Page 37 of Outside the Room

"Harbor patrol spotted her floating about twenty feet from the pier," the officer replied. "Initial assessment suggests she didn't drown—looks like she was already dead when she went into the water."

Isla stepped closer, careful to avoid contaminating the scene. "May I?" she asked the medical examiner, who shifted slightly to allow her a better view.

The blanket was pulled back to reveal the victim—a woman in her thirties, dark hair now plastered to her pale face, her uniform soaked and beginning to freeze in the subzero temperatures. Even in death, her athletic build was evident, suggesting someone who would have put up a significant fight against an attacker.

The sight hit Isla harder than she'd expected. Sarah Sanchez looked young, vital despite death's pallor—someone who should have been going home to family, to life beyond the port's cold boundaries. For a moment, Alicia Mendez's face superimposed itself over Sarah's, and Isla felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders. Another woman dead, another life she'd failed to protect. The rational part of her mind knew she couldn't have prevented this—they'd had no warning, no indication Sarah was in danger. But guilt didn't follow rational patterns.

"Defensive wounds?" Isla asked, her voice steadier than she felt as she noted bruising on the victim's knuckles.

"Afraid she was ambushed," the examiner confirmed. "And preliminary cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma."

Isla's mind immediately cataloged this information against what they knew about the previous murders. Whitman and Pearce had been killed with blunt force trauma to the head, their bodies locked in containers to conceal the crimes. This victim had been killed the same way, but this time, her body was abandoned in the harbor—a completely different methodology.

"Time of death?" Sullivan asked, his voice rougher than usual. Isla noticed his hands clenched at his sides, the professional distance he maintained cracking slightly in the face of another local death.

"Given the water temperature and body condition, I'd estimate between one and two hours ago," the examiner replied. "I'll know more after the autopsy."

Sullivan turned to the port security officer who had first greeted them. "We need to see the security footage from this area immediately. And I want a list of everyone who was on-site during the estimated time of death." The words came out clipped, urgent—a man fighting to maintain control while his community bled.

"Already working on it," the officer assured him. "Team's pulling footage from all cameras in this section."

As Sullivan coordinated with the local officers, Isla continued her examination of the scene. The dock where they stood was well-lit, an active area of the port even at night. The smell here was different from the upper levels—more intense, combining the industrial odors of fuel and metal with the organic scents of lake water and seaweed. Killing someone here carried a much higher risk of discovery than the isolated container yards where the previous victims had been found.

She moved to the edge of the pier, staring down at the dark water where Sanchez's body had been floating. The ice near the dock had been broken by the harbor patrol's rescue attempt, but further out, the surface of Lake Superior was a solid, moonlit expanse. The gentle slap of water against the pier created an almost hypnotic rhythm, broken periodically by the distant sound of metal groaning as ships adjusted to the current.

"This doesn't fit the pattern," she said quietly when Sullivan rejoined her.

"Agreed," he replied, his voice still tight with barely controlled emotion. "Different disposal, different location—higher risk all around."

Isla knelt to examine a coil of rope nearby, the industrial hemp rough against her gloved fingers. "It feels... less calculated. More impulsive."

"Killer could be devolving," Sullivan suggested, though she could hear him struggling to maintain analytical distance. "Feeling the pressure of the investigation, becoming less careful."

Isla wasn't convinced. She looked back at Sarah's covered form, remembering the young woman's determined expression and her obvious willingness to work extra shifts after the first murders. Sarah hadn't been a random victim—she'd been investigating something, following leads that had made her a target, just like Alicia Mendez, who'd trusted the wrong person and paid with her life.

"Or this could be something else entirely," Isla said, pushing away the guilt that threatened to cloud her judgment. "A copycat, or even someone using our investigation as cover to settle a personal score."

They both turned as a technician approached, tablet in hand. "Agents, you should see this. We've been reviewing the security footage from buildings overlooking this area."

He held out the tablet, displaying a grid of camera feeds. "Four cameras should have captured this section of the dock, but three of them went offline approximately fifteen minutes before the estimated time of death."

"Disabled?" Sullivan asked, taking the tablet to examine it more closely. The technological focus seemed to ground him, pulling him back into investigator mode.

"Appears that way," the technician confirmed. "Too coincidental to be equipment failure."

Isla processed this new information, her earlier theory of an impulsive crime now seeming less likely. "Premeditated enough to disable security cameras, but not methodical enough to follow the established pattern of the container murders."

"Either our killer is changing tactics," Sullivan said grimly, "or we have a new player in the game."

The wind picked up, driving ice crystals into their faces as they stood at the edge of the dock. The sound rose to a howl that nearly drowned out the harbor's industrial symphony. Isla pulled her collar higher, staring out at the vast, frozen expanse of Lake Superior. Somewhere in this port was a killer—perhaps the same one who had murdered Whitman and Pearce, perhaps someone new. Either way, the stakes had just increased dramatically. Another person was dead, and the clock was ticking.

She thought again of Sarah Sanchez, of the determination in her eyes when they'd briefly met during the investigation. Another protector who'd become a victim, another life cut short by whatever secrets lurked beneath the port's industrial facade. The weight of it pressed against Isla's chest, a familiar burden she'd carried since Miami.

"We need to notify Channing," Sullivan said, already reaching for his phone. "And we should interview everyone who was working this section of the port tonight."

Isla nodded, her gaze still fixed on the dark water. "I want to know what Sanchez was doing before she died. Who she talked to, what she saw." She turned to face Sullivan, her expression resolute despite the guilt gnawing at her. "If she found something that got her killed, we need to find it, too."

The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles painted the scene in surreal pulses of red and blue against the night. Behind them, Sanchez's body was being prepared for transport to the medical examiner's facility. The diesel generators continued their low rumble, punctuated by radio static and the ongoing sounds of the harbor—ships creaking against their moorings, water lapping against concrete, the distant clang of loose metal in the wind. Ahead lay a complex investigation that had just taken an unexpected turn. Isla steeled herself against both the physical cold and the chilling realization that they might be dealing with something far more complex than they had initially believed.

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