DiNozzo shook off the shock quickly. "Where is he, Samantha?" he asked, leaning forward in his urgency. He watched her hesitate and said, "We need to find him before he hurts someone else."

She closed her eyes, sending tears streaming down her cheeks. "I don't know," she whispered.

"Where would he go?" Tony asked, his questions firm. "Is there someone he would go to? A place he likes to hang out? Somewhere he would run if he knew he was in trouble?"

"You don't understand," Samantha said, shaking her head and wiping at the tears. "It's not like that."

DiNozzo paused, biting down on his frustration as he sensed this wasn't just a mother defending her child against a murder accusation. Hell, she had admitted her son was the killer.

"Ryan is…" She sighed. "Ryan is paranoid schizophrenic. There's a good chance he doesn't even understand what he did. He's a sweet boy—a gentle boy." Her eyes darkened and her fingers found a scar on her left hand. "But not when he's off his meds. Then, it's like he's…"

"Someone else?" Tony supplied. He watched with sympathy as she shook her head. "That's all the more reason we need to find him, Samantha. Can you think of anywhere he would go?"

She looked back toward the crime scene, shuddered and looked back at him, helplessly. "I honestly have no idea. When he goes off his medication and runs off, I've never been able to find him. He usually just shows up back home—often crying and scared and begging me to forgive him." She stopped, her hands flying to her mouth and her worn blue eyes going wide. "My god. What if this isn't the first—"

"Shhh," Tony said, pulling her into a tight hug because he could think of nothing else to do to help this woman who had obviously lived such a hard life—and was obviously devoted to her sick son. "Don't worry about that right now."

Her breath puffed out warmly across the cut at his throat, and he swallowed sudden nausea, the tiny woman in his arms bringing Kevin momentarily back to life. He released her and stood, hearing the reverberations of last night's gunshot in his head. "Wait here," he managed before bolting from the shelter.

Tony went and leaned against the vacant brick building, glad the crowd of gawkers had mostly dispersed—death in the District was hardly an unusual sight for its hardy population. He gulped deep breaths of cold air, feeling the tightness in his chest and wondering if his lungs could freeze inside him. But still he pulled in the frigid air, shaking as hard as he and Kevin had been the previous night. Tony squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly terrified he might break down and start sobbing right there on the sidewalk.

He realized suddenly that he had been crying in front of Gibbs the night before, and he was mortified but grateful that his boss hadn't made a big deal out of it.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder and Tony looked up into worried blue eyes.

"You all right, DiNozzo?"

All thoughts of tears fled and Tony straightened, roughly shrugging off the gentle touch. "Fine," he said tersely, his eyes on the shelter so he could ignore the concerned gaze watching him so intently. "Samantha Jordan. The mother of our killer." He ignored Gibbs' surprise and handed over the photo as he filled him in on the details without ever changing his brusque tone or looking at his boss.

"That's a good job, Tony," Gibbs said, reaching out to give him a pat on the back.

But DiNozzo neatly sidestepped both the touch and the praise. He turned once he was safely out of reach and looked Gibbs in the eyes.

"All I did was listen, Boss."

Gibbs just stood there, surprised and hurt by his agent's cold anger—and of course letting none of that show. He didn't have time to even begin a response when there was a shout from across the street.

"Mom!"

Tony's head snapped toward the voice and he started drawing his weapon even before he recognized the man's face from the photo Samantha had just showed him.

"Federal agents," Tony barked, leveling the gun at the man's head as he ran toward his mother. "Don't move."

Gibbs had also pulled his gun and was slowly approaching the man, who looked bewildered but simply stopped in the middle of the street and raised his hands.

"It's not what you think," Samantha said again. "This is Ryan's twin brother, Daniel."

Gibbs opened his mouth but there was a sudden movement at the corner of his eye, and one of the last of the gawkers stepped forward.

"That's him!" the woman shouted, pointing at Samantha's son. "That's the guy who shot that man!"

Tony and Gibbs exchanged a look, and Gibbs moved toward their suspect while Tony went to Samantha's side and gently pulled her away.

"Get on the ground," Gibbs ordered.

"But—" the man protested, his eyes flashing as he looked to his mother.

"Just do it," Gibbs said firmly. "Cooperate, and we'll get everything straightened out."

The man sank to his knees with resignation on his face as he stared at his mother.

"Do as they say, Daniel," Samantha said, leaning on Tony as if unable to stay upright on her own. "Everything will be fine, son."

"Twins?" Abby exclaimed later that afternoon, her fingers flying over her keyboard. "Twins," she said, grinning and nodding at the fingerprint results on her screen. "The man you have up in interrogation is not Ryan Jordan, whose fingerprints are in the system because of a B&E a few years back. I can't tell you exactly who he is, because his prints are not on file anywhere, but considering he looks just like Ryan Jordan and his birth certificate and drivers license show identical information—except Ryan was born a few minutes earlier—you can safely assume Daniel Jordan is who he says he is."

"I never assume, Abby," Gibbs said, frustrated and wondering why he had expected this to be easy. Maybe it was wishful thinking—he wanted to send his increasingly cranky team home, especially Tony, whose hand had barely left his injured chest since they returned from the crime scene. Gibbs wasn't sure if he was just in pain and didn't realize he was doing it—or if he was doing it on purpose to try to get Gibbs to call him out on it. Either way, Gibbs hated the quiet hostility coming from his senior agent about as much as he hated his own uncertainty in how to deal with it. Maybe he should just let Tony snap and get it over with.

"But Gibbs," Abby mock-pouted. "It's an assumption based in science and official records. Actually, it's more a deduction than anything." Her eyes lit up and she grinned mischievously. "I mean, I guess it's possible that there's a third twin—er, triplet—and his mother kept him a secret because—"

"Abby." Gibbs and Tony spoke at the same time, cutting off the Goth's excited conspiracy theory. Gibbs caught a slight hint of a smile on Tony's face—but it turned to a tight frown as soon as he noticed his boss was looking.

Gibbs sighed internally and stared at the floor, trying to gather his thoughts.

"Abby, I am confused," Ziva spoke up from where she lounged against the shiny metal table. "If they are identical twins, should their fingerprints not also be identical?"

Abby smiled. "You would think that, right? Because identical twins develop from the same fertilized egg and share the same DNA. But," she said, still smiling, "each twin develops in a different part of the uterus and therefore has different stimuli, different sensory experiences, and different nutrient levels. It's like building your boats, Gibbs. Even if you used the same blueprint for two boats that turn out looking rather identical, there will still be different patterns in the woodgrain."

"Don't use blueprints, Abbs," Gibbs said, trying not to smile and realizing how much he missed the banter among the team.

The scientist rolled her eyes. "Gee, thanks, Bossman. You just totally screwed my analogy."

Gibbs gave her a peck on the cheek in apology and headed for the door before stopping and turning back. "None of his prints at the scene, but did Ducky get any off the body?"

Abby shrugged. "I doubt he's done yet. That's a whole lotta super-heated superglue, Gibbs. I'd hate to be around when accounting gets the bill for that."

"Worth it if we find a print," Gibbs said. He turned to his team. "Ziva, McGee, find the brother. DiNozzo, you're with me."

Gibbs turned and left the lab, pretending he didn't hear the sigh from his senior agent as he followed him out. Gibbs waited until Ziva and McGee were out of earshot to turn on Tony, backing him into a corner of the corridor. He ignored the wariness in the green eyes watching him and focused on the anger, letting his own bleed into his voice.

"Hell do you want, DiNozzo?" he growled.

Tony just blinked. "What?"

"Don't play games with me," Gibbs said, leaning in closer but not touching. "You want me pissed at you? Fine. I'll go back to snapping at you and smacking the back of your head."

Tony didn't speak, but Gibbs couldn't help noticing the faint relief in his eyes. It made him feel sick. Was he really that much of a bastard that Tony couldn't accept his sympathy and kindness after a shared tragedy?

"But it's not because you did anything wrong last night, Tony," Gibbs continued, softening—and noting the corresponding raising of hackles. "It's because unlike you, I actually hate it when you're pissed at me."

Gibbs turned on his heel and walked to the interrogation room, aware of Tony trailing behind but unable to see his face, his reaction. Gibbs opened the door and stood beside the table where Daniel Jordan was seated, waiting until Tony slouched against the mirror to take the seat across from their likely innocent suspect. Gibbs eyed the man for a moment, noting his slight nervousness—which could easily have been simply a result of sitting in an interrogation room, his mentally ill twin brother accused of murder.

"We know that you are who you say you are," Tony said, surprising Gibbs that he had taken the role of good cop. Gibbs had figured Tony would want to vent some of his anger. That he chose not to told Gibbs that DiNozzo thought this guy was innocent: Gibbs knew Tony hated going all Kojak on people unless he had to.

The relief was evident on Daniel's face as he started to stand. "Oh good, because—"

"Sit down," Gibbs barked, a hand slamming on the table. He waited until the man was sitting again, looking scared again. "Doesn't mean you didn't kill my Marine."

"Look, Daniel," Tony said, coming closer and giving Gibbs an annoyed look that certainly looked sincere enough. "Can I call you Daniel?"

"I'd rather call him a killer and get the hell outta here," Gibbs grumbled.

Daniel nodded at Tony, his eyes pleading silently.

"So Daniel," Tony said, leaning on the table and crowding Gibbs until the lead agent took the hint and got up. Tony slid into his vacated chair with a weary sigh. Also not faked, Gibbs figured, considering the dark circles under his agent's tired eyes. "We have a dead Marine. And all we want is to find whoever is responsible for killing him."

"My brother," Daniel said, watching Tony's face carefully.

"According to your mother," Gibbs cut in. He continued sarcastically, "A guy who just happens to look just like you."

"I didn't kill that man," Daniel protested, still focusing on Tony.

"I believe you," Tony said. He leaned forward and Gibbs saw his hand flutter upward toward his chest before falling back onto the table. "And believe me when I tell you we understand your brother is a very sick man, and all we want to do is help him—to find him before he hurts someone else. Or himself."

"He never hurts himself," Daniel said, sighing.

"That's good," Tony said, encouragingly. "But we do need to find him."

Daniel nodded. "How can I help?"

"Could start by telling us where he's hiding," Gibbs said sharply from his position by the mirror.

"I would," Daniel said, putting his knotted hands on the table. "But I don't know where he would go. We can never find him when he goes off his meds."

"How often does that happen?" Tony asked, sympathy in his tone.

Daniel sighed harshly. "More often than my mother likes to admit." He frowned, looking back at Tony's face. "It's so hard on her, you know? Dealing with a son who's that sick. When he stops taking his pills, he gets completely insane. Locks himself in his room and puts newspaper over the windows. He thinks the Internet was invented to read people's minds. And there's no bargaining with him when he's like that. I once had to hit him over the head because he was walking around with a knife, threatening to kill us all if we didn't smash the computer to keep the Internet away from him. He has a scar on the back of head, behind his left ear—it's visible when his hair is short, like it is now."

"Good, Daniel," Tony said soothingly. "That's good."

"That's crap," Gibbs snorted, approaching the table with menace in his eyes. "Still doesn't tell us where this dirtbag is."

Tony turned suddenly and glared. "Lay off, Gibbs. Would you?" he said, turning back to Daniel. "He's just worried about his brother, right, Daniel?"

Daniel nodded enthusiastically, looking afraid of Gibbs. "That's right." He swallowed nervously. "And there's something else. Ryan is also diabetic. He doesn't take his insulin when he's like this, and he could die without it. Please, you just have to find him."

"You realize we'll be charging him with murder once we do?" Gibbs asked, as if this brother were crazy, too.

"Listen, Agent Gibbs," Daniel said, looking at his hands. "Ryan has done a lot of dumb things. And I'd always take the blame for him because I knew he was sick. But this isn't like that. He killed someone. And you need to find him before he does it again."