Disclaimer : Still own nothing. Just having fun.
Author's Note : Glad to see all the alerts on this story. I really appreciate the reviews.
Hope you're all enjoying this.
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9:21pm – Residence of Malcolm Quinn – 431 Abernathy St. NW, Forest Hills, Washington, DC –
Tony clambers out of the Charger, his sight set on the humble rancher at the end of the darkened driveway. With its porch light beckoning, the small house bears a striking resemblance to the victim's that's only a few streets over. Since all the houses on the surrounding streets look so similar, Tony checks the address against the one on the mailbox.
It definitely isn't Bailey Chase's.
When he and Ziva climb the stairs to the porch, he finally notices what's different about the two. The color of the shudders are a light blue in the place of the dark green at Chase's.
"These houses are all the same," Ziva whispers, knocking on the front door.
"Cookie cutter." Tony nods, realizing the white vinyl siding and red shingles to be the staple decorations of this particular neighborhood.
Before Ziva has a chance to request clarification, the front door swings open. A short, stocky man with black hair appears against the soft glow of the interior light. With his broad shoulders and square jaw, he looks exactly like Tony pictured him.
The man's light eyes flicker with disappointment.
"Malcolm Quinn?" he asks, flipping open his badge when he receives a nod. "Special Agent DiNozzo and Officer David, NCIS. You expecting someone?"
"N-n-no," Quinn lies unconvincingly. "Uh, what's this about?"
"Bailey Chase, you know him?"
"Yeah, something happen?"
"Mind if we come in?"
Quinn nods slowly, sliding out of the way just enough to allow the agents entry. Tony can immediately tell that the house shares an identical layout to Chase's : a long hallway leads to two bedrooms with an offshoot into a large living room, all centered around a small kitchen and a smaller bathroom. Spacious, by Washington standards, tiny by the rest of the country's.
They follow Quinn into the living room where he gestures to a well-worn couch. When Tony sinks into the nearly flattened cushions, he makes a face at the crumbs imbedded into the fabric.
There's an open bottle of Merlot next to two glasses on the coffee table.
"You sure you're not expecting someone?"
"Nope." Quinn shakes his head, averting Tony's gaze.
Even though Quinn's reluctance to tell them about his evening plans leaves Tony suspicious, he doubts they are relevant to the interview. He tries to quash the clench in his gut.
"You said something happened to Bailey...is he okay?"
"He was found dead earlier this afternoon."
The color drains from Quinn's face. "Oh G-d, how did he…? When did that happen?"
"He was murdered," Ziva says quietly.
"Christ, you're kidding? Murdered? Shit, that sucks.
"You seem to be someone he knew quite well."
Quinn shrugs. "We met a few months back, running around the neighborhood and stuff. Found out that we shared a few common interests and became friends. We didn't have much time to hang out due to Bailey's work schedule."
"Did he tell you what he did?" Tony asks, pulling out a small notepad from his jacket pocket.
"He always said it was classified. I know he worked at that Navy research lab. Whatever it was, it seemed a hell of a lot more interesting than the shit I do all day."
"Okay." Tony scribbles a few notes. "Can you tell us a bit about Chase?"
"That guy had one of those brains, a big one, like he knew way too much. You ever know someone like that? So smart that he can recite books from memory, but can't figure out how to talk to a girl?"
Tony laughs and nods, instantly thinking of Tim.
"Well, he couldn't figure out how to talk to anyone. As far as I could tell, he liked to be around people who shared his interests. But he didn't have a ton of friends."
"What were your common interests?"
"Uh…what?" Quinn's voice jumps an octave.
"You said you had the same interests. What were they?"
"Oh yeah, uh just stuff, like exercising, drinks, appreciating beauty in all sorts of uh, stuff." He absently places his hand on his round stomach.
Quinn's definition of exercise probably involves lifting a beer can.
Pressing his lips together, Tony glances around the house and notes the distinct difference in décor between Chase's and Quinn's homes. Despite the identical layouts, their possessions are polar opposites. While the Lieutenant's house contained lush Oriental carpets and meticulously chosen antiques, Quinn amassed a collection of mismatched furniture and beer posters. When Tim completed his exhaustive inventory of Chase's home, he turned up a cache of expensive wine in the basement, but not a single can of beer.
Based on Quinn's description, their friendship seems unlikely. What's the connection?
"Did he have a girlfriend?" Ziva questions, crinkling her brow when Quinn yawns dramatically.
"Nope. You know guys, I gotta be at work early. I think it's time for bed."
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10:08pm – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Gibbs predicts the ice in his newest CafPow purchase to mimic the lurch of elevator. But nothing happens under his fingers. He shakes the plastic cup, fully expecting to feel the liquid slosh around. When it doesn't, he pops the lid just enough to check on the drink.
There's nothing floating on the top.
When the elevator doors slide open, he hops out, quickly refastening the lid before the CafPow has a chance to consume him like it already did the ice. He hustles down the hallway to the forensics lab, feeling eerily like he carries something out of that movie Tony made them watch in MTAC one night.
While he can't recall the title, he still remembers the nightmare he had after about the blob-like creature leaking out of the Caf-Pow machine and taking over the building. As punishment for the film choice, Tony spent a two week sentence of hard labor reorganizing the evidence garage. So far, the senior agent hadn't been thoughtless enough to make that mistake again.
Though with DiNozzo, it's only a matter of time.
Gibbs holds the drink away from his body, hoping Abby finishes it before it finishes them. A chill meanders down his spine, making him shiver violently.
The sound of a throaty moan suddenly fills the hallway, piquing his interest. Shortly after, another moan erupts, matching the first's tone in song. By the time Gibbs reaches the lab, there are four distinct groans melded into a peculiar, dissonant harmony.
Abby Scuito stands by her lab table, hands clasped and eyes closed. Her lips part as she adds her own wail to the mix, somehow managing to sound both in and out of tune at the exact same time.
"Abby!"
"Oh hey, Gibbs," she grins, her blush barely evident underneath her thick makeup. "Like my new CD?"
Sounded like a bunch of alley cats getting ready to….
"Yeah, whaddya got?"
"Mongolian throat signing. The singers change the way they breathe and create caverns in their mouth and throat that alters the shape so the sound sounds like this! Pretty cool, huh? I'm still trying to figure out how to get the glottal khoomi just right."
"Abs."
"You know, Gibbs, I've always liked it. But I think I really got into it now that the lead singer of Skull Squishers dropped out and went to Mongolia to train to become a throat singer." She turns to her lab table, fidgeting with one of her toys. "Can you believe - "
"Abby!"
"Yessir!" She squares her shoulders, seriously saluting him.
"Whaddya got?"
"Well, I'm still waiting on the tissue samples from Duckman for Chase. You know, you really knocked him off his game by asking him to do the girl's autopsy first, right?" Gibbs shrugs, gesturing towards the computer with the CafPow. "Well, Major Mass Spec is running the metal shavings from the girl's crown. But while you're waiting, you might find this interesting."
Reaching after her remote, she flicks off the cacophony and brings up a pair of chemical profiles on the computer screen in one fluid motion.
Both are identical except for a heavy spike in the center of the left one.
"These are the two wine glasses. Pretty much your standard wine store Cabernet. Chase definitely didn't break the bank for that date" She grins, moving on when Gibbs stares blankly at her. "The one on the right is from the empty glass, normal wine. The one on the left is from the full one. Notice those two spikes. 4-hydroxybutanoic acid and its binder, sodium oxybate."
He instantly recognizes the formula from a multitude of past cases. With a sigh, Gibbs shakes his head.
"GHB?"
"You betcha. Gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, a go-to staple for any wannabe date-rapist. Enough to take down a very large person or a tiny horse, but not a large person on a tiny horse. I ran her stomach contents and found the chemical composition of a type of canned pasta sauce and cheese, probably pizza… but no GHB or anything else. Nothing in her blood or her urine."
"She was clean?"
"Like after a really long shower." Abby nods, grabbing Gibbs' arm to drag him over to the opposite side of her lab. He notices the small skeleton in the corner wears her lab coat and a top hat. Feeling the question rise in his throat, he quashes it; some are better left unasked.
When they reach the section that she devotes to ballistics, he catches the newest piece of art behind her station : a picture of his Sig Sauer. He smiles.
Abby brings up two bullets on the computer screen. She reaches into the hood and pulls out the gun from the crime scene.
"North American Arms, 0.22S revolver, pretty much your protection standard weapon. Small and light, fits well in your pocket or purse," she says, showing Gibbs' its size in her small hands.
He nods. "Or end table."
"Or end table. Ballistics show this is the gun that the girl used to kill herself. Like I said, still waiting for Duckman to send me the bullet from Chase so I can confirm that it killed him too. Serial number proves that it was registered to him, first and only owner."
Sniffing the air, Abby's lurches after the CafPow.
"Anything else?"
With an exasperated sigh, she hangs her head for a moment. Then she grimly grabs Gibbs' arm to pull him back to the main lab bench. She registers a few clicks on her computer, bringing up a picture of a small, green strand.
"Fiber that Ducky pulled off the teenager's wrists. They're synthetic and based on the chemical profile, weather-treated nylon rope. Distributed to pretty much every mass retailer and hardware store in DC, but get me a sample and I'll get you a match."
"Thanks, Abs." Gibbs nods, passing her the CafPow.
While she sucks a sip through her straw, he stares at the picture of the fibers emblazoned on the computer screen. He can't help but wonder what horrors befell the teenager in waking life that her only recourse would be a tragic end by her own hands.
What sort of life did she live if a bullet to the temple saved her?
"They finally did it, oh, Gibbs!" Abby grins, the red from the CafPow mixing with her black lipstick.
He blinks, shaking his head when he realizes that he's still in the lab.
"Did what, Abs?"
"They finally reformulated CafPow like they've been promising for years! They reconfigured the density enough so that the ice sinks, making every sip cold but not watered down. Oh, Gibbs, it's incredible!"
He cringes. Even though he has a very limited grasp on science, he knows enough to realize that the makers of CafPow have broken some fundamental law. Over his shoulder, he glances at the cup in Abby's hands, fully expecting to see the liquid take on life. Yet again, he's reminded of his nightmare.
"Enjoy, Abs." Shuddering, he hustles out of the lab.
"Hey! Watch it! I'm - " When Gibbs sees Jimmy Palmer pressed flat against the wall, arms laden with evidence jars, he narrows his eyes. The autopsy assistant laughs nervously. "I – uh, Agent Gibbs. I didn't see you. It's my fault, entirely, completely my fault. You know - , uh, well, you know it's my fault. Just got more evidence from the Lieutenant for Abby, but you already know that too. Um, uh, so how are you?"
Gibbs glares him down.
"Oh, okay, yeah, I'm good too. But yeah, I'm off to see Abby!"
Without another word, Palmer slinks his way along the wall past Gibbs shoulder and ducks into the lab. Gibbs figures it's probably time to see Mallard while he doesn't have any distractions.