Page 7 of Outside the Room
She pointed to scuff marks on the container floor. "He was moving with purpose, not caution. Coming directly to this container, not searching randomly."
Sullivan's eyebrows raised slightly, the first hint of approval she'd seen from him. He moved to the doorway, examining it more closely.
"The lock was put on after the fact," he said. "There are scratch marks on the outside, too, like someone was in a hurry."
Isla nodded, the scenario becoming clearer. "Whitman discovers something in his customs work. Comes here to confirm his suspicions, probably thinking he's being cautious by coming alone instead of raising an alarm prematurely. The killer either follows him or arranges to meet him, attacks him inside the container, then locks him in to freeze to death—though he was likely already dead from the head wound."
"Efficient," Sullivan commented. "And suggests insider knowledge of port operations."
Their eyes met over Whitman's body, a moment of professional synchronicity despite their personal disconnect. For the first time since Miami, Isla felt the familiar rhythm of a partnership beginning to form.
Sorenson cleared his throat from the doorway. "The ME's here. Wants to know if you're done with the preliminary examination."
Isla nodded, taking one last look around the container. The smell of death mixed with industrial decay would stay with her, but so would the satisfaction of thorough work. "We're done for now, but I want photos of everything, especially those scratch marks. And I'd like to know as soon as possible what that key fragment fits."
As they stepped back into the swirling snow, Sullivan gave her an appraising look. "You've worked scenes like this before."
It wasn't quite a question, but Isla answered anyway. "Not exactly like this. Miami doesn't have the cold temperature issues, but shipping container crimes aren't unique to the Great Lakes. We were more likely to deal with cooked bodies than frozen ones. Trust me, the cooked ones are worse."
"I can imagine," Sullivan said. He turned toward the dockworker who'd discovered the body, still waiting in the patrol car.
"Let's talk to Kowalski," he said, leading the way across the snow-covered asphalt.
As they walked, Isla realized that her hands weren't shaking anymore. For the first time since Miami, she felt steady and confident in her observations. Whatever Sullivan might think of her, whatever clouds hung over her career, in that shipping container, she'd been simply an FBI agent doing her job. The partnership felt tentative but promising—his systematic approach complementing her instinctive read of crime scenes.
It wasn't redemption—nothing could erase what had happened in Miami—but it was, perhaps, a start.
***
Pavel Kowalski was hunched over in the patrol car, a bear of a man who was made small by shock. His broad face was still ashen beneath his weathered complexion, hands clutching a paper cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. Isla studied him as they approached, noting how even someone of his obvious physical strength could be reduced by proximity to violent death—a reminder that murder left ripples far beyond its immediate victim.
Sullivan opened the car door, letting in a blast of frigid air that made Kowalski flinch. "Mr. Kowalski, I'm Special Agent Sullivan with the FBI. This is my partner, Agent Rivers. We need to ask you some questions about what you found this morning."
The dockworker nodded, his eyes darting between them before settling somewhere in the middle distance. His accent was thick but understandable. "I already told the police everything."
"We'd appreciate hearing it directly," Isla said, her voice gentler than Sullivan's matter-of-fact tone. She slid into the back seat beside Kowalski while Sullivan took the front passenger seat, turning to face them both. The car's heater provided blessed warmth after the bitter cold of the container yard.
"I was just doing my job," Kowalski said, his massive hands twisting the coffee cup. "The manifest said container 4873-B needed to be moved to make room for incoming shipment. When I checked the system, the container wasn't showing proper customs clearance. Protocol says we call it in."
"So, you contacted Whitman?" Sullivan asked.
Kowalski shook his head. "No, no. I called my supervisor, Larson. He said to check the container physically and see if there was a paperwork issue. Sometimes, the digital system lags, you know?" Kowalski's shoulders hunched further. "When I got to the container, I noticed right away the lock was wrong. Not port issued. I called Larson again, and he told me to cut it and check inside." His voice cracked. "I never expected... never thought I'd find..."
"Take your time," Isla said, noticing the tremor in his weathered hands—hands that had probably seen decades of hard labor but never anything like this.
Kowalski drew a deep breath. "I've worked these docks fifteen years. Never seen anything like that. Marcus was... he was a good man. Strict about rules, but fair. Always treated us with respect."
"Did you notice anyone unusual around the container yard yesterday or last night?" Sullivan asked.
"I wasn't on shift," Kowalski replied. "Came on at six this morning."
"What about Marcus?" Isla pressed. "Had he been acting differently lately? Concerned about anything?"
"I wouldn't know," Kowalski replied. "You should speak to the men in the office where the clerical work is done. They would know."
"Thank you, Pavel," Sullivan said. "That's all for now."
Sullivan handed Kowalski a business card. "If you remember anything else, call that number. Day or night."
