Page 44 of Silent Past

Sheila nodded, morning sunlight catching the silver in her hair. "He saw himself as a preservationist. Choosing brilliant minds—researchers who studied how cultures maintain their traditions through time. Kane, Mitchell, Harper—they all focused on cultural preservation, on understanding how ancient knowledge survives."

"But he didn't just kill them." Finn's voice was quiet. "He thought he was... saving them. Preserving their consciousness at its peak, using the same methods he believed ancient cultures had perfected."

"The mineral content in the caves, the precise temperature, the ceremonial arrangements—everything had to be perfect." Sheila spread out the victims' academic papers. "He studied them first. Learned their work, understood their passions. Then offered them exactly the kind of discovery they couldn't resist."

"Evidence that would validate their research," Finn said. "Proof that ancient traditions could survive unchanged, passed down through generations."

The office fell silent as they considered the twisted logic of it all. Outside, Coldwater stirred to life, unaware of the darkness that had taken root in their mountain caves.

"The FBI's been watching these preservation sites for decades," Sheila continued. "Other bodies found, other killers obsessed with the same ritual. But Whitman's different. More methodical, more dedicated to the authenticity of the process."

"Until we forced him to rush," Finn added. "Contaminated his sacred space in the ice caves. Made him desperate enough to grab Rachel Harper without proper preparation."

Sheila stood, moving to her evidence board. "He believes he's creating some kind of... library of consciousness. Preserving minds that understand the importance of cultural memory. Each victim is carefully chosen for their insight into how traditions endure."

"And arranged in ceremonial robes, positioned according to ancient burial practices." Finn joined her at the board. "Complete with the mineral treatments he thinks will maintain their consciousness through time."

"A killer who sees himself as a curator," Sheila said softly. "Selecting brilliant minds to guide future generations. Using methods he learned from a frozen body in a cave—methods he's spent years trying to perfect."

The sun climbed higher, painting the mountains beyond her window in shades of promise and threat. Somewhere in those peaks, James Whitman was planning his next preservation, choosing another mind to add to his frozen collection.

"That's why the FBI can't stop him," Sheila said. "They're treating him like a standard serial killer, but he doesn't think like one. He sees himself as a guardian of ancient wisdom, ensuring certain kinds of knowledge survive."

"By turning researchers into ceremonial sacrifices," Finn added grimly. "Preserved in caves like the ones they spent their lives studying."

Sunlight spilled across Sheila's desk like liquid gold, catching dust motes that danced in the air between her and Finn. The silence felt heavy, charged with the weight of possibilities just out of reach.

"We could recheck Vale's connections," Finn suggested, his voice carrying the weariness of too many dead ends. "Or track Whitman's movements before he went off the grid. Maybe there's something we missed."

But Sheila barely heard him. Her mind kept circling back to the victims, to the terrible precision with which Whitman had arranged their bodies. The ceremonial robes, the careful positioning—everything a twisted reflection of ancient wisdom he'd learned from a frozen corpse in a cave.

"The storage unit records," Finn continued. "Or Keeling's old contacts. Someone must have helped Whitman acquire those artifacts..."

"It's not enough," Sheila said quietly. The mountain peaks beyond her window seemed to mock her with their ancient silence, their countless hidden caves. "He's always one step ahead, Finn. While we chase paper trails, he's already choosing his next victim."

She stood, needing to move, to escape the confines of her office with its crime scene photos and unanswered questions. The weight of three deaths pressed down on her shoulders—Kane, Mitchell, Harper. Each one carefully selected, studied, preserved in chambers of ice and stone.

"I need some air," she said. "Need to clear my head."

Finn watched her with understanding in his tired eyes. "Want company?"

She shook her head. "No. I think I need to be by myself."

The words hung in the air between them. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Finn asked quietly. "Given what happened with your truck?"

He was referring to the man who had hijacked her truck just a few days ago, but not before threatening both her father's life and Star's if she didn't stop investigating the same departmental corruption her mother had started looking into—and been killed over.

"I'll be careful," she said. "I'll check my vehicle, make sure nobody's following me. They won't sneak up on me again."

Finn looked clearly uneasy about this, but he didn't argue.

"You be careful, too," Sheila said. "Until this whole situation's settled, we all need to stay on our toes."

Finn nodded. "Roger that."

Sheila gathered her keys and went out, hoping that a little fresh air would clear her head.

Hoping the case wasn't as bleak as it felt at the moment.

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