"Denied tenure," James corrected."There's a difference, technically.But the effect is the same—he was out of the university by the end of 2019.Hasn't been affiliated with any academic institution since."
Isla moved to her desk and pulled up the university's archived faculty pages.Thomas Kramer's professional photo showed a man in his late sixties, thin and angular, with wire-rimmed glasses and the particular intensity of someone who had spent his life devoted to a single passion.His biography listed publications on the history of Duluth photography, exhibitions of vintage prints from his personal collection, and awards from regional photography societies.
His personal collection.
"Does it say anything about his collection?"Isla asked."What kind of photographs he owns?"
James scrolled further."According to his faculty page, he has one of the largest private collections of vintage Duluth landscape photography in the region.Over three thousand prints dating back to the 1880s.He's been quoted in local papers talking about preserving 'the authentic vision of early photographers before it was corrupted by commercial interests.'"
"Corrupted by commercial interests."Isla turned the phrase over in her mind."Like the kind of interests that might lead a photographer to win awards for capturing beautiful landscapes."
"Like Derek Paulson and Jennifer Hayes."
The connection was thin—circumstantial at best, speculative at worst.But it was more than they'd had an hour ago.A man with a grudge against modern photography, denied tenure after conflicts with colleagues, possessing an extensive collection of vintage images from the exact region where the murders had occurred.
"We need to talk to him," Isla said.
James was already gathering his coat."His last known address is on record.Apartment building in the East Hillside neighborhood, about fifteen minutes from here."
"Then let's go have a conversation with Professor Kramer."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Isla stood on the sidewalk outside 742 East Fourth Street, studying the three-story brick structure that had probably been impressive when it was built in the 1920s.Now the facade was weathered and stained, the ornamental cornices crumbling in places, the windows clouded with age and neglect.A fire escape zigzagged down the eastern wall, its iron framework rusted the color of dried blood.
"Kramer's apartment is on the third floor," James said, consulting his phone."Unit 3B."
They climbed the front steps and found the security door propped open with a folded newspaper—a convenience for residents, a liability for everyone else.The lobby smelled of old carpet and something that might have been cabbage, the overhead lighting casting everything in a sickly yellow glow.A row of mailboxes lined one wall, their brass nameplates tarnished with age.
T.KRAMER - 3B.
The stairs creaked beneath their feet as they climbed, each step protesting decades of use.Isla kept her hand near her service weapon out of habit, though she didn't expect trouble.Thomas Kramer was seventy-two years old, according to his records.A retired academic with a grudge against modern photography.Not exactly the profile of a violent threat.
But two people were dead, and she'd learned long ago never to assume.
They reached the third floor and found Unit 3B at the end of a narrow hallway.The door was solid wood, painted a shade of green that had probably been fashionable sometime during the Nixon administration.A brass knocker shaped like a camera hung at eye level, its patina suggesting it hadn't been polished in years.
Isla knocked.
For a long moment, nothing happened.Then she heard shuffling from inside—the slow, careful movements of someone who took their time getting anywhere.A chain rattled, a deadbolt clicked, and the door opened to reveal Thomas Kramer.
He looked older than his faculty photo—thinner, grayer, more fragile.His wire-rimmed glasses sat slightly askew on a face that had gone gaunt with age, and his cardigan hung on shoulders that seemed to have shrunk since it was purchased.But his eyes were sharp, alert, taking in Isla and James with the particular wariness of someone not used to unexpected visitors.
"Yes?"His voice was thin but precise, each syllable carefully enunciated.
"Mr.Kramer?I'm Special Agent Isla Rivers with the FBI.This is my partner, Special Agent Sullivan.We'd like to ask you some questions."
Something flickered across Kramer's face—surprise, maybe, or something harder to read.He studied their badges for a long moment, then stepped back from the door.
"FBI," he repeated."I suppose you'd better come in."
The apartment was a time capsule.
Isla stepped through the door and found herself surrounded by photographs.They covered every wall, filled every available surface, created a maze of images that seemed to press in from all sides.Vintage prints in antique frames.Modern reproductions mounted on foam board.Framed newspaper clippings and exhibition catalogs and what looked like original glass plate negatives displayed in protective cases.
And everywhere—everywhere—the landscapes of Duluth.
Lake Superior in all its moods, captured across more than a century of photographic history.The harbor in winter, choked with ice.The ore docks at sunset, their skeletal frames silhouetted against crimson skies.Hawk Ridge in autumn, when the birches turned to gold.The Lester River cascading over frozen rocks.Split Rock Lighthouse standing sentinel against storms that had raged before anyone living was born.