"You think he's trying to preserve something," she said."Not just the bodies, but...something they represent?"
"Maybe."James spread his hands, the gesture carrying the weight of uncertainty."I'm not a profiler.But the care he takes with them after death—the folded hands, the closed eyes, the positioning that makes them look peaceful—that suggests something beyond simple disposal.He's not dumping bodies.He's arranging them.Presenting them."
"Preserving them," Isla echoed.She stood and walked to the whiteboard, her eyes moving across the photographs of the three victims.Monica Hayes.Amanda Pierce.Sarah Ramsey.Three women who shared nothing except a general physical type and the terrible misfortune of catching a killer's attention.
Three women with light hair and gentle features.Three women in their mid-thirties.Three women who might have been sisters, or at least cousins, in some alternate life where they'd never crossed paths with a monster.
"We've been putting too much emphasis on the where," Isla said, the realization crystallizing as she spoke."The restaurants, the freezers, the utility records—all of it was about the crime scenes.But maybe we need to focus on the who.Why these specific women?What made them targets?"
James nodded slowly."We know they share a physical type.Light hair, mid-thirties, similar builds.But beyond that—"
"Beyond that, we've failed to make any meaningful connection."Isla's voice came out sharper than she'd intended, frustration bleeding through her exhaustion."Monica Hayes was a hairdresser.Amanda Pierce was a teacher.Sarah Ramsey was an accountant.Different careers, different social circles, different parts of town.The only overlap we found was the yoga studio, and even that didn't lead anywhere useful."
She stared at Amanda Pierce's photograph—the Teacher of the Year image that had run in the local paper almost a year ago.Amanda's smile was warm and genuine, the kind of expression that probably made her students feel safe and valued.She'd won an award for her work with special needs children, for innovative programs that made a difference in young lives.
Something stirred in the back of Isla's mind.A connection is trying to form, still too vague to articulate.
"Amanda was Teacher of the Year," she said, almost to herself."Last year.It was in all the local papers—she even did interviews, had her picture taken at the ceremony."
"We already looked into that angle," James said."Thought maybe the public attention made her a target.But we didn't find any evidence of stalking or—"
"That's not what I mean."Isla turned from the whiteboard, her pulse quickening as the thought took shape."Amanda won an award.She was recognized publicly for being exceptional at what she did.What if that's the connection?What if the killer isn't just choosing women who look a certain way—what if he's choosing women who've achieved something?Been celebrated for something?"
James's brow furrowed."You think Monica Hayes and Sarah Ramsey had similar accolades?"
"I don't know."Isla moved back to the conference table, her exhaustion temporarily forgotten as her mind engaged with the new possibility."We focused on their basic backgrounds—employment history, social connections, geographic overlap.But we didn't dig into whether they'd received any kind of public recognition."
She pulled her laptop toward her, fingers hovering over the keyboard.Monica Hayes had owned a successful hair salon.Sarah Ramsey had run her own accounting practice.Both were small business owners, entrepreneurs who'd built something from nothing.Had either of them been featured in local media?Won awards?Been profiled in publications that might have put their faces in front of the wrong person?
"It's thin," James said, but she could hear the cautious interest in his voice."Even if they all received some kind of recognition, that could be a coincidence.A lot of successful people get featured in local news."
"Maybe."Isla opened a new browser window, her mind already racing ahead to the searches she needed to run."But right now, it's the first potential connection we've found that goes beyond physical appearance.If all three victims were publicly celebrated for something—if their faces appeared in local media, in magazines, in any kind of publication that might have caught the killer's attention—"
"Then we might be able to predict who he's targeting next."
The thought settled between them, heavy with implication.Three women dead in three days, and somewhere in Duluth, there might be others who fit the profile—women with light hair and gentle features who'd been photographed accepting awards, featured in feel-good stories, held up as examples of success and achievement.
Women who might not know they'd been marked.
Isla pulled up her search engine, her fingers poised over the keyboard.The theory was still fragile—more intuition than evidence, more hope than certainty.But it was something.After hours of dead ends and false leads, after watching their best suspect dissolve into an innocent man with an unfortunate hobby, it was finally something.
"I'm going to dig into Monica Hayes's background first," she said."See if I can find any awards, features, or public recognition.Then Sarah Ramsey.If they both had something similar to Amanda's Teacher of the Year—"
"Then we'll have a pattern."
"Then we'll have something to work with."Isla felt the familiar focus settling over her—that particular sharpening of attention that came when a case began to reveal its secrets.The exhaustion was still there, pressing at the edges of her awareness, but she pushed it aside.There would be time to sleep later.Right now, there were answers to find.
She typed Monica Hayes's name into the search bar and hit enter, watching the results begin to populate the screen.
Somewhere in those digital records, she hoped, was the thread that would finally lead them to a killer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The search results for Monica Hayes loaded slowly, the field office's aging internet connection struggling under the weight of Isla's impatience.
She scrolled through the first page of hits—obituaries now, mostly, the digital echo of a life cut short.Memorial posts from friends.A GoFundMe someone had started for her salon employees.The internet had already begun the process of transforming Monica Hayes from a living woman into a memory, her name becoming synonymous with tragedy rather than the person she'd been.
Isla refined her search, adding keywords: award, recognition, feature, profile.The results shifted, older articles surfacing from before Monica's death, before she'd become another statistic in Duluth's suddenly violent winter.
