Acts of Hubris - Part 12
by: Tamsin Bailey

Test results took time. Not even Abby had been able to completely break that particular law.

Gibbs filled the time by getting coffee. He sat at his desk and read through the file one more time, but the wounded and wondering looks McGee sent his way were unhelpful. He would have to fix that, but not right now.

Eventually he gave up, and rode the elevator down to Autopsy. Inside, Ducky stood in scrubs and a surgical cap, working at one of the long steel tables.

"Got a hot one, Duck?"

"No, unfortunately not, Jethro." He carefully put his instruments down. "A clear cut case of death by animal attack. Seems this young lady was caught in a liaison with her married next door neighbor. When the wife came home she hopped the back yard fence, and the dog in the next yard over took her for a burglar.

He pulled his gloves and cap off. "But I'm guessing you didn't come down here to talk about the hidden dangers of extra-martial sex."

Gibbs dry washed his face with a hard hand. "No."

"So, the rumor of you having a suspect on Abby's case is true?"

Gibbs leaned against the edge of an unoccupied table. "Yep."

Ducky found is own leaning place. "And?"

"And you were right. This guy is all about power. Dominance. He's too arrogant to believe he's been caught. Right now he's sticking around because he's enjoying busting my balls."

"Has he? Been caught."

Gibbs shrugged. "Got the DNA running now. For what it's worth"

Ducky gave his old friend a long look, reading the tension in him. A tightly coiled spring that creaked under the pressure. He clicked his teeth together. Paused. Spoke. "I went to see Abby. At your house."

It got Gibbs attention. "How was she?"

"Damaged."

The conversation stumbled to a halt. Ducky could be blunt, but this was anger. An accusation Gibbs didn't know how to respond to. Or even why it was there.

Not to worry though, Ducky was not done. "You should be there, Jethro. Not out tilting at windmills."

"Interrogating the guy who raped her is hardly tilting at windmills." Gibbs snapped, but Ducky waved his words away with prejudice.

"You have this idea – you, and those three young agents that dog you so faithfully, that if you can just catch this man, lock him away, then all will be well. That Abby can get back to the business of being herself."

Stung by his old friends unexpected anger, Gibbs flung back, "You think I believe what happened to Abby can be fixed by a few pats on the head and some jail time? That I can't see how deep all this goes?"

But if Gibbs was gearing up for a fight, it seemed to have abruptly melted out of the other man. "No, Jethro. I know you understand. I just want to know why it has to be you."

"Why what has to be me?"

"That catches him!" Ducky said with weary exasperation. "That interrogates him. That puts him in jail. You four are so busy trying to get what you call justice that you can't even see Abby doesn't want you doing any of it." He slumped back in defeat. Already knowing he had not made his point. "Let the Metro detectives take over, Jethro. Abby needs her friends. Not a group of avenging angels."

When Gibbs finally spoke it was with a cold anger that made no room for friendship. "There's a man sitting upstairs that took Abby into a back alley last Saturday, Ducky. A dark deserted place where he beat her with his fists and ripped her clothes off while she screamed and tried to fight him off. Then he raped her and left her to die, or not. However God saw fit. You think I can ignore that?"

"No." Ducky said, his gait stiff as he walked back to the occupied autopsy table and picked up his instruments. "No I do not."

Gibbs watched Ducky's clear gesture of dismissal and knew the words had not been an absolution. He could see in the line of his shoulders an anger that would not dissipate quickly.

Well, he wasn't sure his would either.

Into the pointed silence Gibbs' phone rang. Seeing the extension for the lab, he flipped it open, but before he pressed it to his ear he said, "This is Abby we're talking about, Ducky."

Ducky stood over the autopsy table in the wake of Gibbs departure, scalpel poised while he watched the middle distance. Finally he put the blade down, sighing sadly. "Yes," he said to the empty lab, voice heavy with resignation. "All for Abby."

Looking down at the corpse he added, "Never forget the hubris of champions, my dear. They'll break your heart every time."

)()()()()()()()()()()()(

"Agent Gibbs!"

Gibbs once again ignored Larkin's greeting, smacking a coffee cup down on the lab bench hard enough to slosh some of the liquid out the drinking slot. But he didn't let go. "You have my hair samples?"

Larkin smiled. "I have better." He started ticking points off on his fingers.

"First: yes the suspect's DNA was a match for the 6 alleles I pulled from the skin cells under Abby's fingernails. Second: yes the suspects hair composition matchs the sample hairs within the 97 percent confidence level. Third: I found the remains of an ink stamp on the suspect's arm that matches the ink collected from Abby's hand to the 99.3 percent confidence level. Same pad, same stamp."

Gibbs let go of the coffee cup, giving a wry half smile. "Not bad for an FBI wank."

Larkin handed off the report, smiling at the praise, backhanded as it might be. But just as Gibbs reached the door he called out, "Special Agent Gibbs, you didn't let me finish my report."

Gibbs checked himself in the doorway, not turning around.

Larkin spoke to his back. "I also found minute traces of blood caught in the rivets of that knife Agent DiNozzo brought me. It matches the blood type and DNA characteristics of the victim's blood." He let it sink in. "It's Abigail Sciuto's blood, 100 percent match."

Gibbs closed his eyes. If it had been Abby he would have whirled her around the lab, kissed her cheek, told her good job. But this wasn't Abby, it was Larkin Jones. Who had indeed turned out to be very good at his job. Gibbs reached up, hit the door jam with the side of his fist. Then he walked on.

Still standing by the bench, Larkin used his own fist to more lightly repeat the gesture against the counter top, an unguarded grin splitting his face.

)()()()()()()()()()()()(

Once again, Gibbs stood on the observation side of the one way mirror, watching his suspect doze, chin sunk down between his collarbones.

This time no one came to interrupt. That was fine. He had the evidence now. And a plan. Didn't need anyone else.

He slammed the interrogation room door open, startling Ryker awake to jump and curse, glaring at the source of the surprise. Gibbs smiled insincerely while Ryker shrugged his coveralls back down his heavy shoulders, his glower full of ill suppressed threat. Gibbs let his simile grow a fraction stale. A man with too much training to show he was uneasy holding a wolf by the ears. Ryker's smile grew in response.

"Where were you last Saturday night?" Gibbs snapped, apparently peeved at Ryker's insolence.

"I thought you said I would be free to go."

"Tests are still running. In the meantime, we've got a few more questions."

Ryker sprawled back. "Shoot."

"What did you do last Saturday night?"

"Not much. Stayed in," he said without hesitation.

Gibbs' finger flicked towards Ryker's forearm. "That ink my tech pulled off your arm puts you at the same party that the victim attended Saturday night."

The easy line of Ryker's body pulled a little tight, anger breaking through his tone. "I thought you said the tests were still running."

Gibbs leaned forward, willingly closing the gap between them. "I lied."

They stared at each other; two dogs with lowered heads and raised hackles, ready to lunge for the throat. Then Gibbs broke, dropping his eyes down to the file in front of him. Ryker held for a moment longer, hammering home his victory, then leaned back again. "Sure, I was there. I just though the party had been on Friday night."

Gibbs pushed a skeptical sarcasm into his voice, sure to annoy. "Now that you remember being there, do you maybe remember seeing this woman?", tapping the photo of Abby's bruised face.

Ryker studied the picture with nonchalant attention. "Probably. There were a lot of people there. Can't say I remember her exactly."

"Maybe this will help." Gibbs laid down another picture that was much more typically Abby. Dark pigtails and a wide, wide smile.

Ryker glanced at it, shaking his head while his smile made a lie out of the denial. "Nope."

His eyes challenged Gibbs to make something of the lie. Gibbs clenched his teeth against the temptation. "You don't need to maybe think about it a little?"

Ryker lazed back, "No."

Gibbs leaned back in his seat, staring at his opponent like a man who knows full well he is being played, but without enough smarts to flank the opposition. Dramatic, but Ryker ate it right up. Subtlety was lost on peoplelike him. Full to brimming with self satisfaction and entitlement, blind to the idea that the sheep he was herding in circles might have paws instead of hooves.

Ryker drummed his fingers briefly against the table. "Know what I think, Agent Gibbs? I think you have nothing except a coincidental picture, and a stamp from a party that hundreds of people attended. I'm not even sure you have the jurisdiction to keep me here." He paused, and when Gibbs did not challenge, he stood up. "In fact, I'm leaving now."

It had worked. It had done the job. But now the false pelt was heavy, and Gibbs longed to be free. To shake it off and see the fear in Ryker's face when he realized his error.

"Sit down."

Low and steady, the voice was laced with enough control for the words to lap against the walls without rippling back. Ryker, half way through his first step paused in confusion, not understanding where it had come from. Full of menace, it had implied a level of violence that the ball-less fed across from him couldn't of dreamed of, let alone delivered.

Except, when he looked aside to see if another person had joined them in the little room he saw that the man at the table had changed considerably. In his place was someone made entirely of granite and hard command. When this man barked sit down for a second time, Ryker's knees folded without volition, landing him only partially in the chair.

"Now. Did you see this woman?" Gibbs said with the same voice, finger stabbing towards the picture on the table.

Ryker leaned forward to look, rubbing his hands across the knees of his jeans. "Yeah." His voice croaked and he had to clear his throat. "Yeah. I remember now. I saw her. She was wearing this red collar thing. It really stood out. That's why I remember."

Gibbs let the reason why Ryker might or might not remember Abby slide by. There were bigger things here. "Did you dance with her?"

"Yes. But that's – "

"Shut up." Gibbs interrupted. "Did you go into the alley behind the warehouse with her?"

"She wanted t – "

"Hey!" Gibbs barked, slamming his hand down on the table; a hollow boom that made Ryker jump back. "You think I care about your explanation? Yes, and No Those are the words you get here.

"Did you go into the alley with this woman?"

"Yes." Ryker ground out, eyes alight with a rage that only seconds ago he would have given vent to. Not now though. Gibbs had instilled a fear that crested the anger by inches. "But I didn't beat her up."

Gibbs eyebrows went up. "Then how did her blood get under the rivets of that knife thing you waved at one of my agents?"

"Is that it? Is that why you've kept me here?" Ryker scoffed, arms flying wide, eyes rolling. His anger over backing down to Gibbs creeping back in, stripping away the caution of before. "I lent a buddy of mine the knife a couple days back. He cut himself breaking down some cardboard boxes. He must not have cleaned it very well."

"It matches the victim's blood type," Gibbs said.

Ryker shrugged. "The rarest blood type in the US is AB negative: 0.6 percent of the population, which works out to 1.8 million people. Next up is B negative: 1.5 percent, 4.5 million people. Then A negative: 6.3 percent. Should I keep going?"

"Those are things a phlebotomist knows?"

"Every one of us." Ryker ground out.

"What about the statistics on DNA? Can you quote those?" Gibbs shot back.

It checked him, as intended. His answer came after a long hesitation, a pause to lick his lips. "DNA profiling takes weeks."

"Not for federal agencies."

Ryker glanced aside quickly. An instinctive seeking for help, or maybe escape. Gibbs, feeling something inside start a steady growling, slid a piece of paper over to where Ryker could see it. A lab report, dated and signed with chain of evidence signatures. Across the sheet two identical DNA chains spiraled. Ryker looked at it with a hand buried into his hair, tugging against the scalp.

When he looked up the desperation was real, but the anger was forced. "You faked this."

Gibbs dismissed his display without even the courtesy of consideration. "Hey asshole. Do you even know how much trouble you're in? Her blood on that blade proves Assault and Battery. That'll get you 2 years in the state pen. But we also pulled your DNA off her, and that proves rape."

Ryker went pale, his mouth sagging open. Slowly he crumpled forward, both his hands twisting back through his hair as he pulled himself inward. An collapsing star, with a rising keen the only thing strong enough to escape his heightened gravity.

He moaned, rocking, and Gibbs moved in for the kill strike, leaning forward to whisper like a confidant. "You raped a woman in an alleyway, Jack. Choked her, and beat her, and left gravel embedded in her back. And when you were done raping her, you cut her arms open and took a pint of her blood. You know what happens to freaks like that? We lock them in the deepest cell we can find, and we make sure they don't see another woman for a long, long time."

With a final pitch forward, Ryker crossed his event horizon. Exploding outward, face twisted into something too raw to be anything but all consuming.

"Is that what that bitch said? That I raped her? All I did was teach her a lesson." Ryker's face was dark with blood as he surged forward in his chair. Behind his back, Gibbs made a waiting motion towards the unease he could feel building behind the mirror. This was what he had wanted, this berserker rage. Hot enough to immolate caution and guile. But it was a dangerous game. The path of the juggernaut could never be predicted.

Quick as a snake strike Ryker proved the rule, refocusing on Gibbs. "And you, you goddamn faggot, sitting here questioning me. You should be thanking me. If you really do have enough of a dick to be tapping that. I taught that whore good about leading a man on."

"How," Gibbs asked against the thing that beat and clawed at his own throat. "How did she lead you on?"

Ryker answered with his own warped logic, face twisting in mournful self pity. "Do you have any idea what it's like? To need something that bad? To beg, and beg, and still have those bitches say no. No, no, no. That's all I hear. Even when I explained; just no.

"So yeah, I went to that party. I figured a warehouse full of freaks was the perfect place to find someone who understood how bad I hurt. And there she was." His eyes burned through the photo of Abby. "Dancing right in the middle of the action. And I mean right in the middle. All dressed up in these chains and tattoos. I thought she would be a score for sure. Except when I took out the knife she shook her head. Like she was some prim little fucking virgin. Like I was the freak. Me." Ryker slapped a hand to his chest, face twisted into a sneer. It made a meaty thumping sound.

His laughter was a manic cry of derision. "But you know what's the best? The best part?" He leaned forward with the anticipation of someone telling a dirty joke. "She cried. When I took what she owed me. Screamed like I was hurting her. But I know these things," his finger stabbed towards Gibbs, underlining his wisdom, "that whore was no virgin."

Gibbs felt it travel through him.

"You son of a bitch."

Ryker twitched at the malice on his face.

"You son of a bitch!" Gibbs lunged across the table. Ryker tried to get away, but the chair kept him pinned. He brought his arms up to ward off the hands locking around his throat but Gibbs slapped them aside like a mosquitoes buzz. The door slammed open as Ziva and Tony burst into the room, but nothing, not Tony's speed or Ziva's training could halt a Marine bent on death.

Momentum carried them over backwards, Ryker falling with the chair, Gibbs slithering over the table after him. He picked the bastard up by the neck, bashed his head against the floor. Did it again. And again. Until something caved in and his bulging eyes rolled back in his head, hands falling away slack.

It was close. It was so close.

He could feel each muscle, each separate movement of the picking up and the dashing down, the half conscious snarl of rage and victory that thrummed from deep in his chest. But he had been a federal agent for a long time, and the Agent understood something the Marine never had. Something he had forgotten, at the worst possible time.

Revenge could never be for anyone but yourself. This was Abby's justice. Not his. It had never been his.

Unlatching his hands from around Ryker's neck he let DiNozzo pull him away. Offering no resistance as Tony half frog-marched him into the far corner while Ziva prompted a coughing and spluttering Ryker back into a chair. Both agents looked at him out of the corner of their eyes, worry flicking between them like a Morse Code.

Standing between Gibbs and his quarry, Tony seemed undecided on whether to hold him back, or let him go. Gibbs made the decision for him by shaking off the hands that gripped him loosely.

"Take that piece of shit to the hospital to get checked out. Then take him over to the Metro station.Box up all the evidence and case notes, take them over also."

Then he walked out.