Chapter 10
Gibbs got off the plane in Seattle and headed for the car rental counter. As he walked through the airport, his phone rang.
"Gibbs," he said.
"Finally! You need to empty your mail box, Gibbs," Abby said. "It's full! I found where Orin McGee and Calvin Fielding are buried, and Tony and Ziva found where Tim went to school, although it was only sporadic attendance, and where Calvin Fielding lived. They also tracked down Sarah McGee's birth certificate. Her mother died in childbirth."
"What about McGee's mother?"
"Still haven't found anything about her. We have a name, Judy Gulay, but it doesn't look like his parents were married, and she had a history of drug use but nothing from the last thirty years."
"Keep looking."
"Will do. Both of them are buried in the Vashon Cemetery about twenty miles from Seattle."
Gibbs noted down the plot number for both graves and got the address where Calvin Fielding had lived. Orin McGee didn't have an address in the area. The question was where to go first. Tim had a few days' head start, and he knew where he was going, but they didn't know how he'd traveled. He hadn't flown because they'd checked that, but he could have traveled other ways without leaving a track. If he'd come by bus or by car, it would have taken him a while to get all the way over here.
Finally, he decided to check out the cemetery first.
He drove over to the Vashon cemetery and decided to check out Orin McGee's grave. When he got there, he looked at it. It was as bare-bones as possible. All it had was his name, the year he was born and the year he died. Nothing else. No mention of family at all. The grave was dirty and worn. Clearly, no one cared to take care of it. It was in a part of the cemetery full of graves in very similar condition. Tim wasn't there.
Gibbs got back in the car and drove across the cemetery to where Calvin Fielding was buried and, instantly, he saw Tim, sitting on a bench and staring at a grave. Gibbs got out of his car and walked over. As he approached, he saw Tim glance at him and then laugh softly.
"Gibbs," he said, shaking his head. "I should have known that you'd show up, even though I made it clear that you didn't have to. How did you figure out to come to Seattle?"
"You didn't erase all the records."
Tim looked back at the grave and nodded.
"I knew I couldn't get them all. I checked once when I was at MIT and I faked the one I used for NCIS, but I guess Abby didn't do the background check when I got hired."
"Doubt it. Not really her job," Gibbs said. He sat down beside Tim.
"How did you guess that I'd be here?"
"Abby found the article about your father being killed. Thought you might be at his grave."
Tim laughed again, but this time it was bitter.
"Only if I wanted to spit on it," he said, still looking at the grave, not at Gibbs. "I have no interest in seeing my father's grave. I came here to see Grandpa...even though he's not my grandpa. He's Sarah's, but he always made me welcome, no matter how many times I showed up."
"Why quit?" Gibbs asked.
"Because I'm a murderer, Gibbs," Tim said, sounding weary. "I've been a murderer for longer than you've known me, and I just can't keep hiding it, not when every time I get confronted with it, I have to fight to pretend I'm not affected."
"You don't know that you killed Benedict."
"It's not about Benedict, although, even if I didn't kill him, I still shot him twice, and he would have felt it before he died." Tim still wouldn't look at him. "Actually, it's more about Archer than it is about Benedict."
"Why? Archer was guilty."
"Yeah. And so am I."
"Who did you kill?" Gibbs asked.
"My father," Tim said, almost in a whisper.
"Article said Calvin Fielding killed him."
"Yeah. That's what it said. That's what's in the police report. That's what everyone believed. I'm the only person in the world who knows...because I'm the only one left alive."
"Tell me," Gibbs said.
"Why?" Tim asked. "It doesn't matter. Just accept failure, Gibbs, and move on."
"You're not a failure," Gibbs said. "I am, but not because of this."
Tim looked at him for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"I'm a failure because you think all I care is about finishing something. You think I don't care about you."
Tim smiled fakely. "Are you really going to pretend that you care about me now, Gibbs?" he asked. "You don't have to. It's not going to change anything. I'm used to it. Grandpa's the one who cared about me without any reason to. And Thom."
"I care," Gibbs said, knowing that Tim wouldn't believe him. Still, it needed to be said.
Tim just shook his head and went back to staring at the grave.
"Tell me," Gibbs said again.
Tim sighed and then was silent for a few minutes. Gibbs didn't push again. He just waited. Tim probably wanted to tell his story. He just didn't know how to start.
"Dad was a worthless bum," Tim said finally. "I can honestly say that I hated him. He would show up, take me from wherever I was and drag me around with him for a few months. Then, he'd get tired of me, leave me somewhere and I'd have to fend for myself until he showed up again. He told me over and over again that I was lucky he cared even that much. No one else cared about me. Even my mother couldn't be bothered to take care of me because I was worthless. I didn't matter to anyone. So if I ever complained about the way he treated me, he would remind me that he was the only one in the world who cared that I was alive at all. No one else did because I didn't matter. I was worthless. That's how I grew up, Gibbs."
"What about your mother?"
"Don't know. She wasn't ever in my life that I remember. She didn't care about me."
"You sure of that?"
"No, but I can't see that there's any positive spin on my mother. Once, I did a search to see if I was missing. I was desperate to find someone who really did think I mattered. There was nothing. If my mother is alive, she doesn't care about me. Probably doesn't even remember that she had a son, if she knew that much. If she's dead, what good does knowing that do me?"
Gibbs couldn't fault Tim's logic, but the beginning of the story certainly said a lot about why Tim was skeptical that Gibbs cared about him, and Gibbs could see, more than ever, that Morrow had been right. Thom had given Tim that caring that Gibbs never had and Tim could have used plenty of it, given how he'd grown up.
"When I was young, I'd just stay wherever Dad left me. Sometimes, I'd find a place to stay, sometimes I wouldn't. Once I got older, I went to Grandpa's."
"Why him?"
"I don't know, actually," Tim admitted. "I don't remember why it was that I knew about him and that he let me stay. Sarah's mom was his daughter. I know that Grandpa was Sarah's legal guardian, though. So I'd go to Grandpa, and he always opened his door for me. Every time. He'd give me a hug and tell me to take a shower," Tim said and laughed. "And things would be good for a little while. Then, Dad would show up and drag me away again, always when things just started to feel normal. I hated it."
"What did you do with your dad?"
"Nothing. Sometimes, I'd be in charge of watching over Dad while he went on drug trips. Most of the time, I don't know why he wanted me with him." Tim shrugged and shook his head again. "Guess his reasons don't really matter. He ruined my life every time he showed up."
Suddenly, Gibbs realized what that lifestyle meant. Abby had said it, but it hadn't really registered. At least as far as Tim's education was concerned, it had been sporadic at best. And yet, Tim had managed to get himself to the point that he was prepared to attend MIT. His achievements were even more significant than Gibbs had realized.
"The only thing that kept me going was knowing that Dad didn't care enough to want me around for long. He'd abandon me again and I could go back to Grandpa's. Sometimes, Grandpa would even apologize for what my dad was doing, but he didn't have to bother. I was just glad to have somewhere to live, and when Sarah got older, I loved being with her." Tim smiled. "She was a happy little kid...because Dad didn't care about her, either." His smile faded. "Until that day."
"What happened?" Gibbs asked.
"I'd been with Grandpa for nearly six months that time. Enough time that I started to think that maybe I could just stay with Grandpa, that Dad wouldn't show up. ...but he did. He came to the house. Grandpa didn't want to let him in, but he didn't want to make a scene, either, and so he opened the door and let him in."
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
"What are you doing back here, Orin?" Calvin asked.
"I came to get my son," Orin said.
Tim was sitting at the table. Orin gestured.
"Come on, Tim. Time to go."
"No," Tim said, standing up. "No, I'm not going with you. I hate going with you. I'm staying here."
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
"How old were you?"
"Fifteen," Tim said.
"How did he take it?"
Tim laughed humorlessly again. "Not well. He was mad at me. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at me and said that I was going with him. I said no. Then, it got worse. He said that if I wasn't going with him, then, Sarah would. She was in the bedroom. We always sent her to bed when Dad came around. You never knew what he'd be like when he showed up. So we made her stay in bed and hide until I came to get her. Or until Grandpa did. I was usually gone with Dad. Sarah doesn't even know what he was like because we protected her from him."
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Orin started to walk toward the hall, but Tim jumped up and stood in the doorway.
"No," he said. "You're not going to do that to Sarah. You're not going to do to her what you always do to me!"
Orin grabbed Tim by the shirt with his free hand. He pulled Tim close to his face. His breath was rank.
"Orin, let him go!" Calvin said, getting to his feet.
Orin ignored him and focused only on Tim.
"You do not give me orders, boy," he snarled. "You belong to me. Sarah belongs to me. I made you and I own the things I make. You do not get to tell me what to do. I give the orders to you. Now, get out of the way."
"No!"
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Tim fell silent again.
"What happened?" Gibbs asked, when he didn't go on.
"Dad said he was going to shoot me. He lifted the gun up. I was afraid that he meant it. After all, he'd told me often enough that I didn't matter. So I fought him. I tried to make it so that he couldn't shoot me and he couldn't get Sarah." Tim stood up and walked away a few steps. "They don't tell you about that, you know. They don't tell you what a real fight is like. You think that you can just throw a few punches and it's over, but it's not like that. When you start a fight, you have to keep going or else you die. Adrenaline says that, whether it's true or not. Once you start fighting, you're in it until it's over, until you're dead or the other guy is dead. You can't stop. When you choose to fight...you have to fight until you win."
Tim voice shook a little, but Gibbs could tell that it was more than just what he was about to tell. He stood up, too.
"You ever been in a fight you couldn't walk away from?" Tim asked.
"Yeah."
"Did you lose?"
"Nope. I won."
"Did the guy die?"
"Nope. Knockout, though."
Tim nodded. He turned, then, and looked Gibbs in the eye. The expression was one that Gibbs couldn't really read. He just waited.
"I don't know how it happened, but I had the gun in my hand. I was trying to keep him from pointing it at me, so I guess that it makes sense, but I don't know how I did it. I just know I did. I had it in my hand and I was pointing it at him. And I thought... I thought that...the only way it would all be over was if Dad couldn't ever come back again."
Tim didn't look away. His expression was almost pleading, but Gibbs didn't know what he was asking for.
"The thing is, Gibbs, I don't remember if I thought that before or after I pulled the trigger. I don't know if I thought it before or after I shot him. I don't know if I shot him because I just didn't want to go with him again or if I shot him because I was afraid he was going to kill me. It just happened so fast. He was so close to me. Point blank. I couldn't miss. He didn't die right away, either. It must have hurt because he screamed. But neither of us did anything to help him. I stood there, with the gun in my hand and watched my father die. Grandpa stood there and watched him die. It happened pretty quick, but not instantly."
And then, Gibbs felt that he mostly understood. To someone who didn't know Tim, the question of whether his thought had come before or after the shot would seem like a strange thing to care about, but to Tim, it was the difference between self-defense and murder. If he thought his dad was going to kill him, Tim was justified in killing him first. If he just wanted to stop his dad from showing up, he wasn't justified.
"How did your grandpa take the blame?" Gibbs asked, still wanting to hear the whole story.
"There was some blood on my shirt. Grandpa made me take it off and he put it in a bucket of bleach. We'd been experimenting with tie-dyeing. Then, he put the shirt in the wash with the rest of the load that had been waiting to be washed. Ruined the whole bunch, but the washer had been running before, so it was most of the way through the cycle. Nothing suspicious about that. Then, he told me to go back with Sarah and stay there until the police came. Next thing I knew, Grandpa was taking the blame, saying that Dad had shown up and threatened him and that the gun had gone off in the scuffle. I tried to tell him that he shouldn't do it, but he said that he was an old man and my father deserved to die, that no one would miss him."
"The police believed him?"
"Why not? Dad had a record. Grandpa didn't. The gun was Dad's. Grandpa didn't own any weapons. He called the police himself. They talked to me. They talked to Grandpa. They didn't talk to Sarah. She was crying back in the room. She'd heard the noise, but she didn't know what it was. We didn't let her come out until they'd cleared away Dad's body. In fact, Grandpa had me take her over to a neighbor's house until they could clean up the blood in the kitchen. She knew he was dead, but not how. And she never saw it."
"What happened to your grandpa?"
"He died," Tim said. "Obviously. He'd told me that I could just stay with him for as long as I wanted. It sounded wonderful, but I still had that thought of whether or not I deserved it. But I stayed and I tried not to think about what I'd done." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I had dreams about it sometimes and once, Grandpa even heard me and you know what he did, Gibbs?" Tim looked up and was almost teary. Not quite, but almost. "He hugged me, Gibbs. He hugged me and told me it would be okay. Besides Sarah, I don't know anyone else who hugged me. Grandpa did. He cared."
And again, Gibbs wished he could go back and redo how he'd treated Tim.
"But Grandpa had a heart attack while Sarah and I were at school. I came home and there were police cars and an ambulance. They said that he'd had a heart attack while getting the mail. If I remember right, the police told me that he'd had a bad heart for a long time and that his heart was going to fail sooner or later. I was angry. I was sad, but I was angry, too. Life got pulled away from me again, but I was also afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"That, with Grandpa gone, someone would figure out that I'd killed my father and come after me. So I told Sarah that we had to go. Grandpa didn't believe in banks. He had a little bit in an account, but it was just enough for his funeral. He'd told me before that he kept most of his money in his mattress. So I got that, bought Sarah and me a ticket on the Greyhound. I went as far away from Seattle as I could get us. I did the best I could to delete our records so no one would know who I was, what I'd done. Then, I got Sarah into foster care because the money Grandpa left wouldn't last long. I told her that she'd only have to be there until I could make enough money to take care of her. Then, I ruined things with the Johnsons by trying to do things the wrong way." Tim sighed. "That's the story."
"What are you going to do now?"
"I don't know," Tim said. "I just know that I can't be where I was with this hanging over me. I never could stop thinking about it. It was always there. It was just a matter of how much I was thinking about it."
He looked at Gibbs again, with that same pleading expression. Gibbs still wasn't sure what he was asking for until it clicked and he felt like an idiot for not getting it sooner. Tim was asking to be told he wasn't what he thought he was. He'd convicted himself of murder, but he wanted someone else to overturn that conviction. He couldn't do it himself.
"Tim, there's no reason to quit. You're not a murderer. It doesn't matter what you thought or when. You were fifteen."
"Old enough to know right from wrong, Gibbs."
"Old enough to know that your father didn't care about you and wouldn't care about killing you."
"I could have been wrong."
"You were fifteen," Gibbs said again. "A teenager."
"I was old enough."
"No," Gibbs said. "Not old enough for how you were treated. I'm sorry I never gave you better."
"There's no reason to apologize. I never expected anything else," Tim said and looked away.
"That's why I'm sorry."
"You're not my father, Gibbs."
"I know."
"You don't have to stay here."
"Yeah, I do."
"Why?"
"Because you are."
Tim was silent.
"You're not a murderer, Tim. You don't have to think of yourself that way. You were defending yourself and your sister from an abusive parent."
"He never hit me."
"There's more than one kind of abuse."
"I still killed him."
"You're not worthless, Tim," Gibbs said. "Come back."
"Director Shepard won't care that I'm gone. She'll probably be glad."
"So? She doesn't matter. I do. I'm your boss."
"She matters. She could fire me."
"She won't."
"She would if I told her what I did."
"No, she wouldn't. I wouldn't let her."
"You can't control the director."
"Watch me. The others want you back."
"Do they know?"
"Some of it. Not all."
"I don't deserve it," Tim said, softly.
"Yes, you do," Gibbs said. "You earned it, just like your position on my team. You killed your father in self-defense and you got yourself out of an abusive situation. You are not a murderer."
"You're not my father, Gibbs," Tim said again.
"I'm not trying to be your father. Your father was a terrible person."
"Yeah, he was. What are you trying to do, then?"
"Keep you from giving up what you have."
"I don't have it. I gave it up already."
"No."
Tim walked back to the bench and sat down again. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the grave again.
"I shot my father."
"You said that already."
Gibbs sat down beside him and put his hand on Tim's back.
"Tim, you're a good person. The rest of it doesn't matter."
Tim sat up and looked at him incredulously. "Doesn't matter? I killed a man, Gibbs! I definitely killed one man and I may have killed another one. At the very least, I shot him twice."
"You made a mistake with Benedict, but it's one anyone else would have made. Should you have shot your father? I don't know. Sounds like you did the right thing."
"Then, why do I feel guilty?"
"Because you took a life. That's serious, even when it's right."
That same pleading expression was on Tim's face again.
"You're the only one who ever told me what to do, Gibbs. Not even Grandpa told me what to do. What do I do, now?"
"Go back home."
"I am home."
"No. Home is in D.C."
"This is my past."
"Doesn't have to be your future. I told you I wouldn't give up. I meant it."
Thinking about their first meeting all those years ago, Gibbs decided it was time to give Tim a little push in the right direction. He stood up.
"You going to stay here in the past or live the life you want?"
Tim actually smiled a little and Gibbs could tell he was remembering that night, too.
"I have to decide right now?"
Gibbs smiled. "What else have you got to do?"
He held out his hand.