DISCLAIMER
I DO NOT OWN ANY RIGHTS TO ANY OF THE NCIS CHARACTERS. I ONLY BORROW THEM TO PLAY WITH THEM FOR A BIT.
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Hello everyone!
Sorry for the delay – what can I say, life. It gets so busy sometimes that you don't know when weeks and even months pass… I'm sure many of you can relate ;)
Thank you all for all your comments and messages – they keep me going and make my day, each and single one of them! Big hugs to you all!
Oh, and (belatedly) Merry Christmas and (soon) Happy New Year to you all too!
Without any further ado, let us move onward with this story...
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CHAPTER 10
To an average person's imagination, a morgue is a place of complete seclusion from the rest of the world, gloomy, disgusting and scary in its absolute silence. And it's true but only to some extent. To those who are too sensitive, the view of bodies being dissected might certainly prove too much. This is why a place like this just has to be away from other people's daily routes. But those who expect to see some sort of butchery in the place of the dead can often be surprised by the surgically cold precision of the procedure and while the autopsy room is indeed sometimes silent, it is only outside of working hours. And never utterly, even during a total blackout; the emergency generator allows the cooler drawers to continue their work no matter what, thanks to which their soft humming never stops. At such times, the spotlessly clean room resembles nothing more but a spacious chiller. And during working hours, two male voices easily override that hum, from time to time interrupted by this or that and any other persons who pop in for one reason or another.
Such visits become much less frequent though during the first couple of hours of any given investigation; whilst the autopsy is being performed, the room is restricted to the authorized personnel only and those usually aren't many. And even those few would usually have to have a valid reason to call on. This is why when the hiss of the pneumatic door announces someone's arrival merely minutes into the procedure, it causes the Medical Examiner to promptly look up from above the cadaver.
He merely manages to pause his voice recorder and say his greetings when their visitor is already next to them, the light blue medical scrubs swishing dryly against the white lab coat with every decisive step. "Hey, guys! Ducky, may I take some photos?" the question, muffled slightly by a surgical mask, makes him sigh. Like many professionals with a lifelong experience of working either solo or being solely in charge, he likes his work being performed on his own terms, at his own pace – and that means right away and with no stopping once it's started.
"Whatever is the rush, my dear? We're almost done with the external examination, you would have gotten our photos soon enough," he points out patiently.
"I know, Ducky! But that's not the only thing what I need. You see, McGee already sent me some crime scene photos and while I was flipping through them, something about them got me thinking. I need just a few shots but they have to be quite specific. And the sooner, the better, time is key. Allow me just one minute, please, and I will be out of your hair, I promise."
"Oh well, if it's just one minute… I guess that we can survive, won't we, Mr. Palmer?" with a glance on his wrist watch, he shuffles away from the mortuary table, motioning at his assistant to do the same. He knows well that the promised 'one minute' is just a phrase, that Abby chasing some newly hatching theory of hers means Abby quite likely losing track of time – but what wouldn't you do to assist your fellow scientists in performing their duties? She has done the same favour for him many times over. Such is their work.
Having his permission, his colleague from the lab upstairs jumps to it and he, not for the first time, can't help but note how her body movements turn from slightly agitated to calm and collected the very second she gets to work around the cadavers. The shots, though taken at odd angles, are nevertheless methodical, done with a nearly military efficiency. It's not something one would normally see in a young woman who is renowned for her exuberance and often excessive gesticulation.
"Also, Ducky… I'd need the shot of their irises. But only if it's okay to lift their eyelids?"
"Well, we are done with the facial assessment so yes, but may I ask what this is for?"
"You've seen John Doe's hands when McGee fingerprinted him, right?"
"Yes, he had no doubt suffered a rather severe burn to both palms in the past. The flesh is long healed but not without some scarring. Timothy couldn't get a match on his portable AFIS scanner," he replies. "I suppose you didn't have any luck either?"
"No and that's why I'm trying another angle. Fingers crossed," the reply he gets carries a note of hopefulness.
"Well, if that's the case, naturally, do whatever you think might help! Go ahead, I will hold them for you," he offers his assistance, knowing that the said body parts had already stiffened due to rigor mortis setting in. To his surprise, Abby lets her small digital camera hang on its strap and retrieves yet another device from one of the pockets of her lab coat. Recognizing the type of a scanner, he raises his eyebrows but he nevertheless refrains from asking verbally. Now he understands why Abby mentioned time being a key factor. The longer she would wait, the worse the condition of the already drying eyes would have become.
With his help, it takes only a moment for the task to be completed. And, to the contrary of what he's been bracing himself for, the session doesn't stretch. Once the scanning is finished, Abby simply steps away from the slab. "Done!" she announces, a single bleep of the scanner's 'off' button confirming that the device is no longer needed. "Thank you, Ducky!"
"You're most welcome," mildly surprised, he can't help but to check the time again. "One minute, exactly," he comments. "A mere coincidence or…?"
"Oh, Ducky… what do we all know about coincidences?"
"It is known that the mere uttering of the word would result in a significant eye roll in a certain person, followed immediately by a terrifying sound of clenching jaws. Luckily, said person is yet to return from the scene, so I might yet get away with my crime, if you don't tell," he comments lightly and as a reply, Abby zips her forefinger and thumb across her mask covered lips and twists them in a locking motion. "Did you time yourself?"
"Yeah. Our private ninja taught me a little trick."
"Interesting. Should we expect you to become the agency's second ninja?" he jokes again.
"Ducky, really? The only thing I have in common with ninja is that I also wear black."
"Oh, it's not the black that makes the ninja, my dear," he comments as Jimmy snickers good-naturedly behind his back. "It's a common misconception, actually. That famous black costume with a facial mask was in fact originally worn by puppeteers in ningyo joruri and stagehands in kabuki theaters, for the sole purpose of not attracting any attention from the audience. Only later, this color associated with mystery, it was also a choice of the kabuki actors who played the enigmatic ninja. But in truth, if you really were one, would your secret mission stay secret if you roamed the country side all dressed in rather atypical clothes, mask on your face? No, no, no – you would stick out like a very sore thumb, raising suspicion!The real ninja, or as they then called it, shinobi, went about dressed in whatever was best for the occasion, as monks, peasants, merchants, travelling actors, musicians, even women…"
"Oh, like Tony!" Jimmy's exclamation interrupts his story and makes him turn around and stare at his beaming assistant. "Like when he pretended to be a street musician or… or that time when he went undercover as a drag queen!"
"Palmer!" He doesn't have to even turn to Abby to know that she is annoyed. "Haven't you learnt yet that the class just does not interrupt during the lecture? But while you're at it, correction – It's not Tony that is our ninja, I was speaking of Ziva. Correction number two – Tony never went undercover as a drag queen. I would have known of something this epic."
"Oh well… maybe you would have known about it, and more, if you were his personal Autopsy Gremlin," the nearly childish pride is so evident in Jimmy's voice that he can't help but roll his eyes at his assistant's antics. Pride is rarely the best guide… "I'm like a… sounding board to him! Or, as he puts it, 'an underground well he can tell his little secrets…"
"A well indeed you are, Mr. Palmer; one with a delayed echo," he finally manages to interject. "Abigail,' he turns, "as shamefully intrigued I am about our Anthony's thus far undisclosed outfit, I'm afraid I have to ask you to postpone our inquiries till we finish."
"Our?" Abby doesn't miss a bit.
"I take it upon myself to make sure that the star witness doesn't leave town," he promises honestly.
"I'm all in, Professor Duckman," Abby winks at him from above her blue mask and he reciprocates. When he glances at his assistant, he can't help but smirk briefly at Jimmy's slightly panicked facial expression.
With the camera back in her hand, Abby is half way to the exit when she stops once more. "I almost forgot!" she calls out. "Two things. One – once you get to his hands, could you please let me know how and roughly when he had himself burnt? There's a chance that an injury like that had been treated at the hospital somewhere…"
"…and knowing the approximate time would narrow down your search," he guesses where she is going with this. "Consider it done. And the second?"
Abby simply reaches into the other pocket of her lab coat, which bulges visibly. Digging the item out, she dangles it in her fingers and if he is to judge the contents by the shiny cover, the bag is likely to hold some Christmas sweets. "Not work related. For your break, guys," she explains. "Let me know if the flavor is to your liking and if it at all goes with your tea."
"I certainly will, my dear. Would you please leave it in the drawer of my desk?" he raises his contaminated hands as a form of explanation. With a tiny salute and a swish of her scrubs, Abby is off to fulfill his request and by the time she leaves the Autopsy, he is fully back to his task.
It's very human to feel curious upon seeing another's interest in a rather unusual object and he certainly isn't any exception. Though occupied with the procedure, he can't help but glance every now and then towards the victims' faces, his gaze unfailingly landing on their closed eyes.
"Are you… thinking of it too, Dr. Mallard?" Jimmy's voice is wary as he cuts into his musings. "About the photos and scans Abby took, I mean."
Not entirely surprised that his assistant has picked up on his shifts of attention – it comes with years of tuning to one another, after all – he ceases momentarily his poking in the bullet holes. "Well, one can't help being curious, Mr. Palmer," he replies. "Eyes are interesting things indeed. Not only are they, as people claim, the window to one's soul. They also, as any ophthalmologist would tell you, offer a glimpse into one's health. And they might reveal a lot more still, if we only ask the right question."
"And what is the right question?"
'Is insistence also contagious?' he asks himself. It's natural for a human being to be curious upon seeing another's interest but the insistence in pressing for the answers is another matter altogether. It must be the influence of the nature of their jobs though – pushing each other for results – that causes everyone to question everything at any given time. But it's a good thing in the end.
"It depends on a case, Mr. Palmer," he replies with a practiced patience. And then, seeing no reason to deny himself no longer, he leans in to once more lift the eye lids of the deceased, helping himself with the blunt end of one of his still sterile scalpels. After checking the Lance Corporal's, he swivels around and does the same with the other male victim. "Hmm… let's see…" he ponders aloud, all the while analyzing the look of the victims' irises. At this stage, with the corneas already opaque, even his experienced eye can't see much aside from the barely visible eye color. For more, they will have to rely on Abby's beloved gadgets – whatever it is she is working on. "For nor, Mr. Palmer, the only question I can think of is, 'Dear chaps, did Mother Nature play roulette with the two of you?'"
When he looks up, puzzlement in his assistant's eyes is evident.
"And the answer to this is…?"
"That, Mr. Palmer, is for Abby to work out," he announces firmly. There is time for everything. Time for curiosity over – they have their work to do. He gets hold of the forceps he had left protruding from the bullet wound and gets back to business. "Specimen jar, please."
NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***
Busy uploading the photos taken in Autopsy, she doesn't even bother looking at the large plasma screen on the lab's wall. It's not that the continued flicking of the fingerprint search would distract her – it's simply pointless. When – or rather, if – either the AFIS* or the CDE* find the match, she will get a notification. But as the chances for that happening are getting slimmer with every passing minute, she zeroes her entire focus on her other tasks. They need to be done before the team is back. Their return means boxes of evidence and the victims' car to be processed in the garage. Between that and whatever samples Ducky will send her this time, she will be busier than a bee in a beehive, with no time to spare for extra searches.
It doesn't progress without some hick-ups though. Her computer – out of all times – decides to throw one of its temper tantrums, and it's a lag that is rather significant. The fingerprint searches are still up and running but her photo editing programs slow down almost to a sleep. When no amount of grumbling or sweet-talking into to working faster helps, she quickly starts up the diagnostics, including the anti-virus scans, just in case.
"Hey, what's up with you? My evening has already been spoiled enough so you really, really don't need to add to that… C'mon, talk to your momma, what's bothering you?" she beseeches when nothing malicious is detected, "Dust bunnies tickle you? Consider them gone, I'll get to it ASAP, promise. Or maybe you are struggling with all this junk on your drives? Is that it? Yeah, it is. I can remove some but only some. How is that? Better? See? I told you!" she huffs with a relief seeing the programs beginning to work a bit smoother and makes a mental note that more RAM is a must. "Better brace yourself and do your best! We have a full night of intense work ahead of us!"
A short while later, few things happen practically one after another. An email arrives; it's from Ducky and as she views it, he video-calls her to provide an additional input to the photos he's just sent. As she applies some of those details to her medical search, her lab phone rings, the LED light indicating that the incoming phone call is from the garage, and just as she expected, its crew informs her that the car is in and waiting. Going once more over certain details with Ducky, who's still online, she hears the quiet hum of the lift in the corridor. The bell only confirms that it's stopping at her floor.
"Getting busy there, Abigail?"
"Like a beehive, Ducky, and it's just a start. Gotta go. Thank you for the info!"
Ending the vid-call, she doesn't have to even turn to know who has arrived; the bickering that is audible the second the door slid open is enough for her to know that it's Tony and Ziva. And their visit can only mean evidence.
And boy, it isn't just one box of it. Each of her friends carries two each; oh, she will have her hands and brain occupied indeed.
Ziva greets her warmly, leaves her cargo and immediately heads back upstairs, leaving Tony behind but there's nothing unusual about it. Only one of them is needed for signing the evidence log and Ziva is too dutiful to loiter around when there's plenty to do in the bullpen. From above the evidence log, she notices Tony's gaze lingering after his exiting partner and she smirks. His eyes are just where they are expected to be and it's definitely way below Ziva's neatly braided hair. But then again, who would blame DiNozzo for being DiNozzo? Heck – one doesn't even have to be necessarily a man to appreciate a butt like that. Ogling doesn't hurt anyone.
But then, when Ziva is already gone and Tony's gaze still lingers where she disappeared inside the lift, his facial expression wipes the smile of amusement of her face. It might be nothing, it could be for a wholly different reason than what is in her head but her instinct tells her otherwise. There are only a few reasons a man could look at a woman with longing. 'Tony, no, not again…' she sighs silently. 'I thought you were finally over her…'
As Tony catches on and gets hold of himself, she promptly looks down at the log, not wanting him to know that she has noticed anything. And, when she looks up again after a moment and sees the DiNozzo grin firmly in place, her heart clenches a little for her friend. The difference between the playful bickering of her friends as they entered, Tony's suddenly serious face when he thought he wasn't observed by anybody and his big grin just now is just too striking to mean nothing.
"Hey, I saw that Santa Abby left some snacks on our desks," he tells her as she finishes with the log. "I was sent flying down here before I could even have a peek inside. What did you make? Gingerbread?"
"Tony, if I made gingerbread every Christmas, it would be boring. And I'd hate to be boring," she explains honestly. "This year, it's spiced pecan nuts."
"Oh yeah!" Tony pumps the air lightly. "Thanks, Abby! I love nuts!"
"Maybe because you are nuts? Fornell calls you DiNutso for a reason, you know?" she teases in a way they usually jab at each other. Opening the containers he had brought in with Ziva, she finds two duffel bags; one with the characteristic USMC printed on it and the other very much civilian, made out of studded leather, a wallet, a phone and some items one can only consider as car litter, each one bagged and tagged. She places them all on the bench, prioritizing mentally. "And speaking of… You're not the only one in the bullpen who loves nuts, so no sneaking into anybody else's bags, capisce*?"
"Why would you think that I'd do something so awful?"
"Because I know you," buying none of his acted innocence, she narrows her eyes at him playfully. "If you try anything, I will know and then, I will give you a beauty treatment you will never forget."
"Yeah? And what would that be?"
"Nose piercing, done with my bluntest plastic tongs."
Tony only snorts lightly at her threat ad she turns her attention back to the evidence.
"So, all-nighter again, huh? What plans did you have to ditch this time?"
At the sudden change of a topic, she freezes for a split of a second. "Nothing special. I was just chilling after being out all day," she plays it down, describing the part of the evening that she feels like talking about. "What about you?"
"Ah, nothing special," Tony shrugs dismissively but she can see right through him. He clearly wants to tell her something and he will. "The show at The Kennedy Center was practically over anyway."
"Nah, nothing special, only one tiny and ever so humble Kennedy Center of Performing Arts," she mocks in a friendly manner as she checks the leather duffel. But aside from some clothes and a few books, the bag contains no hidden wallet nor any name tags she was hoping for so she leaves it aside for now. "Who is the girl who made you go to the opera?"
"He would be rather displeased to be called a girl," Tony explains, "You know him better as Mr. D. And it was a gala, not opera."
That's not quite what she expected to hear. "Your dad? Wow, this is where he took you? Impressive! Was it good?" she asks and smiles when Tony confirms eagerly. "You have to tell me everything!"
"Bring yourself and some good take out over to mine and I'll tell you all you wanna know."
"Done and done," she agrees, her smile growing genuinely happy. Tony wouldn't be so open and willing to talk if things with his dad had gone sour. She just wishes him with all her heart that it isn't just a one off on his dad's end. Tony deserves better than that.
Digging her gloved hands into the USMC duffel bag, she considers the possibilities. Chilling over meals means having that little bit of extra time they normally don't get at work. His dad and how things are going – that's one thing she will for sure ask about. And then, there is another topic that she feels like needs to be covered. If there is something he is struggling with, a quiet, private chat is always a better opportunity to get it out of him. And if he admits it – then maybe it's time to talk to Ziva again and try to hammer some sense into her pretty but stubborn head. Or perhaps… "Hey, you know what I'm thinking? We haven't had any proper get together in a long while. Feel like hosting a team movie night?"
If Tony's face, suddenly lit up like the National Christmas Tree, is anything to go by, she has just spoken the right key words. "You, Miss Sciuto, have really good ideas sometimes," Tony points his finger at her and she smiles right back at him, glad he agreed so easily. "I'll later find a moment to corner everyone from the hit list to establish the date and time."
"Cool!" she acknowledges. "Now, about establishing a few other things…"
A bell of the lift interrupts her, announcing yet another arrival for the lab and as they both look towards the door, they are being greeted by the sight of a stack of plastic containers, tall enough to fully cover the entire upper part of the body and the face of the person who carries it. But the bottom of this someone's outfit is enough for them to guess anyway. "Abby? Please tell me there is nothing on the floor?" Jimmy's voice calls out, funnily distorted by the plastic as he walks in blindly. "I don't want to trip over…"
"No, nothing but let me help you with this stuff," she offers, placing the combat uniform she's begun assessing onto the bench but Tony stops her with a gesture of his hand. Walking towards Ducky's assistant, he stops him gently in his tracks, grabbing the top two of the four containers and taking them steadily off his hands.
"Oh, thanks so much, Abby…" Jimmy falters the second he realizes where the help came from.
"Mr. Palmer, it appears to me that you are in dire need of wiping your glasses," Tony's mannerism resembles so eerily the one of Ducky, it's uncanny. Placing the containers securely on the evidence bench, he drops the act and grins cheekily in his own style, "Do I look like Abby to you?"
Jimmy stammers, his next few words becoming incoherent, his gaze flicking rapidly between Tony and her, and she, perplexed at first, suddenly realizes that his nervousness could be because of his big mouth earlier on it the Autopsy. "Hey, Tony… maybe you can first corner Mister Jimster here," she suggests innocently. It's about the movie night, of course, but Palmer doesn't know it yet. "He makes the hit list, right?"
"Autopsy Gremlin? Of course he makes the list!" Tony unknowingly plays right into her little prank. "What do you say, Palmer? The 'A-team get together', my place, ASAP… What's your answer?"
"Erm… s…s-orry… plans!" Jimmy finally manages to find his voice and nervously deposits the rest of his cargo onto the evidence bench. "Abby… could you sign?"
She does, holding back a slight smirk and the second it is done, Jimmy practically bolts for the exit.
"Hey, Gremlin, what's the rush?" Tony calls out but it does nothing to stop Jimmy. "What was that about?"
"He is just being Palmer?" she suggests. "Autopsy Gremlins are species known to be very… you know. Skittish."
"'Skittish' is one word you can use," Tony snorts loudly, amused. "He looked like he was about to jump out of those rubber sole shoes of his! I know Boss can scare the crap out of him with just a single glance – but me?"
She smirks openly, making a mental note to call the Autopsy in a few minutes and explain to Palmer that he had been played into believing that Tony already knows about the undercover slip up. Having a little fun by letting Jimmy stew for a bit is one thing but the last thing she would want is to have Palmer's nervousness to affect his work performance.
Time for real fun will be once they finish and will be free to mess around.
"Speaking of which…" she changes the subject, "You'd better go back upstairs before somebody finds you here and makes you jump out of your shoes. But first, since you were in charge of the crime scene tonight, brief me in about your finds, as briefly as you can. Go!"
Tony does and she soaks the info in, building up the picture of the scene in her mind, like she's done a thousand times before. His explanations, combined with the few photos she had received earlier on from McGee's upload, help her put some of the pieces of the puzzle together, giving her some ideas on the 'how' question. 'Who' and 'why' will come later.
"Got it," she thanks when Tony is done. "But now, don't get me wrong but shoo! I have heaps to do."
Tony doesn't leave though, his eyes on the bench that is almost overflowing with the delivered evidence. "You need someone to help you."
"Nah, you guys have your own work to do," she waves it off. Eight containers don't leave much space to work freely so she begins to move them over onto the lower section of the bench. "Maybe once I pull the prints I might grant McGee the phone to play with but for now I'm cool…"
"No, I don't mean McGee. I mean someone to help you on regular basis. You know… a real assistant, like Ducky has Palmer."
"Nice, Tony, that's a good attempt at winding me up, I'll give you that," she laughs off Tony's insistence. Everyone knows her stance on having an assistant and how easy it is to tease her on the subject. "But now seriously, shoo! And don't you go around repeating all that out loud! Joke or not – it might give some people the wrong idea."
"Give some people the wrong idea about what?"
Her head whips towards the door at the sound and she almost drops the last of the containers from between her fingers. "Gibbs!" she chides, hoping that she sounds lighthearted enough. "You're doing the sneaking in thing again!"
"And successfully, apparently! What's wrong with your radar, Abs?"
She scoffs at Tony's remark but to herself, she can't help thinking that it's actually a damn good question. And another thought that occurs to her, much more ridiculous than the first one, is that it's a good thing she had laced her Martens tightly earlier on. Otherwise, it might have been actually her jumping out of her shoes, quite literally.
One inexpressive glance at her and the box in her hands and then, the attention is on Tony. "DiNozzo," the demand is calm but unwavering. "Why are you still not upstairs?"
"Gibbs, I held him back, okay?" she explains, not wanting Tony to get in any trouble because of her. "He just finished briefing me in and was about to head up."
"And this can give people the wrong idea how?"
"Not me going upstairs, Boss. Abby just doesn't want me to go around telling people that she needs an assistant."
With an eye roll at Tony's willingness to spill it all, she simply gets back to her evidence. She tried but here is only so much one can do to cover for another without digging an even deeper hole.
"But she does. Think about it, Boss!" Tony continues to insist, surprisingly, and she, once more bent over the content of the emptied duffel bag, only shakes her head. She is the one known to ramble but Tony too, could actually learn a thing or two about quitting while he is still ahead. The joke about the assistant for her is already old. "She has boxes of evidence to go through, an entire car to process and she can only be in one place at a time. I'm thinking if she had someone to do the basics for her, she could focus straight away on the big stuff. This way, it would have been faster, maybe. Not to mention, it isn't just our team she does the results for."
Somewhere between the fourth 'she' and 'faster', she gets the feeling that Tony's rambling might not be actually rambling. In his face, when she looks up, she finds none of the uneasiness she expected to see, no unsure smile that is usually present when Tony gets semi-intimidated. His expression is open, solemn and he locks gazes with Gibbs with certainty which only one's faith in one's words can give.
He looks like he actually means it.
What's worse – Gibbs looks like he is listening.
"She is here and can speak for herself. And she says 'no, thank you'," she interjects lightly, trying to laugh it off. "Gibbs... Should I test Tony for whatever he's been drinking tonight? He is babbling something about my work efficiency."
Finally, she has his full attention. Gibbs' face still expresses absolutely nothing but the attention is a good thing.
"What d'ya got?"
"Thank you," she straightens up quickly and presses her gloved hand to her heart. Okay, so maybe the frosty air at the scene didn't do much in cooling his anger from earlier on like she had hoped but at least on that, on the assistant subject, he will always have her back. How could she doubt it? He always had."Not much on the evidence yet, since I only just got it. But, I have been working on the crime scene photos. Come, take a look."
At her request, they both follow her to her computer station. As they take the positions they usually do at first – Gibbs right behind her right shoulder and Tony a little behind him – a wave of mixed fragrances invades her nostrils, making her head spin and her insides melt a little. 'When the heck did he use that?' she bemoans to herself, her eyes closing involuntarily. When Gibbs was at her place less than two hours ago, he smelt of pine forests, snow, wind, the ever present sawdust, coffee, sweat and, ever so faintly, gasoline. He smelt of…well, himself. Fantastically – but of himself, something she has had enough years to get used to and react to with a reasonable calm. Now though, with that previous scent still detectable, he smells also of something else, something she had yet to develop any defenses against – of that cologne, her newest Achilles heel that she never bargained for, something she was sure could ultimately be the damnation of her self-control. 'Judging by the intensity – no longer than ten minutes ago," her brain replies to her rhetorical question, somehow without her will and God one knows what for. It's not like this knowledge is going to help her…
"Abby. Today?"
With a wince, she comes back to reality, realizing that she's been standing as if rooted to the spot, hand immobile on her wireless mouse. "Sorry… just got a little dizzy."
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I… erm… I think I straightened up too fast. It's okay, just need a second…" she waves off Gibbs' concern, not wanting him to step any closer than he already is. Since the Secret Santa gift exchange, she's been working really hard to hide what effect that cursed cologne has on her, at times even inventing something to do right across the room, just to keep a safe distance but no such luck now; she has to stay where she is. And breathing him like this, from so close that she also feels the warmth that radiates off him, is a torture. A sweet one – but torture nonetheless. A torture because this fragrance is simply outright tempting – to do something she is not allowed to, consequences be damned.
With a long, steadying breath – through her mouth – and a firm shake of her head, she focuses on the content of her monitor. "Okay, here we go!" she says. Two quick clicks of the mouse and the collapsed slide viewer come back to life, revealing the photo she had left open when Ducky called. And then, a simplest of solutions occurs to her. She has to stay here, in front of her monitor but they… "Guys, I have quite a few of these, some with details. You will see them better on the plasma."
When they take upon her offer, Gibbs predictably first, she slowly breathes out with relief.
"Behold 1970 Ford Mustang fastback," she begins. "Impressively restored, updated here and there, this red, three-door beauty is registered to Lance Corporal Niall Peters and it has been in his possession for a year now. According to this photo, Peters was found dead on the ground outside of the driver's side. The blood smudges and the bloodied hand prints on the concrete indicate that after being shot in the chest, abdomen and the right thigh, he fell and tried to crawl towards the rear of the car, right up to here," she views the second photo and points the cursor to the large, circular pool of blood. "Ducky mentioned one more shot – this time to the back, point blank, from a very close distance so this is what probably stopped him. How close the shooter was each time, I'll know once I test Peters' coat for gunpowder residue…"
"Abby… something I don't know yet?"
"Just a click away," she pacifies. Switching to the next image, she zooms in a little. "Now, moving on to our John Doe, the only other occupier of the car. Found in the back seat, slumped over the folded driver's seat, which you guys established, as Tony told me, as an attempt to get out before he was shot. Now, what's wrong with this picture?"
"What do you mean?" Tony turns to her, frowning. "That's where he was shot, the blood splatter confirms it! Cut and dry!"
"Correct. And yet!" she zooms out, showing the entire photo. "Forget about the blood for a second. What else do you see?"
When they both look at the image in silence, silence that stretches for long enough for her to know that they don't, in fact, see what she's noticed, she just carries on, wanting to lead quickly where she wants, "Tony, I'll use you as a guinea pig here, okay? You're riding this fine vintage car with McGee and he is driving…"
"Like hell I'd let him drive this baby!" Tony interrupts her with a snort. "He'd be lucky if I let him be McPassenger…"
The smack to the back of his head is barely there, almost a pat compared to the other times, but it's enough to have him backpedal and fast, "….although now I've just remembered that I had an eye examination and my pupils are too dilated to drive safely," he corrects himself without even taking another breath. "McGee has the wheel. What do I do?"
"Your height and your body built is a match to John Doe's. I need you to think like him so, please imagine yourself being a passenger in that back seat, enjoying the ride. Are you comfortable?"
Tony only snorts again at her question. "Comfortable in the back of the Mustang with my height? Right," he comments and then, gets more serious. "Why would I go for the back seat anyway? McGee is McChauffering me around but he is my buddy, not McCab driver! Why would I squeeze in the back and leave the perfectly adjustable shotgun empty…"
He trails off suddenly, the realization probably finally dawning on him but Gibbs is faster to voice what she's been aiming for.
"There was another passenger in that car."
"Another person? Yes. Passenger? Well…" she flips back to the previous photo, the one showing the entire side profile of the Mustang. "Tony, let's carry on. We can always go to the garage and check it for sure but do you think you can for now mentally squeeze your 6'2'' into the front passenger seat as you see it on screen?"
Tony steps closer to the plasma, positioning himself sideways and taking a long moment maneuvering his right arm as if trying to place it on the virtual arm rest on the door and then, compare it to the rest of his body. "I think so," he finally says. "Plenty of legroom, too."
"Now, the same but in the driver's seat."
This time, it takes him only a couple of seconds. "Only if my knees are right under my chin."
"And our Corporal, according to his file, was even taller than you and John Doe, by two inches. Are we sure no one moved the driver's seat before you guys arrived?"
"Metro was there first and secured the area. They even took some photos before we took over. I've seen them. Everything was exactly like you see on our shots."
"Then whoever sat in that seat was a lot shorter that Peters. And I intend to find all the traces of that missing driver!" she promises. "Where are you going?" she asks as Gibbs turns to leave, Tony hot on his heels. "There is more!"
As they both stop by her, she redirects them back to the plasma. Returning to his spot in front of it, Gibbs impatiently snaps his phone open. "McGee, what are onto right now?" he demands and as he listens, she focuses on her monitor, switching between the programs. "Okay, leave it for a sec. I want you to see if there were any street cameras nearby. There might have been a third person in that car. We need to confirm."
Her photo editing program opens up just as he snaps the phone shut. "No solid ID on John Doe yet but I do have something. Tell me what you see."
"Abby…"
The impatience in Gibbs' voice is unmistakable but she ignores it. "Just one question away, Gibbs!" she insists, motioning at the postmortem head shots of both victims. "Tony, you have a go. Both of them."
"Alright," Tony complies. "Lance Corporal Peters – muscular built, dark skin, dark Marine style cut hair, eyes probably also dark, since he is of African-American background. An old, thin scar in his left eyebrow. Now, John Doe – also fit but not as bulky, fair skin, lightly freckled, long, dark blond hair… A tattooed arrow in his left eyebrow, an earring in his right ear. Looks like a fan of rock. And?"
"All correct. You see the similarities?"
"Similarities? Abs, these are two completely different people!"
"That's because you are allowing the color to distract you," she points out. "Look now."
She applies the first of the prepared filters, turning both aligned photos to black and white. Despite their impatience, Tony and Gibbs stand still as they observe the effect of her work on the plasma, but their stillness lasts only until she begins to mess around with the victims' skin tone.
"What did you just do?" Gibbs demands. "Is it the ProMorphing thingy again? The one for messing with people's faces?"
"MorphPro, Gibbs, and no, you have my word that I only played with the input and output levels for the skin. I mean, a mere darkening and brightening," she adds quickly, knowing that neither of the men is likely to know the little inner secrets of photo editing. "Notice the ruler on the left side of the program? I used it to precisely measure the zygomatic arches of their faces. Observe the result," she activates the hidden layer, allowing all the lines of the digital ruler to be seen wherever she had placed them. "Can you see now? Take away the color and their faces are an almost exact match, front and side, both in the bone structure, as well as in the adipose depots. Though, I didn't go too deeply into that last one, there was no time to play with the X-Ray. I did, however, look deeply into their eyes," she opens another of the prepared presentations. "I used both the iris recognition camera and retinal scanner and while there are obviously some differences, there is something they have in common, look," pointing the cursor to the detail she had noticed in each left eye, she highlights it on both photos. "As you can see, the outlined spots don't have the exact same shape but they are in a precisely same location, just outside of the pupil, four o'clock. Last step – let me add their eye color."
She enables the last layer and the effect is instantaneous. The two sets of eyes, so far displayed in a little spooky mix of black, luminous grey and white, suddenly come to life, drawing a small gasp from both Gibbs and Tony.
"Abby, are you sure this is Peters' eye color?" Tony asks disbelievingly.
"Yup. Just look into his file and you'll see. Greyish-green, just like John Doe's. Maybe it's a shade or two darker but still, a bit unusual, huh? And considering the brown spot they both have in the left eye, the nearly identical bone structure, I think they were more than just good buddies…"
"Related."
Of course Gibbs will be the one to cut down to the chase.
"Highly likely. Though it could be also just a coincidence but we all know how we should feel about these! Although there have been cases of people accidentally meeting their clones that came from a different racial background…" she adds, trailing off when she notices the look Gibbs gives her. Okay, so tonight at work is not a good time for any extra fun facts. The Gibbs that she had spent such a nice evening with, the well-rested Gibbs that was relaxed to the point of being openly teasing and almost talkative is gone now. 'Sticking to business it is,' she tells herself. "Whether they are related and how close, the DNA will tell us," she continues on topic, "but for now I think you can try asking the Corporal's relatives if they perhaps recognize our John Doe."
"We will," Gibbs' declaration is thrown over his shoulder as he once more strides for the exit. "Let me know when you have more."
"I'm letting you know now," she stops them once again in their tracks. "I know McGee is on the financial record but I too, might have a detail to add to Peters' last twenty four hours."
As they come over, as she motions them, to the evidence bench, she stands on the other side of it and lifts one of the garments she had been giving an initial assessment before Gibbs came in. "Out of the three utility uniforms I found in Peters' duffel, this blouse was additionally packed in a plastic shopping bag," she announces. "It's wet, smells very faintly of bleach but in overall, it has a distinct and surprisingly nice smell of something tropical. Now, what's wrong with this picture?"
"And what's wrong with the laundry smelling of something tropical?"
"Nothing, Tony, unless you're talking Marine clothes," she replies and turns with another question on her lips. "Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs!" she calls to attention, bracing herself for either another warning or for another silent stare, "would you like to do the honors and take it from here to lecture our former Agent Afloat here about a proper uniform care?"
And the stare she does get, but to her small relief, there is also a twitch of the right corner of Gibbs' lips. A lightning fast and disappearing as if it was never there but not fast enough for her to miss it.
Amusement. Tightly reigned in, but still, there.
Despite his growing impatience.
Good.
"Jungle or desert, you're supposed to blend in and that's what combat uniforms are for. But it's not just the camouflaging pattern. Its colors and the fabric itself are designed to have reduced visibility in the ultraviolet and infrared spectrum. Most regular detergents, including bleach, defeat that purpose. They contain optical brighteners, which absorb ultraviolet and reflect back blue light. Use them and in the night vision gear you shine like neon. Also, camouflaging isn't just becoming invisible. If you use a strongly fragranced detergent, an animal or a person might smell you – and there goes your mission," he explains and as Tony listens, she allows herself a smile. She expected maybe a few terse words at best but those somehow turned into actual, complex sentences. That's not what Gibbs is known for, oh no – especially when his impatience pokes him to run everything on fifth gear. "Another thing is protection. The uniforms are flame retardant and treated with permethrin to repel insects. Coat them with the civilian fabric softeners and these qualities are gone. You are vulnerable to bites and your uniform is actually flammable."
"Okay, I get it, the civilian detergents are very dangerous," Tony acknowledges, "But what does it tell us? That Peters was apparently crap at doing his laundry?"
"No. Every recruit at boot camp gets his ass whipped in doing it right," Gibbs replies to Tony before she can. "There might have been someone else with him who did it. Abby, was all his stuff washed the same way?"
"All I can say for now is that the rest seems to be dry and the smell suggests that it hasn't seen the laundry room for days. As for the brighteners, easy peasy. Tony, hit the main lights, would you please?" she requests and as her friend does so, she runs to her office to retrieve one of her portable UV lamps. When she brings it to the main lab and shines the light over the uniforms that are laid across the bench, no further comment is necessary; amongst other, typically brownish garments the moist blouse glows very much like white shirts of the night clubs' guests when DJ turns UV spotlights on. "So, the stain must have been special. No, wait, there is one more I need to check!" she remembers suddenly and moves over to the containers she had received from Ducky. One flash over the uniform Ducky took off from the deceased's body and she knows. "Negatory also for the uniform Peters had on when he was killed."
The second she says it out loud, it is as if the proverbial missing piece of the puzzle clicked with a snap into place and she freezes. "Tony, you said you talked to Norfolk, right? What did they tell you?"
"Not much. Peters just returned from his deployment and according to his NCO, he was positively buzzed that he will be able to make it for Christmas with his relatives. He got off the ship at 1400hours, signed off his car from Base Long-Term Parking at 1415hours and it was the last time they saw him there."
She digests it rapidly. "And thirty hours later he gets killed," she turns from Tony and looks suggestively at Gibbs, "still in his cammies."
She needs not to add anything else; it is obvious in Gibbs' suddenly widening eyes that he too, caught on what should have been obvious to them from the start. Without a word, once again he yanks his cell phone off his belt and speed dials. "McGee, how far did you say you got with the financial record?" he asks and as he walks away towards her open office to listen, she focuses back on the evidence, knowing that this train is already on the right track.
"Okay, I know you two are on the same frequency but not everyone is good at that ESP of yours," Tony mutters once they are alone in the main lab. "Help me out in here and tell me what I have missed just now?"
"Cammies, Tony," she replies just as quietly. "They are not allowed to be worn when on leave. The only time you are permitted is in your vehicle on your way home or back to base. At the time of his death, he should have been long since changed into his civilian clothes."
"But he didn't change," Tony muses, his face giving away his concentration as he ponders. "So, are we thinking he didn't get to go home to change or that he just loved his uniform that much? Okay, okay, forget I said it," he raises his hands in mock defense when she shoots him a look. "But then again, for whatever reason he didn't go home, why didn't he change anyway? There was a bag with some spare clothes on the back seat; he could have changed even in the car…"
"Have you seen its content?"
"Not really, no. It started snowing really heavily again and we didn't want to expose any of the evidence to the elements."
"Good call," she admits. Folding the unwashed uniforms away for later, she leaves only the ruined blouse to have it examined – right after the blood samples and the slugs Ducky had sent via Jimmy. "Well, I have seen it. I mean, only briefly but look," she pulls the leather duffel closer and pulls out a few random garments. "The style of clothes is pretty much consistent with what John Doe was wearing. I think it belonged to him."
"Alright, that would make sense. But still, it leaves us with the question, 'where have you been last night, Marine?'"
"Days Inn Hotel," Gibbs' firm voice supplies from the open door to her office. "I want all they have on him, down to his signature."
And again, her brain feels as if something clicked inside it with a loud snap. "Signature," she repeats almost absentmindedly and with a renewed energy, she pulls the rest of the clothes onto the bench, aiming to get to the very bottom of the duffel. "Please be signed, please be signed…" she chants.
"Abby…"
"Books, Gibbs," she explains hastily. "People often sign their own books, even leave the address. Maybe John Doe did, too…"
Her hopes, however, are quickly dimminished as she flips through the pages. None of the first three books has any handwritten name on it. She checks the fourth one only to be thorough – and with this one, hope returns.
"And it's not only people who sign their books," she announces triumphantly, showing the title page that bears a sticker with a bar code and a vivid red stamp. "Libraries do it too. And to become a member of a library…"
"…you need to show an ID," Gibbs cuts in, finishing her sentence. "Abs, which one is it? We can go there first thing in the morning."
"Gibbs, you are forgetting what day it is," she reminds him on her way to her computer. "Most of libraries are closed till the 28th. And this one…"
One closer look at the library's stamp makes her slow down to a stop. No, no need to check the Christmas opening times for this particular one…
"Well, this one will be open in a few hours."
"You know this library?"
"Yeah, it's one of those I'm signed with. I can check it out for you. I know the librarian in charge there so I can probably do it with just one phone call and spare you the drive."
"Name."
She glances over her shoulder, not remotely surprised that he would want to know. He always wants to know everything. But it's okay. And maybe it is even better that she won't have to be the one to deal with it. Not that she would want anyone to know why.
"Stewart," she reveals and watches Gibbs scribe it in one of his ever-present mini notepads. "Daniel Stewart."
"Daniel?"
Tony's unexpected interjection bewilders her. "Yeah, that's his name. Why?"
"That Daniel? Is that him? Your librarian Daniel?" he emphasizes and it is then, she suddenly gets the meaning behind his question. Like footage played back sped up, she recalls the last Saturday's evening at Tony's and one of her little secrets he had interrogated out of her... "The one who proposed to you?"
So much for rescuing the situation in time… "Tony!" she berates, trying to express all her disappointment and upset in just one look. That just has to do, for she is not saying another word about it, not now… maybe later, when she will get a moment to corner him somewhere without any witnesses. For now, she satisfies herself with a vision of herself, using her sawing machine to tattoo Tony's ears… "The case… if you please?"
Turning away from her big mouthed friend, she focuses on Gibbs and business. "The library opens at 9:30am. I will send you an-email with the address…"
An open notepad being handed to her firmly is a clear enough indicator that no such action will be needed. She accepts it with an outstretched hand, not wanting to step too near, in case the fragrance of the cologne overwhelms her again and scribbles the address below Daniel's name, idly marveling at how deeply it is embedded in the paper in comparison to the words written by her.
But that's just probably Gibbs' heavy hand, nothing more.
"I'll call when I have something more."
She gets no reply, just a short nod of acknowledgement. No other words either and moments later, she is alone in the lab, feeling weirdly dismissed.
"Right," she says out loud when not even the hum of the elevator disrupts the silence of the lab, "We need some lively music. Don't we, Major Mass?"
NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***
Hours later, hours she measured only by the amount of work done, she certainly does have more. She has so much, in fact, that she feels it it's easier to simply go up to the bullpen and show the team the results on her I-Pad rather than simply call. And so she does, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, to shake off at least a little of the tiredness that threatens to consume her and at least appear awake. Opening the double door that leads to the Squad Room, she is immediately surrounded by its usual ambiance. The day has already started, people already going on about their business.
Heading to meet the team, she notices only Tony's head, bowed dutifully over his paperwork. "Hey Tony," she calls as she walks along the bullpen's divider, "Where is everyone? I have some results for you…"
"Hey, Abby," something in his body language alerts her and she slows as she finally walks into the bullpen. His suggestive gaze motions her to look at Gibbs' desk and the view of the woman comfortably seated in Gibbs' chair raises her hackles and wipes her tiredness away faster than any Caf-Pow! ever had.
"Hello Miss Sciuto," the voice that greets her is just as smooth as the measured, perfected smile, that damn, permanent fixture on that flawlessly beautiful face.
And there she was, thinking that this woman was the stuff of the past!
"Miss Hart."
NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***
*1 AFIS - Automated Fingerprint Identification System
*2 CDE - Crime Data Explorer
*3 Capisce – (It.) Understood?