately.
The killer had access to both active and abandoned sections.
The killer used burner phones purchased from different locations to contact victims. And now: the killer targeted people they perceived as hypocrites in service professions.
"So we're looking at someone motivated by a sense of justice," James said, standing to join her at the whiteboard.
"Someone who thinks they're punishing bad behavior, making the world better by eliminating people who abuse their positions.
But how does this help us narrow down suspects?
We're talking about anyone who's ever had a bad experience with city services or social workers.
That's potentially thousands of people."
Isla tapped her marker against the whiteboard, thinking.
"Not thousands. Our killer has specialized knowledge of the tunnel system—not just maps or blueprints, but intimate familiarity with both active and abandoned sections.
That kind of knowledge only comes from significant time spent down there. "
"So we're back to current or former city employees," James said. "Someone who worked in maintenance or engineering, someone who had legitimate reasons to be in those tunnels regularly."
"Someone who would have interacted with David Langford," Isla added. "Maybe worked alongside him, maybe had conflicts with him. The text messages that lured Langford to his death referenced the complaint he'd filed—whoever sent them knew about internal workplace drama."
She returned to her laptop and pulled up the personnel records Carol Martinez had sent over yesterday, the list of everyone who'd had access to the steam tunnel system in the past five years. The spreadsheet was depressingly long—over two hundred names spanning multiple departments.
"We need to narrow this," Isla said, applying filters to the data. "Who had access to both active and abandoned tunnel sections? Who would know about the decommissioned areas where Graves was killed?"
The filter reduced the list to eighty-seven names. Better, but still too many to investigate efficiently. Isla sighed. All they could do was get to work.