He needed to be ready.Ready to respond when the emergency calls came.Ready to risk his own life attempting rescues that might prove impossible.Ready to accept the community's gratitude for efforts that ended in failure despite his best intentions.
Someone whose tragedy would allow him to demonstrate his heroic dedication.Someone whose family would thank him for trying, even when trying wasn't enough.
He opened another browser tab and began reviewing local social media groups, community event listings, and recreational activity schedules.Somewhere in Duluth's winter population, another accident was waiting to happen—another chance to be the hero who almost saved someone, another source of grateful tears and admiring headlines.
The apartment's heating system cycled on with a soft whoosh, warming air that carried the scent of the lake through windows that never quite sealed properly.Outside, Lake Superior stretched endlessly toward the horizon, its frozen surface hiding dangers that claimed lives every winter despite the best efforts of rescue workers like himself.The lake had been his calling for over thirty years, providing opportunities to demonstrate the dedication and courage that defined his identity.
David Kucharski would be ready when the next tragedy struck.He would risk everything, just as he always had.And the community would see him for what he truly was—a hero who refused to give up, even when the odds were impossible.
Even when he arrived too late to save them.
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.
