CHAPTER 3
IN THE BLACK OF NIGHT
December 2006
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In the Black of Night
Slow Train
Bright white light up ahead,
Screaming sirens that I dread.
No one but me to be
Witness to this tragedy.
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Tony, still in bed with Jethro on top of him, was on the phone with the NCIS night dispatcher. "Sure, I'll let him know. Yeah, I know, rather me than you. Remember, you owe me, Franklin." Hanging up with a sigh, Tony looked over his shoulder. "Let me up." He shifted his ass a little, and Jethro rolled off him with a satisfied groan.
Tony flopped on his back. "Franklin says to tell you it's our case because he can't reach anyone else."
"Why does he owe you?"
Tony turned to face Jethro with a wicked little smile. "Because he thinks I have to phone you and wake you up, and he assumes you're gonna get all growly. Of course he has no idea you're right next to me, or that you're one big pussy cat." He ran a hand down Jethro's sweaty chest, stroking him softly. "Meow."
Jethro snorted and pulled Tony into a kiss, his mouth open and demanding. When their lips parted, Tony was breathing hard and wanting more. Jethro shook his head regretfully and warded off his wandering hands. "Shit, we can't do this. I shouldn't have started."
"No, you shouldn't have," Tony retorted, nipping Jethro's chin.
Jethro sucked in a deep breath and moved away. "As soon as this case is over, you tell your buddy Franklin we're off rotation for the next three days."
"Promise?"
"Promise," Jethro replied.
"Okay, Boss," Tony agreed, sneaking in another kiss before Jethro rolled off the bed. It was only ten days before Christmas, and he'd been looking forward to shopping for a tree. This would be their second Christmas together as a couple, but last year they'd worked the holidays and hadn't had time for a tree.
"Where're we going?" Jethro asked, heading into the bathroom.
Tony watched him go, admiring his tight ass. "Oh…um… 13 Hayfield Street NW. Dead Naval officer, hanged in his own home."
While Jethro was showering, Tony ran downstairs and started the coffee maker. The bathroom on the ground floor had originally been small so they had taken out a closet in order to put in a shower because there were times when one or the other of them was injured and couldn't make it up the stairs. The small den at the back now had a queen bed and TV in it, even though it was a tight fit. Tony had a quick wash and dressed in casual work clothes – dark jeans and an LL Bean turtleneck. It was chilly out, so he pulled on a sweater and made sure he had some gloves. Knowing they both needed coffee, and a lot of it, he stopped to fill two travel mugs from the coffee pot and headed out the door.
Jethro was already waiting in the car. He smirked and asked, "What took you so long?"
Tony slipped into the passenger seat with the travel mugs in his hands. "Well, gee, I guess I could have shaved a few seconds off my time if I hadn't stopped to get you this." He stuck one mug in Jethro's hand. Jethro grunted an apology so Tony leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He said affectionately, "Grouch. You get up on the wrong side of the bed?"
"There is no wrong side so long as you're in it," Jethro said with a crooked smile.
"That's so sweet," Tony said, meaning it.
Jethro smiled and kissed Tony on the mouth, with cool lips and a hint of a warm tongue. Tony angled his head and deepened the kiss with a low moan, and soon forgot exactly why they were sitting in a cold car before the sun was even up.
It wasn't long before Jethro pulled away with a sigh. "We'll finish this later," he promised.
As soon as Jethro turned the key in the ignition, they were in work mode and calling each other by their surnames. Funny how they were able to switch off their work life when at home, and never had any trouble closing the door on their personal life when they were at work.
Tony echoed his lover's sigh with one of his own. Having sex with Jethro was great, like unbelievable, but lately they always seemed too tired to do much more than the basics. Not that there was anything wrong with a hand job, especially when that hand had calluses on it, and the man attached to that hand had a special way of touching him that made him feel more loved than he'd ever felt in his life. It was just… he wanted more. Tony never brought up the fact that he was aching to be punished and plugged, to be bound in leather while gagged, and fucked without mercy. The collar Jethro had given him – when Tony wore it he felt that he was loved by Jethro, that he belonged to him. But the collar was as far as Jethro was willing to go. He'd made it clear when they'd first become lovers that he wasn't going to have any of Tony's toys or restraints in the bedroom. Tony accepted he'd have to do without, and he even got used to it, but sometimes he just yearned for something more.
"We need some serious alone-time," Tony said.
"Job comes first," Jethro reminded him.
"I know, we agreed. Still, it sucks."
Jethro agreed, "Yeah, I get it. Maybe this'll be an in-and-out."
"A suicide," Tony said hopefully, as he got on the phone to notify McGee.
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Gibbs pulled up outside a brick townhouse at 13 Hayfield Street, and hit the brakes hard enough to jostle his senior agent. "We here?" Tony asked, stretching and looking around with bleary eyes.
"Ya think?"
It was a chilly, long before sunrise, and streetlights illuminated a narrow, tree-lined street with handsome brick town homes on both sides. The residences were built close to each other, but most had driveways and garages, so there was some parking available on the street. The bushes were trimmed, and the small lawns and flowerbeds were orderly and well maintained. Even the trash cans sitting on the curb awaiting pickup were neatly lined up.
Their destination was easy to pick out. It was the only house with all the lights on, and there were two uniformed policemen standing guard out front. Gibbs was out of the car and heading for the house, his badge out, before Tony had even unfastened his seat belt.
McGee pulled up a few houses down and met Tony at the rear of the company sedan he was driving. "Nice neighborhood," he commented, sounding a little envious.
"Not if you're a dead body," Tony said with a smirk. He stretched with a yawn and watched Gibbs greeting to a man who emerged from the large brick house. Tony recognized him as a Metro detective, Zipkowski. Together, he and McGee pulled their equipment out of the trunk. He was glad Ziva was on leave. She'd gone to Israel to a wedding, she'd said. They'd had almost one week so far with no games, no sniping, and no pushing her way into the men's room. She wouldn't be back until Monday. Tony wished they had more than three more days of peace. It meant they had to take on the extra workload, but he'd been a two-man team with Gibbs long enough to learn it was possible for two agents to handle an investigation. Tiring but possible. And with McGee, they made an efficient team.
The detective was saying, "Called you Navy cops as soon as I saw he was one of yours." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the big house behind him.
"Hey Zipper, how's Bobby Junior?" Tony asked as he lugged a couple of bags up the sidewalk.
Detective Bob Zipkowski, a large man, often wore a hangdog expression, and he spoke slowly, as if every word that came out of his mouth was preceded by a great deal of thought. At the mention of his son, though, he beamed with pride. "Heading for college soon. The kid got a scholarship, thank God. You know the cost of college these days? The classes alone are enough to break the bank, and we're not even talking living expenses. Rhonda and I put our foot down. Live at home and go to a local college, we said."
"He get into Virginia Tech?" Tony asked.
"Yeah, he plans to go into agricultural tech–"
Gibbs interrupted the detective, saying sourly, "Maybe you two'd like to stand out here and play catch-up while Agent McGee and I check out the crime scene on our own?"
Zipkowski handed over a wallet. "Here's the ID we found in the kitchen, along with a key ring. Somebody called it in anonymously about an hour ago. Two officers arrived, found the front door ajar, and proceeded to check out the residence. The victim is an Edward Devlin. He's the owner. It looks like someone else lives here up on the top floor, but there's no sign of him."
Gibbs looked through the wallet and inspected the deceased's ID. "Lieutenant Edward S. Devlin," he read aloud. "Robbery?"
"I don't think so. Nothing seems out of place," Zipkowski replied.
Gibbs held out the wallet. "McGee…"
McGee pulled out an evidence bag and collected the wallet.
Gibbs told the two policemen to wait outside while his team cleared the residence, even though they assured him they'd already checked out the entire place. He asked Detective Zipkowski, "Where's the body?"
"Downstairs. Basement…"
They entered the house and Tony and McGee dropped their bags to one side of the foyer. Neither of them needed any instructions other than Gibbs' nod towards a sweeping staircase that led up to the second floor. Gibbs drew his weapon and went to clear the ground floor first, with Det. Zipkowski on his heels.
Tony and McGee drew their weapons and searched the second floor with their usual efficient teamwork. The house was furnished in a contemporary style, and Tony's discerning eye told him everything was high quality. In his estimation, the art on the walls, all contemporary work and strong abstracts, was probably worth more than the house itself, which was saying a lot.
The master bedroom was the size of Tony's entire old apartment. A huge painting of two men hung over the bed, the colors dark and dramatic. Tony couldn't make out if the bold figures were fighting or were having sex.
The bedroom boasted a huge walk-in closet filled with designer suits and a collection of high-end watches that must have set the man back a few thousand. There were several uniforms and some military gear at the far end of the closet.
The bathroom just off the master was opulent with a closet full of high-end towels and the usual toiletries, all expensive brands. Tony quickly poked around in the medicine cabinet and found Lt. Devlin's prescription medications: Viagra, penicillin and two types of antibiotics.
They cleared two other bedrooms and a second bathroom. Everything was neat and clean, with no sign of any struggle. It was almost as if nobody lived there.
The two agents progressed cautiously to the third floor, although Tony's instinct told him there wasn't anyone up there.
Whereas the rest of the house was clean, the room they first entered was messy, bed unmade, clothes and dirty dishes strewn around on the floor. It seemed as though the renter had little respect for his personal space. The bathroom was just as bad.
"Looks like a college dorm room," McGee muttered in disgust.
Tony wrinkled his nose. "Smells like one, too."
The only other room on the third floor was huge, and it was being used as an art studio. A glance around told Tony there was nowhere for anyone to hide. There was a ratty old couch and a broken upholstered chair to one side, and an industrial-size sink in the corner. Tony was more interested in dozens of large canvasses leaning against the wall, facing away, and a finished painting displayed on a sturdy easel. A big table was covered in art supplies, everything neatly stored in containers, brushes upright in heavy mugs, tubes of oil paint lined up next to a clean palette. Tony sniffed the air. "Linseed oil and damar varnish," he said while poking around at the art supplies.
"Nice work," McGee said, pointing at the work in progress on the easel.
Tony agreed. The scene depicted on the large canvas was pleasant, a river with boats and reflections, painted in rich colors, in large loose strokes. He pulled out one of the big paintings leaning against the wall, expecting to find another landscape, but what he saw took him aback. It was as though someone completely different had painted it. Thinking it might be a fluke, he turned several of the canvases around and lined them up, and then stepped back to stand next to McGee. He didn't know what to say at first. McGee was as speechless as he was. The paintings were powerful and incredibly violent, and looked like they were done by someone who was angry and very disturbed.
All of the paintings, with their bold, erratic strokes, heavy emphasis on black and splashes of red paint were macabre, with decaying flesh, blood and gore, and grotesque figures fighting or having sex, or both. The largest painting depicted two figures in some kind of physical conflict. One man was physically big, with bulging muscles, and a strikingly large cock jutted from his body. He was standing, bound with red rope that crisscrossed his body and looped around his neck. He was choking; his grossly swollen tongue protruded from his mouth, and his eyes were popping out of their sockets. The other figure in the painting, of much smaller stature, was wielding an ax, hacking huge gashes in the big man's body. He had a piece of what appeared to be human flesh stuffed in his mouth, torn from his enemy's thigh.
But it was the smaller man's head that was so bizarre, rendered in an unrealistically small size. There were spikes of blond hair showing, but the face was completely obliterated with a frenzied scrawl of black paint. It was as if the artist was trying to eradicate the smaller man's identity.
Tony turned a few more of the large paintings around and they were all of a similar theme, although in one, it was the man with the small head was bound in ropes, knotted around his torso and legs. The face was blackened in all of them, and in some, body parts were missing.
Tony suppressed a shudder. "Jesus, these are… disturbing. They remind me of that painting by Goya, with the man eating his own children."
McGee looked troubled and a little pale. "They're worse than any crime scene I've ever seen. At least they're not John Wayne Gacy killer clowns."
Tony said, "Okay, those clowns scare me, but you have to admit these are worse. I mean, this guy has some serious issues, probably into self-mutilation. Definitely some fantasies of killing the big dude, whoever he is. Plus, he's into bondage, but not in a good way."
"There's a good way?" McGee asked.
Tony stared at his partner for a moment, and shook his head. "Of course there is. Don't you know…?"
"I know enough," McGee shot back. "Let's get this done." He rifled through a pile of sketches on a nearby art table, and found some 8x10s in a folder. "Looks like he used these for reference."
Tony looked through the photographs. They featured men bound in rope that followed their body's curves, intricately rigged and knotted. There were shadows over the faces, their identities obscured. "These are shibari. Japanese artistic rope bondage. Erotic. I'd say they were shot by someone experienced." He turned one over. "There's a label, says MaxXChen. The photographer?"
"I'll look it up, but we need to finish here and get downstairs."
Tony glanced at his watch. They'd only been up here for about fifteen minutes but McGee was right. Gibbs would be wondering where the hell they were. He quickly searched a large desk behind the easel, rifling through several drawers until he found something useful. "Receipts for art supplies. A school schedule, freshman college courses in art and psychology. Now there's a surprise," he said sarcastically. "Hey, I've got a name: Jacob Alderman. Must be our Picasso."
McGee looked around the kitchenette. "I wonder where he is. Hard to tell when he was last here. There are things growing in this sink. I think that's some kind of fungi," he said, looking grossed out.
Tony had a quick look, confirming that McGee wasn't exaggerating. There were mugs and plates covered in congealing food, and some suspicious grey matter that was probably HazMat-worthy mold. "Okay, let's get out of here, see what Gibbs found." They'd come back to take photos and collect evidence, but now he led the way downstairs.
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