Disclaimer: See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.
NCIS Headquarters/September 13, 2010, 1828 Romeo
The music was loud and thumping with bass, just the way Abby liked it. Gibbs walked in, Caf-Pow in hand, and reflected on how this lab seemed to be its own little world, with Abby as the sun that kept it shining and alive. It always seemed dead to him whenever she was gone and the music was off, just a soulless lab of cold metal and sterility.
"Gibbs!" Abby exclaimed happily as she turned from her computer station and met him by the work table. She reached for the drink in Gibbs's hand, but the agent pulled it out of her reach.
"Whadduya got Abby?" he asked, ignoring the look she gave him.
Ignoring the fact that he was ignoring the look, Abby returned to the computer and brought up the running searches. "Well, first of all, this guy definitely knows how to leave as little trace as possible. No prints on the door handle, but there was dirt on the door itself to indicate he kicked it open. Knew just the right spot to do it too, broke the lock in one solid whack."
"The partial on the study doorframe?"
Abby gave an amused chuckle. "Gibbs, that partial is so…well, partial, that you'd be more likely to find a Chef Boyardee MRE than a match off of it."
"The shoeprint in the hall?"
"Boot print, actually. There's barely anything there, not even enough to match against if we ever find the killer and his own pair, but I'm almost certain that he wore a form of Wellco combat boots."
"Kind used by SEALs?" Gibbs asked as he peered over Abby's shoulder at the computer screen. He was simultaneously trying to make sense of the jumbled data on the screen, failing as always, and wondering why he ever bothered trying (as always).
"Yep. Specifically it's a right boot, and based on the soil the print was made of and the sample from the door, it was the same boot he used to kick it in. I'm thinkin' your suspect is right –handed, maybe ambidextrous."
"If you can figure out the brand and foot of the boot, how come you can't match it to the killer's?"
"It matches Wellco's ridge patterns, which are similar but with minute differences depending on the model of boot. The part visible in the print is a part of the ridge common to all Wellco boots. As for which foot, well, it's just a matter of the curve."
Gibbs nodded, knowing she was referring to the inward curve a piece of footwear made. A left shoe or boot would have a slight curve to the right, whereas a right shoe/boot would slightly curve to the left.
"Got anything on the slugs yet?"
"Just waitin' for-"
The beeping of a machine cut her off and drew both of their gazes towards it. They looked back to each other, and Abby gave a big smile. "Done," she said before they went over to the device in question. Abby grabbed the printout it made and read over it.
"Well, Gibbs, I see your killer favors a .45."
"ACP?"
"Yep, standard hollow-point. I'll get a search going to see if the striations match any currently open cases. If anything pops up, I'll be sure to call."
Gibbs handed her the Caf-Pow and leaned in with a kiss to her cheek. "That's good work, Abbs," he said, as always, before walking out the door, likely to Autopsy. Abby watched him go with a satisfied smile and a slurp of the straw.
The heavy thump of a freezer closing was punctuated by the quiet hiss of the automatic doors opening, thus granting Gibbs entrance to Autopsy. He immediately saw Jimmy Palmer walking away from a wall of the body freezers, removing the medical gown over his scrubs as he did so. Standing before the illuminated lamp box on which the x-rays were hung, Ducky looked to see his old friend entering.
"Ah, hello Jethro. I must say, I'm rather disappointed."
"Why's that Duck?" Gibbs asked as he came to a stop beside the M.E. and examined the x-rays.
"I believe I've become spoiled by cases wherein the deceased tell me clues that help explain the circumstances surrounding their murders. Bruise marks to indicate restraints, an occasional oddity such as a swallowed bag of heroin, or even something as helpful as DNA under the fingernails. Not to mention when we must investigate something particularly curious, such as-"
"Duck."
"Oh, yes. It seems Captain Callaway's death was rather mundane and quick, in regards to what we've seen in other cases," Ducky explained as he turned and walked to the freezers, Gibbs following right behind him. Once there, Ducky opened a drawer and pulled out the stitched-up body Jimmy had just stowed away.
"No defensive wounds, no signs of beating, torture, or restraint," Ducky rattled off as he pointed to the areas of the body commonly associated with such marks. "No overt signs of anything really. The only things out of the ordinary were the rounds we removed and sent up to Abby, as well as the wounds they were embedded in of course."
"So the killer just shot him?"
"So it would seem, Jethro. I'm afraid there's nothing to help in identifying your killer other than the slugs."
"Abby's running a search right now to see if the gun's been used in another crime," Gibbs explained before turning. "Let me know if you find anything new, Duck!" he called just before the door parted to allow him exit.
Ducky looked at the dead officer before him, shook his head, and slid the drawer back in before closing it with the same thump that had precluded Gibbs's entrance.
"Do you think there's anything to actually find, Doctor?" Jimmy asked, looking up from the minor report he was signing.
The answer he got was simple: "Something tells me, Mister Palmer, that the captain as said all he has to say."
The rest of the day made very little progress. They'd contacted family and friends and arranged interviews for the next day, followed leads that'd gone nowhere, and ultimately came up unusually short for the first day of an investigation.
It wasn't until the next day that a real development came through.
NCIS Headquarters/September 14, 2010, 1513 Romeo
Ziva David walked through the halls of NCIS Headquarters with a purpose, a file tucked under her arm with notes she'd written during what was, hopefully, her last interview of the day. As she finally came to the squadroom, she managed to arrive at Gibbs's desk just as Tony was finishing his verbal report before it.
"-hadn't been acting any different than he usually did. Far as she knew, there wasn't anything going on or out of the ordinary."
"His son says the same," Ziva said, startling the Very Special Agent in the oh-so-satisfying way Ziva was a master at. "And the ex-wife, and the brother."
"So co-workers and family both say nothing was going on with Captain Callaway," McGee observed from his desk as Tony was taking deep breaths and knocking on his chest with the side of his fist. "Maybe it was a home invasion gone wrong? Guy on the streets who happens to have a gun and some training decides to break in for some money?"
"But why kick the door open in such a violent manner?" Ziva asked. "Anyone would know that such an entrance would awaken the home owners. No, this man knew what he was doing. He had a reason for killing Callaway."
"Maybe it was a personal killing?" Tony asked, now only partially out of breath. "Someone from back in Callaway's JSOC days maybe."
Gibbs's phone rang and put a halt to the theorizing. "Gibbs," was the usual gruff answer he gave. He listened for a few moments before saying, "Be right down," and hanging up.
"McGee, you're with me," Gibbs ordered as he stood and began walking towards the rear hallway, the junior agent following suit. "DiNozzo, David, start tracking down people Callaway worked with in JSOC, go all the way back to his first day."
"Uh, Boss?" Tony asked, his voice conveying a sense of unease and futility. "That's eight years and two bases' worth of co-workers to go through."
"Then ya better get started!" Gibbs called before he and McGee disappeared into the elevator.
For a moment, Tony and Ziva only looked after them. Then Ziva snapped her head to her partner.
"Two bases?"
Tony nodded grimly. "Fort Bragg and Pope Air Force Base."
Ziva shook her head. "Sometimes, your special operations forces confuse me."
"They're yours now, too," Tony grinned. The grin vanished when she punched him in the shoulder.
When Gibbs and McGee entered Abby's lab, they found the forensics expert lying supine on her futon, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around her shins. Though Gibbs and McGee both felt the same feeling of curiosity, only McGee's face showed it.
"What're you doing, Abby?" Gibbs asked as the two agents came to a stop beside her, their heads tilted down to see her.
"Just relaxin'," she replied, showing no inclination to move from her current position.
"Is that like a yoga position or something?" McGee asked.
"Nope. It's a physiologically advantageous position to increase the chances of conception after intercourse," she explained.
Even Gibbs raised his eyebrows in surprise, a more subtle contrast to the comical look of shocked confusion on McGee's face.
"Wait, what?" the junior agent asked.
"Oh relax," Abby admonished. "I'm not using it like that. I just think it's cozy." She then rocked back, her feet now almost pointing toward the ceiling, then rolled forward and used the momentum to bring her feet to the ground. At the right moment, she released her shins and leapt up, all in one smooth motion that took about one second.
"Good news, Gibbs," she said as she walked toward her computer station. "We got a match on the bullet striations."
After shaking his head clear of the preceding scare, Gibbs followed. "Case still open?"
"Yep. I started off searching through the NCIS database of open and cold cases and got nothing, so I expanded the search to Metro's cases. A few minutes ago, I finally got a match."
Abby typed on her main keyboard, and a case file appeared on screen. Pages and photos appeared as Abby talked.
"Randall Stockwell was found dead in his home in, of all places, McLean, Virginia. His front door showed no signs of forced entry, but the back door had a hole broken into one of its glass panes. The intruder likely just reached in and unlocked it, and the alarm system didn't go off because he'd killed the power to the house beforehand. They're thinking he then sat in the house and waited for Stockwell, then ambushed him."
"His eyes must've adjusted to the dark while he waited," McGee theorized.
"Or he had NVGs," Gibbs countered.
"So, other than living in the same town, what connection does Stockwell have to Callaway?"
"Welll," Abby started before typing up more images. "Stockwell likely lived in McLean because it was the location of his place of employment, a certain government agency headquarters."
"Langley," Gibbs said.
"Bingo," Abby affirmed. "He didn't work just anywhere in the CIA, though, he was a higher-up in the Es-Oh-Gee."
"Special Operations Group," McGee said.
Gibbs only nodded as information of the SOG flashed through his head. It was the most premier covert and deniable operations unit in the intelligence world, often considered the most elite special ops group period. As if reading his next piece of thought, McGee spoke up.
"Lotta their new agents come from JSOC. They even use operatives who're still in service for some ops."
The images that flashed through Gibbs's head were almost like snatches of film, grainy and overexposed by time and age …
A humid jungle in Colombia.
The feel of a rifle tucked into his shoulder and a burlap suit covered in vegetation.
So damn hot.
Intense pain, and a beautiful woman.
"Didn't know you knew that much about it, Tim," Abby said, bringing Gibbs back to the present.
McGee shrugged. "Researched it for a book I was gonna do."
"Not another one about us, was it?" she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"No! No, uh, it didn't really go anywhere."
Gibbs set his jaw and studied the file on Stockwell. "He have anything to do with the Middle East anytime from 2001 to '09?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Abby said before typing in a few more commands. The image showed a specific portion of Rockwell's personnel file in the CIA. "He was responsible for coordinating operations in the Middle-east between SOG paramilitary operations officers and JSOC operatives from 2003 to 2008."
Gibbs and McGee shared a look. "We've got a solid connection," the team leader said.
"Yeah," McGee sighed. "And it just happens to be the most classified command component in the entire United States military."
Ignoring the gripe, Gibbs turned back to Abby. "Who's the Metro detective in charge of the case?" he asked.
"Oh, it's not a Metro case anymore," she replied. "Once they found out Stockwell worked for the CIA, they sent it right up to the FBI."
"Alright, so who's the agent in charge of the case?"
Abby typed in a few more commands, read her screen then turned to face Gibbs with a hand on her hip.
"Wanna take a guess?" she asked.