One Less - Chapter Two
by joykatleen
Gibbs reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pen. He used it to poke at the tags until one of them was upright and facing the correct direction. Pushing them a little further away put them in range for Gibbs to read them without his glasses. Ferrara, Francis L. Blood type O positive. USN. Catholic.
"Why did you take them?" Gibbs asked. He pulled one of his winter gloves out of his coat pocket and slipped his fingers far enough into it that he could use it to scoop up the tags. He turned the glove inside out with the tags inside, and put the bundle back in his pocket.
"It was a long walk here. If I didn't have them with me, I might have forgotten about him, or forgot he was real, before I got here."
Gibbs nodded. He pulled out his cell and flipped it open. Nicky reached across and grabbed Gibbs' forearm for a second before dropping his hand, and his eyes, at Gibbs' disapproving look.
"Who're you calling?" Nicky asked.
"My team. To recover the body."
"Not the police?" he asked.
"No-o," Gibbs said, pulling out the single syllable. "Some reason you don't want me to call the police?" He held the phone in his hand without dialing.
"Um, they might be looking for me," Nicky said quietly. He looked down at his almost empty coffee cup.
"Why?" Gibbs said, again dragging it out.
"There might be a warrant on me. Because I didn't go to court when I was supposed to."
"And why were you supposed to go to court?" Gibbs asked.
"I stole something, from the 7-11."
"Booze?" Gibbs asked.
"No!" Nicky said, insulted. "I don't drink anymore. It was a sandwich. And some milk. I was hungry." He met Gibbs' eye.
Gibbs stared at him until he was certain Nicky wasn't lying to him. "Well, Nicky, I've never called the police on a hungry man, don't plan on starting now. You had breakfast yet?"
Nicky looked at him a moment longer, then shook his head. "No."
Gibbs dug out a twenty dollar bill and slid it across the table toward him. "I'll take an apple Danish. And a refill. You get whatever you'd like." Nicky picked up the bill with a pleased smile, and got in the line. Gibbs dialed Tony's desk.
"There's an abandoned self-storage warehouse on First Northeast near Florida Ave. Might be a body in the receiving area. Possibly a sailor. Go check it out. Call me when you know something." Gibbs hung up without further explanation. He drained his cup and watched Nicky in the line. He was holding the bill in both hands, like it might fly away.
Gibbs reviewed the conversation so far. Nicky said he'd gone to the VA hospital for his medicine. So he was a veteran of some kind. He'd mentioned hearing Marines call people terrible names himself in the past. Maybe he'd been in the Corps? It was hard to tell under the heavy clothes and the ski mask, but Nicky seemed to be not much younger than Gibbs himself. So probably a veteran of Desert Storm.
If DiNozzo called back to say they'd found something, Gibbs was going to have to start by eliminating the possibility that Nicky had somehow been involved. His gut told him things had happened pretty much like Nicky said – through the prism of his mental illness – but he would have to make sure that's what the evidence said.
"Here you go," Nicky said, returning to the table. He handed Gibbs a fresh coffee, pushed over a pastry on a paper plate, and carefully set out the change in a neat pile. Gibbs left it lay. Nicky put his own plate down: sausage and biscuits, a side of scrambled eggs. He pulled off his gloves and after a look around to see if anyone was paying him any attention, he rolled the ski mask up to rest on his brow. He avoided looking at Gibbs, instead concentrating on spreading gravy evenly over his sausage patties.
Gibbs looked Nicky over as he picked up his Danish. Nicky's hands and face had been badly burned. The misshapen eyelids and lips he'd seen through the mask was only the start of it. Several of his fingers were short one knuckle or more. Wide planes of pink scar tissue covered the backs of his hands and framed his facial features, covering his chin and disappearing under the scarf wrapped around his neck. His nose had been rebuilt, but not very successfully. His eyebrows were gone, and he had no other facial hair. What hair there may have been on his head was hidden under the rolled-up mask.
"Ugly, ain't it?" Nicky said, still not looking up.
"Must be nice, not to have to shave every day," Gibbs said and took a bite. At that, Nicky did look up, and he twisted his lips into a surprised smile.
"Never had that reaction before," he said.
"That happen in Kuwait?" Gibbs asked. Nicky froze, his fork half way to his mouth. He suddenly looked nervous.
"Who told you that? Do they talk to you about me?" he asked and looked around again. This time his eyes were frightened, and Gibbs hurried to reassure.
"It's what the 'I' in NCIS stands for, Nicky. I investigate, figure stuff out. You said you go to the VA for your medicine. So you're a veteran. The extent of the scarring says poor initial burn care, which means you weren't stateside when it happened. You're not as old as I am, and the scars are too old to be from the current Gulf War. That makes you a prime candidate for service during Desert Storm. Odds are if you were burned while overseas, it happened in combat. Connect the dots, and you were probably caught in some kind of fire or explosion while serving in Kuwait."
Nicky nodded slowly. "It was a mortar attack," he said. "Hit our barracks in the middle of the night. Bad intel on the neighbors. They weren't supposed to have the capability. Lost five of my friends." He paused a second, then shook his head and finished his bite. It was the most normal his voice had sounded since he'd started talking.
"You were in the Marine Corps," Gibbs said, going with his gut. This time, Nicky stared at him for a long moment before carefully setting down his fork.
"They do speak to you," Nicky said, and reached for his gloves. "I have to go now."
"No, Nicky. Wait. It's alright," Gibbs said, and reached carefully to take Nicky's wrist. Nicky's eyes widened.
"Semper Fi," Gibbs said softly. "A Marine always tries to do the right thing. For God, for country, for the Corps. Ooh-rah."
"Ooh-rah," Nicky replied under his breath. Then, a little louder, "Lance Corporal Dominic Masterson. You?"
"Gunnery Sergeant, retired, First of the First. Served in Panama and Desert Storm," Gibbs said. "We take care of our own, don't we?"
"We do. I would have. If I'd known they were real. I would have tried to do something. I didn't know, Gunny. I didn't believe it."
"I know," Gibbs said. "You're doing something now. You're doing the right thing."
Nicky nodded, several times in succession, then relaxed. When Gibbs was sure he wasn't going to bolt, he released his wrist.
"Eat your breakfast," Gibbs said, and Nicky picked up his fork again.
Gibbs said nothing more until he'd finished his Danish. Nicky ate his meal with obvious enjoyment. They were seated enough out of the way that few people took any notice of them, but everyone who did took a second look at Nicky. Some glanced quickly away as if embarrassed. A few openly stared. One group of teenagers pointed and snickered, until a glare from Gibbs made them take their drinks and flee. Nicky pretended to be oblivious.
"So how come you live in the warehouse? You could live in a veterans' home, if you're clean and sober."
"I am," Nicky said. "For almost nine years. Nobody believes me. But I'd had enough, you know? Too many good drugs, too much alcohol. That's why I'm crazy sometimes. Fried my brain."
"So why don't you stay there?" Gibbs asked. He was close to the bottom of his second cup of coffee and trying to draw it out until DiNozzo called back.
"I've tried it, a few times. But I don't like it there. They take and they don't give." He shrugged, scooping up gravy with a chunk of biscuit.
"What does that mean?" Gibbs asked.
Before Nicky could answer, Gibbs' cell rang in his pocket. Nicky started, looking around as if seeking the source of the ring. Gibbs retrieved the phone, held it up for Nicky's inspection, and answered.
"Hey Boss, DiNozzo."
"What'd ya got?" he asked.
"No body, but signs of a recent crime scene. I called Metro: They responded to a homicide here earlier this morning. Finished about an hour ago. Male in his 20s, no identification."
Gibbs sighed. "Meet me back at the Yard." He hung up.
"What do you say we go back to my office for a little while," Gibbs asked Nicky.
"Can't," Nicky said matter-of-factly.
"Why not?"
"Have to get over to St. Margaret's. It's Bible study night."
"We'll be done in plenty of time," Gibbs said with a smile.
"You don't get it," Nicky said. He wiped up the last of his gravy. "There's a nun there, Sister Emily. She lets me have lunch with the nuns sometimes, and if I clean up the preschool room and sweep out the church before Bible study, she lets me get a change of clothes out of the donation bin, and a hot shower."
"Okay. How about we make a deal?"
"What kind of deal?" Nicky asked, suspicious again, but not frightened.
"You come back to my office, talk to me and my team a little more about what you saw when the sailor died, and I'll see to it you get a shower, a change of clothes, and some new boots too."
Nicky frowned. "I usually work for what I get, when I can."
"This'll be work. You'll have to tell us everything you saw, everything you heard. Probably a couple times."
Nicky seemed to consider. His eyes widened as something occurred to him.
"Will I have to sit in the room with the one-way mirror? Like on Law and Order?"
"Nah," Gibbs said. "We don't do that to people trying to do the right thing. So what'd you say?"
"What about dinner?" Nicky asked. "If I have to tell the story a few times, I might not get back to the shelter in time for dinner."
"Now you're pushing it," Gibbs said with a smile. Nicky shrugged, unapologetic.
"Sometimes they run out, if you don't get there early."
"Alright. You come with me now, I'll get you to dinner on time."
"And a shower and change of clothes?" Nicky asked.
"And some new boots if you're patient," Gibbs agreed.
"Deal," Nicky said, and held out his hand to shake. Gibbs shook. They got up to leave, gathering their trash.
"Don't forget your change, Gunny," Nicky said, and scooped it up.
"You keep it," Gibbs said.
This time, there was no argument from the smaller man. He slipped the cash into his pocket and readied himself for the return to the cold.
to be continued...
There it is. The set up. You like? You no like? Let me know...