"Brave or stupid," Kucharski replied with bitter humor."Depends on your perspective.If I'd been faster, smarter, better prepared—maybe Helen would still be alive."The guilt in his voice was obvious and painful to witness, the self-recrimination of someone who'd risked everything and watched it prove insufficient.
Isla felt her professional suspicions warring with human compassion as she watched Kucharski struggle with the weight of his perceived failure.Everything about his demeanor suggested genuine grief and exhaustion.His physical condition provided clear evidence of the extreme measures he'd taken trying to save Helen Rodriguez.The witnesses all confirmed that he'd arrived after the victim had already gone through the ice, and his rescue attempts had been sustained and increasingly desperate as hypothermia claimed another life.
So why did her investigative instincts continue to whisper that something was wrong?
"Mr.Kucharski," she said carefully, "I know this is difficult, but I need to ask you some questions about what you observed when you arrived on scene."
He straightened slightly, his professional training overriding his emotional state."Of course.Anything that might help."
"Did you see anyone else in the area when you first got here?Anyone who might have witnessed Ms.Rodriguez going onto the ice?"
Kucharski was quiet for a moment, apparently thinking back through the chaos of the rescue attempt."There were some people on the walking path when I arrived, but they were already calling for help.I don't think any of them saw what actually happened—they just heard the sound of the ice breaking and came running."
"What about before that?During your approach to this area?"
Another pause, longer this time."I was responding to a call about someone in distress on the ice.Came as fast as I could, but by the time I got here, Helen was already in the water."His voice carried the frustration of someone who'd arrived just seconds too late to prevent a tragedy.
Sullivan exchanged a glance with Isla, both of them noting that Kucharski had avoided directly answering the question about what he'd observed during his approach."Who called it in?"Sullivan asked.
"Anonymous report, I think.Someone who saw her go through and called 911."Kucharski's attention seemed to be wandering, his gaze drifting between the forensics team's activities and the ambulance where other rescue personnel were packing up their unused equipment.
The detail nagged at Isla—an anonymous report that had brought the rescue worker to the scene at exactly the right moment to attempt a dramatic but ultimately doomed rescue.It was possible, certainly.Lake Superior attracted enough winter recreation that someone might have witnessed Helen Rodriguez's accident and called for help without wanting to get personally involved.
But it was also convenient.Very convenient.
"Mr.Kucharski," she said, "I know you've been through a traumatic experience, and I understand if you need time to process everything that's happened.But given that this is the second incident you've responded to in two days, we may need to ask you some follow-up questions over the next few days."
For just a moment, something flickered across Kucharski's expression—was it anxiety?Calculation?The change was too brief to be certain, but it left Isla with the distinct impression that he was evaluating the implications of her statement.
"Of course," he said finally."Whatever you need.If someone is deliberately weakening ice to hurt people, then stopping them is as much my responsibility as trying to save their victims."He paused, meeting her eyes with what appeared to be genuine sincerity."I've been doing search and rescue on this lake for over thirty years, Agent Rivers.I've seen what accidents look like, and I've seen what deliberate harm looks like.What happened to Helen Rodriguez and Sarah Quinn—this wasn't natural."
The statement should have been reassuring, evidence that the rescue worker understood the seriousness of the situation and was committed to cooperation.Instead, it left Isla feeling more unsettled than before.Because if David Kucharski truly understood that they were dealing with deliberate murder, his willingness to continue putting himself at risk seemed less like heroic dedication and more like something else entirely.
"We're going to recommend that you take some time off," Sullivan said gently."You've been through significant trauma, and your physical condition—"
"No."The response was immediate and definitive, cutting off Sullivan's suggestion before he could finish the thought."I appreciate the concern, but if someone is doing this deliberately, then people are going to need help.That's what I do, Agent Sullivan.That's who I am."
Kucharski's voice carried a conviction that was impossible to argue with, the determination of someone whose entire identity was built around being available when others needed rescue.But as Isla watched him walk carefully back toward his rescue vehicle, his bandaged hands tucked into his coat pockets and his movements still showing the effects of hypothermic stress, she couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something fundamental about the man everyone regarded as a hero.
"What do you think?"Sullivan asked once Kucharski was out of earshot.
"I think we're dealing with something more complex than a simple serial killer," Isla replied, though she couldn't articulate exactly what was troubling her about the rescue worker's behavior."And I think we need to look very carefully at the timing of these incidents."
As the forensics team continued their analysis and the last of the emergency vehicles prepared to leave the scene, Isla found herself staring out at Lake Superior's frozen expanse, its white surface hiding currents and depths that had claimed thousands of lives over the centuries.Somewhere in the maze of ice and snow, a killer was planning his next move.And somewhere else in that same landscape, a rescue worker was preparing for his next heroic failure.
The question that haunted her as they drove back toward downtown Duluth was whether those two figures might be the same person.Because if David Kucharski was something other than the selfless hero everyone believed him to be, then they were dealing with a killer whose methodology was far more sophisticated and disturbing than anything she'd encountered in her years with the FBI.
The afternoon light was already fading toward another early winter dusk, and with it came the certainty that somewhere in Duluth's frozen landscape, another potential victim was going about their daily routine, unaware that they were being watched, studied, and selected for death.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The FBI field office felt claustrophobic after the endless expanse of frozen lake, its fluorescent lighting harsh against Isla's eyes that had grown accustomed to the gray January sky.She sat at her makeshift desk in the corner of the bullpen, surrounded by the accumulated evidence of two days that had fundamentally altered her understanding of the case she'd been building for over a year.Crime scene photographs from Helen Rodriguez's murder lay scattered across the surface, their stark black and white images capturing the geometric precision of artificially weakened ice and the dark stains that marked where another life had been claimed by Lake Superior's killing waters.
But it was the timeline she'd constructed on the whiteboard beside her desk that commanded her attention now, its red lines and connecting arrows revealing a pattern that was becoming impossible to ignore.Sarah Quinn, murdered yesterday morning during her environmental research routine.Helen Rodriguez, killed this afternoon during her daily walk.Both victims had been targeted in locations that fell directly within David Kucharski's regular patrol routes.
The realization had been building throughout the drive back from the lakefront park, crystallizing into certainty as she reviewed the geographic data Sullivan had pulled from the Lake Superior Search and Rescue organization.Kucharski's assigned patrol area covered roughly twelve miles of shoreline, from the harbor district's industrial facilities to the residential walking paths where Helen Rodriguez had met her death.Both murder sites fell squarely within that zone, positioned along routes that the rescue worker would have known intimately after thirty years of service.
"James," she called across the bullpen, not looking up from the map she was marking with precise red circles."Look at this."
