They drove in tense silence to the administration building, where a single light still burned on the second floor—O'Connor's office. The port director had been working nearly around the clock since Pearce's murder, a dedication that had initially seemed admirable but now took on potentially sinister implications.
"We approach this carefully," Sullivan cautioned as they parked. "If O'Connor is involved, he's already killed three people. He did seem a little over-eager to help us before, didn't he?"
Isla nodded, checking her weapon before exiting the vehicle. The wind had intensified, driving ice crystals horizontally across the parking lot. The administration building loomed dark and imposing against the night sky, its single illuminated window like a watchful eye overlooking the port.
As they approached the entrance, Isla's mind raced through possibilities. Was O'Connor the killer they'd been seeking? The inconsistencies in Sanchez's murder still troubled her—something about this latest killing felt fundamentally different from the methodical efficiency of the container murders.
"Sanchez was trained security, armed, and had a background in boxing," she said as they reached the building's entrance. "Whoever killed her was taking a big risk. That’s why he caught her off guard. He knew she’d fight back.”
"O'Connor doesn't fit that profile," Sullivan acknowledged. "He's administrative, desk bound. No military or law enforcement background."
"Could have an accomplice," Isla suggested. "Someone who handles the physical aspects while O'Connor provides access and information."
They entered the building cautiously, the night-shift security guard recognizing them from earlier visits and waving them through without question. The hallways were eerily silent, their footsteps echoing on the polished floors as they made their way toward the elevator.
"One more inconsistency," Isla said quietly as they ascended to the second floor. "Whitman and Pearce were killed to silence them—they had discovered something in the shipping manifests that threatened someone. What did Sanchez know that made her a target?"
Sullivan had no answer as the elevator doors opened to a darkened hallway, illuminated only by emergency exit signs and the thin strip of light visible beneath O'Connor's office door at the far end.
They approached silently, years of training evident in their coordinated movements. When they reached the door, Sullivan positioned himself to one side while Isla knocked firmly.
"Mr. O'Connor? We need to speak with you again."
There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Footsteps approached, and the door swung open to reveal Raymond O'Connor, his face ashen, tie loosened around his neck, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion or emotion.
"Agents," he greeted them hoarsely. "I just heard about Sarah. Another one of my people..." His voice cracked with what appeared to be genuine grief. "When will this nightmare end?"
Isla studied him carefully, looking for any signs of deception or guilt. What she saw instead was a man overwhelmed by circumstance, shoulders slumped with the weight of multiple tragedies. It didn't match the profile of someone who had just committed a violent murder.
"May we come in?" she asked. "We have some questions about Officer Sanchez's activities tonight."
O'Connor stepped back, gesturing them inside. "Of course. Anything I can do to help catch whoever is doing this."
His office was in disarray, with papers scattered across the desk and multiple coffee cups suggesting hours of continuous work. A security monitor on the wall displayed various feeds from around the port, including the now-active crime scene where Sanchez's body had been discovered.
"When did you last see Officer Sanchez?" Sullivan asked, getting straight to the point.
O'Connor sank heavily into his chair. "Earlier this evening. Around eight, I think? She stopped by during her patrol, checking on me as she often did when working nights. Said she was concerned about me working alone with a killer targeting port employees."
"How long did she stay?" Isla pressed.
"Just a few minutes," O'Connor replied. "We talked about increasing security patrols and implementing buddy systems for night shifts." He rubbed his face with both hands. "I told her to be careful. That's the last thing I said to her—' be careful.' And now she's dead."
The emotion in his voice seemed genuine, but Isla had learned long ago not to trust appearances. The most skilled manipulators often presented the most convincing facades.
"Did she mention seeing anything unusual during her patrol?" she asked. "Any concerns or observations that stood out?"
O'Connor frowned, considering. "Nothing specific. Though she did mention planning to check the western storage area later in her shift. Said something about movement she'd noticed there on previous nights."
The western storage area—nowhere near the eastern dock where her body had been found. Another puzzling detail in an increasingly confusing case.
"Mr. O'Connor, can you account for your whereabouts between nine and ten p.m. tonight?" Sullivan asked, his tone carefully neutral.
If O'Connor was offended by the implied suspicion, he didn't show it. "Right here," he answered simply. "I've been working on updated security protocols since six this evening. Haven't left the building."
"Can anyone verify that?" Isla pressed.
"The night receptionist, Maria, brought me coffee around nine-thirty," O'Connor said. "And I've been on several phone calls with the port authority board, discussing emergency measures following the previous murders."
