Chapter 42! The answer to Life, the Universe and Everything! Hurray!
Now that is over, where was I… oh, yes… Again, it has been so long since I have updated. Anything. But, and, drumroll for a pathetic excuse…I have been busy. I know, I know, we are all busy, we live in a modern world with increasingly less time to do things that we enjoy and that make us human and we are all becoming more and more like the computers and robots that we work so hard to design and engineer, it is no excuse, but really, since writing is only a way of me expressing my feelings, work and life are the priority, which means that there has been literally NO time for writing. At all. I have not looked at any of my writing since I last updated…uh, what did I last update…oh, yes, it was 'Dead Reckoning'. That was actually only 10 days ago, but still, it has been a while.
I sat down at 2200h yesterday and looked at my list of things to do and realised that I had actually, for the first time in two weeks, completed everything. Which meant that, since I was still wired from working, only having had a break to read the updates of 'Partners' by MCmondo and 'Familiar Faces' by TivaRulesInGreece on the bus on the way home and when cooking dinner respectively, I had a lot of words buzzing around in my head, pleading to be let loose on a piece of paper. Go check the two stories I mentioned out, they are both brilliantly written and so much more worthy of your attention than this is.
The title quote was said by Alan Rickman, because he is an amazing guy. Or was an amazing guy. Now he is up there with Bowie, Einstein, Glenn Frey, Lennon, Lenin (Because he was my favourite historical political figure to study when I was at school, and he was a pretty cool guy, despite what some may call slightly radical political ideas), Tolstoy, Orwell, Terry Pratchett and Enzo Ferrari, wherever 'there' may be.
XLII. I Am The Character You Are Not Supposed To Like
"They're here, they're here. Fornell's got everyone they brought back from Pasadena. Half of them are here, half of them are over at the FBI." McGee waltzed in, grinning like a fool.
"Good. I'll be glad when this case is over."
"Not over yet, DiNozzo." Gibbs said, dropping a file on each of their desks. "Read up on them, we each take one of the interviews." He looked at his watch. "We start in an hour. We work through the night." His gaze fell on Ziva.
"Gibbs…" She sighed.
"You will take a break when you feel you need it."
"I will not…"
"That is an order, David. Either you take a break when you feel yourself getting tired, or hungry, or you do not conduct the interview at all. It is up to you."
"Understood." She opened the file in front of her and started reading it to signify that, although she would never state it out loud, she would, if she felt the need for it, take a break.
After fifty minutes of reading, there was a silent unanimous decision to move towards the interrogation rooms. They all stood, more or less at the same time, and, carrying the files on the terrorists at their sides, they walked down the corridor. Ziva had also taken a jar of olives from her desk drawer, attracting a questioning look from McGee, a smirk from Gibbs and a peck on the cheek from Tony. They all paused outside of their respective interrogation rooms. Gibbs gave a silent nod and turned into his room first.
"Good luck, guys." McGee smiled and disappeared as well, leaving Tony and Ziva alone in the corridor.
He walked over to her and kissed her softly. "Promise me that you'll go and get some sleep on the couch in Jenny's office? Please?"
"I promise." She smiled, pressing her lips to his for a final time before they parted to go into their separate interrogation rooms.
Gibbs stepped into the grey room and glared at the woman sat at the table. He sat down, maintaining his silence, and opened the file up, placing a photograph of the dead petty officer suspended in red gelatin on the table between them. The woman in front of him ignored it, staring straight ahead at her emotionless reflection in the glass. He slammed his palm onto the table, which had no effect on the motionless woman. "Look at it! He drowned in the Jello. My ME says it would have been painful and slow."
"I don't know him." She pursed her cherry-red lips.
"I have a witness that says you do. You had a relationship with Petty Officer Ryan Woodson." He glared his famous Gibbs' Glare, the one Abby insisted he should patent, and her unflinching demeanour seemed to crumble slightly. "Look at him."
"We had a fling. That's all."
"No, no, that's not all. You had a fling, you stole from him and then you killed him by throwing him into the pool of Jello. Now, my scientist, she says that it would have taken a while to set to the consistency that it was when you threw him in. For how long did you have the plan in your mind before you killed him?"
"I did not kill him."
"So, the terrorist group that you're associated with just used all of their Jello to kill your boyfriend? I don't think so."
"I'm not a terrorist."
"The FBI have surveillance images of you with the other members of the terrorist group Civilisation." He laid out a series of photographs.
"Guilt by association? It won't stand up in court." A slightly relieved smirk crossed her face as she was overcome with a sudden confidence.
"I wouldn't be so sure. The FBI, they have fingerprints, your fingerprints, that they found on boxes containing poisoned Jello in a warehouse that was under their surveillance."
"That's impossible, I…" She stopped herself. "I've never been to a warehouse containing Jello."
"No? Any suggestion as to how those prints got there?" Gibbs raised his eyebrows.
"Well, they must have been planted there."
"No. No, your fingerprints are all over the place. They haven't been planted. You're guilty."
"Guilty of being in a warehouse." She looked at him incredulously. "As far as I know, that's not a crime."
"No, but terrorism is. So is murder. And lying to a federal agent." Gibbs stood up, closing the file and walking to the door.
"Ethan Whitman, you were quite the celebrity down at your local precinct when you were younger, weren't you – although more like Alan Rickman, always the baddy. B&E, GBH, Assault with a deadly weapon, I could go on?"
"I know my past. But it is just that, my past… I have grown up and learnt from my mistakes as a child." The young man said.
"I have the details of a flight up to Washington here on December 22nd that you were on. Incidentally, so was your pal Jemima."
"I don't know any Jemimas."
"You should." He opened the folder to a photo and frowned at it, showing it to the other man so he could get a look too. "Isn't that you, there? And that's Jemima?" He identified two people, their faces shown in profile as their lips were locked in what, from the static image, Tony could only imagine was a pretty passionate kiss. "You realise that she was sleeping with Petty Officer Ryan Woodson, don't you? Is that why you killed him? Decided to use all of that leftover Jello that you were unable to circulate to kill him off. I'm guessing the warfarin was leftover too?"
"I don't have to talk to you."
"No, you don't, but if you don't talk to me, then you have to talk to someone else, and really there are only three other options. Option one is your best next option after me, my colleague and friend Special Agent McGee. He's tired and grouchy 'cause he hasn't been able to play on any of his computer games or write any more of his book lately, because of this case."
"What're my other options?"
"Well, the other two are both as bad as each other. My boss, Special Agent Gibbs, he's made grown men wet their pants. He could kill the Terminator with a glare. He doesn't like long cases, or crimes involving kids, both of which are categories your little Jello plot falls into. Your other option is my fiancée. My pregnant Mossad-assassin fiancée. She is tired. She is hormonal. She is craving olives. She is struggling to keep her assassin side in check and has been stalking the corridors looking for prey to pounce upon. The twins she's carrying, my twins, they're the most important thing in the world to her, and have awoken some maternal instinct in her. Rule one of life, never mess with a Mama bear's cubs, rule two, never mess with any other cubs. Rule three's never mess with a pregnant Mossad-assassin ninja, but that one never really comes up, 'cause how many people frequently bump into pregnant Mossad-assassin ninjas. Anyway, you broke rule two of life, and so I really, really don't advise choosing her as your better option. Gibbs, again not a wise choice. McGee, well, I don't know anyone, apart from maybe our forensic scientist, who would willingly volunteer to spend time with him, but he's probably still your best next… Although, since we told everyone about the twins, he's been a lot more protective, just like Gibbs, and so I really think that none of the options are wise. I'd stick with me if I were you. It's safer."
"If I tell you what you want to know, will you shut up?"
"Depends on what you tell me." Tony shrugged. "Wait, why do you want me to shut up?"
"Olive?" She held out the jar to their suspect, taking one for herself and popping it in her mouth.
"I'm good thanks." He said slowly, a cautious look on his face.
"Suit yourself." Ziva shrugged, taking another olive and leaning back in her chair. "So Joshua, have you eaten any children's deserts recently?"
"What?!"
"Jello?"
"No." He growled, growing frustrated with the obscure line of questioning.
"Probably wise."
"Look, what's all this about?!" He demanded.
"Tell me about civilisation."
"The stage at which human and social development is considered most advanced."
Ziva raised her eyebrows and bit into another olive. "Anyone would think you learnt that from a dictionary."
"I did. I am a lexicographer."
"Mmhm." She nodded. "Graduated from Harvard with a Major in English and a Minor in Philosophy. Now, what would an intelligent, good looking man such as yourself want with spiking a warehouse full of Jello with Warfarin?"
"I don't know what you mean." He shrugged.
"What do you gain from it? What do you get from killing a load of children, innocent children who have done nothing wrong and who have done nothing to harm anybody?!" She slammed the jar on the table, brine sloshing over the side, as she stood up leaning forwards. Joshua Linton stayed silent, staring at her defiantly. "Forty children had to be hospitalised! Twelve children died!" She flipped a folder open and started forcefully placing photographs down, two for each name – one of a living child, the other an autopsy image of the same young face. "Lola Cartwright, five years old! Toby Forbes, seven and a half years old! Annabel Coton, six years old! Her sister, Nina Coton, died on her third birthday!" Her accent was growing thicker and thicker with every word, especially so when she placed the picture of the young girl blowing out three candles on a birthday cake, bowls of Jello on the table surrounding her. "Owen Addams, six years old! Louis Watson, eighteen months old! Henry Banks, five years old! Lena Bancroft, nine years old! Karen Harris, four years old! Elizabeth Simons, eight years old! Robbie Bates, two years old!" She leaned closer, pushing the photo of the laughing boy directly in front of him. "He was the same age as your son!"
"My son is dead!" His anger flared.
She stood back slightly, her shoulders falling. "I know." Her voice had dropped to a whisper as she moved back to sit in her chair. "They did not deserve to die. So why take their lives away from them like your son's was taken."
"To grab peoples' attention." He stated and she was up and squeezing his neck within the blink of an eye.
She put a little more pressure on his thin neck, watching the fear in his eyes. "If I had my way, I would have you die so painfully you would wish your grandparents had never been born, and I would do the honours to make sure the job was done. However, you will rot in jail for the rest of your miserable existence. You will lose everything that you loved, like the parents of these children lost everything they loved."
"You're too late…I already have…" He struggled, his crushed trachea making speech difficult.
She released her tight grasp, leaving the room and nodding to the agent stood outside. He walked inside, closing the door behind him and leaving her alone in the orange corridor. She leaned back up against the wall and covered her mouth with her hand as she stifled a cry, sinking down to the floor and bringing her knees to her chest in an attempt to hide from everything in the world.
I do not really like this chapter. I hate writing interrogation scenes; I think they are my biggest weakness. I struggled writing McGee's interview, so I deleted it because I did not like it.
I think of all of them I like Ziva's the best though.
The next chapter will finish off the interviews, which I hope will finish off the case. I hope.
