Page 4 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

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."

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."

As they left the patrol car, the wind whipped harder, driving snow horizontally across the port.

Isla pulled her inadequate coat tighter, scanning the maze of containers stacked like children's blocks across the massive yard.

The sound of ongoing operations—diesel engines, hydraulic machinery, shouted orders—created a strange counterpoint to the somber reality of their investigation.

"What's your read?" Sullivan asked, surprising her with the question.

"Kowalski seems genuinely shocked," Isla replied. "I don't think he's involved, and we should probably talk to the other guys in customs, like he suggested."

"Agreed," Sullivan said. "Let's see if they can shed some light on Whitman's last days."

In the distance, the sound of a container crane grinding to life reminded them both that despite the presence of death, the port's vital work continued—and somewhere among those workers might be a killer who had already demonstrated they would murder to protect their secrets.