It was nothing like Robert Brune.
"This isn't LSK," Isla said.
James nodded slowly."That's what I thought.Brune's kills are efficient.Practical.He hits them, dumps them, lets the lake do the rest.This is..."He gestured at the scene, searching for the right word.
"Performance," Isla finished."This is a performance."
Dr.Patricia Henley approached, stripping off a pair of latex gloves.The medical examiner looked tired—everyone looked tired these days—but her eyes were sharp as she studied the body.
"Preliminary findings," Henley said, not waiting for Isla to ask."Single blow to the occiput, similar placement to our LSK cases.But the wound pattern is different—narrower, more focused.Could be a different weapon, or a different angle of attack.Won't know for sure until I get him on the table."
"Time of death?"
"Tricky, given the cold exposure.Body temperature is essentially ambient at this point.But based on lividity and the state of rigor, I'd estimate he died sometime in the early morning hours—between five and six AM, give or take.Before sunrise, certainly."
Before sunrise.Which meant someone had killed Derek Paulson, arranged his body, set up his camera, and then waited in the freezing dark for the sun to rise so they could take the perfect photo.
What kind of person did that?
"Any signs of a struggle?"Isla asked.
Henley shook her head."Nothing obvious.If he fought back, it didn't leave marks I can see.My guess is he never knew what was coming—the blow came from behind, hit him before he had a chance to react.Quick, clean, probably fatal within seconds."
Quick, clean, fatal.Like LSK's kills—but also not.The method was similar, but the execution was entirely different.Brune killed for the lake, for the whispers in his head, for reasons that made sense only to his fractured psyche.This killer had killed for the image.For the art of it.
Two different killers.Two different cases.
And Isla was now working both of them.
"I want everything," she said to James."Phone records, financial history, social media—the full workup.Someone knew he'd be here this morning, knew his routines well enough to ambush him in the dark.That suggests planning.Surveillance.A personal connection."
"Already on it.I've got techs pulling his digital footprint as we speak."
Isla nodded, her mind already racing ahead to the next steps, the next leads, the next thread to pull.Behind her, the crime scene technicians continued their careful work, photographing and measuring and cataloging every detail of Derek Paulson's final morning.The camera stood silent on its tripod, its lens still pointed toward a lake that kept its secrets.
Somewhere out there, Robert Brune was hiding.Waiting.Planning his next move.
And now there was another monster to catch.
***
The field office felt different at nine in the morning than it did in the dead of night.
Isla stood at the whiteboard in the conference room, staring at the two columns of information she'd hastily assembled.On the left: LSK.Robert Brune.Mitch Connelly.The shipyard search that had yielded nothing.On the right: Derek Paulson.Hawk Ridge.A camera staged like a murder weapon.
Two investigations.Two killers.Not enough hours in the day for either.
"You should eat something."
James appeared at her elbow with a paper bag that smelled like grease and cheese.She hadn't heard him come in—she'd been too deep in her own head, too lost in the tangle of evidence and dead ends that was threatening to swallow her whole.
"Is that from Coney Island?"she asked.
"Best breakfast burrito in Duluth.Also the only breakfast burrito in Duluth, but still."He set the bag on the table and pulled out two foil-wrapped cylinders."I got you the works.Don't say I never did anything for you."
Isla unwrapped the burrito more out of obligation than hunger, but the first bite reminded her that she hadn't eaten since...when?Yesterday?The day before?The food was hot and heavy and exactly what her body needed, even if her mind was somewhere else entirely.
"Any hits on Paulson's background?"she asked between bites.