Page 25 of Outside the Room

Sullivan glanced up, a flicker of something like respect in his eyes. "Exactly. Whitman had been doing this job for fifteen years. If something felt wrong to him, it probably was—even if he couldn't immediately prove it."

As they continued working, Isla found herself increasingly certain that whatever Whitman and Pearce had discovered involved systematic exploitation of the port's procedures—not isolated incidents of smuggling like Bradley's operation, but something larger and more organized that used the legitimate shipping infrastructure as cover.

The question was: what were they hiding, and how far would they go to protect it?

CHAPTER TWELVE

Darkness had fallen completely by the time they finished their initial review of O'Connor's files. Outside the windows of the port authority building, security lights illuminated the vast container yard, where armed officers now patrolled in pairs. The temporary port lockdown Sullivan had ordered was in full effect—no vessels permitted to dock or depart, no containers allowed to be moved or transported.

Isla rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had settled there during hours of concentrated work. She moved to the large wall map displaying the port's layout, studying the complex network of docks, storage areas, and transportation corridors that made Duluth's harbor one of the most significant shipping hubs on the Great Lakes.

"We need to implement stricter security protocols," she said as Sullivan joined her at the map. "More patrols, additional checkpoints, complete documentation for anyone entering or leaving the port area."

Sullivan nodded, the shadows under his eyes betraying his fatigue despite his focused demeanor. "Already in progress. O'Connor called in additional security personnel. The port is operating with minimal essential staff until further notice."

"What about the containers scheduled for transport?" Isla asked, gesturing to the loading area where dozens of containers awaited transfer to rail cars and trucks.

"On hold for now," Sullivan replied. "Which means we're on a clock. The economic pressure will mount quickly."

As if on cue, his phone rang. He checked the screen and grimaced. "Governor's office. Again."

It was the third such call in the past hour. Isla watched as Sullivan stepped away to answer, his responses professional but increasingly terse as he explained why the port couldn't immediately resume normal operations.

When he returned, his expression was grim. "The governor 'strongly encourages' us to resolve this situation as quickly as possible. Apparently, dozens of shipping companies have already lodged formal complaints about the delays."

"Did you explain that we have two murdered federal employees and an active threat to port security?" Isla asked, though she already knew the answer.

"I did. He expressed his condolences before reminding me that the port processes over thirty million dollars in goods daily, and each hour of shutdown creates rippling delays across the Great Lakes shipping network." Sullivan's tone made clear what he thought of prioritizing economics over safety. "He specifically mentioned a shipment of medical supplies bound for Chicago hospitals that's been delayed twelve hours already. Apparently, the head of the state medical association is 'personally concerned.'"

Isla felt the weight of that pressure—real people affected by their investigation, not just abstract economic figures. She turned back to the map, her mind working through possibilities. "We can't maintain a complete lockdown indefinitely, but we need enough time to secure potential evidence."

"And identify who had access to both Whitman and Pearce's offices," Sullivan added. "The killer knew their routines, their work patterns. That suggests someone familiar with port operations."

"Or someone they trusted enough to let their guard down," Isla suggested. "Both victims were found in similar containers, killed in similar ways. That's not coincidence—it's signature."

A faint sound from the hallway outside made them both pause—footsteps that stopped just outside the conference room door before continuing. Isla and Sullivan exchanged a glance. The building should have been nearly empty at this hour, with only essential security personnel remaining.

Sullivan moved to the conference table where they'd arranged the case files and manifests in careful chronological order. "What if it's not about specific contraband?" he mused, his voice slightly lower now. "What if Whitman and Pearce noticed a pattern or system being exploited?"

Isla joined him, her interest piqued, but also conscious of keeping their voices down. "A methodology rather than a particular shipment. That would explain why Bradley's smuggling operation seems connected but not directly responsible."

"Bradley was small-time," Sullivan agreed. "Using his fishing boat to move things across the border. But what if there's a larger operation using the shipping containers themselves as cover?"

"False manifests," Isla suggested, warming to the theory. "Mislabeled weights, contents, or destinations. In a port this size, with thousands of containers moving through weekly, who would notice minor discrepancies?"

"Whitman would," Sullivan said quietly. "And then Pearce, once she started looking."

They fell silent, both contemplating the implications. If true, they weren't dealing with isolated incidents but potentially years of systematic exploitation of the port's infrastructure—criminal activity that could involve multiple companies, officials, and perhaps even law enforcement.

Isla's phone chimed with an incoming message. She checked it, finding a text from Channing at the field office: Preliminary autopsy confirms Pearce killed same method as Whitman. Trace evidence being analyzed now. Keep me updated on the port security situation.

Isla relayed the information to Sullivan, though it merely confirmed what they'd already suspected. Two murders with identical signatures meant a single killer or killers working together—not random violence but calculated elimination of specific targets.

"We need to establish a timeline," she said decisively. "Everything Whitman did in the week before his death, everyone he spoke with, every manifest he reviewed."

Sullivan nodded. "And the same for Pearce. If we can identify what they were both investigating, we might find what got them killed."

The sound of the conference room door opening interrupted their planning. A young agent Isla didn't recognize entered, carrying a stack of printed emails.

---