Half an hour later, Wilson was sleeping on a couch in a visitor's lounge, and House was down in the morgue with Ducky, going over the body another time, hoping for any clue that would show the time of death was wrong.

Gibbs had been less than happy about House being part of the case, but Ducky had assured him House would be of assistance.

They finally did find something…but it didn't have to do with time of death.

House turned around, as the door to Autopsy slid open.

Gibbs, the two agents who had come to Princeton Plainsboro, and another one, this one a bit pudgier, came in.

"Anything on time of death?"

"I'm afraid not, Jethro," Ducky said, turning away from the body. "But we did find something… Gregory found an anomaly in the tissue samples… if you look at the cellular structure of the lining of the esophagus… the word derived from the Latin, oesophagus, which derives from the Greek word oisophagos meaning "entrance for eating"—" Gibbs gave him a look, "—but I digress… the lining of this young man's esophagus is irritated and inflamed. I was just about to send a sample to Abby for testing, but my best guess is that he vomited fairly soon prior to his death."

"And this tells us what, Duck?"

"Well, that he vomited."

"You called us all down here for this?"

"Ah, no. His blood work came back, showing high levels of alcohol, and opiates. Again, Abby should test the levels of the various chemicals, but it is quite possible that he overdosed."

"So you got cause of death wrong?" asked the pudgy agent.

"Not wrong, Timothy, so much as incomplete. He did die of asphyxia, but judging by the lack of trauma and defensive marks… coupled with the inflammation of the esophagus…"

"What, Duck?" Gibbs asked, impatiently.

"He was probably unconscious and already dying when whoever it was shoved the coin down his throat," supplied House.

"We'll have to check the lungs for traces of infiltrates, but it's likely that he had aspirated vomit, and was choking to death quite on his own."

Gibbs looked at the three agents. "Ziva, McGee, ask at any bars near where the body was found if they saw him the night he died. Tony, ask around Metro, find out where he might have gotten the drugs. You, come with me."

House raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because I understood what you were talking about without a translation into normal English, and I want someone there to know what whatever Abby finds means."

House looked at Ducky, who nodded, smiling. "I'm sure you'll find Abby quite a fascinating person."

"You said that about him," House said, jerking his thumb at Gibbs.

Ducky gave him a look, and House sighed, turning to Gibbs. "Fine."

----

Abby smiled as Gibbs came in, spinning around, and then blinked when she saw House. "Ooh, who's your friend, Gibbs?"

'Ducky's old student. He's an asshole. Ignore him,' signed Gibbs.

Abby chuckled. 'He's kind of cute, though. He's scruffy. I like scruffy.'

Gibbs gave her a look.

"Right. Getting back to work."

House tapped Gibbs on the shoulder, as the Goth put various images up on the screen and turned back to them, ready to speak.

"What?"asked Gibbs, turning to look at House.

'I prefer the term bastard, thanks.'

Abby smiled, covering her mouth, and said, "I'm glad you showed up, Gibbs, I was starting to wonder whether you wouldn't know I had something."

"I came to give you two samples to run."

Abby blinked, taking the vial and jar Gibbs handed her. "Okay, but stick around. I've got some results, too."

She stared preparing the samples to run through the mass spectrometer. "I ran the DNA Ducky pulled off the victim's pants. It was male, but didn't belong to the victim."

Gibbs looked less than happy about that.

"What? You look like you're about to murder someone, Gibbs."

"The serial killer's victims were gay servicemen matching the victim's description, Abby. They got the wrong guy."

"Well…couldn't it be a copycat?"

"The fact that the victims were gay was never released."

"…Oh."

The mass spectrometer beeped, and Abby put the results up on the screen.

"The first one, the tissue sample, has traces of hydrochloric acid, potassium chloride and sodium chloride… stomach juice. There's also traces of methylcephalin and cephalin…"

"Ipecac," supplied House.

Abby flashed him a smile. "Right."

"Translation?"

"Somebody made him throw up," answered House and Abby at the same time.

"Why?"

"With the blood levels of alcohol and opiates Ducky found in the blood work, someone could have easily been able to tell he overdosing and been trying to save him."

"And then killed him?" said Gibbs, frowning.

"It could have been two different people. The vomiting happened at least an hour before he died," suggested Abby.

"But he still would have been unconscious, with those blood levels," said House. "If someone was trying to save him, they would have taken him to a hospital."

"He could have had a tolerance, been a regular user."

House shook his head. "The victim was clean of opiates and alcohol at his last drug test, which was six months ago. No way someone builds up that much of a tolerance in six months. If someone was trying to save him, they were either really, really stupid, or—"

"—Really ashamed."

They all turned around and saw McGee standing in Abby's doorway with a man in a Marine uniform.

"And didn't want anyone finding out that they'd had a man in their bed," said the Marine, John Croft by his nametag.

"Boss, he showed up at the front desk when Ziva and I were leaving. Said he wanted to talk to you, knew the victim's name and where he'd been found. I tried to get him to wait, but he wouldn't."

Gibbs looked the man over. "You knew where he'd been found?"

"I left him there, Sir," said Croft. "It was a public place. I thought… I thought someone would find him and call 911. I never thought… he was breathing. I left him breathing, on his side. I never thought he… The news said asphyxia… I'm your murderer, Agent Gibbs. I didn't give him those drugs, but what I did was as good as if I had."

"He didn't die of an overdose, soldier," said Gibbs. "He was murdered. And not by you."

The mass spectrometer beeped again, and Abby put the results of the blood up on the screen.

Hydrocodone, acetaminophen, ethanol.

Abby frowned. "Ten to one ratio of acetaminophen to hydrocodone… I should know what that is…"

"Vicodin."

Abby looked at him. "You're good at this."

He shrugged, shaking an orange prescription bottle. "It's not nearly so impressive when I've got a bottle of it that says the ingredient ratio on the label."

----

"Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson sat up, biting his lip. "Hi…"

"I'm special agent Timothy McGee. Agent Gibbs asked me to check on you, see if you need anything."

Wilson shook his head. "Um… no… just directions to a vending machine?"

Agent McGee smiled. "Sure."

"And… has House gotten himself locked up, or something? He's… kind of bad with authority figures…"

"The last I knew, he was assisting Ducky in autopsy, but I can find out where he is now if you want?"

Wilson shook his head. "No, that's okay… if he's being useful, he probably won't get bored enough to get himself in trouble."

McGee chuckled. "Okay. Follow me, I'll show you where the vending machine is…"

They were walking to the vending machine, when the elevator doors they passed dinged open.

"Why are you following me?" asked Gibbs, as they walked out of the elevator.

"I don't know how to get back to the morgue," answered House.

"Well go ask someone."

"Yes, I got up to some random person in a government agency and say "Hey, where do you keep the bodies?" That'll work well."

"Then don't phrase it like that."

"And what should I phrase it like? When I worked with Ducky, people weren't allowed into morgues just by asking."

Gibbs stopped, turning around to glare at House, who had fallen a few paces behind thanks to his limp. "You want to watch the interrogation."

House smirked. "Not as dumb as you look, are you?"

Gibbs glared at him. "Just because you used to be Ducky's student does not mean you're…"

House raised an eyebrow.

"Fine," Gibbs said curtly. "You want to watch the interrogation? You can be part of it. Either you can get the truth about where and how the victim got the drugs, and who else knew he was gay, or you can shut up and go bother Ducky."

House smirked.

Wilson hid a smile, while McGee stared, apparently surprised.

"Gibbs never lets anyone he doesn't know do the interrogation."

"House is remarkably good at annoying people into doing what he wants of their own accord."

"Yeah, but he's going to lose… Ziva and Tony already tried to get the guy to talk."

Wilson smiled, again, a little bit.

"You'd be surprised."

----

"Aren't you a lab tech?" asked Croft as House limped into the room. Gibbs followed only a few steps after and took a seat in a chair in the corner, just to observe.

"No," House said, ignoring Gibbs entirely, "I'm a doctor. I've been helping do the autopsy on Daniel."

"They're sending a doctor to interrogate me?"

"No. Well, that's not why they decided I should talk to you. You're what… around fifty? Those bars on your chest mean you served in the Vietnam War. You must've been… seventeen? Eighteen?"

Croft shrugged. "Seventeen."

"Seventeen… your dad was in the military, too? A Marine?"

Croft nodded.

"Must've been hard, growing up with a Marine for a dad."

"Why? Because I'm gay? My dad didn't have a problem with that."

"Huh."

"Why are you the one talking to me?"

House shrugged, getting up, limping back and forth in front of the table. "I'm a diagnostician. Do you know what that is?"

"No."

"A diagnostician is a person who solves puzzles. I look at what's wrong with a person, and I diagnose them, I figure out what disease that person has. I look at their lab results, their symptoms, their life, their home. I look at a file, and figure out its secret. You are a file to me, Jack. I'm going to solve your puzzle."

"John."

"Whatever. I'm not going to be talking to you much longer, anyway. I'm supposed to find out where your lover might have gotten the drugs. How long were you and Daniel together?"

Croft blinked. "You just said you were trying to find out where he got the drugs, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing," said House, sitting back down with a slight groan. "Your dad really didn't have a problem with you being gay?"

"No. He didn't."

"Did he know you had a lover?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing. Just curious."

"Why?"

House shrugged. "My dad was a Marine. Wanted me to be ready to be shipped out by the time I graduated junior high. Did your dad do that? Turn life into basic training?"

"No. My dad was great."

"Huh. He still alive?"

"Yes."

"Mm. You live on base… you have a family?"

"Daniel was my family."

"Huh. But you lived on base. Was it not that serious, between you and him?"

"It was serious."

"Your dad doesn't know you're gay, does he? You only figured it out about… oh, say, seven months ago. Enough time for that tan line from your wedding ring to be just about gone. You used to be married."

"So? That's in my file."

"Hmm. Well, they haven't let me see your file. Did you tell her, why you were leaving?"

"I told her… there was someone else."

"Did she know it was a man?"

"No. I couldn't tell her that… she would have freaked out, told everyone."

"Huh. Or killed him."

"What?"

"I've got this friend. Been married three times. Every time he gets a new girlfriend, his first one always checks up on who she is, even though they haven't been married in well over fifteen years. Funny thing is, this friend of mine moved in with a guy a couple of years ago. She was a lot madder that time than any other of the times before. She tried to my friend over the head with a seven iron."

Croft looked away.

"So is there any way she could have found out who he was? You tell a mutual friend?"

"…Yeah. Martin Stevenson."

"Good. Now should I get you a cup to pee in?"

Croft stared at him. "What?"

"When I was walking back and forth, the way you tilted your head, and the way your pupils reacted when you followed me—when the light changed. Your pupils are more constricted than they should be. That tells me you're on opiates, currently. The way you tilted your head, and followed my movements, never taking your eyes off my face; that tells me you're having trouble hearing. Maybe not enough for you to notice, but enough for you to unconsciously compensate. Hearing loss is a symptom of long term use of something with both Hydrocodone and acetaminophen in it… this, for example."

House spilled the Vicodin out of his bottle onto the table, hiding the label.

"You went through my car?! You had no right…!"

House smirked. "No, actually," he showed Croft the label, and scooped the pills back up into the bottle, "but I'm sure they won't have any trouble getting a warrant to do just that."

----

House smirked, as he turned, looking at Gibbs, in the corner.

"I win."

Gibbs looked at him, and then touched his fingers to his ear, listening to what whoever was on the other end of the earwig he had on was saying. He nodded to House, who followed him out.

"This guy's ex-wife works for metro PD, she had access to the serial killer files," said DiNozzo, who was waiting for them in the hall.

"So she could have tried to make it look like it was the serial killer," said House, as DiNozzo left.

"Yeah. Can I ask you one question?" asked Gibbs.

"What?"

"That friend… Wilson?"

"Yeah."

"What was his wife's name?"

"Which one?"

"The one with the golf club."

"Diane."