Deep Lacerations: Chapter 20
A/N: I think there's maybe one brief, tiny hint of Tiva in this chapter (sorry). Don't worry, there's a lot more in the next one.
Oh, and I just couldn't resist bringing in Dr. Brad Pitt :)
Gibbs burst through the doors to the emergency department family waiting room just in time to see Ziva swear loudly in Hebrew at one of the hospital phones before slamming it violently against the wall several times. "Hey!" he exclaimed, rushing to her side to remove the abused receiver from her hands. "Calm down!"
She managed a shaky breath before nodding, her eyes lifting to meet Gibbs'. "That was the receptionist of the Pulmonology department," she explained, her voice bitter. "Dr. Brad Pitt has been deployed to the USNS Comfort in the Indian Ocean and is obviously not available to check up on Tony."
He nodded slowly, not needing to be reminded that Dr. Pitt was the physician who had cared for DiNozzo during his bout of pneumonic plague. "He isn't the only pulmonologist in the Navy, Ziva," he said gently, reminding her that it wasn't the end of the world. His eyes fell on a clipboard resting on Ziva's abandoned chair as he replaced the receiver. "You know DiNozzo's medical history?" he asked as he realized what she was filling out.
"I am his partner," she said defensively. "And with how often he is shot at, beat up, and hit in the head, I thought it prudent to know his medical history in case he is brought in unconscious and could not give it himself."
He picked up the sheet and scanned it, realizing how complete it was; she even knew about the knee surgery that marked the end of DiNozzo's college basketball career. "Does he know that you know this?" Gibbs asked, almost amused.
"Of course," she replied indignantly, taking the clipboard from his hands. "And he knows my medical history as well. Just in case."
"Just in case," Gibbs echoed, earning him another glare from the Mossad officer. "How are they?"
David took a deep breath, forcing herself back to business. "Agent Gracy regained consciousness in the helicopter. She complained of a headache, so she got a…cat scan?" He nodded that that was the correct phrase and waited for her to continue. "She has been transferred to the ICU for continued monitoring. They say her temperature is still low, but she is stable. Tony…" Her voice drifted off before she focused again. "They scanned his head and neck at the hospital in Norfolk. He has a concussion and a fracture of a transverse process, which the doctors said will heal on its own without any complications. He was still unconscious when we arrived. I have not been updated on his status." She held up the clipboard. "I believe they gave me this to fill out to keep me busy, yes?"
"If I had thought giving you paperwork was enough to get you to shut up, I would have tried that years ago," he said with a slight smile. She glared briefly at him, but it lacked its usual force.
"The case?" she finally asked, remembering why Gibbs hadn't been there all along.
"Ducky and Palmer are bringing the body back to NCIS for the autopsy," he began. "I went through the rest of the scene with the Norfolk team. The only evidence we have is a print from the railing he grabbed while I was chasing him. I sent it to Abby. She'll let me know if we get a hit."
Ziva took a minute processing this. "Do you think it is the same man who killed Major Gracy?"
"Him or someone who worked with him," Gibbs said. He took a sip of coffee. "I need to talk to Gracy."
David frowned, not quite following the conversation. "You do not think Agent Gracy had something to do with this, do you?"
He gave her the 'I'm not dignifying that with a response' look. "ICU?" he asked.
"Right," she replied with a brisk nod. "Those elevators, fourth floor."
"Um, any surgeries?" Special Agent Sonja Gracy smiled politely at the young medical student, Ensign something-or-other, while she groaned inwardly.
"Left anterior acrominoplasty with distal clavicle excision in December 2004. That was to correct supraspinatus and biceps tendonitis—swimmer's shoulder. And a couple of months before that, in September, I had a primary cesarean due to failure to progress. Both of those were done here."
"Okay," the ensign said slowly, trying to figure out how to spell 'acrominoplasty' in his notes. "So, uh, what about your social history? I mean, uh, do you work? I mean, what do you do?"
She smiled slightly again, remembering her own days of learning how to take a medical history. "Yes, I have a job," she informed him. "I'm a CID special agent. I've been doing that for about six months. Before that, I was a forensic pathologist at the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology, major in the Army. My MOS was 61-Uniform." She looked up and saw Agent Gibbs standing in the doorway, an amused expression on his face as he sipped his coffee. She turned back to the ensign. "I'm sorry, I know I promised you a complete history and physical, but that's my boss," she nodded toward the doorway, "and we need to discuss this case. And he's probably going to threaten to fire me for jumping in the harbor."
"Oh, sure, Major—uh, Special Agent," the ensign stammered, quickly gathering his notes and heading out the door.
"I'm not going to fire you—yet," Gibbs said warningly. Gracy rolled her eyes. "What you did was completely idiotic, and if you even think about trying something like that again—"
"How's DiNozzo?" she interrupted.
"They're bringing him up from the trauma bay," he admitted, both of them knowing that if she hadn't done what she did, he wouldn't be saying that. Still, as he studied her—completely covered in blankets, a soft whirring sound coming from the inflatable Bair hugger under those, tangled hair peeking out from a dark blue stocking cap, IVs hooked up to what looked like small ovens running in both arms, surrounded by the monitors and machines of the ICU—he couldn't help but realize how close both of the agents had come to freezing to death.
Before he had the chance to say anything further, she beat him to it. "Where are we on the case?" she asked, completely business.
He took a deep breath before sitting down, gauging how much she could be told. Her eyes held a challenging look, as if daring him to keep anything back, and he knew that he couldn't. "The guy who shot at DiNozzo got away in a boat at the harbor," he began. "I put a BOLO out for the boat, but so far, no hits. After you left in the ambulance, I went through the scene with the Norfolk team. The only thing we got was a set of fingerprints—and mostly smudged ones at that—from where the bastard grabbed the railing while I was chasing him. Abby's running those now."
"Abby?" she asked with a frown. "Doesn't Norfolk have a forensics lab? I mean, this is somewhat personal for the team, and—"
"And when has it not been personal?" he demanded, an edge to his voice. She blinked once in surprise before her expression hardened.
"If you're implying—"
"Abby works best when it's personal," he interrupted, not letting her finish. He paused for a second before saying, "She'll be coming here in a couple of hours with her facial recognition software. If you think you can—"
"Give you a description of the man who made me perform an autopsy on my husband?" It was her turn to interrupt. "Yeah, I can do it."
"It's been over a year—"
"I still know his face," she replied. "His face, his build, his voice. I'll remember it for the rest of my life." She paused for a second before asking softly, "Do you still remember the face of the man who killed your wife and daughter?"
"Down to the hole in the middle of his forehead," he replied without missing a beat.
"You should have asked me to do this days ago."
He nodded. "I know."
"I'm not fragile, Gibbs. I'm not going to break down again."
"I know."
"Okay." They stared at each other for a minute before she averted her gaze, down to the cup he held in his hand. She brightened. "Is that coffee?"
"If you consider what they have here 'coffee'," he replied, holding the cup out to her. After a minute of struggling with the blankets to free a hand, she brought it to her mouth, deeply inhaling the strong aroma before taking a sip.
"What are you doing?" a voice asked from doorway. She saw one of the ICU residents standing there, a long white coat covering his wrinkled scrubs, and she lowered the cup guiltily.
"Passive internal rewarming?" she attempted sheepishly. The resident rolled his eyes and marched into the room, taking the cup from her hand.
"You're NPO!" he scolded. "You're moderately hypothermic! You shouldn't be eating or drinking anything!" He took a whiff of the coffee and continued, "And especially not anything caffeinated! Your heart is fragile right now—"
"Okay, first of all, I'm now in the mildly hypothermic range," Gracy interrupted, pointing at her temperature on the monitor. "And my heart is fine. If anything, it's still bradycardic. A bit of caffeine might help speed it up a bit. Besides, I have a headache, and every third year medical student knows that caffeine is a really good drug for headaches."
"Doctors make the worst patients," the resident muttered, walking away, Gibbs' coffee still in hand.
"Hey!" Gibbs called after him. "That's my coffee!"
"Let it go," Gracy replied, stifling a deep yawn. "He probably needs it more than you do."
"Never come between a Marine and his coffee," Gibbs muttered darkly, sitting back down.
"Is that one of your infamous rules, Gunny?" Gracy asked, an eyebrow raised.
"Number twenty-three," Gibbs said bitterly. She chuckled slightly before her expression became serious again.
"We need to talk about the case, Gibbs," she said, her light brown eyes grim. "And while we do, you need to stop treating me like a rookie agent and start treating me like a victim's wife. That means questions about motive, finances, affairs. We know that this started with Scott and we know that our killers want us aware of that fact, but we don't know why, and I for one want to find out."