Page 22 of Outside the Room

"What if the killer is using the same method?" she asked, turning to face him. "What if Pearce is in one of those containers?"

Sullivan was already reaching for his phone. "We need to organize a search. Every locked container in the port."

"That's hundreds of containers," the security manager protested, overhearing their conversation.

"Then we need more people," Sullivan replied, his tone brooking no argument. "Call in every available port authority employee. I'll request backup from local PD and the field office."

***

The transition from investigation to full-scale search operation moved with the controlled chaos of a major emergency response. Within the hour, the port had transformed into a hive of coordinated activity as teams spread across the massive container yard. Radio chatter filled the air as search teams reported their progress, the systematic checking of locks creating a percussion of metal against metal that echoed across the harbor.

Isla coordinated from a central position near the port authority building, directing resources as Sullivan liaised with the growing number of agencies now involved. Already, she could see the economic impact of their operation—three cargo vessels sat at anchor beyond the harbor, unable to dock while the search continued. The massive cranes that normally loaded and unloaded containers stood motionless, their operators reassigned to the search effort.

The afternoon light was already fading—winter days were brutally short this far north—when a radio call came through.

"Agents Rivers and Sullivan, we've got something in section E-7. Container with non-standard lock, just like the Whitman scene."

Sullivan caught Isla's eye across the makeshift command center they'd established. Neither needed to speak the grim possibility aloud.

They arrived at the container minutes later. A port authority worker stood nearby, his face pale beneath his beard. "Found it during the systematic check. Lock doesn't match standard inventory."

Sullivan nodded to the waiting technicians. "Cut it open."

The grinding sound of metal cutting through metal echoed across the yard, unnaturally loud in the gathering twilight. Isla braced herself, already suspecting what they would find but hoping desperately to be wrong. As the portable lights cast harsh shadows between the container stacks, she couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched—that somewhere in this maze of steel and concrete, the killer might be observing their discovery.

The lock fell away, and two officers pulled the heavy container door open. The beam of Sullivan's flashlight cut through the darkness inside, illuminating a scene that confirmed their worst fears.

Diana Pearce lay on the container floor, her body already stiffening in the cold. Like Whitman, she had a massive head wound, but unlike him, her body showed signs of a violent struggle—defensive wounds on her hands, bruising around her throat, clothing torn in places.

Isla felt the breath leave her lungs as she stared at the scene. Another woman, another life cut short by someone's greed or desperation. For a moment, she was back in Miami, staring at Alicia Mendez's broken body, feeling the crushing weight of arriving too late. The familiar guilt clawed at her chest—if they'd moved faster, been smarter, could they have saved Diana?

"She fought back," Isla said quietly, stepping carefully into the container, forcing herself into professional mode despite the personal pain. "Much harder than Whitman did."

Sullivan remained in the doorway, his expression grim as he processed not just the crime scene but the personal loss. Diana had been more than a contact—she'd been someone he'd worked with for years, someone who'd trusted him with information about the case. The weight of that trust, now forever broken, settled heavily on his shoulders. "She knew what was coming. Whitman was caught by surprise."

Isla crouched beside Pearce's body, noting the absence of a purse or phone. "No personal effects. And no sign of the manifests she was reviewing."

"This confirms it wasn't Bradley or any of his crew," Sullivan said, his voice rougher than usual. "He was already in custody when this happened, and so were they."

Isla stood, her mind racing with implications. "Someone killed her to silence her. She found something in those manifests—something connected to Whitman's death."

"And now those manifests are gone," Sullivan added. "Whoever did this is systematically eliminating both witnesses and evidence."

They stepped back to allow the medical examiner access to the body. As technicians began processing the scene with practiced efficiency, Isla moved away slightly, needing a moment to process what they'd found. The emergency lights created an otherworldly atmosphere in the container yard, casting deep shadows between the towering steel boxes while transforming the familiar industrial landscape into something alien and threatening.

Two people were murdered in the same distinctive way within days of each other. Both customs workers investigating shipping discrepancies. Both bodies hidden in containers. The killer was following a pattern, which meant they might strike again if anyone else started asking the wrong questions.

"We need to protect the remaining customs staff," she said when Sullivan joined her. "Anybody who worked closely with Whitman or Pearce could be at risk."

He nodded, already on his phone arranging security details. When he finished the call, his expression was troubled. "The field office is sending additional agents, but this just became much bigger than a local investigation. Two federal employees murdered in similar circumstances triggers protocols."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the FBI will be taking over port security until further notice. Customs operations continue but under our direct supervision."

Isla considered the implications. "That will slow down legitimate shipping and create economic pressure to resolve this quickly."

"Exactly," Sullivan agreed. "We'll start getting calls from politicians and business interests within hours. The port of Duluth handles over thirty million in goods daily. Every hour of disruption costs millions and affects shipping schedules across the Great Lakes."

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