He was ten years old, home in bed, sick with the flu. His mother leaned over him, holding out a bowl of steaming chicken soup, always the perfect cure for any ailment. "There is nothing better," she always said. Just like her. His entire body ached as he leaned forward to take a sip. But then she vanished, and he was alone, shrouded in the darkness.

"There's really no mystery as to how this poor boy died, Jethro," Ducky explained as Gibbs stalked into Autopsy. "Multiple blunt force traumas to his head and torso resulted in internal bleeding. He might have survived if only someone had found him sooner. What killed him in the end was an acute subdural haematoma." The coroner shook his head sadly. "What a tragic waste." He pointed to the livid bruising on the young man's arms. "These are defensive wounds here on his arms, as you can see. He put up quite a fight, and he did not go down easily. Notice the injuries to his knuckles, as well."

"Did you look at the photos McGee sent from the hospital?" Gibbs asked, pacing around the table.

"I did indeed, Jethro," replied Ducky, leading Gibbs over to the computer to pull up the images. "This fellow's bruising is fairly irregular. My best guess is that his opponent was unarmed and fighting him with his fists." He momentarily assumed a pugilistic pose for emphasis before continuing. "However, the blow to the head would have rendered him unconscious almost instantly. And, as you can tell from the angle of the injury-"

"He was struck from behind," Gibbs concluded grimly.

"Indeed," Ducky agreed. "Either he turned his back to his opponent, who then picked up a weapon and struck him with it, or he was taken unawares by a second individual."

Gibbs frowned as he mulled over the possibilities. There didn't seem to be any direct evidence of anyone else in the alley besides the dead seaman and the John Doe, but a lack of evidence hardly precluded the possibility. It was a wreck, after all. But the evidence they did have troubled him: if the head wound had knocked the John Doe unconscious, how had he ended up in the dumpster? Seaman Ramirez could hardly be expected to heave him in, given his own injuries. And both appeared to have been struck by the metal pipe. "Got anything else, Duck?"

"Yes, I was looking over the photos of our John Doe when I saw some very interesting scarring on his torso and fingertips. If I were a betting man, Jethro, I'd say that, at some point, he had a very unfortunate encounter with a small explosive." This tallied with Abby's observations. "I was also spotted something else worthy of note while examining his hands." Ducky zoomed in on the image of the John Doe's right hand, focusing on the index finger. "You see that callous, Jethro?"

"Oh, yeah. This guy has handled a gun." Gibbs had one just like it, formed by many years of rubbing against the gun.

"And for quite a long time, to judge from this," Ducky nodded. "I hope some of this helps you identify this man, Jethro."

Gibbs hoped the same, because so far they had no motive for the attack.

Seaman Ramirez's motel room showed little sign that anyone had inhabited it for the past week. The bed was neatly made, nothing was out of place; there wasn't even anything in the trashcan.

"He displays an admirable tidiness," Ziva said approvingly. "You could learn something from this, Tony."

DiNozzo examined the room in disbelief. "I've never seen a motel room look so clean. It's unreal!"

Ziva bent down and glanced under the bed. "Here is his suitcase," she exclaimed as she yanked it out and set it on top of the bed. She popped the catches and opened it, revealing it to be fully packed, from his underwear to his toothbrush. "It seems Seaman Ramirez was packed and ready to leave. Here's his plane ticket." She pulled out a pamphlet from behind the boarding pass in one of the pockets.

"Well, he was definitely at the convention," Tony remarked as he looked over her shoulder. "McGeek had one just like this on his desk. Hey, check it out! They had speakers from Scotland Yard!"

The former Mossad officer rolled her eyes and closed the pamphlet. "Hardly surprising, given that the London Metropolitan Police is one of the world's oldest modern police forces," she pointed out dryly.

"Ah, yes, the land of Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Morse," drawled Tony, checking in the nightstand drawer. Closing the drawer, he circled around in frustration. "I don't think there's anything here."

"For once, I actually agree with you," Ziva concurred, taking one last glance around. The room had not yielded any significant clues, and the two NCIS agents soon departed with Seaman Ramirez's personal effects.

About 480 miles away, Sergeant Greg Parker was tackling a mound of paperwork in the Strategic Response Unit briefing room. He rubbed his bald pate in boredom. You've seen one DD5923-stroke-zed form, you've seen them all. One of the less than enjoyable parts of being Team 1's sergeant meant he had to do these sorts of things all the time. On the plus side, it had been a remarkably quiet week, which could only be considered a good thing since Team 1 was down a man. Granted, they had a guy from Team 2 filling in, but it just wasn't the same. Teams were an exercise in some mysterious form of alchemy, and things seemed just a little off-balance at the moment.

It was times like this he missed Wordy - he had always been one of the most level-headed people Parker had ever met. His departure had been hard on Team 1, especially since it had been so sudden and unexpected for most of them. Raf was a good man, but he was still learning the ropes in many ways.

"Hey, Boss," said Team Leader Ed Lane as he came into the briefing room. Ed had an intensity and tension surrounding him; most of the time, he kept it hidden or channeled it into a workout or firing range exercise. Now, however, it positively crackled around him.

"Yeah, Eddie, what is it?" Greg asked his team leader.

"You haven't heard from Spike, have you?" A simple question, but layered with concern.

Greg set down his pen. "No. Why? He's not supposed to be back on the job until tomorrow."

Ed's expression didn't change. If anything, it became even more intense. "His mother called. She said that he never made it home this morning. I called the airline, and they said that he missed his flight."

"Did you check with his hotel in D.C.?" Greg inquired, a chill spreading through his body.

"Yeah, I did. They said that he hasn't checked out yet."

This was totally out of character for Spike, as Greg well knew. The man would never behave in such a fashion under normal circumstances, and especially not now, so soon after losing his father. As Parker shared a look with Ed, they both knew with grim certainty that something had happened to Spike.