Chapter 9: The Collector — Part 2
Karen Chen sat in Interview Room 3 with her hands wrapped around a coffee cup she hadn't drunk from.
Twenty-eight years old. Mechanical engineer at Boeing. Missing for three weeks, escaped forty-eight hours ago. The bruises on her wrists had faded to yellow-green, but the ones behind her eyes were still fresh.
Morgan and I watched through the one-way glass before going in.
"She's holding together," Morgan observed. "Most survivors need weeks before they can talk coherently. She's already given two statements."
"Adrenaline. And anger." I studied her posture—straight spine, controlled breathing, jaw set hard. "She's not processing yet. She's functioning. The crash will come later."
"You sound like you've seen it before."
"Kosovo. Survivors of ethnic cleansing. Some of them could describe atrocities in clinical detail days after extraction. The ones who fell apart immediately actually recovered faster."
Morgan's expression shifted.
"That's not in your file."
"Not all of it."
He nodded slowly, didn't push.
"You lead the interview. I'll support."
"You sure? She's your case."
"She's our case. And you've got the touch for this. I saw it in Columbus with that kid on the sidewalk."
He's testing me, but he's also trusting me. Both at once.
"Copy that."
We entered the room. Karen's eyes tracked us immediately—assessing, measuring, the habits of someone who'd learned that every stranger was a potential threat.
"Ms. Chen? I'm Agent Mercer, this is Agent Morgan. We're with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit."
"I know who you are." Her voice was steady. "The victim advocate said you'd want to talk."
"Only if you're willing. Nothing we discuss leaves this room without your permission."
"I want to help." She met my eyes. "Four other women are still in there. Whatever I can do to get them out, I'll do."
I sat across from her. Morgan took a position by the door—visible but not looming.
"Can you walk us through what you remember? Start wherever feels comfortable."
[TRAUMA MAPPING: INITIATING]
[PTSD MARKERS: SEVERE — HYPERVIGILANCE, EMOTIONAL NUMBING, INTRUSIVE RECALL]
[INFORMATION SUPPRESSION: LIKELY — MEMORIES COMPARTMENTALIZED DUE TO PSYCHOLOGICAL PROTECTION]
[FOCUS: -5]
The system fed me data I could have guessed on my own. Karen wasn't hiding anything deliberately—her mind had locked away details to protect itself. The challenge was accessing those memories without triggering a full breakdown.
"I was leaving work," she began. "Late shift, almost midnight. The parking garage was mostly empty. I heard footsteps behind me, and then..." She paused, swallowed. "Then nothing. Until I woke up in the room."
"The museum room."
"That's what I call it. He called it the gallery."
"Can you describe it?"
Her eyes went distant.
"Glass cases. Like at a natural history museum. Big enough to stand in. There were four others when I arrived—women in the cases, posed like mannequins. Drugged, I think. They moved sometimes, but slowly. Like they were underwater."
Morgan's jaw tightened.
I kept my voice soft.
"What else do you remember about the space? The walls, the floor, any sounds?"
"Concrete walls. Cold floor—also concrete, I think. It felt like a basement. The lighting was bright, clinical. And there was music."
"What kind?"
"Classical. Orchestral. The same piece over and over. I don't know what it was, but I'll never forget it."
"Did you see the man who took you?"
"Yes." Her hands tightened on the coffee cup. "He came in every day. Sometimes twice. He'd walk along the cases, looking at us. Talking."
"What did he say?"
"He called us his collection. Said we were... specimens. Remarkable examples of what women could achieve when given the chance." Her voice cracked slightly. "He said he was preserving us. Protecting us from a world that would waste our potential."
Classic collector rationalization. He's convinced himself this is reverence, not imprisonment.
"Did he ever mention where he'd found you? How he selected you?"
"He knew everything about us. Our jobs, our degrees, our accomplishments. He'd recite them like... like museum plaques. 'Karen Chen. Mechanical engineer. Boeing 787 structural integration specialist. Published three papers on composite materials.'"
She looked at me, eyes wet but fierce.
"He'd done research. Months of it, probably. We weren't random. We were curated."
[PROFILE UPDATE: EXTENSIVE PREMEDITATION CONFIRMED — UNSUB HAS ACCESS TO PROFESSIONAL DATABASES OR EMPLOYMENT RECORDS]
[FOCUS: -3]
I glanced at Morgan. He gave a slight nod—keep going.
"Karen, I want to try something. It's called cognitive interviewing. It might help you remember details that your conscious mind has suppressed. But I need your permission, and we can stop at any time."
She hesitated, then nodded.
"Whatever helps."
I walked her through it slowly. Controlled breathing. Closing her eyes. Returning mentally to the gallery, not as a prisoner, but as an observer. Describing sensory details without emotional engagement.
"You're standing in the gallery. It's quiet except for the music. What do you smell?"
"Chemicals. Antiseptic, but not like a hospital. Something sharper."
"Like a lab?"
"Like... a vet's office. When I took my cat in for surgery, it smelled like that."
[CROSS-REFERENCE: VETERINARY MEDICAL FACILITIES]
"Good. What else? Any sounds besides the music?"
"A hum. Mechanical. Like a generator or a cooling system."
"Is the room warm or cold?"
"Cold. Too cold for comfort. He kept it that way to preserve—" She stopped, shuddered.
"You're doing great, Karen. One more thing. When he spoke to you, what did he call himself?"
Her eyes stayed closed, face tight with concentration.
"He never said his name. But once... once I heard a phone ring. Distant, like it was upstairs. He left quickly. When he came back, he was wearing different clothes. Scrubs. Medical blue, but not from a hospital."
[PROFILE CORRELATION: MEDICAL/VETERINARY PROFESSIONAL — CONFIRMED]
[FOCUS: 30/50]
I ended the cognitive interview gently, brought her back to the present moment. When she opened her eyes, they were clearer—the process of remembering had given her something to hold onto.
"Thank you," I said. "That was incredibly helpful."
"Did I give you enough?"
"You gave us a direction. That's more than we had an hour ago."
Morgan stepped forward.
"Ms. Chen, we're going to find the others. And the man who did this to you? He's never going to hurt anyone again."
She nodded, but her eyes found mine.
"I dreamed about them. The other four. Every night since I got out. They're still in those cases, waiting. Hoping someone's coming."
"Someone is," I said.
We left her with the victim advocate and stepped into the hallway.
Morgan was already on his phone.
"Garcia, I need you to cross-reference veterinary facilities in the Seattle metro area with soundproofed or basement-level structures. Also any facilities that have closed in the last five years—he might be using an abandoned property."
Garcia's voice crackled through the speaker.
"On it, my chocolate thunder. Give me ten minutes."
"Make it five. We've got four women running out of time."
He hung up, looked at me.
"You were gentle in there. Not what I expected from CID interrogation training."
"Victims need different handling than perps."
"Clearly." His expression was thoughtful. "You got more out of her in twenty minutes than Seattle PD got in two days. That cognitive interview thing—they don't teach that at Quantico."
"They teach it. They just don't practice it enough."
"Uh-huh."
He studied me for a moment, and I could see him filing away another piece of the puzzle that was Ethan Mercer.
Let him file. As long as what he finds is useful, he won't dig deeper.
Garcia called back in four minutes.
"Okay, so I've got three hits on veterinary facilities with basement structures. Two are currently operating—Greenwood Animal Hospital and Eastside Pet Clinic. The third is an abandoned veterinary clinic in the industrial district near the port. Closed in 2003 after the owner died. Property's been in probate ever since."
"Any connection to the owner?"
"Dr. Harold Voss. Seventy-three when he died. Widower, no children. But—and here's where it gets interesting—his nephew Nathan Voss has been paying the property taxes. Nathan Voss is forty-two, former veterinary technician, currently unemployed. He lost his license in 2001 after allegations of inappropriate behavior with clients."
"What kind of inappropriate behavior?"
"Complaints from female pet owners that he was 'too interested' in their personal lives. Asked invasive questions about their jobs, their relationships. Nothing criminal, but enough to get him fired from three different clinics."
Morgan and I exchanged looks.
"Nathan Voss," I said. "Failed vet tech who resented successful women. Inherited access to a soundproofed veterinary facility. And now he's building a museum."
"Address?"
"Sending to your phones now. The abandoned clinic is about forty minutes from your current location. The other two are closer, but if I were betting, I'd put money on Uncle Harold's place."
"Good work, Garcia."
"Always, my loves. Bring those women home."
The line went dead.
I thought about Karen Chen, still sitting in that interview room. The way she'd described the glass cases, the cold floor, the music playing on repeat. Four women waiting in the dark for someone to find them.
We're coming.
Morgan was already moving toward the conference room where Hotch and the others were coordinating.
"Hotch needs to hear this. We've got three locations to hit."
"And one that matters most."
"You think it's the abandoned clinic?"
"I know it is."
He stopped, turned.
"How do you know?"
Because I've profiled a hundred collectors in my old life. Because the pattern is textbook. Because the system is feeding me correlation data I can't explain.
"Nathan Voss has access, motive, and opportunity. The abandoned property gives him privacy, space, and a personal connection to the location. And Karen described veterinary-specific smells and sounds. He's using his uncle's clinic because it's the only place he ever felt competent."
Morgan weighed my words, then nodded.
"Good enough for me. Let's move."
We briefed Hotch in three minutes flat. He divided the team: Reid and Elle to Greenwood, Gideon and JJ to Eastside, Morgan and me to the abandoned clinic.
"Furthest location gets the most likely suspect," Morgan said as we headed to the SUV. "Lucky us."
"Luck's got nothing to do with it."
"Yeah, I'm starting to figure that out."
The drive took thirty-eight minutes through Seattle traffic that seemed designed by a sadist. Morgan pushed the speed limit while I reviewed everything we knew about Nathan Voss.
[TARGET PROFILE: NATHAN VOSS]
[THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE-HIGH — ORGANIZED, INTELLIGENT, EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE]
[LIKELY ARMED: SEDATION EQUIPMENT — POSSIBLE SURGICAL TOOLS]
[RECOMMENDATION: TACTICAL APPROACH. DO NOT ENGAGE WITHOUT BACKUP.]
Backup was twenty minutes behind us. SWAT was scrambling, but they'd deployed to two other locations first.
If Voss is there, if the women are there, twenty minutes might be too long.
Morgan's jaw was tight as he drove.
"You're thinking what I'm thinking."
"Depends on what you're thinking."
"I'm thinking four women have been in glass cases for months. I'm thinking if Voss sees us coming, he might decide to clean house rather than get caught." Morgan glanced at me. "I'm thinking backup might get there too late."
"Yeah." I watched the industrial district roll past the window. "That's what I'm thinking too."
"So what's the call?"
The question hung in the air.
Protocol says wait. Protocol says don't engage without support. Protocol says two agents against an unknown situation is how people get killed.
But Karen Chen's eyes are still in my head. "They're still in those cases, waiting."
"We assess on approach. If there's no immediate threat, we wait for backup. If there's evidence of imminent danger to the hostages..."
"Then we do what needs doing."
I nodded.
Morgan's grin was tight but genuine.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
The abandoned clinic appeared through the windshield—a low building with boarded windows and an overgrown parking lot. But there were fresh tire tracks in the gravel. And somewhere inside, I could just make out the hum of a generator.
He's here.
They're here.
Morgan pulled the SUV to a stop fifty yards out, killed the engine.
"Your call, Mercer. We wait, or we go?"
I looked at the building. At the tracks. At the generator humming behind those dead walls.
"We go. But smart."
Morgan checked his weapon.
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
We moved toward the building, and four women waiting in the dark moved one step closer to freedom.
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