Lethal Fractures: Chapter 21
"I have something for you." Agent Gibbs glanced up from his desk in surprise at the slightly breathless voice to see Sonja Gracy approaching.
"I still haven't made it through the first ten pounds of coffee you gave me," he joked.
"No," she said, waving the comment aside, a hint of annoyance in her voice. "About the case. It was DiNozzo who pointed it out, actually."
"We're still running the names from the amputee list," the special agent in question chimed in from his desk.
"No, not those. Well, it could be those. I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong."
"Breathe, Gracy," Gibbs commanded. "Then speak."
"Second Lieutenant Devlin Grady," Gracy said. "He was a medical student on an Army scholarship until 1995, when he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. His younger sister, retired Major Shaena O'Leary, was my battle buddy at Officer Basic. She's a dead ringer for Macintosh."
"You saying that Grady killed Macintosh because he thought she was his sister?" Gracy could tell by Gibbs' tone that he didn't believe it.
"I'm saying a schizophrenic might not be able to tell the difference," she said.
"I will run the name," Ziva David chimed in from her desk.
"What about the combat experience?" McGee asked with a frown. Gracy shrugged.
"He was an ROTC cadet before medical school. Maybe he learned the technique then. I don't know."
"And the boots," McGee continued. "Wang said that the killer's boots weren't even made until five years after Grady left the Army."
"We've been over this, McTechnicality," DiNozzo said. "You don't have to be on a particular base to get a pair of boots. You don't even have to be in the military. And we don't know that those bootprints belonged to the killer."
"It is not Grady," Ziva interjected. "He was hit by a train in Philadelphia in 2002. Witnesses believe it was suicide."
"Damn," Gracy muttered. "I was so sure that that explained it. Well, I guess it's a good thing, really. Better than having to tell one of my best friends that her brother is a serial killer who thought he was killing her. Abby have any luck with the fingerprints?"
Gibbs shook his head. "She ran them through once with no leads. She's trying to clean up some of the smudges that she thinks might yield viable prints and trying again. And it wasn't a bad thought, Gracy. I'm glad you brought it up."
"Yeah," the pathologist muttered before forcing a smile. "I guess I should stick to the autopsies and leave the investigating to the experts, huh?"
"Have you heard anything from the Body Farm yet?"
"Not yet," she replied with a shake of her head. "Van Lester might have heard. I guess since my theory flopped and our killer is still out there, I should probably get back to work and follow up with him."
Gibbs nodded. "You know where to find us if you get anything or think of anything else."
"Thanks, Gibbs." She gave him another tight smile and wished DiNozzo luck with the amputee list before heading back for her car.
---
Sonja Gracy had spent more time in the Forensic Anthropology department in the last week than she had in the sum of her entire career prior, so she was able to find her way through the 'autopsy' suites to Dr. Van Lester's lab without any problems. "Van, please tell me you have something from the Body Farm. I just ran over to NCIS spouting wild theories about the case, and I need something to redeem myself with."
Dr. Van Lester glanced up at the breathless rant. "And good day to you, too, Major Gracy," he replied.
"Van, seriously."
He removed his gloves and handed her a folder. "Just arrived via overnight express this morning. I had a video conference with the Body Farm to go over it. Our conclusion: it's likely that the victims were killed from the front, not the back."
"Hooah," Gracy muttered, using the familiar military word to indicate excitement—or agreement, or just about anything—as she quickly scanned the summary page of the thick report. "I should send Dr. Bass a fruit basket or something."
"You have the budget for that?"
"You work for the federal government, Van. There's no limit to the money you can waste."
"I think a shipment of that coffee would be better received."
"Unfortunately, there is a limit to that." She frowned as she tapped the edge of the folder against her palm. "The first victim was a rehab nurse. They're running names of amputees now to see if anyone fits. What's your take? Can someone with one arm break someone's neck?"
"Killed by a one-armed man? Didn't Harrison Ford already do that one?"
"Funny."
He seemed to think about the question. "I guess it would depend on the prosthesis," he finally said with a shrug. "I would call up Dr. Bass again and ask him to run an experiment, but I doubt he has a one-handed grad student to test that theory."
"Hmm. Okay. Hey, thanks for following up on that with the Body Farm. Mind if I steal your glory and pass that info along to the investigators?"
He waved her on. "Go ahead. Redeem yourself. While you're giving your acceptance speech for your meritorious service medal, though, don't forget to thank me."
"Yeah, sure. Except we don't give speeches when we accept medals," she replied with a smile as she waved good-bye and headed back to her office to make a phone call.
---
After Gracy had called Gibbs with the news of the anthropology report, the supervisory field agent made the mistake of calling Agent Wang, who insisted on calling another group meeting to discuss the results, something that could have been very easily—and much more quickly—over the phone. By the time he left CID and headed back to his house, it was nearing 2200.
"I feel like I'm seventeen again, only now instead of sneaking out of the house past two middle-aged college professors, I'm sneaking out past two nosy children." Gibbs glanced up to see an amused Sonja Gracy descending the stairs, clad in sandals, khakis, and what appeared to be the same tee-shirt Jasper had died in. "Actually, I guess I am still sneaking out past college professors, at least one--my mom's up until my new nanny arrives." She smiled slightly and stopped talking when she realized she was starting to babble.
"You snuck out of the house at seventeen?" he asked with a smile.
"No other way my parents would let me see Javier Putnam. He was twenty, wasn't going to college, and drove a motorcycle. My parents called him ein schwerer Junge—essentially, a bad influence."
He chuckled at the thought of a seventeen-year-old Sonja Herzlich sneaking around to see the quintessential bad boy. "I'm trying to picture you at seventeen."
"I was the tallest girl in my class, was about twenty pounds lighter than I am now, wore a swimsuit about sixteen hours a day, had hair down to here," she gestured vaguely around her waist, "thought I was better and smarter than anyone else, and was just waiting for the scholarship offers to come pouring in. And if anyone had told me then that in twenty years I'd be a major in the Army and sitting under an unfinished boat in a basement while my kids were asleep, I would have laughed."
"Well, while you're under there, you might as well make yourself useful." He handed her a sanding block and pointed at the underside of one of the beams. She grinned.
"Aye, aye, Gunny," she joked.
"You aren't trying to get me to start calling you 'ma'am', are you?"
"Oh, God, no. I get confused enough as it is when my sergeants call me that."
After watching to make sure she was sanding it correctly, he went back to previous task of bending the boards. "Your anthropology report today caused another marathon meeting at CID," he commented.
"Oh. Sorry about that. I was just eager to come back with something productive, after I made that scene about barking up the wrong tree earlier today. I guess I should have just waited until tomorrow."
"And risk the wrath of Agent Wang?"
She smiled thinly. "The wrath of Wang? Is that anything like The Wrath of Khan?" She looked up to see a blank expression on his face. "Oh, come on. DiNozzo would have been all over that."
"DiNozzo watches too many movies."
"True." She reached for a nearby coffee mug, then made a face after taking a drink. "That's not coffee."
"You have something against bourbon?"
"Just some bad experiences. The first people I knew at Georgetown were a couple of recent West Point grads I met at Officer Basic. One of the things about being a woman in the Army—especially if you're the only one around—is that you have to prove that you can play with the big boys, and in med school, that means matching them shot for shot. I can think of a few times I killed a few too many brain cells doing that, and bourbon was the poison of choice more than one of those times." She glanced up at the beam she was sitting under and sighed, setting aside the sanding block. She remembered her comment to Ducky during Captain Rodriguez's autopsy, about dating at thirty-six being different than dating at twenty, but being honest with herself, she knew she wasn't too good at it then, either. If it weren't for Scott Gracy's annoying persistence, she never would have gotten past the first impression of him as a conceited, self-absorbed jock. She hadn't been very good at making the first move then, and that hadn't changed, but someone was going to have to. "Gibbs, I didn't come here to work on your boat."
He opened his mouth to reply when they heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. It didn't take either of them very long to figure who it was. "Scheisse," Gracy swore darkly. "Does she have some sort of sensor that detects when I'm around?"
"You stay here," Gibbs replied. "I'll go talk to her." He got up and started toward the stairs, but didn't get far before Hollis Mann appeared in the basement door.
"Whatever happened to rule three, Jethro?" she asked, not giving Gracy a second glance. "We've been trying to get a hold of you for the last hour."
Gibbs pulled his phone out of his pocket and swore under his breath. "The damned thing's dead again."
"Then maybe it's time you learned how to use a charger. Everyone's gathered at CID. Abby got a hit on the fingerprints." She glanced down at Gracy again. "You're going to want to see this, too, Major. It's a good one."