The thought settled over her like a physical weight as she killed the engine and grabbed her heavy coat from the passenger seat. Whatever pattern they were dealing with, it was accelerating. The gap between murders was shrinking, the killer's confidence apparently growing with each successful victim.
James appeared as she approached the perimeter, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. He looked like he'd been here for a while—his coat collar was damp with condensation from the tunnels, and his usually neat hair was disheveled. But his blue eyes were sharp, focused, carrying the intensity of someone who'd already processed the preliminary scene and understood its implications.
"Victim is Dr. Robert Yamamoto," James said without preamble, falling into step beside her as they ducked under the crime scene tape. "Age fifty-six, pediatrician at Duluth Family Medical. His car was found in the parking lot about two hours ago by a security guard making rounds. Driver's side door was open, keys still in the ignition, phone on the front seat."
Isla processed this information as they approached the steel access door, which stood propped open like the entrance to a tomb. "He left his car running?"
"Engine was still warm when the guard found it, yeah. Like he got out intending to come right back." James paused at the threshold, his expression troubled. "But he never made it inside the tunnels."
"What do you mean?"
Instead of answering, James gestured for her to follow him around the side of the concrete structure. Isla's flashlight beam caught what he was showing her—a body slumped against the exterior wall about fifteen feet from the access door, positioned in the narrow gap between the building and a chain-link fence that bordered the property.
Dr. Robert Yamamoto had been a slight man, maybe five-seven, with the kind of build that suggested he'd spent more time with medical textbooks than in the gym. He wore a winter coat and slacks, dressed professionally despite the early hour. His glasses had fallen off and lay a few feet away, one lens cracked.And the back of his skull showed the now-familiar depressed fracture, the surrounding tissue bruised and swollen.
But unlike David Langford and Linda Graves, Yamamoto hadn't died in the tunnels. He'd died out here, in the December cold, with the access door standing open just yards away.
"Blunt force trauma," Isla said, crouching beside the body while being careful not to disturb the scene. Dr. Henley hadn't arrived yet, but the injury was obvious enough. "Same as Graves. Struck from behind, sudden and unexpected."
"But not drowned or cooked," James added. "The killer brought him here, probably with the same kind of lure they used on the others—text messages or phone calls creating some urgent scenario. But something went wrong. Maybe Yamamoto got suspicious when he saw the tunnel entrance. Maybe he realized he was being set up and tried to leave. I don’t see his phone anywhere, but maybe the killer took it.”
Isla studied the body's position, the angle of his fall, the way his hands were positioned. One arm was extended slightly, fingers curled as if he'd been reaching for something when he'd been struck. His car keys, maybe, or his phone. Trying to get away, trying to call for help.
"He refused to go inside," Isla said, the scenario crystallizing in her mind. "He got here, saw the tunnel entrance, and something triggered his survival instincts. He turned to leave, and that's when the killer attacked."
"Which means the killer couldn't rely on the tunnels this time," James said. "Couldn't use the infrastructure as a weapon like they did with the others. They had to improvise, had to kill him out here in the open where there was risk of being seen."
The implications were troubling. A killer forced to deviate from their preferred method, to adapt on the fly, to take risks they'd previously avoided. That suggested desperation or escalation or both.
"Where's his car?" Isla asked, standing and moving back toward the parking lot.
James led her to a silver Honda Accord parked in one of the spaces nearest the access point. The driver's side door stood open as he'd described, and Isla could see the keys hanging from the ignition. Dr. Yamamoto's phone lay on the center console, its screen dark.
Isla pulled on gloves and carefully picked up the phone, pressing the power button. The screen illuminated, showing the lock screen—a photo of Yamamoto with what looked like his family, a wife and two teenage children, all smiling on what appeared to be a hiking trail. The image made Isla's chest tighten.
"No password?" James asked.
"Looks like Face ID." Isla turned toward where Yamamoto's body lay against the building, the distance too great for the phone to unlock. She'd need to get a warrant to access it properly, but the notification screen showed the last activity clearly enough.
A text message at 5:47 AM: Emergency at the old power station. Patient crisis. Need your help immediately. Come to maintenance entrance, Access Point 14.
"Same pattern," Isla murmured, reading the message aloud for James. "Create an urgent scenario, exploit their sense of professional duty. But this time the victim didn't buy it."
"Or he bought it enough to come here, but not enough to follow the killer into those tunnels," James said. "Which is probably what saved him from an even worse death."
Isla looked from the phone to the open access door, to the body slumped against the wall, and felt the familiar frustration of being one step behind. Three murders in four days, and they were no closer to identifying the killer. Dr. Pritchard remained under surveillance—James had confirmed they'd had eyes on hishouse all night, which meant their prime suspect couldn't have committed this murder. Someone else was orchestrating these deaths, someone with the knowledge and access and disturbing ideology to justify killing public servants they deemed unworthy.
"Tell me about Yamamoto," Isla said, pulling out her phone to make notes. "Beyond the basics. What kind of doctor was he?"
James consulted his own notes, though Isla suspected he'd already memorized the details. "Pediatrician at Duluth Family Medical for twenty-three years. Specialized in treating underserved populations—worked extensively with immigrant families, refugees, kids in the foster system. By all accounts, he was dedicated to his patients."
"Any complaints? Negative reviews? Anything that fits the pattern we saw with Langford and Graves?"
"That's the weird part." James scrolled through his phone. "I pulled up his records on the drive over. Not only does he not have complaints—he has the opposite. Glowing patient reviews, multiple commendations from the hospital board, letters from grateful families thanking him for going above and beyond. One mother wrote that Yamamoto personally paid for her daughter's medication when she couldn't afford it. Another family said he made house calls when their son was too sick to come to the office."
Isla felt something shift in her understanding of the case, like tumblers clicking out of alignment rather than into place. David Langford had been difficult and dismissive with the public he served. Linda Graves had been cold and judgmental with the families she was supposed to help. Both had built reputations for treating people poorly while wearing the uniform of public service.
But Robert Yamamoto seemed to be the opposite—a doctor who genuinely cared about his patients, who went beyond whathis job required, who'd built a career on compassionate service to vulnerable populations.
