But maybe she didn't need to cover all of them.Maybe she just needed to think like Ethan Benson.
"He's been escalating," Isla said, her mind racing through the pattern."Three kills in two days.That's not sustainable—the manhunt is closing in, the news coverage is warning photographers to stay home.His window is narrowing."
"You think he knows we're onto him?"
"I think he has to assume it's possible.He's been careful, but three bodies in forty-eight hours leaves traces.He'd be a fool not to expect law enforcement to connect the dots eventually."Isla turned back to the map, her eyes scanning the uncircled pins."If he thinks his time is running out, he'll want to make it count.He'll want his final statement to be the most significant one."
"His father's most famous photograph."
"Exactly."Isla pointed to a pin near the center of the map—Enger Tower, the historic observation point that overlooked the entire city."Harold Benson's most iconic image was taken from Enger Tower.It appeared on the cover of National Geographic in 1969.If Ethan wants to create the ultimate 'living postcard,' that's where he'll do it."
"But he'll still need a victim.Someone to position in the composition."
Isla nodded, the weight of the decision pressing against her chest.She could send resources to protect the photographers on Ethan's list, or she could stake out the location where she believed he would strike.She couldn't effectively do both—not with the personnel available, not with the other investigations still demanding attention.
"Get me the names of any photographers on his list who have a connection to Enger Tower," she said."Anyone who's shot there, won awards for images from that location, or who fits the pattern of 'stealing' Harold's vision."
James was already pulling up the spreadsheet on his phone."Three names with documented connections.Sarah Elliot, Steven Webb, and Daniel Park.All award-winners, all with recent work featuring Enger Tower or the surrounding area."
"Contact all three.Warn them, get them into protective custody if they'll agree to it.And increase patrols at Enger Tower—I want eyes on that location around the clock."
"What are you going to do?"
Isla looked at the map one more time, at the pin marking the spot where Harold Benson had captured his masterpiece almost fifty years ago.She thought about Mitch Connelly, the shipyard worker who had stumbled across Robert Brune's hiding place and paid for it with his life.She thought about the three photographers who were already dead, their bodies staged like monuments to a vision they'd never understood.
And she thought about Ethan Benson, out there somewhere, planning his final composition.
"I'm going to be at Enger Tower," she said."When night falls.In case I'm right about where he's going."
"Isla, you can't stake out a location alone in weather like this.The temperature's supposed to drop below zero tonight."
"Then I'll dress warm."She met his eyes, seeing the concern there, the fear for her that he was trying to hide behind professional objection."I can't coordinate protection for fourteen photographers and stake out a potential crime scene at the same time, James.Something has to give."
"Let me come with you."
"I need you here, coordinating the protection details.Making sure no one else dies because we were spread too thin."She reached out, almost touching his arm before catching herself."I'll be fine.I'll have my phone, my weapon, and backup a radio call away.If Ethan shows up, I'll call for support."
James held her gaze for a long moment, the argument visibly warring with acceptance on his face.Finally, he nodded—reluctant, unhappy, but trusting her judgment the way he always had.
"Check in every hour," he said."And if you see anything—anything at all—you call it in before you engage.Promise me."
"I promise."
It was a promise she intended to keep.Whether she would be able to was another question entirely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The police scanner crackled with the news he'd been expecting.
Ethan Benson sat in his car outside the storage unit, listening to the dispatch calls that confirmed what he'd known was coming ever since he'd seen the unmarked sedan parked outside his building that morning.Federal agents.His apartment.A search warrant being processed.
They'd found him.After all his careful planning, all his patience, all the years of preparation—they'd finally connected the dots.Probably the old professor, he thought.Thomas Kramer and his endless blog posts about stolen vision, his obsession with the same grievances that had consumed Ethan for half a decade.The FBI would have tracked the philosophy back to its source, and Kramer would have given them Harold's name.The rest would have been simple arithmetic.
He should feel something, he supposed.Fear, maybe.Desperation.The particular panic that came from watching your life collapse around you.
But all he felt was a strange, cold clarity.
His apartment was compromised.His vehicle—the gray Honda registered in his name—would be flagged in every law enforcement database within the hour.His face would be on the news by nightfall, another monster for the public to hate and fear and forget once the next tragedy replaced him in the endless cycle of American violence.