CHAPTER THREE
The shipping container loomed before them, its blue exterior dusted with snow, a gaping maw of darkness inside despite the portable lights set up by the crime scene technicians. Isla paused at the threshold, mentally preparing herself for what waited within. The metallic scent of cold steel mixed with something else—something that made her stomach clench with unwelcome familiarity.
"Container was locked from the outside," Sorenson explained. "Maintenance crew had to cut the lock off when they realized something was wrong."
"What alerted them?" Isla asked, pulling on latex gloves from her pocket. Her hands trembled slightly—from the cold, she told herself, though she knew better.
"They were supposed to move this stack today," Sorenson said. "When they accessed the manifest, they realized this particular container wasn't logged properly. Then they noticed the lock didn't match standard port issue."
Isla filed this information away as she stepped into the container, fighting the sudden wave of déjà vu that threatened her focus. Another crime scene, another body, another chance to get it wrong. The temperature inside was no warmer than outside; the metal walls actually made it feel colder. Portable lights created harsh shadows that danced across the confined space like ghosts from Miami.
In the center of the otherwise empty container lay Marcus Whitman, his body frozen in a partially curled position. His skin had the waxy, bluish appearance characteristic of extreme cold exposure, but Isla immediately noted this wasn't the cause of death. A massive head wound had left a spray pattern of blood—now frozen—along one wall of the container.
Focus, she commanded herself. This isn't Miami. This isn't Alicia.
She approached carefully, conscious of preserving the scene while taking in every detail. Despite the freezing conditions, there was minimal blood surrounding the body, suggesting Whitman's heart had stopped pumping almost immediately after the injury. The metallic tang of frozen blood mixed with the container's industrial smell—rust, lubricants, and the lingering traces of whatever cargo it had once carried.
"Blunt force trauma," she murmured, crouching to examine the wound without touching it. "Single blow, tremendous force. Was a weapon recovered?"
"Nothing so far," Sorenson replied from the doorway, his breath visible in the frigid air.
Sullivan had entered behind her and was examining the container walls with a flashlight. "No signs of forced entry on the door," he noted. His light swept across the corners systematically, and he paused. "Wait. There's something else here."
He directed his beam toward a section of wall near the container's rear. "These aren't random scratches—they're too uniform. Someone used a tool to mark specific points along the wall."
Isla moved to examine Sullivan's discovery, noting the deliberate spacing of the marks. "Measuring something?"
"Or marking hiding spots," Sullivan suggested. "This container's been used for more than just storage."
"But there are scratch marks here, too," Isla said, pointing to faint gouges in the metal wall near where Whitman lay. "And along the door seam. These look different, more frantic."
She stood, reconstructing the scene in her mind while the distant sounds of port operations continued beyond the container—the rumble of trucks, the clang of metal on metal, the occasional shout from workers who had no idea a murder scene was being processed yards away.
"He entered willingly or was already inside when the killer arrived. There was a struggle—brief, given the minimal disruption to the scene. The killer struck him once, with enough force to kill him instantly or nearly so. Then they walked out and locked the container behind them."
"That lock was a non-standard type," Sullivan added. "Someone with access to specialized equipment."
"Or someone who stole or copied a key," Isla countered, scanning the container floor carefully. "The planning level suggests the killer knew Whitman's routines and had access to this restricted area."
She spotted something near the victim's outstretched hand—a small metal object partially hidden by the frozen pool of blood. Her pulse quickened, and for a moment, she was back in that Miami warehouse, staring at evidence that could have saved Alicia if only she'd seen it sooner.
"We need tweezers and an evidence bag," she called to the technician hovering near the entrance, her voice steadier than she felt.
Once equipped, she carefully extracted what appeared to be a broken key fragment from the icy blood. "This might be from the struggle," she hypothesized. "If Whitman tried to prevent the killer from locking him in."
Sullivan's reaction was immediate and intense. He leaned closer, studying the fragment with new interest. "That's not just any key," he said. "Look at the teeth pattern; that's a master key design. Someone with access to multiple containers had this made."
"Which means they're probably still operating in the port," Isla realized, the implications sending a chill through her that had nothing to do with the temperature. "This wasn't a one-time thing."
The thought that the killer might be walking among the workers they could hear outside, might even be watching the investigation unfold, added an edge of urgency to their work.
Isla continued her methodical examination, noting Whitman's clothing—appropriate for the cold but not extreme winter conditions, suggesting he hadn't planned to be outside for long—and the position of his body, which indicated he'd fallen forward from the impact of the blow before curling slightly, perhaps in a final defensive posture.
"He didn't expect to die here," she concluded. "He came for a specific purpose, something important enough to risk coming alone at night."
Sullivan, who had been examining the corners of the container, looked over at her with an expression that might have been grudging respect. "How do you figure that?"
"His clothing is his uniform under the coat, so he came from work, not home. No gloves, no thermal underwear visible at the wrists or neck. His phone is missing, but there's an outline in his pocket where it was. The killer took it, which means there might have been something important on it."
