A/N: I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies in the rehabilitation/physical therapy scene. I was unable to do the proper research that I usually do. Corrections, if any are needed and suggested, will be made before this story is posted on my website upon its completion. And now, back to our story...

Chapter Four

A month passed by and they had made no progress in the case, making the squad room a very uncomfortable place to be. Gibbs was barking orders and making seemingly impossible demands. Even though he was certain their target was the Staff Sergeant, the Director insisted they investigate the third suspect, Petty Officer Ritter. While McGee researched his background and whereabouts during the times of the murders, the FBI took over surveillance on Staff Sergeant Friberg. As they suspected, Ritter turned up clean, with a foolproof alibi for at least one murder.

Gibbs was in MTAC briefing the Director on what little they had on the case. No one wanted to be in the room during that discussion. Abby and Ducky were in the squad room.

"Gibbs sure has a bee in his bonnet, doesn't he?" Ziva observed. "Or is that wasp?"

"You were correct the first time, my dear," Ducky said. "Yes, our esteemed leader seems to be getting more and more unreasonable."

"He needs Tony to be here," Abby said, matter-of-factly.

"McGee and I are perfectly capable of investigating this crime," Ziva protested. "Tony is good, yes, but he's not perfect."

"Abby's right," McGee said. "Tony brings something to this team that none of us can."

"You mean being class clown?" Ziva replied.

McGee shook his head. "No, he always seems to come up with the answers Gibbs is looking for," he said. "He makes it look as if he's goofing off, then when Gibbs is about to smack him, he has the right answers."

"And he grins at Gibbs," Ziva added, understanding what McGee was saying, "as if to dare him to hit him."

"Tony is an excellent agent," Ducky said. "As I told him some time ago, he's a lot like Gibbs was ten years ago."

"Really?" Abby said. "I would have liked to have seen that."

Ducky nodded. "Yes, he was much looser, if you will; more fun-loving. He's become a bit more relaxed since the explosion, but he's not the same as he was then."

"Tony brings a light-heartedness to this group," Ducky continued. "Something that I think is sorely needed in our line of work. And he's been with Gibbs the longest, except for me; he knows what he needs before Gibbs can say it."

"You make them sound like an old married couple," Ziva said, smiling.

Ducky chuckled. "More like old partners," he replied.

"Was there a meeting called that I'm unaware of?" Gibbs yelled as he came down the stairs.

"I believe I have something down in autopsy that requires my attention," Ducky said, turning to leave.

"What?" McGee asked. "We don't have any bodies to process, do we?"

"I'll find one," Ducky called over his shoulder.

"Abby," Gibbs said, "did you find any DNA on the evidence from any of the murders?"

"No, Gibbs," she replied. "I went through everything with a fine-toothed comb and…I'll go look again," she finished as Gibbs glared at her. He turned to the two remaining agents who scrambled back to their desks muttering something about bank records and phone calls.

"I'm going for coffee," he said, marching out of the squad room angrily.

Gibbs had meant to go for coffee but instead found himself driving to the rehabilitation center. He stood out of sight, watching his senior field agent going through therapy. The young man was in obvious pain, his sweatshirt soaked with sweat, his face red and dripping. Tony stubbornly worked his shoulder and arm, stretching and contracting the muscles slowly and carefully under the careful eye of his physical therapist.

Gibbs felt a sense of pride at the determined set of the younger man's jaw, the fierce look in his eyes as he went through the repetitive motions. He knew that Tony was dying to get back to work, and knew that he would do anything it took to advance his recovery. Gibbs made sure to let the doctors and therapists know that the younger agent was prone to overdo things in his eagerness to return to the team, and the therapists kept him from doing himself more damage.

Gibbs shook his head. He wasn't sure how he had come to depend on his senior field agent so much, but not having him there during a particularly difficult case made him realize just how much Tony meant to the team. He knew that the others missed his joking and inane conversations; Gibbs missed those, too, but he'd never admit that out loud. Most of all, Gibbs missed having someone there who was as observant and intuitive as Tony was in an investigation. McGee was improving, gaining more confidence and beginning to see connections between things; Ziva was very observant, she had to be in her former line of work, but her perspective was different than what was needed in investigating crimes. She was learning quickly, though.

Tony brought with him years of working as a cop on the street and an easy attitude that made people like him, whether they were suspects or witnesses. In his own way, Tony was as good at interrogation as Gibbs, something that Gibbs had come to appreciate over the years.

Gibbs watched silently as the therapist moved on to exercising Tony's legs. He still couldn't stand and had difficulty moving them, so the therapist stretched and flexed them slowly as Tony sat silently, grimacing in pain. He never complained, which would surprise those who had been around when Tony smashed his finger in the drawer one day. He could be quite a drama queen when he wanted attention, but when matters became serious he was all business.

Gibbs went back to his car. He decided against talking to Tony, knowing that the younger agent wouldn't be happy to know that Gibbs had seen him in such a vulnerable state. But the senior agent felt calmer on the drive back to headquarters, knowing that he would have his right hand man back on the team soon.

oOoOoOo

Staff Sergeant Friberg waited in the interrogation room, sitting straight in his chair, his demeanor calm. His eyes never wavered as he met Gibbs' intense, appraising gaze.

"You've been at Dahlgren for six months," Gibbs said.

"Yes, Sir."

Gibbs appeared to soften a bit. "Don't call me sir," he said. "It's either Special Agent or Gunny."

Friberg relaxed slightly and smiled at the older man. "I knew you were a Marine," he said.

"You can take the man out of the Marines, but you can't take the Marine out of the man."

The young man nodded. "It gets in your blood."

Gibbs chuckled. "Yeah, it sure does," he said, sitting back in his chair. "You've got quite a record," he said, indicating the files on the table. "Bronze Star, Marine Corps Expeditionary Medal, Combat Action Ribbon - pretty impressive."

Friberg smiled proudly. "Thank you, Sir - I mean Gunny."

"You joined the Corps when you were nineteen." Gibbs looked up from the file he was reading. "Did you go to college the year between high school and joining up, or did you do some traveling?"

"I spent six months hitchhiking through Europe," Friberg replied. "Getting to know the lay of the land and the locals, if you know what I mean."

Gibbs laughed. "Oh, I know what you mean," he said. "Get a lot of experience?"

"I did okay," Friberg said, grinning.

"I'm sure you did," Gibbs said, nodding. "Why did you decide to join the Marines, Staff Sergeant?"

"I wanted to serve my country," Friberg replied, "and I thought the best way to do that was through the military. The Marines looked like the service for me."

"You're a good looking guy, I imagine you do okay with the ladies," Gibbs said thoughtfully. "Why wouldn't you sign up for the more glamorous services, become a flyboy for the Air Force or Navy?"

Friberg shook his head, "I'm a simple man, Gunny. I don't need to impress anyone. I like to be able to see the enemy's eyes, smell their fear."

Gibbs nodded. "Is that why you teach hand-to-hand combat? You like the contact, the one-on-one, personal nature of the fight?"

"There's no honor in dropping a bomb on faceless people," Friberg said. "Overcoming your opponent when you're evenly matched, that's where the courage and honor come from."

"You can't watch your enemy die from the cockpit," Gibbs observed calmly. "You can't see the see the fear in their eyes, smell it pouring out of them, watch the life drain from them."

"It's more personal," Friberg said, sitting back. "Riskier, which makes it more… I don't know." He paused.

"Satisfying?" Gibbs asked.

"Killing someone isn't pleasant," Friberg replied, a small smile forming. "It's usually a sin, unless you're killing someone in self-defense, like an enemy soldier or an insurgent."

"Right," Gibbs said, nodding. "'Thou shalt not kill.' Are you a religious man, Staff Sergeant?"

"My parents were very religious." Friberg's expression turned colder. "We went to church every Sunday, said our prayers at meals and bed time, did volunteer work for the church."

"That's not what I asked, Staff Sergeant," Gibbs replied, "I asked if you were a religious man."

"Not very," was the reply. "I've seen too much in combat to really believe in a 'loving God'."

"Most men discover religion in the foxhole," Gibbs said.

"Not me."

"Not you," Gibbs repeated, thoughtfully. "You're thirty-three, now, and you're still single. Do you have any plans to get married, have a family?"

Friberg smiled. "I like my life the way it is now," he replied. "I enjoy being in the Marines, and I get my pleasure when I want it, with no strings attached."

Gibbs laughed softly. "You don't want a 'ball and chain' tying you down, do you?"

"No, Sir," Friberg replied. "I've seen how having a family can kill a man's dreams, make them die inside, slowly, until there's nothing left of them but an empty husk."

"Really?" Gibbs said, looking interested. "Where have you seen that? Your father?"

Friberg sat very still, his face guarded. "My father wasn't a happy man. He was a good husband and a good father, but he wasn't happy."

Gibbs nodded in understanding. "Trapped in a loveless marriage?"

"My father loved my mother and he loved his kids," Friberg replied coldly. "My mother took good care of us, she did everything she could to make his life comfortable and safe. He just couldn't be happy."

"Did he kill himself? Run off?" Gibbs asked.

"He had a heart attack," Friberg replied. "When I was seventeen."

"Ahh, sorry," Gibbs said.

"May I ask what any of this has to do with my being here?" Friberg asked.

"I just wanted to get to know you, Staff Sergeant," Gibbs replied. "Understand what makes you tick."

"Am I still a suspect in that girl's death?" Friberg asked.

"Your alibi checks out," Gibbs said. "I'm just not sure I believe it, though."

Friberg smiled. "I'm sorry to hear that, Gunny. I don't know why you'd think I'd murder that poor girl, but I can assure you, I didn't."

Gibbs leaned across the table. "Oh, I'm pretty sure you did. I don't know how you managed it. Yet. But I will."

"Well, Sir," Friberg said smoothly, "I wish you luck with finding the killer." He paused then smiled at Gibbs, his gaze cold and calculating as he stared into the agent's eyes.