"That girl's father was lying downstairs with his brains falling out for five hours and no one even bothered to tell her." McGee's face was red with indignation.
"McGee."
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's just so…"
Tony stepped into the room. He put a hand on McGee's shoulder and looked at him sternly. "Now, McGee. You know how we feel about that word, don't you?"
"Sign of weakness. Right."
"When you're done with your romantic moment, McGee, would you be so good as to let us in?" Gibbs eyed McGee unsympathetically.
"Er, right."
"Nice place," said Tony.
"You think, DiNozzo? For a Rear-Admiral?"
Tony raised his hands in an exaggerated 'give up' gesture.
"McGee."
"Yes, Tony?"
"Why has a Royal Navy medico man got three pairs of ski boots in his corridor?"
"The family was skiing in France but were called over here urgently. They just got on the first flight from Courchevel."
"Courchevel? Where the hell's that?"
"It's a ski resort, Tony," said Kate. "For rich people. You probably went there as a child while my dad worked extra for a month just to drive us down to Boston."
Courchevel, right. He probably had been there. He vaguely remembered being dragged out of bed at six thirty to make it to his private ski lesson. He'd been pretty good. Hadn't liked it much. How much can you like something when every time you forget to 'bend ze knees' or 'keep ze skiis parallel', the instructor hits you with a ski pole? Of course, that'd all been before he was old enough to leave at home on holidays. Not that he minded. It was nice to have the house to himself.
The room was dark but for a warm bedside lamp. The curtains were still drawn. There was a double bed with the covers all rolled about. A plump woman had sunk into the end. She was in a flimsy silk nightie, which Tony found slightly horrifying in someone of her age and figure. Every few seconds she gave a small sob. McGee shuffled his feet and clucked ineffectually at her.
"Mrs Chelmoska. Mrs Chelmonska, this is my boss, Special Agent Gibbs, and these are Special Agents Todd and DiNozzo. Um. Er. We'd appreciate it if you could just answer some questions." He was giving her a disgustingly pleading look.
"Doctor," said the woman, breaking off from her sobs and staring up at McGee, eyes red and streaming. She sounded slightly surprised.
McGee gave Gibbs, Kate and Tony a puzzled glance. Tony shrugged.
"Er, Sorry?" ventured McGee.
"Dr Chelmonska. I'm a doctor."
She had an English accent, with a heavy Slavic overlay. McGee stared at her as if she had just asked him if he had ever shoved a sherbet lemon up his ass. Gibbs glanced at Kate, who nodded.
She sat down on the bed beside the widow doctor. "Could you just run through your evening for me?"
Dr Chelmonska stared at Kate venomously. "Are you trying to tell me that I killed my own husband."
Tony and McGee pulled a face at one another. Gibbs gestured them over to the side.
"Where's the girl?" he said.
"Through there." Gibbs nodded. He opened the connecting door to go through to the next room. Tony followed him.
A girl leapt to her feet from where she had been perched on a roughly made-up bed. She was in red creased and baggy tartan pyjamas. She looked about sixteen or seventeen, too chubby to be attractive. Her darkening blonde bed-hair stuck out at odd angles.
She peered up at them curiously from under designer glasses.
"Hullo," she said politely. There was none of her mother's Polish accent. This was a thousand pounds a term of British private school talking.
"I'm Agent Gibbs. This is Agent Dinozzo."
She nodded. "I suppose you've come to ask me 'some questions'." She gave a weak smile, and then glued her eyes to stain on the carpet.
"Yes."
"Timmy said you would. I suppose it's a bit much to ask, but… um… First, would you let me see him?" She was wriggling her toes desperately. 'Timmy'? How cosy.
"Well, we still, er, need to clean him up and, er…" stammered McGee.
"No, I need to seem him now. Before you move him. Please."
"I don't think it's-"
"She can see him, McGee," said Gibbs.
"Thank you," she said, gazing up at Gibbs.
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"Boss. Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, apart from anything, if you just consider the psychological effect seeing her father dead like that could have…" Babbled McGee in Gibbs' ear.
Tony frowned. Memory sparked. A bad day at school. He was flunking Maths again. The dad was away on business. He'd walked home. His parents hated it, but he did it anyway. It was a dry day. Grey and dry. He'd opened up the front door. It was quiet. Too quiet. The clocks ticked. So loud, it was like they were shaking the house. And then he'd heard the banister creak and walked down the corridor to see his mother swinging from the stairs, rope around her neck, her eyes purple and bulging down at him…
"Tony? You okay?"
Tony looked up at McGee honest, concerned face. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I'm fine."
The dead man's daughter hadn't bothered with shoes. She just followed Tony down the stairs in her navy blue socks.
There weren't many people up yet; even on a naval base the guest quarters aren't generally yet awake at five.
The Marines who had secured the scene glared at them with dull resentment, which gave way to surprise as they saw that Tony was being tailed by a sleepy sixteen year-old in tartan pyjamas.
"I'd estimate time of death at around eleven thirty last night," said Ducky, without turning around.
And then he did; saw the girl's wide-eyed, horrified face.
"It was my fault," she said. It sounded a great deal more certain than anything she had said up in the room.
"My dear," said Ducky, who looked delighted at hearing the British accent. "I understand you're traumatised, but you can hardly blame yourself for…"
"No, you don't understand." She was as tall as Ducky, and stared the man down furiously. "It was me. I killed my dad."