Deep Lacerations: Chapter 11
"Mr. Palmer," Ducky said suddenly, breaking the silence that had fallen over the Autopsy suite, "that article you read the other day—"
"Article, Dr. Mallard?" Palmer asked. Ducky glanced up from the body of Captain Spencer Hawke and sighed.
"Dr. Sonja Gracy's article on laceration measurements and suspect identification," he replied impatiently. "Do not act naïve, Mr. Palmer. I know that you read it. What do these lacerations tell you about our assailant?"
"Um, based on the depth and length of the lacerations, and lack of hesitation marks, statistically they fall in the range of a male between the ages of fifteen and fifty," Palmer said hesitantly.
"Very good, Mr. Palmer. Now, what are the limitations of the study?"
"The limitations?"
"You did read the discussion section of the paper, didn't you?" he sighed in exasperation. "Those numbers are based on averages of known attacks with convicted assailants. Now, as we have seen many times since you've begun your work here, there are always outliers."
"Outliers?"
Ducky sighed again. "If you stabbed a man, and Ziva stabbed a man, how would you compare the lacerations? Statistically, a woman in her early thirties should be more hesitant—"
"But Ziva's not the average woman in her early thirties," Palmer finished with a satisfied grin. "I get it."
"Very good," Ducky replied absently, already distracted by his next thought. "This isn't right."
"What's not right, Dr. Mallard?" he grinned, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that it wasn't appropriate to do so. "Doesn't this remind you of something?"
"Nothing pleasant, Mr. Palmer," Ducky said grimly. "But it's not quite right. I need you to get another article for me. Two or three years ago, Dr. Gracy published an article in The American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology on the methods of analyzing lacerations."
Palmer frowned. "Is there something wrong, Doctor?"
Ducky looked up at him grimly. "I think someone is using Captain Hawke here to send us a message."
Dr. Donald Mallard stepped off the elevator and toward the bullpen, still in his scrubs from Captain Hawke's autopsy. "Ducky," Agent Gibbs said, sounding somewhat surprised. "I didn't expect to see you up here."
"Yes, well, I'm calling for a consult," he replied, turning toward Agent Gracy with an almost guilty look on his face. She looked up to meet his gaze and froze.
"No," she said stiffly. "I don't do consults."
"Sonja—"
"No," she repeated, more forcefully. "I don't do consults, I don't do autopsies. I don't even read pathology journals any more. I am a CID special agent—"
"Agent Gracy," Gibbs interrupted. "Go."
Her head whipped around to face him, her thick braid flying. "I'm not going down there," she said insistently. He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes not leaving hers.
"Yes, you are," he said after a pause. "Go."
She stood stiffly, walking around her desk and stopping in front of his. She silently unclipped her CID shield from her belt and slammed it on Gibbs' desk. "I'm not going down there," she repeated, her light brown eyes blazing. "I will leave this team, this liaison position, and CID before I go down there."
He slowly stood, still not breaking eye contact. He reached for the shield and picked it up, and taking her wrist in his hand, pressed it into her palm. "You're not leaving CID," he said.
"Oh, I'm not?" she mocked.
"No, you're not," he repeated. "You're not leaving CID, because you have a photocopy of a confidential CID file in top drawer of your desk, and you're not going anywhere until that case is solved. Get down to autopsy."
She glared at him, but snatched her hand away, CID shield and all. "You're a bastard," she hissed. She stalked off toward the elevators without a glance back.
"Been called worse," Gibbs said calmly, taking another sip of coffee. Eyes wide at the exchange, Ziva turned to face Tony, who had a similar look on his face.
"What was that about?" she asked in wonder.
"I wish I knew."