A/N: This was written for the NFA Crime Challenge. It's more or less a team fic, but it does tend to focus on Tim, especially towards the end. I can't help it. I love Tim. :) The title comes from a work by Dostoyevsky entitled The Double: A Petersburg Poem. Warning: This is set in season 6. The spoilers aren't huge, but they're present.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS, nor do I own any of the characters, nor am I making any money off it. ...and it sure is unfortunate.

The Original Golyadkin, Our Hero
by Enthusiastic Fish

Chapter 1

"We're putting in tomorrow morning."

"I know." The man was not happy with the information.

"I need to know what you're going to say."

"You've already..."

The voice was cruel as it cut him off. "I'm perfectly aware of what I've already done. ...but so are you, and that's the problem."

"Who's going to believe me? You've already made that impossible."

Lips curled in a sadistic smile. "Not quite."

"So...what? What are you going to do? I already know what you're capable of."

"Is your wife aware of that?"

The man's eyes widened. "You wouldn't...not even you..."

Silence...but a silence so definitive that he couldn't go on.

"I won't let you. I've let you...go after your...disgusting agenda. I'm not going to let you go any farther."

"You're not? And how will you stop me? I'm armed, remember?"

"Yes, I remember that, Special Agent–"

The laughter was almost as cruel as the smile, as the voice. "Remembered that, did you? Who's going to believe you? You're known to resent me and my authority. An unfortunate altercation, just hours before we dock. A tragedy."

"It's not going down that way."

"Really?"

Steeling himself, the man pulled out a gun. "You're not the only one who's armed. I work in the armory, remember?" he asked sarcastically. "I've bent...but I can't bend anymore. I'll break."

"Break away," the man said. "You don't have the guts. You never did. Go on. Shoot me. Save the world. Save your pretty little wife."

The gun wavered, shook in the hand of the man holding it.

"The Navy must be letting anyone in if this is the best we can expect from those serving. Good thing I'm here to clean things up."

Then, he launched himself at the man. The two began grappling for the gun. It went off once. Twice. Then...after a third shot...one of them fell to the decking.

Dead.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Agent Gibbs, could you join me in my office, please?" Vance asked.

Tony, Ziva and Tim shared glances with each other. Vance was generally extremely offical in public, but this was different. He was being almost conciliatory...and so far as they knew, Gibbs hadn't done anything...not yet...not recently.

"Of course, Director Vance," Gibbs replied, standing up without hesitation.

The two of them walked up the stairs, neither speaking, willing to wait. They walked past the desk in the outer office. A rather tense young man sat staring at the computer as if it was going to attack him.

"New assistant already?" Gibbs asked as he closed the door behind him.

"Have a seat, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs didn't show it, but he was slightly worried. "Are you firing me, Leon?"

"Should I be firing you, Jethro?"

"I don't think so, but you and I often have different views on that particular issue."

"This has nothing to do with your continued employment at NCIS."

"Then, what is it?"

Vance sat down at his desk. "Please, have a seat."

Gibbs sat down.

"I have a case, if you're interested in taking it."

"If I'm interested? Since when does interest have anything to do with what I investigate?"

Vance raised an eyebrow at that, but the fact that he didn't pursue what was a wide open opportunity to bring up some of their past professional tussles told Gibbs that this was pretty serious.

"The USS Theodore Roosevelt docked yesterday morning at 0600. They found a body on the flight deck. It's the assigned Agent Afloat."

"Someone killed the special agent assigned there?"

"Not someone. Layne Wright, Jr., the petty officer assigned to the armory. He turned himself in almost immediately."

"Then, why do you need us? The Norfolk team could take care of it."

"Because he claims it was in self-defense. Wright says that the agent was using him and a few other sailors to run some sort of black market on the carrier and that he had threatened his wife. This is not the kind of thing I want becoming associated with NCIS. I want my MCRT to take care of it...but I think it should be an option for you."

"Why?"

"Because of the agent who was killed."

"Who is it?"

"I believe you worked with Stan Burley?"

Gibbs suddenly realized that he was standing. "You're trying to tell me that Stan Burley threatened a man's wife, was involved in illegal activities? You've got to be kidding."

"I'm not," Vance said, his face deadly serious. "He was the agent assigned. He has been serving on The Big Stick for the last six months. The captain verified it and was actually rather aggrieved to find out the sorts of things Burley has been accused of."

"Like what?"

"Stealing information. Threatening people with being brought up on charges, charges he could make stick, if they crossed him. Things of that nature. Agent Burley was the best Agent Afloat in the years that he's been part of the program. He had the best record and the best recommendations."

"That's because he is the best."

"How long has it been since you talked to him?"

"A year or so. We lost touch."

"People can change a lot in a year, Agent Gibbs. You should know that."

"There's been a mistake somewhere, Leon," Gibbs said, firmly. "He's no more guilty than Langer was."

"Well, both of them are dead now," Vance said, standing as well. "You want the case?"

"Darn right, I do."

"Good. You've got it."

"We'll head out to–"

"No. The Norfolk team has already done the preliminaries. They processed the scene, did the initial interviews and their ME cleared the body for transport. I am the one who insisted that it be handled by Headquarters. Ducky should be receiving the body in the next hour. I already informed him of whom he should be expecting. He said he was up to the challenge. Petty Officer Wright, along with all evidence collected thus far, is also in transit and should be arriving any moment now. Start with what you already have. Then, you can go to Norfolk. There's no point in retracing steps...not yet."

"What's worrying you more, Leon?" Gibbs asked. "That a man was killed or that he might affect the reputation of NCIS?"

Vance's expression was stony. "What worries me is the possibility that a man who was trusted by the agent best known for the accuracy of his gut instincts turned out to be someone else. What worries me is that a crime was most definitely committed, but I don't know which crime is the more nefarious. What worries me is that you are so certain it's a mistake when a carrier full of good men and women say otherwise. Yes, the reputation of NCIS is something I have to worry about. It's part of my job. No, I don't like that I have lost one of my agents, but we've just gotten through having a corrupt agent die. I'd rather not be blindsided with another one."

"Is that all, Director?"

"Keep me informed, Agent Gibbs. You can't go off on your own this time around. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Gibbs retorted, spun on his heel and stalked from the office. He paid no attention to the man at the desk but focused his attention on getting down to the bullpen.

"McGee!" he barked.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Pull up everything we have on Special Agent Stan Burley. I want to know everything by the time I get back up here."

"Burley?" Tony asked. "What's up, Boss?"

"You and Ziva be ready to receive a case file and a prisoner within the next ten minutes."

He walked to the elevator got on and went down to Autopsy.

The three of them stared in silence for a couple of seconds.

"Who's Stan Burley?" Tim asked.

"Worked with Gibbs before me," Tony said. "We helped him out with a case on the Enterprise a few years ago."

"Weird."

"Yes," Ziva agreed. "Why would he not simply ask Agent Burley himself?"

"Maybe he's dead. That would explain the bad mood," Tony offered.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Yes, Jethro, I was just about to get started," Ducky said heavily. "Mr. Palmer, could you assist me?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"It's always hard to see someone you have known pass away, but it's infinitely worse to have that person be someone you only thought you knew."

"Innocent until proven guilty, Ducky," Gibbs said shortly, staring at the black body bag.

"I hope you are correct, Jethro." He sighed. "Well, there's no sense in putting it off. Let us begin." He leaned over and pulled down the zipper. Halfway down, he stopped...shocked.

Gibbs approached and swore.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"That's not Stan Burley," Tony said, staring at the plasma.

"What do you mean that's not Stan Burley?" Tim asked. "That's the file. That's his official NCIS file, Tony."

"Yeah, but..."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"That's not Stan," Gibbs said, staring down at the corpse.

"No. It most definitely is not," Ducky agreed in shock.

"Then, who is it?" Palmer asked.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"I don't know, Probie," Tony grumbled. "That's not Stan Burley, though. I met the guy and there's no way he shrunk two inches and changed the shape of his face like that. Find his real file."

"This is the real file, Tony!" Tim said in frustration.

"Find the other one! The real one!"

The elevator dinged.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"We've had problems before, Jethro...but not this."

Gibbs stared for another three seconds before turning and striding out of Autopsy.

"Now what, Dr. Mallard?" Palmer asked.

Ducky stared at the body...the body that was so obviously not Stan Burley and furrowed his brow.

"We conduct the autopsy, Mr. Palmer. We will get nearer to solving the mystery of the life of this man by defining his death. Shall we begin?"

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"We have a problem, Leon."

"A bigger problem than we already have?"

"Much."

"What is it?" Vance asked, already sounding weary.

"That's not Stan Burley in the body bag."

"What?"

"That's not Stan Burley. Or rather, that's not the Stan Burley I know."

"Then, who is it?"

"Got me."

"And where is Stan Burley?"

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Elsewhere...

Feet clumped loudly overhead and a man expended precious energy to sit up, chains clanking with the small motions.

"Hello?" he called. It was a weak plea, but they'd forgotten to feed him for the last three days and he'd found that occasionally there was a need to remind them that he was down here.

"Hello?" he called again.

He heard muffled voices. That was new. They never talked when he could hear them. He couldn't understand what was being said, but the voices were agitated. Upset. He pulled experimentally on the chains.

Why do I keep doing that? They're not going to be any weaker just because I want them to be.

"Hey! Down here!"

The voices stopped and the clumping feet moved toward the far corner. To the door that was the only entrance to his prison.

The door opened, sending a bright beam of light onto his face. He squinted, dropping his head so that the long greasy hair fell over his eyes, shading them from light they rarely saw anymore. The footsteps came down, the approaching figure, a mere silhouette against the light. He said nothing but threw a loaf of bread. It hit the floor, the grimy, muddy floor. That didn't matter, though. Months of near-starvation had removed his sensitivities to that kind of thing.

There was a laugh as he began to devour the bread. Then, the footsteps receded and he was left in the dark again. He looked at the bread and horded a bit of it, wondering how long it might last.

Way to go, Stan, he thought to himself. You've managed to make a great impression. They're shaking in their boots.