She stopped that thought before it could fully form.They weren't looking for bodies here.The victims had been found at the crime scenes, posed with care in freezers that weren't Murphy's.What they were looking for was something else—the paper trail that would connect Murphy to those locations, the planning documents that would prove premeditation, the evidence that would transform a suspicious connection into a prosecutable case.
"Rivers."James's voice carried across the warehouse."Over here."
She found him near the back of the building, standing before a workbench that had been set up as a makeshift office space.A laptop sat open on the surface, surrounded by binders and folders and loose papers covered in meticulous handwriting.James was holding one of the folders, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and something that looked almost like disappointment.
"Look at this."
Isla took the folder.Inside were printed spreadsheets—dozens of pages, organized by date and location.Her eyes moved down the columns, and she felt her pulse spike as she recognized the names.
Bella Ristorante.Listed with notes about the salmonella shutdown, the date it closed, the status of its utilities.Power still active.Water on.Freezer operational.
Shoreline Diner.Renovation timeline.Utility status.Freezer specs.
Harrington's Steakhouse.Fire damage assessment.Insurance dispute.Power maintained by—and here the spreadsheet noted "MRS"—Murphy's Restaurant Salvage, paying utilities for equipment preservation.
Every closed restaurant in Duluth.Every single one, organized and catalogued with a detail that bordered on obsessive.Which ones had working power.Which ones had functional water systems.Which ones had freezers still running.
It was a blueprint.Exactly the blueprint the killer would need.
"There's more."James handed her another folder, this one thicker, heavier with documentation."These go back years."
Isla opened it and found herself looking at photographs.Old photographs, sepia-toned and faded, showing restaurants that had closed decades ago.Menus from establishments that no longer existed.Newspaper clippings about beloved diners shuttering their doors, about family-run eateries falling victim to economic downturns and changing tastes.
And mixed among them, newer materials—business plans, architectural sketches, grant applications to something called the Duluth Culinary Preservation Society.
"What is this?"Isla muttered, more to herself than to James.
"I can explain."
She turned.Daniel Murphy stood at the edge of the warehouse space, the agent assigned to watch him hovering uncertainly at his shoulder.Murphy's expression had shifted from confused to concerned, his eyes fixed on the folders in Isla's hands.
"Mr.Murphy, you were told to wait in the office."
"I know, I know, but—" He took a step forward, stopped when James's hand moved toward his weapon."Please.I need to explain what all this is.You're looking at it wrong."
Isla studied him—the anxious twist of his hands, the genuine distress in his unremarkable features.Either Daniel Murphy was an exceptional actor, or something about their theory was very, very wrong.
"Then explain," she said."What is all this?"
Murphy took a breath, visibly collecting himself."It's a museum project.A passion project, really.I've been working on it for almost five years."He gestured toward the folders, the spreadsheets, the binders full of documentation."Duluth's culinary history is disappearing.Every year, another restaurant closes—places that have been feeding this community for generations—and all that history just...vanishes.The recipes, the stories, the equipment that made those meals possible.Gone."
"And the spreadsheets?"James asked."The records of which closed restaurants still have working utilities?"
"For preservation."Murphy's voice carried the particular intensity of someone discussing their deepest passion."When a restaurant closes, the first thing that usually happens is the power gets shut off.The equipment starts to decay.Freezers, ovens, prep stations—these are historical artifacts, and they're being destroyed because no one thinks to maintain them."
He moved toward the workbench, and Isla let him, watching carefully for any sign that his cooperation was performance rather than genuine.
"I've been paying utilities out of my own pocket at some of these locations," Murphy continued, pulling out a binder and opening it to reveal a stack of receipts."Look—here's Harrington's Steakhouse.I've been covering their electric bill since January so the freezer stays operational.When Paul settles his insurance dispute, I'm hoping to buy that unit for the museum.It's a vintage 1972 Traulsen—they don't make them like that anymore."
Isla looked at the receipts.They were real—printed utility statements with Murphy's name and payment information, dating back weeks and in some cases months.She felt something cold settling in her stomach that had nothing to do with the warehouse's temperature.
"Mr.Murphy," she said carefully, "three women have been murdered in Duluth over the past week.Their bodies were found in the freezers of closed restaurants—Bella Ristorante, the Shoreline Diner, and Harrington's Steakhouse."
Murphy's face went pale.Not the theatrical paleness of someone feigning shock, but the genuine blood-draining color change of someone receiving devastating news.
"Murdered?"The word came out strangled."In the freezers?"
"In freezers at locations your business has connections to.Locations you have detailed records about.Locations where you've been maintaining utilities."
