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CHAPTER FOUR: MIRROR IMAGE ( aka 03x07: identity)
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AS SOON AS THEY were given the go-ahead, the agents gained access to Goehring's house. It struck Dallis as familiar the second she stepped through the door, gloves on, to follow Emily and Reid into the kitchen. Everything was organised, each item had a specific place. Even the slight bit of mess was calculated, laid out rather like a movie set.
"I wonder who this is for," she commented, staring at the list of 'rules' pinned to the wall opposite the sink. "The women or the partner?"
Emily read it over Dallis' shoulder and scoffed, quoting, "One; all actions must serve to please The Master. Two; insubordination will result in punishment."
"Any attempts to escape the Kingdom will result in death," Dallis concluded, shaking her head. "You said he left a manifesto in his trailer, right? Well, here's the latest update."
"Notice how 'master' is singular and capitalised, emphasising there's only one dominant partner," Reid remarked, removing a photo of Goehring from the front of the fridge.
"So his partner's more of a servant," Emily said.
"Or a serf. Watching the house, minding the lawn."
"Helping him abduct and murder women," Dallis pursed her lips.
Goehring stood with pride, hands posed on his belt buckle in the photo Reid handed over to them. Dallis wondered who took the photo, who framed it so that Goehring was the centre of attention.
"Okay, so if his partner is a serf," she said. "What are the female slaves for? Is it just the thrill of the abduction itself that he chases?"
"Oh, I think I can answer that," came Rossi's voice from behind her.
He'd entered through the side door that lead to the living room where Dallis had seen him and Hotch searching through drawers. His footsteps were silent as he listened to the three of them converse, taking in their ideas and comparing them to whatever he and Hotch had learnt. Dallis didn't like the grim expression on his face. He didn't say anything as he lead them to the spare room, but what was inside spoke volumes.
"Oh, my god," she muttered, coming to a stop in front of the wooden chair nailed into the floor. It sat in the centre of the room with a weather-beaten hood attached to the headrest and leather restraints hanging off the arms.
"Now we know why the victims were taken so far apart," Reid circled the chair cautiously. "They tortured them. It took time for them to die."
"This is where he kept them," Hotch decided. He was kneeling beside the open wardrobe. Men's shirts and jackets of various sizes hung from coat-hangers. Underneath was a box -- no, a coffin -- built into the cupboard. The top was covered by a heavy slab of wood that Hotch had pushed aside. It was barely big enough to fit a grown woman and it was dripping with blood. "The blood's still fresh."
