Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. This is purely meant for my own enjoyment and entertainment. I make no money from my work.
Title: Fifteen Minutes to Midnight
Summary: In the midst of a case, Tim and Tony are at each others' throats...like usual. But when a routine interview takes a potentially deadly turn, they both learn the true meaning of friendship.
Rating: Strong Teen
Spoilers/Warnings: General spoilers up to 12x10: House Rules. General violence, whump, bad language, and lots of movie references.
Acknowledgements: This story was written for the Big Bang over on LJ. It takes a village to participate in one of those challenges. Many thanks to hinky_hippo for taking my story and creating art that captures the vey heart and soul of the story. And I can't thank naemi enough for getting this story beta'd in four days. I hope you both know how much your time meant to me. And last, but not least, thank you to solariana for running the Big Bang again this year.
Author's Note: This story originally started as an exercise in voice work for my original fiction. So it's a little different that it's written in the first person with Tony as the narrator. It is complete at 9 chapters with one epilogue. I'll be posting one chapter per day until it's done.
The story is set in season 12, pre-House Rules (mid-to-end of November).
Hope you enjoy it. As always, all feedback (good or bad) is welcome. But please keep it constructive.
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When I'm stuck in observation, interrogations just aren't exciting.
Here, the harsh lights make the stainless steel furniture and dismal grey walls of the interrogation room look particularly cold. Everything is so different when you're in there, in the middle of the action with fingers riffling through a file and questions flying rapid-fire.
There is no high for me like getting a confession. It might even be better than that time I threw the winning Hail Mary pass with only seconds to go in the Orange Bowl. Now, that was a long time ago.
I should be in there—not a Bowl game, but interrogation. But I'm banished to observation, rocking on the balls of my feet to prevent myself from exploding due all this pent-up energy and an accidental caffeine overdose. G-d, I almost forgot how much I hate sitting on the bench, standing on the sidelines…observing.
On the other side of the glass, my boss, the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs, shifts back in his chair to study our suspect. It doesn't take much to picture his face: that one he makes when he stares down a dirtbag until they're ready to confess every crime they've committed since third grade.
Shake, rattle, so they'll roll.
That's I always called it, but I never told Gibbs. He'd probably head-slap into the next century if he ever found out. Little things like that are best kept a secret. I keep a lot of them. Secrets, that is. Like how I call the diner to let them know to get his hourly cup of coffee ready, text Abby when he's on the move, and I keep adding to my list of impromptu movie titles for his interrogation kung-fu.
Whatever it takes to keep our fearless leader placid and docile. Like that could ever happen.
To keep myself entertained during the stare-down, I drum my fingers against the wall.
Our suspect's head snaps up and Gibbs swivels to glare at me through the mirror. Christ, how the hell did they even hear that?
As soon as my eyes land on Charlene Moser, I understand why my boss chucked me into observation without a second thought. The depressing colors of the walls and the sallow lighting do little to hide her natural beauty…once you get past the blood caked in her hair and her tear stained cheeks. She is attractive in that Mrs. Robinson kind of way–young enough to still be considered pretty, tan, and nothing but leg.
Less than five hours ago, Metro police picked her outside of a busy Starbucks, wearing blood-soaked, nightclub clothes. If dog tags belonging to our most recent victim weren't found in her pocket, she might still be wasting away in Metro's lock-up while we ripped Washington apart for our killer. The evidence was more than enough to earn her a one-way ticket to the interrogation room and the two–going on three—hour conversation with Gibbs.
A single tear sneaks down her cheek, but she doesn't sweep it away.
"I killed him, Agent Gibbs." Her voice so quiet that I adjust the recorder on the camera, so it'll be admissible in court.
"Tell me what happened," Gibbs says.
"I killed that man," she repeats, slightly more convincing this time. "Isn't that enough?"
After the grisly crime scene we cleared and a particularly brutal all-nighter, I would love to close our case with a nice and neat confession. Then after a few hours to finalize prisoner booking and my report, I'd be in bed before the afternoon replay of Dr. Phil even comes on.
But with Gibbs, nothing is ever that easy.
Since he hasn't come to get me yet, I assume that fabled gut of his is already churning and it sets mine off too. Maybe it's the way she averts her eyes or how she covers the crime scene photos with her hands. Perhaps my boss even fell into the same trap he thought I would: a beautiful and vulnerable woman like Charlene Moser couldn't be responsible for our gruesome murder.
He tilts his head. "Tell me how you knew Petty Officer Marshall Lake."
Her eyes darken. "He spent the night harassing me at a bar. So I decided to teach him a lesson."
"And that involved slitting his throat?"
Her face goes stark-white. "Y-y-y-yes."
"Okay. Where did you meet him?"
"Doc Holliday's."
"Isn't that in Downtown?" When she nods, he continues: "So why did you two go back to Rock Creek Park? Seems like it was out of the way."
More tears find their way down her cheeks as she bites her lower lip. She stares directly at the one-way mirror and if I didn't know better, I would swear our eyes meet. Gibbs moves into her line of sight and she drops her gaze to her hands.
"He kept talking about how he wanted to hook up in the woods. Thought it would be hot. So I…" she makes a disgusted face, "…obliged."
"You and Lake had – "
"No! We never had sex!" When her eyes flick back to Gibbs, they burn with rage. "I would never, ever do that. Not with that man."
"Why not?"
She licks her lips, huffs. "Because he was a piece of trash."
"And that's why you lured him into the woods and murdered him?"
When a tiny moan escapes her lips, she buries her face in her hands. As if sensing an opportunity, Gibbs holds up what should be the most gruesome crime scene photo. I think it might be the one of the petty officer's bloodless face and the gash on his neck where someone tried to decapitate him. But they were all pretty horrific; the scene was enough to send Ellie into the woods to revisit her midnight snack.
"Look at him, Charlene," Gibbs says, jabbing his finger at the picture. "You look at him and you tell me why. I think he did a helluva a lot more than hit on you."
At this point in the interrogation, the proudest suspects would be studying their work as though it were art worthy of a gallery, while the most remorseful would be begging for a plea deal.
Charlene covers the picture with her hands as the tears stream down her cheeks. Gibbs pushes another one towards her.
"Tell me," he says, "what he did to deserve this."
The sound of her strident breathing echoes through the room. She glances back through the mirror again as though to beg for my help, but I learned a long time ago that no suspect is worth breaking rule 22. When Gibbs leans in closer, I turn up the microphone again. He has this annoying habit of whispering into the suspect's ears and it drives the lawyers crazy.
"I don't think you killed him. I think you're protecting someone and…" he pulls another photo over and I recognize the close-up of the coup de grace "…I want to know why."
Her face goes an unsightly shade of green like she's about to vomit all over the photos and Gibbs. But then, she pushes the pictures away. He leans back in his chair and her shoulders hitch in a sigh of relief. While he makes a few notations on his notepad, she doesn't even glance at him.
"Are you willing to throw away the rest of your life?" he asks.
Her lips move as though she's desperate to say something, but she swallows hard.
"I killed him," she says, more convincingly than before.
"Tell me what happened."
"Last night, I told him we'd hook up if we went to Rock Creek Park. I pretended to lose a contact lens and while he was on the ground, I snuck up behind him. Then I…then I…I…killed him."
"You slit his throat."
Her head bobs like a broken wind-up toy. "Y-y-yes."
After her confession, she buries her face into her hands and sobs. Gibbs keeps writing down what she said, leaving me to wonder what the hell he's doing. It's painfully obvious that she didn't kill Marshall Lake and he isn't the kind of cop to deliver a signed confession and let the prosecutors decide what to do when the evidence doesn't match up. Pressing my lips together, I make a face.
Come on, boss, what's our play? Give me a hint.
When she has nothing left, she glances up with swollen and red-rimmed eyes.
"Okay, Charlene." His voice is soft and comforting, the one reserved for victims. "I need you to write the confession in your own words."
When he passes her a notepad and pen, her expression turns even more heartbreaking. Her entire body trembles when she picks up the pen with her left hand.
Ah, I knew it. Marshall Lake was almost decapitated by a righty.
At that moment, Gibbs snatches the pen away and darts out of interrogation, but I beat him into the hallway. He doesn't even slow down and I jog to catch up.
"What are you thinking, boss?" I ask. "Witness or accomplice?"
He half-shrugs. "Not sure yet."
I nod. "She was at the scene. It's just a matter of time before Abby matches the blood on her clothes to Lake's. My money's on accomplice and I bet she knows exactly who killed him."
"We'll see, DiNozzo."
I take it that to mean we just have a little bit more work to do before we prove my theory. Gibbs and I make the rest of the trip in silence. As soon as we hit the bullpen, I dive behind my desk and fire up my computer. I want to be home before the eleven o'clock news.
Ellie Bishop and Tim McGee, are right where we left them: hard at work. Both of them have the bags stretching under their eyes and the exhausted expressions that come only from a long night spent hunched over a computer screen. Empty coffee cups line their desks like badges of honor. Tim is in the lead with four to Ellie's three.
When I find a full one by my monitor, I think it might be a peace offering from Tim until I notice the goofy smiley face scribbled in purple pen. So Ellie strikes again. The drink went cold a long time ago, but I drink it anyway because she always gets my order right: three sugars, three Splendas – hey, I'm on a diet after all – and enough milk to turn it white.
Gibbs turns to face us. "Somebody tell me something."
My co-workers share a grim look before Tim climbs to his feet with remote in hand. After a couple of clicks, he brings up pictures of Marshall Lake and Charlene Moser side-by-side.
"We haven't been able to find a connection between these two yet, Boss. I went through e-mail and financials for a possible correlation while Bishop looked into service and school records. There's nothing to indicate that their paths ever crossed, let alone that they knew each other. Bishop and I – "
"Tell me what we do know, McGee."
After a clipped nod, Tim highlights the suspect on the screen. "Charlene Moser, age 38. Born and raised in Fredericksburg, Maryland. She attended the New School in New York City for Public Relations, but she hasn't held a job since she got married six years ago. The husband is a SEAL, currently deployed in Iraq on a classified mission. Together, they own a farm several miles outside of Front Royal, Virginia."
Ellie's face lights up. "Isn't that near Shenandoah National Park?" Tim half-nods. "That's supposed to be beautiful this time of – "
"And Lake?" Gibbs interrupts.
Her expression deflates when Tim tosses her the remote. Two clicks change the screen to a picture of our victim in his dress whites. His smile is almost as broad as his shoulders.
"Petty Officer Third Class Marshall Lake, 32, was an E-4," she says. "He was stationed out of Norfolk where he worked as an engineman on the USS Pawtucket." Her brow knits in confusion. "I didn't know they still had enginemen…"
I can't help chuckling. "Who did you think kept the engine going, Bish? Gremlins?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Tim trying his best not to laugh. Gibbs' death glare threatens to melt me into a puddle of goo, but it's too late, I'm already on a roll.
"Do you know what happened to them when they get wet or eat after midnight, Bish?" When Gibbs' glare turns even more lethal, I fight the urge to ask if he ate after midnight. Instead, I just say: "Thanks, boss. Shutting up now."
After straightening my tie, I focus my attention on my e-mail. Something from our forensic scientist, Abby Scuito, catches my attention. I skim her newest findings.
Gibbs sets his sights back on Tim. "Got anything on Lake, McGee?"
"He has a couple of disciplinary incidents on his record, but they're sealed. So I'm waiting for the office to respond to my formal request. The director recommended I stick to more legal channels, for now." He huffs as though that takes far too much time. "If it doesn't work, I'll take care of it."
Gibbs grinds his teeth when I jump to my feet. I motion to Ellie, but she just stares at me.
"Abby just sent me something, boss." After Ellie finally throws me the remote, I bring up the same crime scene photos Gibbs showed to Charlene. Gagging, Ellie looks away. "As we already know, the killer used a standard combat knife to deliver the coup de grace. According to Ducky's report, the point of entry was just under the right ear and ended just under the left ear. One clean wound with no hesitation. So that means?"
Ellie's expression turns panicked as Tim replies, "The killer used their right hand."
"Score one for you, McObservant." The glare Tim shoots me extinguishes my grin. "We already know Charlene Moser is left-handed, so she likely isn't the killer. But…"
I pause for effect, almost begging the team to ask. Across the bullpen, Gibbs rubs his palm as though his hand is itching for a head slap. I sigh quietly. Why is everyone always so tense in these moments when we should be trying to lighten the mood? They always act like someone just died. Oh yeah…
"Get on with it, DiNozzo," Gibbs growls.
I sigh again. "Abby's report shows the blood on Charlene Moser's clothes match the victim's, but her fingerprints aren't on the murder weapon. There was a speck of blood on the victim's shirt that doesn't match Charlene's type. Abby is – " I glance back at her e-mail and try to make sense of scientific mumbo-jumbo that I barely understand " – doing something to track the sample, but she says it's going to take time. You, uh, might want to go talk to her, boss. Reading her e-mail is like trying to make sense out of The Matrix Reloaded."
Gibbs makes a face. "Tell her I'm on my way. Then go find out why the hell Charlene Moser's lying."
With that, I shoot Abby a quick e-mail to warn her about our boss' impending visit. Hopefully, I'll give her enough time to finish up whatever strange activity she planned for today. Last time I visited her, she was re-enacting Pompeii with paperclip people and a grade school volcano under the guise of 'research.' I enjoyed watching her rendition until I realized she mixed some sort of acid into the lava that melted the paperclip people into a puddle of grey goop. The janitor still haven't managed to scrub their guts off the floor.
When I scramble for my gear, Gibbs turns back to the rest of the team. Tim busies himself with computer work while Ellie stands with her hand on her desk drawer, every muscle in her body is poised and ready for action. Our eyes meet and she can't hold back the grin any longer.
Road trip, she mouths.
"Take McGee with you," Gibbs orders.
Tim's nose wrinkles. "But boss – "
"It wasn't a request."
Without any further protest, Tim pulls his desk drawers open. He yanks his back-pack free and then, he stuffs a laptop into it. After he clips his holster to his belt, he pockets his badge.
Across the bullpen, Ellie sinks sullenly into her chair, but all I have to offer is a sympathetic shrug. Maybe we'll let her do the dinner run when we get back so she gets a chance to see the sun today.
"We'll need a warrant," I say.
Ellie half-nods. "I'll text you as soon as I have it."
Then Tim darts out of the bullpen with me and Gibbs right behind him. He makes a beeline for the stairs without bothering to let me catch up.
As soon as he's out of earshot, Gibbs grabs my arm and drags me into the elevator. The doors barely close before he hits the emergency stop button. Suddenly, the car lurches and the lights dip dangerously dark. Gibbs turns to me. The hollows of his face are lighted making him part man, part monster.
"What's going on between you and McGee?" he growls.
I try not to cower under his glare. "It's a long story, boss."
"Fix it."