May 8, 2006: The case involving little Katie Garvey continues.
It was a while before I posted Chapter Three and then Chapters Four and Five are so close together. Go figure.
As with previous chapters, this has not been Betaed for continuity within 'NCIS' lore or for anything else for that matter, therefore all errors are my own darn fault. The Internet is a very helpful tool for a writer who can't go on location, but I have never been to Washington, D.C., so my apologies if any landmarks don't seem right.
The first chapter of this story was written before the character of Ziva David joined the team. It takes place, therefore, after 'Kill Ari' and before her return to the series.
I do not own these characters but I hope no one will mind if I play with them a bit. :)
Many thanks to those of you who have reviewed and encouraged me to continue. :)
May 13, 2006: Finally getting this chapter posted. At least it didn't take as long this time⦠:Looks embarrassed:
Enjoy!
Tin Star
Chapter Five
By lilmouse
"The commandments say 'Thou shalt not kill,' but we hire men to go out and do it for us. The right and the wrong seem pretty clear here. But if you're asking me to tell my people to go out and kill and maybe get themselves killed, I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. I'm sorry."
- Dr. Mahin, Minister (Morgan Farley), 'High Noon', 1952
The sun is setting with a spectacular presentation of light and colour. The clouds are palettes of pink and gold and a deep purple is building in the east as night begins its lazy creep across Washington, D.C. There are a few vessels moored on the Potomac River along the break wall, die-hard boaters who'll only stop being seasonal sailors when the weather forces them into dry dock. Metal and chrome glint in the fading light as dusk approaches. The water ripples like silk and glitters in the wake of a few passing boats. The wind creates peaks but no whitecaps today. Rigging clinks together like an erratic percussion section and birds swirl around the famous cherry trees in waves of beating wings. They are looking for bread or French fries from those who walk, bike, jog and roller blade their way through East Potomac Park.
The park occupies the largest island in the Potomac River, situated between Washington and Arlington in the southwest part of Washington, D.C. When viewed from above, it resembles the shape of a jalapeno. It is a major tourist attraction, especially when those famous cherry trees are in bloom.
Not a bad gig for a place that started life as a landfill.
Ohio Drive runs along the entire edge of the island and its only purpose is to get you to the picnic grounds or a game of golf or maybe some fishing. This is where you bring the family for a drive to escape the computer or the neighbours or to view something other than your own living room. The southern tip is called Hains Point, and when you stand there and turn your back to the lights of downtown, you can watch the planes manoeuvre around Reagan National Airport. There is an excellent view of the National War College, and the vast Potomac River stretches out before you on its way to the sea.
And then there are the trees. Most of the cherry trees are from Japan, courtesy of Mrs. William Howard Taft, who started her beautification with the first imports in 1912. Who knew there were so many different varieties? Yoshino, Kwanzan, Takesimensis, Weeping Japanese and so on. One thousand, six hundred and eighty-one cherry trees.
They are sleeping now as winter tugs at their naked branches, living sculptures of wood, stark and beautiful against the clear sky. They are a more powerful image of determination and hardiness than the Washington Monument, though that structure looms behind them on the skyline and its importance should not be discounted. The trees will still be here, though, the legacy of a First Lady with vision, when the Monument has toppled due to the erosion of humanity's power on this planet.
Tony Dinozzo has done the tour during the height of blossom time. Everyone new to Washington does the tour. It's like an initiation, a place of peace and meditation, where the new resident doesn't have to think about the city and yet is reminded of it at the same time due to the contrast with the structures across the river. Tony even plays at the miniature golf course, but more important, he runs at the park, too. Leaves his car at the top of the 'jalapeno' and goes to the Point and back again, even in the rain. Especially on the days when he can't prevent a case from haunting him. He has to run because the ghosts of some of the victims chase him and he can't relax. Even cases from his time in Homicide still claw at him periodically. Peoria, Philadelphia and Baltimore. They're all there, waiting.
Patient.
The last time he ran, he swears he heard the footfalls of Caitlin Todd just behind him, pacing him. He knows that sound, knows she's watching his back. He'd felt sadness and comfort, joy and terror as they ran together. He hadn't looked to see if her ghost was visible and if it happens again, he won't look, ever. He doesn't want to suffer as Orpheus did at the mouth of Hades. If he turns around, his former partner might fade completely, just like Eurydice, and disappear forever.
He'll take the traces of her that remain and not push his luck.
The Hains Point loop is three-point-two miles: an easy run. If he has time, he does it twice before returning to the world of guns. He doesn't know that a woman who goes there regularly with her Tai Chi class watches him run with a mother's fondness, and thinks of her son who lives so far away. He doesn't know there are a few other females who watch him with no motherly intent at all, admiring him from afar, wondering if they can get his phone number. He'd be surprised if he knew about them. Usually he doesn't miss that kind of attention, but that isn't why he comes to the park.
His focus is on moving, rhythm and speed.
He pushes himself until his chest bursts for air, needs this time running with the ghosts. He is well aware of the cost to his soul if he stays at his desk or watches the moon travel across the floor of his bedroom while sleep eludes him once more.
Every day, people die in numbers too great for any government agency to chart with any accuracy. Death by firearm has been on the rise for years and shows no indication of decline. In 2003, there were 30,136 gun deaths in the United States alone. The breakdown from there is: 56 per cent suicide, 46 per cent homicide, with the remaining 4 per cent being unintentional shootings, legal intervention and Tony's favourite category: 'undetermined intent'. Data is still being compiled for the years since then. Such statistics are overwhelming. Tony sometimes hates his gun, but he knows if he doesn't carry one and assume some of the responsibility to protect his colleagues and those in his care, the chances of more funerals will increase. He knows he's only one man and the difference he makes is infinitesimal, but this is how he chooses to make his stand.
Blood is collecting in her hair, as she lies dead on the rooftop, a neat, perfect bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.
Ari's death might qualify as 'legal intervention' but Tony likes the term 'hand of justice' better.
The world isn't like the old Hollywood westerns, where the bad guys are easily identifiable by their black hats. It isn't that simple. There are those who are quick to judge and point blame when things go wrong and they are part of the same people who help pay for his services with their tax dollars.
Pay for his gun.
Someone else can get their hands dirty and take the fall.
When he goes down, it will be fighting.
The cherry trees don't judge him or ask stupid, probing questions. He doesn't have to sort through his masks and choose the one people expect to see. Most don't come to the park to interfere with the relaxation of others. They're too busy cherishing their own time with the trees to bother. The people who come here want to be here. Today, they share laughter with friends and hold deep conversations about politics and movies and burn calories jogging along the many paths. Soon it will be dinner and they'll drift home but for now, the space is alive and content. November in East Potomac Park may not be as colourful as it is during other months but it is calming, idyllic, and restful.
A pity it is flashing by at eighty miles per hour.
It's difficult to appreciate Nature's beauty at that speed.
Tony's hand snakes out once more to grab the handle of the passenger door as the truck takes another tight curve along Ohio Drive, tires squealing in protest. He'd leave his hand there as a brace throughout the entire trip if he could but it annoys the driver so he uses the handle only when it is absolutely necessary. His knuckles are white and his jaw has been clenched since he entered the truck. He can hear McGee's laboured breathing behind him and wonders if the other agent has his eyes open or closed. The landscape rushes by at an alarming rate. A few pedestrians glance towards their vehicle and scurry further back from the road. The truck is heading for Hains Point at a breakneck pace and Tony wishes that once in a while he'd lose the coin toss for the uncertain privilege of riding shotgun with Gibbs.
If he told his life insurance agent about these hair-raising journeys, he doubts he'd still be covered. Bad enough his line of work includes people shooting at him, thugs ruining his suits and whacked-out presidents of major pharmaceutical companies mailing random Y-Pestis infections. His life is in danger whenever he travels to a crime scene and isn't the designated driver.
Somewhere far behind them is another truck with the bespeckled Dynamic Duo of Dr. Donald Mallard and Jimmy Palmer, his able-bodied assistant. Jimmy is driving and never had a hope in hell of keeping up with Gibbs. With any luck, they made the turn off and he won't get lost this time.
When the vehicle finally stops, Gibbs is out before the engine has finished shutting down. Tony takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. He eases his grip on the handle and flexes his fingers and says a few silent prayers to any deity who might be listening. McGee's breathing sounds like it is returning to normal, though if his heart rate is anything like Tony's, its probably still racing like a lab rat on crack.
Or an Abby on Caff-Pow!.
Tony may never know how she can drink that stuff and live.
"That was a trip," he states evenly.
"Yeah."
"Today!" Gibbs bellows, his figure receding as he approaches the water. He doesn't look back. Tony and McGee scramble to exit and heave their equipment bags, hurrying towards the yellow caution tape.
There is a small audience to witness their arrival. Tony notes a few joggers, a man walking his dog, a pair of teens, boy and girl, and a woman with two children. They stand and stare. The teens are hugging one another's shoulders in a comforting gesture and the mother grips her children's hands fiercely, looking very distraught.
There is a blanket on the grass with the distinctive shape of a body underneath. There's no mistaking it as anything else. The local cops have strung the tape around it and the area leading to the water's edge. Two of the uniforms are interviewing the audience while others are guarding the area from any further disruption of the scene. They don't look at the blanket. As the afternoon slips away, it is cold and hushed and Tony expects to see the spectre of Death walking along the shore to collect the waiting soul.
He holds his camera steady around his neck and takes a few quiet pictures of the crowd.
"Dinozzo, are you waiting for an invitation?"
"No, Boss," he says clearly, and ducks smoothly under the tape.
"McGee."
"On it, Boss." Gibbs doesn't have to tell the younger agent what to do. A good sign, Tony thinks, zooming in on a partial footprint in the dirt. Click. Every blade of grass will be checked for potential evidence, and a small, numbered flag will be placed beside it. Tony will take a photo and then it will be bagged, tagged and removed for analysis. The flag will remain for future reference. He stares at the imprint and identifies it as the treads from a serious running shoe. The pattern of the sole is intricate and designed for lots of traction in snow or mud. He has several pairs just like it. Click-click. Maybe Nike or another good sport shoe. Size eleven, at a guess.
They're going to lose the light soon and will need to requisition floods. He suspects McGee is doing just that as he talks rapidly into his cell phone, eyes scanning the ground for clues. Multi-tasking is a necessity in this line of work. The night will be long, cold and empty of anything but walking carefully through the scene, one painstaking inch at a time. Tony will poke at McGee with minor insults, just to watch his face scrunch up in frustration and prod him with movie trivia, just to pass the time and keep both of them conscious.
He sighs and glances to his left. The park also includes another watcher: one of Washington's most famous non-memorial statues, 'The Awakening'. It is a five-piece sculpture of a man rising from the ground, stretching as if he's waking from a deep slumber. Tourists love to pose on the left hand or the head. The face has always reminded Tony of a depiction of the Green Man, a nature spirit from the ancient Pagan lore of Great Britain. There had been a display featuring a collection of related materials at the National Gallery of Art last year. Tony had thought the imagery very wild and evocative. The exhibit had attracted an elegant crowd and he'd connected with a striking blonde while they studied a series of particularly suggestive illustrations. She'd laughed at his jokes and flirted right back. It had lead to coffee afterwards and a sleepless night at her place.
She'd never returned any of his calls and he stopped trying to reconnect after a month. To be fair, she had obviously taken what she wanted and had thought he'd been looking for the same thing: company, some laughs, great sex. He can't remember her name, not that it really matters. Maybe it had been all he was looking for that night but now he's grown tired of the predictable conclusion of such evenings.
The sculpture he calls 'Green Man' stares at the sky, perhaps the only witness to the crime. If he has any answers, he remains as silent as the earth that embraces him.
The other truck arrives and Dr. Mallard and Jimmy struggle out with apologies and tales of traffic and confusing directions - and something about Scotland that involves finding your way through the heavily misted moors without ending up in a bog. The high-profile medical examiner known as 'Ducky' proceeds calmly towards the blanket and kneels before the body, reverently, respectively.
Tony takes a quick series of photographs, capturing the moment that speaks volumes for the character of one of the men he admires.
He creeps around the scene and takes more photographs, following McGee as the other agent flags items of potential interest. It is as if they're on a scavenger hunt and Tony is trying to catch up. Gibbs finishes talking with the cops and tells his team that the scene has been compromised by well-meaning people who had rushed to aid someone they thought had only just fallen into the water. They had been too late, of course, but a part of Tony feels better knowing that they hadn't just stood by and waited for something to happen.
"The mother spotted the body," Gibbs says in a low voice as the five men huddle together for an update, crouched or kneeling around the blanket. The sun is all but a sliver of light and the floods are on their way as they speak. "One of the joggers dialled 9-1-1. Her husband and the teenage boy pulled the body out and tried to resuscitate." They all look down at the blanketed form that lies between them.
There is a pause as each man contemplates some elusive aspect of their day, trying to pinpoint why Fate has led them to this moment.
"Well," Ducky says, clearing his throat and startling McGee. Tony manages a small smile. "I'm sure no harm was done," he continues. "The evidence will be clear enough as to how he died." Ever the optimist. He moves his gloved hand to the edge of the blanket and slowly draws it back.
The uniform of a petty officer is revealed to them, which explains why they were called but -
There is a stunned silence as recognition dawns for three of the men. McGee's eyes widen. Tony can feel an angry heat start to boil inside him. Gibbs, ever subtle and succinct, quietly sums it up in one word: "Shit."
Ducky and Palmer, of course, don't understand their reaction.
Working on automatic and trying to hold the camera steady, Tony starts taking pictures of the body that was once a man named Robert Joseph Garvey.
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