Now, as the camera rolled silently in the corner, documenting what would become the official record of their investigation's conclusion, Isla studied the man across from her. O'Connor met her gaze with practiced calm, but she caught the telltale signs of strain—the barely perceptible tightness around his mouth, the way his fingers drummed once against the table before he forced them still.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of at least three murders and the corruption that had made them possible. When Isla finally spoke, her voice cut through the room like a blade through silk.
"Tell me about Marcus Whitman."
She placed the customs inspector's official photograph on the table, the image stark under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Whitman's face stared up at them—serious, dedicated, unaware that his thoroughness would cost him his life.
O'Connor's eyes fixed on the photo, and for a moment his carefully constructed facade cracked. Something human flickered across his features—regret, perhaps, or the memory of a line he'd never imagined crossing.
"Marcus was..." O'Connor paused, his voice barely above a whisper. "He was good at his job. Too good."
"He found the discrepancies," Isla said. Not a question.
O'Connor nodded slowly, as if the admission were being dragged from his throat. "Shipments that existed on paper but never arrived. Others that appeared without proper documentation. Weight variations that should have been impossible." His hands remained folded on the table, knuckles white with tension. "Marcus started connecting patterns that weren't supposed to be connected."
"You tried to redirect him."
"I suggested other priorities. Different companies to focus on. Legitimate irregularities that would satisfy his need to investigate." O'Connor's voice grew quieter, forcing Isla to lean forward. "I thought if I could just... guide his attention elsewhere..."
"But he wouldn't be deterred."
The confession came out in a rush, as if O'Connor had been holding it back for weeks. "He said it was his duty to follow the evidence wherever it led. That the port's integrity depended on people like him refusing to look the other way." A bitter laugh escaped his throat. "He was going to file a formal report. Had everything documented, ready to send to federal oversight."
Isla felt the familiar weight of understanding settle in her chest. Marcus Whitman had died because he'd been exactly the kind of man the system needed him to be—honest, thorough, incorruptible. The tragedy of it was almost too much to bear.
"So, you killed him."
The words hung in the air like an accusation and a verdict combined. O'Connor flinched as if she'd struck him, but he didn't deny it.
"It was supposed to look like an accident," he said, his voice hollow. "Hypothermia. Someone who'd gotten trapped in a container during routine inspection. But the head wound..." He trailed off, unable or unwilling to complete the thought.
"Tell me about Diana Pearce."
At the mention of the second victim, O'Connor's composure crumbled further. He couldn't meet Isla's eyes, staring instead at his hands as if they belonged to someone else.
"Diana was just as thorough as Marcus. When your people asked her to review his files, she picked up exactly where he'd left off." His voice cracked slightly. "She found the same patterns and started asking the same questions. Worse—she was sharing everything with the FBI. Said she had a duty to help solve Marcus's murder."
"You couldn't redirect her like you'd tried with Marcus."
"She knew too much. Had already identified specific shipments, specific companies. Was cross-referencing everything with your investigation." O'Connor's breathing had become shallow, rapid. "It was only a matter of time before she connected it all back to me."
"So, you murdered her, too."
The accusation seemed to physically pain him. O'Connor doubled over slightly, as if the weight of his actions were crushing him from within. "I told myself it was necessary. That saving the operation meant protecting dozens of families who depended on the income. That Diana's death would prevent a larger catastrophe."
The rationalization was pathetic, and Isla could see in O'Connor's eyes that he knew it. But men like him always found ways to transform selfish choices into noble sacrifices, to rewrite their own narratives until they could sleep at night.
"And Sarah Sanchez?"
The change in O'Connor was immediate and startling. He straightened in his chair, something sharp and defensive flashing in his eyes. For the first time since the interview began, he looked directly at her.
"No." The word came out hard, definitive. "That wasn't me. I didn't order it, didn't know about it until after. I would never have—" He stopped himself, jaw working as if he were biting back words.
Isla studied his face with the intensity she'd developed over years of reading suspects and witnesses. What she saw wasn't the careful deflection of a guilty man, but genuine confusion mixed with something that looked like wounded pride. As if he were offended by the implication that he'd acted without his usual meticulous planning.
"Then who killed her?"
O'Connor opened his mouth to respond, but Margaret Hartwell's hand shot out to stop him. "My client has outlined the scope of his cooperation," she said smoothly. "Discussion of events he was not directly involved in falls outside those parameters and into speculation."
