One Less Part Seven

by joykatleen

They spent the next hour interviewing people who knew Ferrara. It was the same story all around: he was a nice guy who did his job and kept mostly to himself. The officers who served close to Capt. McNally seemed to know more about Ferrara than the men he shared quarters with. Which would make some kind of sense, Gibbs figured, since a Captain's Yeoman spent most of his waking hours with the executive staff. But none of them had any ideas on why he'd been killed, or had any knowledge of anyone giving him trouble. Among the sailors who shared quarters with him, only the two whose racks were above and beside Ferrara's seemed to have anything personal to say about him. They both said he was friendly, could hold his own when they played penny-ante poker, and spent a good part of his off time either reading or working out in the hangar bay. When he'd first become Captain's Yeoman, one of the sailors told McGee, they'd been nervous around him, figuring their normal pattern of talking crap about the officer corps would get back to the Captain. But Ferrara had proved their concerns groundless. He didn't take part, but he didn't take offense either, and nothing anyone said ever came back to bite them in the ass. Over time, their discomfort faded and he was once again as much one of the crew as he had ever been. A few of the sailors acknowledged they'd spent several evenings on liberty with Ferrara when they were in various ports, but could only say that he was kind of quiet, didn't drink to excess, and was shy around women, rarely making a score.

They searched Ferrara's personal space on the ship – his rack – and found mostly the usual things a sailor away from home kept near. Letters and photos from family and friends were taped to the ceiling of the small space and tucked under his mattress. A crucifix was pinned to the wall above his pillow. A Vince Flynn novel with a post-it marking a spot two-thirds of the way through was under his pillow, along with a khaki-covered and obviously well-read Bible. A small teddy bear with a rosary around its neck was tied to one of the uprights with a red, white and blue ribbon.

His locker told them little more. Uniforms, extra boots, two sets of civies, three more paperbacks. Toiletries. What Gibbs identified after a moment as a running prosthetic. He picked that up and examined it. The running surface resembled a curved blade with a rubber grip on the bottom. The outside of the socket was painted with a stylized US Navy crest. The inside was smooth plastic with compression foam at the bottom and around the upper edge of the socket. Noticing something odd about the foam at the bottom, Gibbs pressed his fingers against the spot, and it gave. A small cut-out space, about two inches by three-quarters of an inch by half an inch deep, with a piece cotton batten stuffed inside.

"McGee?" Gibbs called. McGee looked up from where he was paging through the books. "What do you make of this?" McGee stepped over and looked.

"No idea. I can't think of what would go there."

"Could it be for some kind of battery pack?" McGee held out his hands and took the prosthetic, examining the place where the blade met the socket.

"It's not electronic. There wouldn't be any need for it."

Gibbs returned the leg to its resting place, storing the anomaly away for future reference. He finished the search but found nothing else of interest. They gathered up Ferrara's personal items for future investigation and eventual return to his family and headed topside.

As they approached the checkpoint at the ship's gangway, the deck officer stopped them. "The Captain would like to see you before you leave, sirs," he said. "If you have a few minutes."

"We'll be right back," Gibbs agreed, gesturing toward the car with the box he held in his hands. The officer nodded, and Gibbs and McGee loaded Ferrara's things and the files Fredrick had given them into the sedan. Returning to the checkpoint, they met with same Airman who'd brought Michael Ferrara into the conference room. She escorted them back through the carrier to another door two down from the conference room. She knocked smartly on it, and when bid enter, opened the door and gestured them inside.

It was the Captain's private study. The room was about half the size of the conference room, containing a desk with two chairs facing it, a wall of bookcases, several filing cabinets, and a sideboard that Gibbs knew would contain the only alcohol allowed onboard.

"Gentlemen, thanks for coming." Capt. McNally got to his feet behind his desk. He wasn't a tall man, probably 5'10, but he was well-built. His biceps strained the material of his khaki uniform blouse when he pushed himself upright, and there was no sign of the middle-age spread that afflicted most fleet officers the further away from the front they got. His head was completely bald, though from hair loss or by choice, Gibbs couldn't tell. The man was young for a ship's Captain, the youngest Captain of an aircraft carrier in the fleet, Gibbs knew. He'd read an article about this guy a few years ago and remembered being impressed. He'd graduated first in his class at Annapolis, became an aviator and graduated TOPGUN with the highest scores ever recorded to that time. McNally was flying combat missions over Iraq while Gibbs was on the ground in Desert Storm, and had a confirmed strike record of almost 98 percent. As a commander, he'd lead Strike Fighter Squadron 213 in the initial response to the attacks of September 11th. He was promoted to Captain in 2006, and the Roosevelt was his first command.

"Can I offer you a drink?" McNally asked as he moved over to his sideboard. McGee looked at Gibbs, seeking guidance.

"What do you have, sir?" Gibbs asked.

"A little of everything. What's your pleasure?"

"Bourbon," Gibbs said. "McGee?"

"Uh, the same," McGee said. The Captain poured a short shot into each of three glasses and passed them around. When he was again seated behind his desk, he took a sip and set his glass down. Gibbs sipped at his own glass and from the corner of his eye, saw McGee do the same. The younger agent winced and choked back a cough. Gibbs and Capt. McNally exchanged wry smiles before the Captain spoke.

"What can you tell me, Special Agent Gibbs, about the death of my Yeoman?"

Gibbs was not surprised the Captain knew who he was. He wouldn't be much of a Captain if he wasn't aware of every visitor who set foot on his ship, and their purpose.

"Very little, sir. He was found this morning in an abandoned self-storage warehouse in Washington. It appears he was beaten to death, sometime on Saturday night."

"Any suspects?"

"Not yet. We have some information that may lead us to the killers, but it's still early in our investigation."

"Killers? Plural? You have a witness? Or forensics from multiple sources?"

Gibbs considered the Captain, and how much he should say.

"Permission to speak off the record, sir?" Gibbs asked.

"Whatever you say will not leave this room, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs nodded. "We have a witness. He claims three Marines were responsible."

Capt. McNally frowned and leaned forward over his desk. "Marines from my carrier group?"

"Impossible to know at this point. There's no shortage of military personnel in and around Washington. Could have been Marines from anywhere. Might have just been men in fatigues. Like I said, sir, it's early."

"Is there anything I or my staff can do to help?" Capt. McNally took another sip from his tumbler.

"We'll need a list of everyone who was on shore leave on Saturday night, in case it was someone Petty Officer Ferrara knew," Gibbs said.

"Not a problem. But it's not going to help. TR's complement is 3,200, plus another 2,500 in the air wing. Most of them have been with us at least one cruise, so just about everyone aboard could be said to have known him. Also, two-thirds of the crew are being housed in shore barracks or off-base housing during the refit. So I'll only have records of who among the carrier-based third was ashore."

Gibbs frowned his frustration. Of course it couldn't have been that easy.

"Nonetheless, it might give us a place to start."

"I'll have the logs pulled." McNally took another sip of bourbon and seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking.

"That boy was something special. A fine sailor even before his accident, and since he returned to duty he's worked twice as hard as anyone in my crew. It was like he was trying to earn the right to stay in the Navy. Hell, I wouldn't have cared if he'd lost both legs to the hip: he was the best adjutant I've ever had. Smart as a whip, handled everything I threw at him with grace and skill. Not to mention he was one hell of a debater, and not afraid to stand up for what he believed in, even against the crowd, or against my senior staff. More than once he changed my opinion, and several times changed conditions on this ship for the better. I'm going to miss him on many levels."

McNally drained his glass and set it down on his desk with a bang. He looked like he was going to continue, but changed his mind. Instead, he rose and moved across to one of the bookshelves, where he started looking for something.

Gibbs spoke again. "Sir, I've read Petty Officer Ferrara's SRB, including the commendations you wrote him, and he does sound like one hell of a sailor. But I also heard that he might have been perceived by some as… 'odd' and 'marginal' were the words used. We also heard that he might have been troubled about something recently." Gibbs waited for the Captain's reaction. What he said next, and how it was said, would tell Gibbs a lot about Ferrara's back story.

McNally turned to face them. His expression was hard.

"Frank was a good sailor. He did his duty with pride and dedication. He sacrificed a lot to serve his country, and I was proud to be his Commanding Officer. He was in no way unstable, nor was he in any way unfit for duty in this Navy, from the day he arrived on this ship until the last time I saw him on Saturday morning. You keep that in the front of your mind, Special Agent Gibbs, and you find out who did this to him."

"Yes sir, we will."

McNally nodded, once, then his expression softened. "He had seemed a little… distracted in recent weeks. Nothing that affected his performance, I just got the sense that he had something on his mind. I asked him about it on Friday, but he shook it off, said it was nothing. I had hoped that his time ashore would give him a chance to resolve whatever it was." McNally sighed.

"Do you know where he was going when he left the ship?" McGee asked, joining the conversation for the first time. Gibbs thought his voice was a little hesitant, even for him, and wondered if his youngest agent wasn't a little intimidated by their surroundings.

"He said he was going to visit his brother's family. They live in Portsmouth. Beyond that, I don't know."

McNally returned his attention to the bookshelf. He found the book he was looking for and pulled it down. Opening it only slightly, he removed a photograph which he looked at for a moment before turning to hand it to Gibbs.

It was a picture of two men and four young boys, all decked out in fishing gear. The youngest of the children appeared to be about five or six, the oldest maybe 10. The younger of the two adults bore a striking resemblance to the man in front of him, and Gibbs took a closer look. It was in fact a younger Capt. McNally.

"That's me and Senior Chief Joseph Ferrara, Frank's father. He was a mechanic with our squadron for years. Retired after he broke his back falling off an engine lift, about three years after that picture was taken. The youngest boy is Frank's older brother, Michael. You were speaking to him earlier?"

Gibbs nodded his agreement, and McNally continued. "Frank was only a toddler at the time. The oldest boy is my son, Nathanial. He's used his mother's maiden name since he joined the Navy. Didn't want his old man's reputation to affect his career, for better or worse." McNally paused, a pleased smiled passing briefly over his face. "The family moved to Los Angeles after Joe retired, and I didn't see them again until after Frank's accident." He stopped again.

"You know about the accident that took Frank's foot?" McNally asked.

"Yes, sir," Gibbs said. He sensed where this was going.

"Nate was the pilot on the F-18 that Frank stopped from going over the edge. I didn't know Michael or Frank were even in the Navy. I'd almost forgotten about them. Joe and I had been friends, but after he retired, we drifted apart. I was at sea, involved in my career, and he was virtually home-bound in LA. After the accident, when I went to the hospital to see the sailor who'd saved my son and his RIO, I ran into Joe. I'd been told Frank's name, but I never made the connection." He held out his hand for the picture, and Gibbs handed it back.

"He saved my son's life. A debt I will never repay. He was a good sailor and a good man." McNally tucked the photo back into the book and reshelved it. He faced them again. "Does anything else matter?"

"Not unless it impacts my investigation, sir."

McNally held Gibbs' eye. When he found what he was looking for, he nodded and sat back behind his desk.

"Is there anything else, gentlemen?" he asked.

"When did you report Petty Officer Ferrara missing?" Gibbs asked.

"I couldn't find a readiness report I needed Sunday afternoon. When he didn't respond to my hail, I sent a runner looking for him. Took about an hour to confirm he wasn't aboard. I called the deck officer to see when he'd returned from liberty, and when I was told he had not, I asked Michael's crew chief to talk to him, see if he knew anything. He didn't. I made the report to Agent Fredrick about 1700 hours."

"What was his reaction?"

"He said he would file a missing persons report with NCIS and with Norfolk Police." At Gibbs' silence, Capt. McNally frowned. "Did he?"

"No sir. Our first indication that Petty Officer Ferrara was missing was the discovery of his body this morning."

"Very well," McNally said, and Gibbs could see that was far from the end of it.

"Would you like me to speak to the director?" Gibbs began. He was already primed to make an issue out of it. The support of a Navy fleet captain would certainly help.

"No thank you. I'll handle it. Please keep me informed on the status of your investigation."

"Yes, sir. We will." McNally nodded and stood, Gibbs and McGee following suit. Gibbs resisted the urge to salute and instead offered his hand. Capt. McNally shook it firmly. Gibbs drained his glass and set it on the Captain's desk before turning to go. McGee also thanked the Captain and shook, then set his barely-touched drink beside Gibbs' glass.

McGee was virtually vibrating as they headed down the passage away from the executive quarters. When he was certain they were alone, he leaned in and spoke quietly to Gibbs.

"Capt. McNally knew Petty Officer Ferrara was gay," he said.

"Yes. He did," Gibbs agreed. "What else?"

McGee considered as they moved further down ship.

"Agent Fredrick knew, too. Only he didn't like it."

"Nice catch," Gibbs congratulated him.

"What's going to happen to him?" McGee asked.

"He'll be reassigned. Most likely before start of business in the morning. The request of a Carrier captain goes a long way with the SecNav." Two officers in uniform approached, and they stood aside as the men passed. "He'll probably spend some time in the penalty box."

"Penalty box?"

"No duty assignment, just a lot of paperwork. Agent at large."

McGee cringed. He'd done that as new agent right out of FLETC, before NCIS discovered his computer skills. He never wanted to go there again.

By the time they finished on board the carrier and got back into the car, it was past 7 p.m. and already long dark. The snow was still coming down, and still not sticking. Everything around them was glistening with moisture.

Gibbs had received four calls while he was aboard the Roosevelt: He'd had no service deep inside the steel ship. Two from Abby and one each from Ducky and DiNozzo. He could guess what DiNozzo wanted: Nicky was probably chomping at the bit to leave. Similarly, Petty Officer Ferrara's cause of death was likely a no-brainer, so Ducky could wait. He dialed Abby.

"Gibbs! You're not going to believe what I found."

"Something good, I hope," Gibbs said.

"Well, not good, really, actually, kind of bad. But important. I mean, really, really important."

"Spit it out, Abby," Gibbs said.

"I know why the phrase 'One Less' was familiar."

Gibbs waited for her to continue, and when she didn't, he sighed inwardly. He was not in the mood for games.

"Just tell me, Abs."

"It's from a cold case. One of ours. From when you were in Mexico. An aggravated assault in Newport News. The victim had a note in his pocket just like the one Petty Officer Ferrara had. It said 'One Less'."

Gibbs felt like smacking himself. Of course. In the weeks after he'd returned from his four-month hiatus in Mexico, he'd read through all the cases his team had caught and not closed while he was away. The details came flooding back to him: A young officer, less than two years out of the Naval Academy, attacked on shore leave and beaten nearly to death. He had suffered a spinal injury that ended his career. Unfortunately, a severe concussion had also caused him to have no memory of the attack or anything from the hours leading up to it. He couldn't tell DiNozzo and the team where he'd gone, who he'd met, or who he might have run afoul of. They'd found no witnesses, and not enough forensics to get them anywhere. The case had gone cold and was never solved.

"I remember. Pull the case for me and see if you can locate the victim."

"Already did. The victim still lives in Mitchellville, Maryland, at the same address he had then."

"That's excellent work, Abby. We're on our way back."

"Wait, Gibbs. I have more!" Abby said as he made to hang up.

"Go," Gibbs said.

"Petty Officer Ferrara got a piece of at least one of his attackers. Ducky found some skin and blood under his nails. I typed it and I'm running DNA now. Hopefully he's in the system."

"Anything else?"

"The blood on his clothes was all his. The junk was just junk. There's a few items I'm still working on identifying, and there were some fibers on his clothes that don't match anything the Petty Officer was wearing. I'm running them through the FBIs fabric database."

"Try military fabrics," Gibbs said. "MARPATS first."

"Oooo. You have a suspect?" she asked, with a hint of predatory glee in her voice that Gibbs picked up even across the cell.

"Not yet. What else?"

"Metro took photos of some partial boot prints in the dirt and blood, but there's no way to know if they belong to the attackers. He laid there long enough that they could be anyone's. They're not Nicky's, that's all I know for sure. And there's nothing unique about the treads that will help in matching. Standard waffle soles, mild wear. That's all I've got for now. Tony wants to know if he should let Nicky go home."

"I'll call him." Gibbs terminated the call, then dialed Ducky's cell. He figured that Ducky would have finished with Petty Officer Ferrara and already gone home.

"Ducky, whad'a you got?" he asked when Dr. Mallard picked up. Gibbs could hear hastily turn-down classical music. He was in his Morgan.

"Nothing particularly significant," the medical examiner responded. "He died from internal bleeding caused by repeated blunt force trauma. No weapon marks. It appears the damage was all caused by fists and feet. And you were right: he likely lived an hour or longer after the last injury was inflicted. "

"Damn it," Gibbs swore. If only Nicky had called for help right away…

"Yes, but Jethro, had he been found immediately, he still would have likely died," Ducky interrupted Gibbs' trip down that what-if road. "He had a fracture to the C-3 vertebrae that severed the spinal cord. Had he been taken immediately to a trauma center and given perfect care, he still would have been paralyzed and mostly dependant on a ventilator the rest of his life, even if he ever regained consciousness. He had significant swelling of the brain as a result of repeated blows to the head that might have made even that impossible. His body wound down like a broken clock. He was dead long before he stopped breathing."

Gibbs took that in.

"Any sexual trauma?" he asked.

"No. Were you expecting any?" Ducky asked.

"This might be a hate crime."

"I see. There were no fluids present on the body other than blood consistent with his own, and it appears all the injuries were inflicted while he was dressed."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"At least one of his attackers leads with his left," Ducky said.

"Left-handed?" Gibbs asked. That could help.

"Perhaps. About half the impacts came at Petty Officer Ferrara with a left-handed lead. But it's not conclusive that the assailant is left-handed. It's just as likely he's right-handed and for some reason leads with the left."

Gibbs sighed. "What else?"

"Some skin under his fingernails, Abby is typing it now."

"I heard," Gibbs said.

"Well then you know what I know. My report is on your desk."

"Thanks, Duck. I'll see you in the morning." He disconnected and dialed DiNozzo.

As he'd suspected, DiNozzo had nothing new for him. They'd finished with Nicky hours before. Working with the agency's sketch artist, he'd come up with promising sketches on two of the three attackers. Nicky claimed he'd never gotten a good look at the third guy. He was asking about dinner.

"Feed him, then get him a room somewhere. I want him where I can find him," Gibbs told him.

"Will do, Boss. You want us to stay?"

"I've got some leads I want you to and McGee to run down later tonight. Be back by 10." Gibbs hung up.

to be continued...

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