"She thought she was safe," Isla said quietly. "She thought whoever was with her was helping her."
"Until it was too late," James agreed.
One of the crime scene techs called out from across the chamber, and Morrison moved to see what they'd found. Isla took the opportunity to step back, to look at the scene as a whole rather than focusing on individual details.
Two victims. Two very different deaths. But both required extensive knowledge of the steam tunnel system—knowledge that went beyond what a typical city employee would have. Yesterday's killer had known how to modify digital controls, how to create lethal heat in a specific chamber. Today's killer had known about abandoned sections, had navigated through nearly a mile of dark corridors to reach this particular location.
And both victims had been lured or coerced into the tunnels based on false pretenses. David Langford had received text messages suggesting a meeting about his workplace complaint.Linda Graves had been told a client needed help. In both cases, the killer had exploited their victims' sense of duty, their desire to do the right thing.
"We need to figure out the connection between Langford and Graves," Isla said, pulling out her phone to make notes. "Why these two people specifically? What links a Public Works pipe fitter to a county social worker?"
"They both work for the city," James offered. "Or worked, in Langford's case. Maybe that's the connection—city employees being targeted."
"But why? What's the motive?" Isla's frustration was bleeding into her voice, and she took a breath to control it. Getting emotional wouldn't help Linda Graves or David Langford. Only solid investigative work would catch their killer.
Morrison returned from his conversation with the tech, his expression grim. "They found something in the adjacent corridor. Footprints in the water and silt, leading away from this chamber toward Access Point 9. Looks like our killer walked out that way after the murder."
"Access Point 9," Isla said, pulling up the schematic again. "That exists in an industrial complex about three blocks from here. Security cameras?"
"We're checking. But that area's mostly warehouses and storage facilities—not a lot of surveillance coverage."
Of course not. The killer had chosen their exit point carefully, just like they'd chosen everything else about these crimes. Nothing was random. Nothing was left to chance.
Isla watched the crime scene techs work, documenting and collecting, building the foundation of evidence that would hopefully lead them to answers. Dr. Henley was preparing to transport Linda's body, coordinating with her assistants to ensure nothing was disturbed or lost in the process.
The morning was brightening beyond the tunnel entrance, December sunlight beginning to filter down the stairs in weak golden rays. Up there, Duluth was waking up—people starting their commutes, businesses opening, the city moving forward with its daily routines. Down here, in the cold and dark, Linda Graves would never see another morning.
"I want personnel records for everyone with access to the tunnel system," Isla said, her voice cutting through the ambient noise of the investigation. "Not just current employees—anyone who's worked for the city in the past five years. Maintenance workers, engineers, administrators, anyone who might have the knowledge to navigate these tunnels."
"That's going to be a lot of people," Morrison warned.
"I know. But somewhere in that list is our killer." Isla's amber eyes swept across the scene one more time, memorizing details, committing the space to memory. "They know this system too well. This isn't someone who studied blueprints or took a few tours. This is intimate knowledge, the kind you only get from spending significant time down here."
James was nodding, following her logic. "So we look for overlap—who had access to both the active sections where Langford died and the abandoned sections where Graves died? That should narrow the list considerably."
It was a good angle, probably their best lead so far. Isla made a note on her phone, adding it to the growing list of investigative tasks that would consume the next several days.
"Dr. Henley," Isla called out. "How soon can you do the autopsy?"
Henley looked up from her preparations, her expression sympathetic but firm. "I can start this afternoon, but Agent Rivers—I just finished Langford's autopsy yesterday. I'm going to need at least twelve hours of rest before I'm sharp enough to give this case the attention it deserves."
It was a reasonable request, and Isla knew pushing would only result in mistakes or oversights. "Tomorrow morning, then. First thing. I need tox screens, full analysis of the head wound, anything you can tell me about the killer's physical characteristics based on the angle of attack."
"You'll have everything I find," Henley promised.
Isla moved toward the tunnel exit, her mind already shifting from crime scene processing to the investigative work that waited back at the office. They had personnel records to review, victimology to analyze, connections to find between two people who seemingly had nothing in common except their deaths in Duluth's underground infrastructure.
James fell into step beside her as they climbed the stairs toward daylight. Neither of them spoke until they reached the surface, stepping out into December air that felt shockingly clean after the damp chill of the tunnels.
"Two murders in two days," James said quietly, his blue eyes scanning the industrial district around them. "If this is a pattern, if there are more victims planned—"
"Then we're on a clock," Isla finished. "And we need to figure out what connects these victims before the killer moves on to whoever's next."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The fluorescent lights of the field office felt harsh against Isla's exhausted eyes as she dropped into her desk chair at 8:17 AM. She'd gone home after processing Linda Graves's scene, managed exactly forty-three minutes of fitful sleep on her couch before giving up entirely, and returned to the office with her hair still damp from a scalding shower that had done nothing to wash away the chill of those abandoned tunnels.
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."
