James settled into the chair across from her, pulling up something on his tablet."More than I expected, actually.Derek Paulson wasn't just an amateur with a nice camera.He was award-winning—won three different landscape photography competitions in the past five years, including the Minnesota Arts Council's top prize in 2024.His work was featured in regional magazines, tourism campaigns, a coffee table book about Lake Superior that sold pretty well."
"So he had a public profile."
"More than that.He had a reputation."James turned the tablet so she could see the screen."And apparently, that reputation came with enemies."
Isla leaned forward, studying the article he'd pulled up.It was from a local arts blog, dated eight months ago, with the headline: COPYRIGHT CONTROVERSY ROCKS DULUTH PHOTOGRAPHY COMMUNITY.
"In August 2025, Derek Paulson publicly accused fellow photographer Marcus Lang of copying his compositions," James summarized as she read."Claimed Lang had been following him to his shooting locations, studying his published work, and then recreating the same shots with minor variations.Called him a 'parasite' and 'a talentless hack who built his career on stolen ideas.'"
"How'd Lang respond?"
"Not well.Denied everything, called Paulson 'paranoid' and 'delusional,' said the similarities were coincidental.But Paulson kept pushing—posted side-by-side comparisons on social media, contacted magazines that had featured Lang's work, even threatened to sue."
Isla felt the familiar quickening of her pulse that came when disparate pieces started clicking together."What happened to the lawsuit?"
"Never went anywhere.Paulson's lawyer apparently told him it would be almost impossible to prove copyright infringement on landscape photographs—the subjects are natural, public, accessible to anyone with a camera.But that didn't stop the feud.They've been going back and forth online for months.Last public exchange was about three weeks ago."
"What did it say?"
James scrolled to a screenshot."'You'll get what's coming to you, Lang.I'll make sure of it.'Paulson posted that on February 15th, in response to Lang announcing a gallery show featuring winter landscapes of the North Shore."
"And Lang's response?"
"Nothing public.But here's where it gets interesting."James swiped to another document."I pulled Lang's background while you were setting up the board.He's forty-seven, runs a studio in Canal Park that specializes in—you guessed it—winter landscape photography.Built his career over the past decade and won some awards of his own.And according to his social media, he was a regular at Hawk Ridge.Posted photos from that exact overlook at least a dozen times in the past two years."
Isla sat back in her chair, the burrito forgotten."So Lang knew the location.Knew Paulson was his rival.Knew about their public feud and Paulson's threats."
"And would have known Paulson's routines, if he'd been following him to shooting locations like Paulson claimed."
It was circumstantial—all of it was circumstantial—but Isla had worked cases on flimsier foundations.The composition of the murder scene, the deliberate staging, the use of Paulson's own camera to capture the moment of his death—it all pointed to someone who understood photography, who appreciated the aesthetics of the shot, who wanted to turn murder into art.
Someone like a rival photographer with a grudge.
"Where's Lang now?"Isla asked.
"Studio's open, according to their website.Hours are nine to five."
She checked her watch: 9:47."Then let's go have a conversation."
"What about the LSK search?Kate's expecting an update on the grid expansion."
Isla hesitated, the familiar weight of competing priorities pressing against her chest.Robert Brune was still out there, still hiding somewhere in the maze of warehouses and scrapyards that lined Duluth's waterfront.Every hour that passed was another hour he could be hunting, planning, feeding the lake.
But Derek Paulson was dead, his body cooling in Patricia Henley's morgue, his murder staged like a gallery installation.He deserved justice too.His family—if he had family—deserved answers.
"We're not abandoning the search," she said finally."But the Paulson case is active.We have a viable lead, a suspect with motive and knowledge of the victim's routines.We follow it while the trail's still warm."
James nodded, already gathering his tablet and rising from his chair.He didn't question her judgment—he never did, not about things like this.Three years of partnership had taught him when to push and when to trust.
It was one of the things she valued most about him.
"I'll drive," he said.
"You always drive."
"That's because you drive like you're trying to catch a suspect who's already fled the country."He held the conference room door open for her, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth."Some of us prefer to arrive alive."
Isla grabbed her blazer from the back of her chair, shrugging it on as she walked.The burrito sat heavy in her stomach, but it was good weight—fuel for whatever was coming next.