Acts of Hubris - Part 4
by: Tamsin Bailey
Gibbs went home for a shower and fresh clothes, driving back to the Yard afterward. He found three empty desks and a note in DiNozzo's neat script explaining that he and Ziva had gone to interview the warehouse owner. Without sitting, Gibbs reversed course back to the elevator, hitting the button for forensics.
The loaner technician was studying something in one of the microscopes, bent nearly double to reach the lens. Gibbs cleared his throat and he snapped upright. It took a while.
"Hi, I'm - "
"Larkin Jones, I know. What have you got so far?"
The man squinted with suspicion. "Are you Agent Gibbs?"
An incredulous head tilt and a hard look got him back on track.
"Right. Well. I identified seven sets of shoe prints from the alley, including the ones that matched the shoes from the rape kit. Three came from Doc Martins brand, one set of high heels, and the other two are still unknown. Dirt samples indicate four of the wearers were using the alley to, uh, relieve themselves. Including the high heels which is weird because the splatter indicates a higher..."
Gibbs glared and Jones self corrected. "The rape kit was negative for semen, but there were a few hairs that did not match the victim. I'm running them for DNA, along with the skin cells from the fingernail scrapings."
Despite himself Gibbs felt a measure of approval. Larkin continued on. "I printed the pictures from the rape kit." He picked up a stiff envelope, but kept holding on after Gibbs had grabbed it.
"Agent Gibbs, I met a woman named Abigail Sciuto once. At a seminar on forensic science. She was pretty, um, odd, but she's the smartest person I've ever talked to. She worked for Naval Criminal Investigative Service. I remember because she told me to pull my head out of my ignorant FBI ass when I didn't know what NCIS stood for."
He let go of the envelope. "I wanted to tell you I'm treating this evidence the speed and discretion it deserves."
Gibbs tapped the sharp corner of the envelope against his palm, watching Jones look back at him with a determined gaze. He gave the other man a nod before leaving, hiding a smile, because damned if DiNozzo wasn't spot on. Ichabod Crane.
Back at his desk he opened the envelope, spilling a thick stack of prints and one of those little memory chip gizmos. He put the chip back into the envelope and looked through the hard copies. They were from a lower resolution camera than NCIS used, but still carefully composed and marked with location and scale. He supposed it was nice to have proof there actually were institutions with budgets lower than NCIS.
DiNozzo and David returned just as he finished going through the pictures a second time. Nothing there he didn't already know. He flipped the whole group upside-down as the two agents stopped in front of his desk.
"Hey, Boss. McGee with Abby?" Tony asked.
Gibbs raised his eyebrows and looked significantly at McGee's empty desk. Tony looked abashed.
"Right." He regrouped. "Ziva and I were out interviewing the owner of the warehouse, and quite a fat cat Mr Davidson turned out to be. Emphasis on fat. He must have weighed 400 easy. He wheezed just walking across the room. Really makes you think about what kind of crap we put into our bodies."
"So you won't be wanting that?" Gibbs pointed to the pizza box sitting on Tony's desk.
Tony made a whuffeling noise of surprised and leaned a little towards the box. "Never make decisions on an empty stomach, Boss.
"Davidson runs an import/export business and owns four warehouses in the DC area. Started in 1993 at the warehouse in question, then moved to a larger complex in 2001, leaving the original property to be used mostly for overflow storage. He occasionally rents it out, most recently to a man named Arron Forrest who organizes parties of the roving type. Payment was in cash since Forrest was reluctant to file the necessary permission-to-gather permits. A company called Eckhart Security monitors the property for break-ins, passive devices only, no cameras. They didn't make any rounds Saturday night or Sunday morning because of the party. Did you get sausage and pepperoni?"
"What's next?" Gibbs demanded, ignoring the question.
"We run down Arron Forrest, find out some background. The only thing Davidson had was a phone number." Armed federal agents preferred going into situations knowing more than a contact number. Especially when the interviewee had a desire to avoid police notice.
Gibbs nodded, "Okay."
They continued to stand at his desk. He made an impatient shooing motion. "Go. Eat."
Tony pounced on the pizza box and had half a piece folded into his mouth before Ziva made it across the aisle. She pulled a face and shook her head before taking her own piece.
Gibbs left the photos on his desk, turning to his computer instead. He called up search pages for the Maryland, Virgina and D.C sex offender databases. Looking through them would be nothing more than a shot in the dark. A search through official police records had yielded no recent hits for men who preyed on party goers, and state public registries usually concentrated on crimes against children. Still, some dirtbags had been nabbed with slimmer odds.
It took Gibbs several descriptions too many to remember that computers had no sense of disgust. He swore, flicking his phone open to dial McGee's mobile.
He picked up after two rings. "Hi Boss."
Gibbs dove in without preamble. "McGee, can you make a dohicker that will automatically search through a database?"
"What kind of database?"
Gibbs squinted at the computer screen. "I don't know McGee. It says h.t.t.p."
"Then it uses TCP/IP." McGee said. "That's good. As long as I can find out what storage schema the database uses, I can use Directory Access Protocol to write a Search and Compare script that will look through the database for specific words."
Gibbs latched onto the 'that's good', figuring it meant McGee could do what he wanted. "How's Abby?"
At their desks both Tony and Ziva abandoned all pretense of work, watching him quietly.
"Awake. Talking a little."
Gibbs tucked the phone against his shoulder, shoving the evidence pictures back into their envelope. "Okay. I'm headed your way. You come back here and write a thing that will search through the tri-state sex offenders registries for guys who like parties." He put the envelope on DiNozzo's desk and hung up without waiting for an answer.
Tony picked up the packet. "How's Abby?"
Gibbs walked towards the elevator. "Talking."
)()()()()()()()()()()()(
The living room was flooded with late afternoon sunlight when Gibbs let himself back into Abby's apartment. It smelled of honey and lemon and the television muttered in the background. McGee and Abby were both sitting on the couch. McGee's hand moved away from his holstered weapon, Abby's were wrapped around a steaming mug.
They both looked at him. McGee attentively, Abby with a slower focus. She was sitting up, covered carefully with a blanket and willingly drinking something. Gibbs gave McGee a mental good boy.
"Hey." She greeted him.
He smiled to hear her voice, rough as it was. "Hi, Abby."
Gibbs jerked his head in the direction of the door. Less than an order, more than a suggestion. McGee stood, gathering his jacket. Abby watched him until the door shut, then looked steadily away from Gibbs.
He looked her over. She was breathing too fast, and beyond that he had no idea. It made his guts churn. Everyone had mechanisms to hid things. Ducky had words; Tony could close himself up like a fan; Ziva alchemized unchecked emotion into anger; McGee absorbed every barb to mask the ones that sunk in. But Abby had always been wide open.
"Abby, we need to talk." She nodded, watching her own hands smooth the blanket over her crooked knees.
"I know." Still not looking at him, working hard to talk.
"Still hurts?" Gibbs asked. Abby grimace was answer enough."Okay, we'll keep this short."
He sat, ignoring how unnatural the role reversal felt. Silence was his realm, and he didn't know any of her tricks to banish it. "Abby, do you remember anything? Something that would help us catch him?"
In response Abby sat, fingers unmoving on the blanket, watching something far away. For long enough that Gibbs wondered if he should repeat the question. Was about to when her head finally ghosted back and forth at one-quarter speed.
Gibbs rubbed a hand against the back of his head and blew out some air. "You sure? Nothing?"
Still looking into the distance, she said, "Nothing."
Gibbs switched tactics. "Okay. Lets start from the beginning, see if anything comes up. Did you work Saturday?"
Abby nodded.
"What time did you leave?"
"1900."
"Did you go straight to the party?"
Head shake.
"So you went home first?"
Nod.
And so it went. Until Gibbs knew that Abby had left her apartment around 2130, catching a ride with friends, staying behind when they went home just after midnight. Until the nods and words slowed like a clock unwinding and she toppled forward over her own knees.
He lunged forward to catch her in a tight hug, cradling her head against his shoulder as her forehead battered against his collarbone and her fists twisted into his shirt, rocking them both in the syncopated rhythm of her anguish.
Shock, he knew, and trauma. Retreating to the same place as injured Marines and the ones who had seen their buddies transformed into ragged flesh and pink mist. Hell, he'd been there twice himself. But still, the frustration. The urge to shake and yell until he jarred loose a memory he could use. A cruel thing to do to anyone, impossible to use it against Abby.
That's it, he thought, nothing more here. Except Abby, with the contradiction that had always been her way, said: "I danced with him."
Gibbs pulled her tighter against what would surely be bruises by morning. "Not your fault, Abbs. You couldn't have known."
"Should have." Her voice was full with the millions of ways the night could have ended differently. Each one visible only in hindsight, stretching out in a chain that choked with bitterness.
"How?"
"Second time." She said against his chest: shame on me his mind filled in.
Gibbs knew about this, too. How the mind would force together splintered cause and effect in order to reject a chaotic system The first time was Mikel Mawher, written off as bad luck. The second time was entered as hard evidence. The subconscious whispering that such brutal punishment must be deserved. Could not be random. Until a wife and child die because you left them behind; a man reaches out with evil intent because you danced to close, flirted too much, held too long.
Gibbs blinked with burning eyes. He would find this guy. Find him and hurt him for putting that kind of doubt into her.
"No," He tighten his arms, trying to force his conviction into her, "this is not your fault. Give me something, Abby. Please. Help me to find this scumbag."
Abby pushed away, breaking his embrace and drawing into herself. "Why?" She asked with a voice that was hoarser than just swollen vocal chords. "Justice?"
Gibbs looked at the tears on Abby's cheeks and thought about Mexico. How the heat had brought sweat that stung his eyes and made the trigger slippery under his finger. Finally saying, "Yeah, something like that."
She went back to watching the middle distance through the window. "No such thing."
A/N: Okay folks, 4 parts in and a plot line has actually started to develop! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed or subscribed to this story. It's quite a feeling to know my writing is worthy of positive comment. It pretty much makes my day.