Chapter 34: Tracks
He found Ziva sitting with her back against a wall in a scruffy basement hallway. The wall was painted a screaming, godawful blue.
He stopped and looked her over as she rose to her feet.
"The pens are down there," she nodded to her left. "And the interrogation rooms are that way," she dipped her head to the right. "They have spent about an hour with each of the suspects so far. Gray has not been interviewed yet this morning."
An hour?
"How long have you been here?"
"I arrived at 0630."
Six hours ago. Half an hour after he'd called McGee and Ziva and told them to go home.
"Thought I told you to get some sleep."
"I am not tired."
Gibbs narrowed his eyes. Ziva had an independent streak, but outright defiance was rare. "Has Dargas been by?"
She gave him her usual, thorough rundown. "He was here briefly around 0800 this morning, then left. His agents are running the interrogations. I think they are ones that he doesn't trust, or are particularly inexperienced. The better agents are in the field. I looked over the pen briefly. Gray's head has been bandaged. I spoke to an agent and he showed me the names of the suspects in the pen. There is no Gray or Alan Gibbs on the list, nor any permutation of either name. Unless he is using a name we do not know I believe he has been given a number."
So Gray hadn't been carrying ID and he hadn't talked, even to give his name.
"Any lawyers come by?"
"I do not believe so. Though I do not know if that is because none were requested or if those that were requested have yet to be assigned."
Gibbs rubbed his forehead. Normally he wasn't a fan. But a lawyer might have at least gotten Gray out of general holding, and maybe another visit by a medic. He didn't like the idea of the kid in the same pens with grown men. And a head injury wasn't something to screw around with either.
"The agent you talk to say why they're keeping the ones they are?"
"I asked and he gave me a general answer. Most of them were retained because of violent offenses in their records or because they are suspected of having a connection to the gang targeted by the sting." She studied his face and continued hopefully. "Perhaps they have not released Gray because he has not been identified. If they have not been able to bring up his record and confirm that it is clean - "
Gibbs shook his head. "They've run his prints by now. They already know he doesn't have a record."
Nothing that was still in the system, anyway.
They stood there for a minute in silence. Gibbs took up a post next to her, leaning against the wall and sipping his fresh coffee, staring at the blue on the opposite wall until his eyes hurt.
Waiting for Gray to walk by wasn't exactly a two-person job and Gibbs already had Dinozzo in the wings. But Ziva didn't seem to be going anywhere.
"Something on your mind, Ziva?"
She shifted uncomfortably, but didn't answer. Also unusual. The minutes crawled by, the buzz of the bare yellow bulbs overhead the only sound.
Something was on her mind, then, but she wouldn't - or couldn't - say what it was.
Gibbs' fingers tightened around the cup in his hand.
Ziva didn't explode like Dinozzo when she felt betrayed. She retreated, kept herself hidden. Gaining her trust had been like peeling an onion, progress measured in years, in thin, barely perceptible layers. After the Reynosas and Colombia some of those layers had inevitably reappeared. He knew it wasn't the murder that really bothered her. She understood the madness of revenge, the desire for swift justice, even if she resisted them herself. It was the fact that he had almost been caught. That he'd almost been sent away. And the reason, that was important too - he simply hadn't cared enough to stay. It made him unreliable. She'd nearly been abandoned by yet another father.
Like Abby said, and Dinozzo had screamed. He hadn't fought for them. He wasn't there.
The miracle was that she'd ever achieved any trust in him at all. Betrayed by her family, failed by her first team, manipulated and deceived by her mentors - Ziva should be like Kort now, or Gray. Trust so locked away it was all but nonexistent, like a muscle that had atrophied.
But she wasn't like Kort. She'd come back from it, back from her family and Mossad, Rivkin and Somalia. She'd come back to him, and his team. Sometimes it still surprised him.
Even now, in her silence, she had found her way to trusting him. It was tentative, like it had been years ago. But Ziva wasn't hiding her unease from him. She just couldn't bring herself to explain it.
It was enough, for now.
Gibbs pushed himself off the wall and walked down to the pens. There were two large holding cells in use on this floor, just under twenty men in each. A lone agent sat in a cushy wheely chair nearby, a pile of files by his feet and one open in his lap.
Gray was in the second pen. The good spots – on bunks, up against the walls – were taken by the larger men, the relative comfort roughly corresponding to the rate of muscle growth. The only detainee Gibbs cared about was on the floor, his back up against the bars, head resting on the metal behind him. He wasn't curled in on himself, exactly. It was a defensive pose, but loose enough to look confident.
A fine line, and a necessary one. Too much confidence would attract violent attention. Too little - well, in a place like this, acting like prey would make you prey.
Gray looked like he might be sleeping, but it was hard to tell without seeing his face. Bright blood stained the white butterfly bandage wrapped around his temple. Dark, dried blood matted his hair and covered the right shoulder of his t-shirt.
Gibbs scanned the rest of the pen. Gray wasn't the only one sporting an injury, but he was the youngest in there by a long shot.
"Hey pappy, you come to take me home?" One of the men in a bunk, biceps bigger than his head, smiled at Gibbs like a cat.
Many of the men turned to look at him then, but Gray didn't move.
I don't like it. The cells.
Gibbs responded in case the kid was awake. "That depends." He took a step closer to the bars. "Do you know where Agents Hannigan and Monaco are?"
"Oh, the little agents you lost. Yeah, saw the pictures. Hey man," Big Arms laughed, "you think if I knew where a sweet ass like that was I would tell you?" The punk leered and smacked his lips. "Sorry, I would keep that little piece all to myself." He bucked his hips and grabbed his crotch to the catcalls of the men in the pen.
"Guess you're not going home then," Gibbs said, and walked away.
He passed Ziva on the way to the elevators and met her eyes briefly. "Let me know if they move him."
He went to find Dargas.
Dargas was out of the building, busting down doors somewhere, but Gibbs did find what he was pretty sure was the man's third-in-command. "What's the plan with the suspects in the pens downstairs?"
The agent looked up at him, tense and sleepless, rage lurking in the corners of his eyes. It was a look that Gibbs knew well enough from his own worst days at NCIS. One agent dead and two vanished into thin air was a Very Bad Day, especially as they closed in on missing for a full twenty-four. The Golden Hours were long gone.
"Agents are interviewing them," the man said shortly.
"Any of them turn up with residue?"
"No."
Gibbs flexed his jaw, feeling stuck. He could point out that one of the people they were holding was obviously a juvenile, and also had a head injury, but he didn't think a plea for sympathy was going to get him very far. For all he knew this guy was Mother Theresa yesterday, but now he was out for blood.
"I could do some of the interviews, help to move the process along."
"We have no shortage of manpower, Gibbs. Get out of my way." Gibbs stepped aside and the agent walked off, maps of city blocks in his hands.
Gibbs suspected the guy was going to say that before he even asked, since it was obvious. Every resource of the entire FBI was available to this squad right now, which meant no shortage of agents. Even if that wasn't true Gibbs was sure there was no better way to get on Dargas' shit list than to be accommodating to Gibbs.
He asked anyway for one simple reason. He hated waiting.
He hit the head, got another coffee, and went back downstairs. To wait.
He found Ziva motionless but alert, in the exact same position she'd been in when he left. He shook his head. Whatever bug had crawled up her butt, it was a big one. "I'm going in to observe the other interrogations. Call me when they move him." She nodded and he walked off.
He was watching a pair of FBI agents scream at a dealer, and the dealer scream back, when she called.
"Room six," was all she said.
He joined her in the viewing alcove less than a minute later. Gray was alone in the interrogation room, sitting motionless in a chair facing them. His hands were secured behind his back again and the stain on the bandage at his hairline had grown. Gibbs winced as he looked him over. He could see now that the entire right side of the kid's face had been scratched up. It was raw.
Probably went down hard on a sidewalk and been dragged.
Ziva held a hand up to the glass. "They are keeping the rooms cold."
Gibbs glanced at her. The situation wasn't ideal, but no matter how rough Dargas' men got it wasn't likely to get physically dangerous, either. "He'll be fine."
She leaned toward the glass, her focus intense on Gray's expressionless face. "Everyone has a breaking point," she said, voice low.
Gibbs' eyes narrowed and he turned to face her. Ziva's tone carried some sort of awareness of the situation that he didn't have.
Personal trust was one thing. That was negotiable. Earned. Relevant facts about the job, or at least the kid sitting on the other side of the glass, was something entirely different. When he spoke again his voice was sharp.
"You know something I don't, Ziva?"
She hesitated for a long moment. "I do not like this, Gibbs."
Her voice was firm and cold. She really didn't like it. And she hadn't answered the question. She did know something. Something that was freaking her out.
He looked at her closely, jerked his phone open, and called Fornell.
"What do you want, Jethro." Tobias' voice held a weariness that Gibbs had never heard in it before.
"Wanted to warn you that you've got a lawsuit brewing down here."
Gibbs could hear office sounds in the background. He wondered where Dinozzo was sleeping if Tobias was back.
"I couldn't care less."
"Believe me, Fornell. I'm doing you a favor. Tell me what this kid is down here for or you're going to have a problem." Gibbs' tone made it clear that he would make sure there was a problem.
"They've already weeded out the misfits. The only suspects still in the pens are legitimate possibilities."
"Possibilities for what?"
"For information, Gibbs."
"A juvenile with no record and a head wound? I want to know what he's in here for."
There was a pause on the line. Then the other man came through loud and clear. But mostly loud. "You don't get to order me around, you arrogant son of a bitch. I'm not one of your lapdog agents! Why don't you tell me what the hell your problem is? Why are you even here?"
Gibbs pulled the phone away from his ear a bit. He'd always known Fornell had a temper, but it was usually slow to emerge. Today he was definitely on a short fuse. Not that Gibbs could blame him. "Just tell me what you know about this kid, Tobias. Will you please do that?" he sighed.
The please got a few seconds of shocked silence. "Hold on," Fornell said grudgingly.
There were computer clicking sounds, and then a conversation in the background, and then silence, more conversation . . . Gibbs ground his teeth.
"You still there?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, what's the name."
"No name."
"Oh," Fornell growled. "And that's not suspicious."
There was a pause.
"The only no-name still in holding is number 87. No ID found on him. Hasn't identified himself or asked for a lawyer or a guardian. Known to carry a weapon. Prolonged drug use," Fornell concluded. "Weapons and drugs, Gibbs. That's what this is all about, in case you haven't heard."
"Known to carry? By who?"
"Says here other witnesses said he's known to have a gun."
"Agents didn't find anything on him?"
"No."
"And the drugs? Also your upstanding witnesses?"
There was a pause and more clicking.
"Tracks," Fornell said smugly. "Don't call me again unless you have information on our missing agents." The line went dead.
Gibbs shut his phone and walked out of observation, reappearing in the interview room a second later. The kid's hands were cuffed behind his back, arms pressed between the back of the chair and his body.
"Stand up."
Gibbs had to twist the thin wrists and shove up loose sleeves to see his inner arms. The only scars he could see were old, but they were there. The tracks of a heroin addict. He stared at them hard. Any agent would know that if there were old ones on his arms there could be fresh hidden almost anywhere.
"When was the last time you shot up?"
Gray ignored him.
Gibbs walked out and slammed back into the viewing room. Gray was just settling back into the chair when Gibbs came to a stop next to Ziva. "He's here for the long haul."
"He is not a drug user," she hissed.
Gibbs ran a hand through his hair, frustration compelling him to move even though he was effectively boxed in. How the kid got those marks didn't matter. Not today. Not here. "Well, he's obviously got a history of it, Ziva. The only way to know whether he's using now is to test him and the FBI isn't going to bother. He'd be here for awhile even if he did lawyer up."
Ziva shook her head. "He will not speak, not unless he is tortured until he breaks." Her voice was dark and thin. "And these agents – I observed them earlier, Gibbs. They will push until they get a response."
Gibbs didn't have a chance to follow up on that. Two young men, part of Dargas' team, entered the room. One sat in the chair across from Gray and one propped himself against the wall behind him.
"Number 87," the one at the table said. "How you doing, 87? Did you have a good night?"
Gray stared neutrally at the man across from him, eyes so pale and dull in the dingy room they almost matched the walls.
"Gibbs," Ziva said quickly. "The camera."
He folded his arms across his chest and kept his eyes on the interrogation. "They don't need a record for court, Ziva. All they want is information that will lead to their agents."
His voice was calmer than Ziva's, but he felt the unease start to rise. She was right. A camera would be a protection for the kid at this point. Gray wasn't in the system; he was young but unclaimed.
Weak, in other words, to his interrogators. Vulnerable. Prey. If Gray stubbornly stayed quiet the FBI agents would read his silence as some sort of pathetic defiance. An alluring mix for a pair of bullies riding high.
"Still quiet today, eh eighty-seven? You know, my friend and I were talking and we think you deserve a name. Nobody's a number, right?"
"That's right," the agent behind Gray spoke for the first time.
"So we had a vote and we decided to call you mouse. In Espanol that's ratón, did you know that?"
The agent paused as if he expected Gray to answer, and then leaned forward. "I can't hear you ratón, did you say something?"
"I don't think he said anything." The second agent.
"Well rat, believe me, I know the value of silence. On an ordinary day I would give a shit what you have to say," the first agent said cheerfully. "But this isn't an ordinary day, is it, rat? And you know why, don't you?"
Another pause giving Gray time to speak.
"I told you before. But I'm going to tell you again just in case you're as slow as you look. How's that sound?"
Silence.
The agent flipped lazily through the slim file in front of him. "You know, if you're missing a tongue or something like that, rat, it would only be polite to nod yes or no. Do you know how to nod yes or no?"
The agent behind Gray stepped forward and seized a fistful of hair, pulling the kid upright in his seat.
"That's okay." The first agent was calm and friendly still, all sunshine. "My friend is going to teach you. Now this is yes," Gray's head was dragged forward and then back again. "And this is no." He jerked from side to side and then was released, his body dropping an inch back into the seat.
The agent sitting at the table laughed. "Pretty good. Now you try."
Gray was still for just a moment before the agent behind him seized the hair on top of his head again and jerked it down in a nod.
"It's okay if you're not a fast learner," Sitting Agent said quietly, closing the file. "We're going to help you out."
The guy was good, or would have been without the over-reliance on intimidation. The problem with that approach was that it didn't work on everyone. Seldom on the well-trained officers that Gibbs so often faced across the table. And he would eat that file folder before it worked on Gray.
"We've got lots of time to teach you. Do you know why that is?"
Gray's head went back and forth in a parody of no, the tendons in his neck standing out. The skin along his head had been wrenched by the pulled hair and a thin line of blood trickled out from under the bandage, smearing along his temple.
"Gibbs," Ziva whispered. He was completely still beside her.
Gibbs didn't bother to look at his agent. The situation wasn't ideal, but Gray could handle it. "We'll just get thrown out of the building if we go in there now, Ziva."
"It will be worth it," she growled.
"No, it won't."
Something extreme would have to happen to get the FBI's own kicked off an interrogation in this building. Something more extreme than what they were seeing here. And on Dargas' crew who knew if someone better would come along to take their place? Meanwhile he and Ziva would get themselves banned from the building, not even able to observe.
"I'm going to tell you why we're willing to spend our valuable time teaching you manners, rat. It's because some of our agents are missing. Our friends. Do you know what that means?"
Gray's hair was released and a slap to the back of the skull sent his head forward into his chest. "Oh, of course you do. Because you have friends too, don't you, rat?" Another slap to the back of the head, hard enough to rock his body into the table. "I know you do because I've spent some time talking to them. And do you know what they say?"
The standing agent jerked Gray's head back and forth. Gibbs noted the kid kept his body relaxed. It went against instinct, but if you could do it when you were being manhandled it would keep the strain on the muscles to a minimum. A learned response.
"Well, I'll tell you what they say. They say you're a dangerous little guy, rat. They say you know your way around. They say you know people, you know things. You know dope. Well, it's obvious you know dope, isn't it? You're all marked up, little rat."
His head slapped forward and a few drops of blood hit the table. "Hey," the agent tsked. "Don't get your dirty dope blood on my files, rat. You should be more careful."
The head slapped forward again.
"I like this new effort at communication. That's real good, rat, I appreciate it." The sitting agent leaned an elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand. "The trouble is, what we need to know isn't really yes or no kind of information. But there are lots of ways to make a rat squeal. Did you know that?"
The agent behind him jerked Gray's head no.
The sitting one reached inside his jacket and set something on the table in front of him. "Do you know what this is, rat?"
Gray's head jerked no. "That's okay. Didn't think you would, since you haven't been in lockup before. It's a Taser."
The agent looked at Gray's neutral face for a long moment. "Now I want you to think real hard, before we get started, and see if any information comes to mind. Anything you'd like to share. Where you were when Agent Garcas was killed would be a real good place to start."
Silence.
Sitting Agent shrugged. "No? Okay. Well, first things first. We need to make sure you haven't been doing any of that H you like so much overnight. That could lead to complications, rat. First is the search. Arms up."
The agent standing behind Gray reached down and jerked his t-shirt up. It caught under his shoulders, since Gray couldn't possibly lift his arms while they were tied behind his back. The fabric wrenched against his arms and stretched along the neckline until it was finally pulled over his head, the tight fit dragging along his face and opening the new scabs there, smearing the skin with blood.
His body – there were a lot of scars.
Sitting Agent whistled. "Well you're scrawny, rat, but you've definitely been around the block, haven't you? I don't see any new tracks, though." His voice was mock thoughtful. "Do you see tracks, Fred?"
The standing agent – Fred – hauled Gray to his feet by the shirt now tangled around his elbows. "Can't say I do."
"Better keep looking, then. You know, I hope that shirt still fits when we're done, rat. You should be more careful with your clothes. We send you back half-naked and you might end up a little too popular, you know what I mean?" The agents laughed. "Some of those guys in lockup get kind of desperate. Me, I don't go in for rats. But I do appreciate a woman who doesn't talk and talk. How about you, Fred?"
"I know exactly what you mean."
"The guys in the pen might appreciate you on a whole different level, rat. Or, wait –" Sitting Agent sat back, mock-surprised. "Was that the plan all along? You like it when they appreciate you, rat? Is that how you pay for your dope?"
Blood oozed from the cuts on his head and his arms twisted awkwardly behind him. But Gray's face was relaxed, pure calm disdain. Until that point. His eyes finally left the face of the agent in front of him and fixed on the mirror, a little to the right of where Ziva stood. The look in them turned Gibbs cold.
Everyone has a breaking point.