One Less - Chapter One

by joykatleen

In the third-floor squadroom of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service headquarters aboard the Washington Navy Yard, Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs was drinking coffee and trying not to go nuts from sheer boredom. He and his team had been without a fresh case to work for nine days. It seemed like everyone in the DC area had decided to behave themselves all at once. It wasn't that Gibbs wanted someone to commit a crime, but the lack of action was maddening.

NCIS was the Navy's law enforcement arm. Unlike the Army and Air Force equivalents, NCIS was made up of civilian agents under a civilian director who answered directly to the Secretary of the Navy. The agency's Major Case Response Teams were made up of three to five agents who specialized in investigating felonies committed by and against members of the Navy and Marine Corps and their families. Along with a medical examiner and a forensic scientist, they handled every aspect of the case starting with witness interviews, evidence gathering and crime scene analysis, through case-building, to suspect interrogation and arrest. Their jurisdiction was based on identity of the parties rather than geography or nature of the crime, making them unique among civilian armed federal agencies. Only one Major Case team worked out of agency headquarters. Most of the other agents assigned there were in supervisory or analysis roles, helping to oversee the entire spectrum of NCIS's mission.

The squadroom contained three loosely divided work areas. At one end were the desks of intelligence analysts and other staff that supported NCIS's worldwide operations. The opposite end contained the desks of the half-dozen or so field response agents not assigned to one of NCIS's 16 field offices, 140 other permanent locations, or aboard ships. The center of the room was reserved for the agents of the Major Case team, lead by senior ranking field agent Gibbs, a retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant and 18-year veteran of the agency. Together with his team, he had the best clearance rate in modern NCIS history. Which was why, when the post-holiday lull hit, the agents had little to do but sift through cold cases, seeing if a fresh look might develop fresh leads. So far, they'd found nothing worth pursuing.

Gibbs' team consisted of three agents: His second in command and eight-year agent Anthony DiNozzo, Mossad liaison officer Ziva David who'd been with them about four years, and Tim McGee, a young agent who'd proven himself invaluable to Gibbs over the last six years, mostly for his ability to coax just about anything out of a computer. They held the day shift, typically the busiest shift. But not these days.

When Gibbs' phone rang an hour into their Monday, all three of Gibbs' agents looked at him with hopeful expressions. He gratefully dropped the file he'd been scanning, pulled off his reading glasses and snatched up the handset.

"Yeah, Gibbs," he said.

"Stokes, main entrance." Henry Stokes was the weekday security supervisor at the building's front doors. He had a voice that Gibbs could have picked out of a stadium crowd. Gibbs passed Henry's security station on the way out and back in every time he went for coffee, which for Gibbs was at least half a dozen times a day. They'd become casual friends over the years, exchanging pleasantries, one-liners, weather reports and news briefs. Yet Henry always identified himself that way, every time he called up. Like without giving his name and identifying his station, Gibbs wouldn't remember him.

"Henry. How you doing?" Gibbs asked.

"Good. I've got a guy down here says he knows where there's a dead sailor," Henry said.

"So do I. Couple thousand of them, over at Arlington," Gibbs said. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes. They felt tired and strained. Probably time for new glasses. Damn. He was getting old.

"Funny man. But seriously. I think he's legit."

"Okay. Send him up," Gibbs said.

"That's the problem," Henry said. "He doesn't want to come in."

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"He's homeless, a little off. Doesn't want to give his name, refuses to pass through the detectors. Keeps saying he knows where there's a dead sailor and he wants to talk to an agent."

"Seem like trouble?" Gibbs asked. He glanced up and discovered he was the center of his team's attention.

"I don't think so. I think he's got something to say, and you should come down and talk to him."

"Alright," Gibbs nodded to himself. "Be right there."

"Better bundle up. It's cold outside."

"I'll keep that in mind." Gibbs hung up. He stood and pulled on his overcoat, turning to see his team preparing to gather their gear.

"Where do you think you're going?" Gibbs asked. Almost as one, the three of them resettled at their desks, disappointed looks all around.

"I'll let you know," he said. He picked up his coffee cup – almost empty – drained it, tossed it in the trash, then headed down to the lobby.

Henry was standing on their side of the metal detectors, thick arms crossed over his broad chest, watching a man of indeterminable age pace back and forth on the public side. The man was wearing many layers of tattered winter clothing, every inch of his skin covered with something warm, including both a knit ski mask and a wool beanie. He was shaking his hands lightly and mumbling to himself. Gibbs met Henry's eye, and the security officer shrugged. Gibbs stepped around the metal detector.

"Sir?" Gibbs said as he approached. "You wanted to talk to an NCIS agent?"

The man turned toward Gibbs, stopped still and eyed him up and down. Through the eye and mouth holes in the ski mask, Gibbs could see he was Caucasian, and that his lips and eyelids were misshapen and scarred, but nothing else.

"You an agent?" he asked.

"Special Agent Jethro Gibbs. And you are?"

"Nicky. Nick. Well, Dominic, really." Gibbs could immediately see what Henry had meant by 'a little off.' He was talking fast, moving his hands nervously.

"Nice to meet you, Nicky," Gibbs said, and stuck out his hand to shake. The man shied back, looking at Gibbs' hand like it was a snake. His eyes flickered between Gibbs' hand and his face, and finally he hesitantly shook. His hands were encased in several pairs of woolen gloves, holes in one pair showing the color of the pair beneath.

"You want to come inside? It's cold out."

"No, I can't," Nicky said, and looked past Gibbs to where Henry was still watching them. "They might be listening."

"Who, them?" Gibbs said, gesturing to Henry and his three officers. "They're harmless, I promise."

"Not them," Nicky said, but didn't elaborate. "I can't come in. I just came because I want to do the right thing."

"Always a wise choice," Gibbs said. "Henry tells me you know something about a dead sailor?"

"I do," Nicky said. "But not here. Can we walk?"

"Sure," Gibbs said. "I could use some coffee. How about I buy you a cup, Nicky?"

Nicky's eyes lit up behind the mask, and he nodded rapidly several times. "That would be real nice."

"After you." Gibbs gestured toward the doors, and Nicky led the way out into the cold. Gibbs turned up his collar and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. He moved easily, despite two bad knees that sometimes made him want to do anything but stand and walk. Somehow, it was always better when the weather was cold and dry. His ears immediately started to tingle, uncovered as they were by his longer-than-regulation – but still short enough – gray hair. The sky was overcast, threatening snow. That wouldn't be a bad thing: It hadn't snowed in days, and what remained from the last storm was gray and dirty, and kind of depressing.

As they walked, Gibbs considered the other man. Gibbs was a good eight inches taller than Nicky, making the smaller man 5'4 at the most. It was hard to tell how heavy he was under all the clothing he was wearing. His face under the mask was angular, so he was probably thin. His voice when he'd spoken was flat and without accent, meaning he probably wasn't from around here. But Gibbs was no linguist. The man's clothes were clearly second-hand, more dirty than clean, but they didn't smell. At least not that he could tell at this point.

They ducked into a small café a few blocks from the Navy Yard. It wasn't Gibbs' usual haunt, but it made pretty good coffee and had a fair-sized indoor seating area. Gibbs didn't want to have a lengthy conversation outside.

When they had two large coffees, and Nicky had poured a generous helping of sugar into his, they took chairs at a small table away from the door. Nicky pulled off his gloves and beanie, unzipped his outer coat, but left the ski mask on. It raised Gibbs' suspicion level a little, but he felt in his gut the guy was harmless. He opened his own coat.

Nicky spoke first. "I got some problems, you know? My head is kind of messed up. I take medicine, when I remember. When I don't, I sometimes see things and hear things. Things that aren't really there, you know?"

"I understand," Gibbs said and sipped at his coffee. He was wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

"So when I heard them fighting, I didn't think they were real. I lost my medicine a couple weeks ago, and it wasn't time for a refill, and President Bartlett called, and then David Letterman showed up, after the fighting."

"Okay," Gibbs said, for want of anything better. Nicky sighed.

"I know it sounds crazy. I am crazy sometimes. I know David Letterman didn't really come. Now, I know. But at the time, it feels pretty real. Really real. Which is why I thought they weren't real either, the three Marines beating up the sailor."

"So you saw a group of Marines fighting?" Gibbs clarified.

"I heard them first, from upstairs. A loud bang woke me up, then I heard them shouting. But I didn't think they were really there. You need to understand, Agent Gibbs, I didn't think they were real. If I'd had my medicine, and I'd seen them, maybe I might have been able to do something, though I don't know what, before they…"

Nicky was getting agitated, and Gibbs gave him his best reassuring smile. "It's alright, Nicky. Take it slow. What did the Marines do?"

"I came downstairs, mostly down, and looked around the corner. I saw three men beating on another one, only he wasn't in uniform so I didn't know he was a sailor then. Not until after I got my meds and he was still there. They were saying such terrible things to him. Calling him terrible names. You used to hear Marines say things like that, back in the day, in the old movies they show on TV sometimes? And sometimes I heard it myself, from the older guys. But that was a different time, you know? These days, to hear those Marines saying such bad things, it sort of pushed me to believing it couldn't be real, that it was something from the old movies. About when times were different."

Nicky took a few quick breaths and a gulp of coffee. Gibbs waited, trying to work out what Nicky was actually saying.

"So the three Marines were beating up a sailor, and saying bad things to him. How did you know they were Marines?"

"They were in BDUs. The new ones, I forget what they're called. They look like they came off a computer somewhere?"

"MARPATs," Gibbs supplied. He drank more coffee.

"Yeah, those," Nicky said. "They were wearing those, without identifiers. Lots of Velcro, no patches."

Gibbs nodded again. That was military standard: all patches on camouflage uniforms were Velcro-backed so they could be removed before washing. Helped keep them from fading too fast.

"We call them digi-cammies," Gibbs added when Nicky didn't continue.

"Digi-cammies," Nicky repeated, and behind the ski mask, his lips shifted into a small smile. "I like it."

Gibbs smiled back. "So then what?"

"They kept saying the bad things, and beating him up. They said they were going to 'teach you a lesson, show you how we deal with rot like you'." Nicky's voice dropped into a semblance of someone bigger, angrier. He shivered a little, and resumed his normal speech. "I was afraid, even if I really thought they weren't real. One time, this bad guy came and he was yelling and cussing and making threats, and I thought he wasn't real, so I just pretended he wasn't there, but he was, and he beat me up bad. So I didn't want anything to do with them you know?"

Gibbs nodded, made a go ahead gesture with his coffee cup.

"So I went back up to my room. But then the next morning, yesterday morning, the man with no uniform was still there. He was dead. But I still didn't think he could be real. I went to the VA, got my medicine, took it yesterday like I was supposed to. Then this morning, when he was still there again, and there were rats, and they were…" Nicky shivered again recalling the rats and their chewing. "Then I knew he was really real. I didn't know, before. Maybe I might have been able to do something. Can't imagine what, but maybe…" he shook his head, a bit dejected.

"If it was three on one, you probably couldn't have stopped them," Gibbs said. "Where did all this happen?"

"I stay in the old self-storage warehouse on First Street Northeast, near Florida Avenue. It's warm, and quiet, most of the time. No phones. No electricity, either. But I don't need it, usually. Wish there was a phone. Maybe I could have called for help."

"So you're saying there's a dead sailor in the self-storage warehouse on First Street Northeast?" Gibbs summarized. Nicky nodded.

"In the old receiving area, in the corner across from the stairs, where the streetlight shines in. They killed him, Agent Gibbs. But I didn't know he was real. I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Nicky," Gibbs said. "You said the dead man wasn't in uniform. How do you know he's a sailor?"

"He was wearing these," Nicky said. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a set of dog tags, letting them spill onto the table between them. Gibbs' eyes widened momentarily. While Gibbs had been convinced that the man in front of him believed what he was saying, he hadn't fully believed the truth of it himself. This changed things.

to be continued... a lousy place to break it, I know, but this section is actually almost 5,000 words, so I had to break it somewhere. I'm posting the next chapter shortly, if that helps.