One Less - Part Eight

by joykatleen

Arriving back at headquarters just before 10 p.m., McGee took Ferrara's belongings down to the evidence lockup while Gibbs went to the squadroom. The big room was mostly dark. Government energy saving guidelines dictated that the overhead lights be off or dimmed after 8 p.m., despite the employees still there. Small islands of lamp light marked the occupied desks of the administrative agents and technical analysts who worked Middle East assignments. That part of the globe was half a day ahead, meaning most of their work was done while the Western world slept. One member of the cleaning crew was moving through the office emptying the shred cans. Gibbs knew the only other people in the building would be the rest of the cleaning staff and the techs who monitored satellite traffic in MTAC. It was definitely down time at NCIS.

Gibbs took off his coat, stowed his gun and sat behind his desk, not bothering to turn on his desk light. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It had been a long drive through the snow back from Norfolk. They'd stopped for a meal outside of Richmond, and after eating Gibbs had taken over the driving. The short shot of bourbon he'd had in the Captain's office was nowhere near enough to impair him, but on the off chance they got pulled over or God forbid had an accident, even a .01 blood alcohol would require an incident report be written. So he'd spent the first half of the return trip in the passenger seat, trying to relax away the steadily building pressure behind his eyes. He'd had little success.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was one of Gibbs' favorite times of the day. Being here in the late evening, or early in the morning, let him focus on his job without the political distractions that came with business hours in Washington. He truly loved his job, had from the beginning. But he could sure as hell live without the politics. If The Powers That Be would just let him do his job, he'd be in pig heaven. But they wanted him to follow rules and regs and write reports and be nice to the dirtbags…

Gibbs had joined NCIS less than a year after he was wounded in Kuwait, less than a year after his family was murdered. It had been a temporary measure, a way to make a few bucks while he figured out what the hell he was going to do with his life, now that he was barely interested in living it. With his training and experience in the military, and his security clearance, getting the job had been easy. After he got it, he'd found himself growing interested despite his almost debilitating depression. His first boss was the man who'd investigated Shannon and Kelly's murders. Mike Franks had taken him under his wing, taught him to be an investigator, taught him to live again. They'd worked together for four years until Franks quit in a fit of rage after the government's impotent response to the terrorist bombing of Khobar Towers in Saudi Arabia. Nineteen members of the US Air Force and one Saudi national were killed, with 372 others wounded. In response, the government had launched an investigation, blamed the General who oversaw the troops housed there, and struck back at no one. Franks had quit his job, abandoned his home, moved to Mexico and taken up drinking as a sport.

Suddenly without a team leader, Gibbs had stepped into Franks' shoes, taking on the leadership role with the other two members of their team. Though the brass definitely didn't approve of many of his methods, they couldn't deny that he was effective. Over time, he collected enough IOUs to be almost bullet proof. Almost.

Many years passed before Gibbs finally understood why Franks had done what he did that day. At the time and for many years after, he'd thought his friend and mentor had taken the coward's way out. Abandoned them while the fight was still on. It wasn't until Gibbs' own moment of rage – when several dozen sailors aboard the munitions ship Cape Fear had been sacrificed when they could have been saved had only someone listened to him – that Gibbs had finally understood. Then he'd done exactly what Franks had done: quit his job and run off to Mexico. Problem was, he couldn't take up drinking as a way of life. He'd tried. Lord, how he'd tried. But being a beach bum just wasn't in him. There was too much still to be done. Then Hamas had tried to frame Ziva for murder, she'd called him for help, and he'd been dragged back into the fight. Not that he minded. During his time in Mexico, he'd been like a boat with no rudder, lost on the sea. Ziva's call had saved him from drowning.

"Gibbs?" a soft voice made him start and pop open his eyes. Ziva was just stepping between their adjoining desks. Speak of the devil.

"Officer David," he said, startled but not surprised by how easily she'd snuck up on him. She was Israeli-trained and could be almost as silent as he could, when she wanted to be. She sat down at her own desk.

"Nicky is a very interesting man, yes?" she said. She put one foot up on her desk and untied the laces of the short boot she was wearing, removing it and setting it beside her chair before repeating the process with the other foot.

"He seems to be," Gibbs agreed.

"He was very excited to be shopping. It appears he has not had new clothing in quite some time."

"Probably hasn't. According to McGee, he's been homeless for most of the last 12 years." Gibbs watched her as she stretched her feet, flexing and curling her toes inside a pair of multi-colored socks. On the drive to Norfolk, McGee had filled Gibbs in on what he'd been able to discover about Nicky's life since leaving the Marines. After he was released from the burn unit at the VA hospital, Nicky had moved into a veteran's home for transitional care. He'd held several part time jobs while he was there, none lasting longer than a month. Apparently, that was when he'd started drinking heavily. Six months passed before he left that facility and moved into a small, government-subsidized apartment. He'd lived there only three months before he stopped paying the rent and was asked to leave. That began a cycle of short-term housing and even shorter-term employment that eventually ended with him landing on the streets. As Nicky had said, there were reports of arrests and hospital admissions for drug and alcohol abuse for the first three years after his released from the Marines, then a stint in drug rehab nine years ago that seemed to have stuck. There'd been no substance abuse incidents since then.

Also as Nicky had said, there was a warrant out for him for failure to appear to answer for a petty theft citation two years before. Gibbs had told McGee to clear the warrant. It was one thing they could do for him, anyway.

"Nicky is a decorated veteran of the Marine Corps, a man who almost sacrificed his life to save others," Ziva continued, and looked over to Gibbs for confirmation.

"Yes," Gibbs said, waiting for the rest.

"Then why does he not get veterans' assistance? A housing benefit of some kind?"

"He could if he wanted to. He chooses to stay on the street."

Ziva cocked her head quizzically. "Why?"

Gibbs considered it. "His mental illness is part of it. He's gotten pretty used to living on the fringe of society. Rejoining the mainstream probably scares him."

"But why would he choose to be homeless? He would not have to rejoin society. He could still be on the fringe if he wanted to. He would just have somewhere safe to sleep."

"It's not that simple, Ziva. Mental illness is hard."

"He takes medicine for that," she said.

Gibbs looked at her strangely. "Why are you so interested?"

Ziva shrugged. "He seems like a nice man. I want to do something to help him."

Gibbs almost smiled. He, too, had been taken in by Nicky's charm and his straightforward way of looking at life.

"We will, Ziva. We Marines take care of our own."

"But I am not a Marine," Ziva pointed out.

To that, Gibbs had to smile. "You're the closest thing to a Marine who's not a Marine that I've ever met."

Ziva was stunned and it showed on her face. Giving her the moment, Gibbs flipped on his desk light and looked through the small stack of reports that had accumulated on his desk during the day. Ducky's autopsy report he would save for later. He was sure Ducky had told him everything important. There was one from DiNozzo on the interview with Nicky that he would need to read. Copies of two sketches were clipped to the back of the report. Gibbs studied them: Definitely looked like Marines. One obviously older than the other. No scars or marks on their faces that would make them immediately identifiable. And neither of them reminded Gibbs more than superficially of anyone they'd interviewed aboard the Roosevelt. And that, he supposed, was going to be the problem. These two faces reminded him in some way of just about every Marine he'd ever met.

The final folder was the case report on the assault Abby had found. He glanced at the first page, which listed the biographical information on the victim. Brandon Hutchinson, address in a middle-class section of Mitchellville, Maryland. It was too late to go talk to him tonight: he hadn't remembered anything two years ago, and the slim chance that he'd have anything to assist in this investigation wasn't worth disturbing a victim they hadn't been able to help. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

"Where's DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, closing the folder.

"Downstairs with Abby."

"What's she still doing here?" he asked.

Ziva shrugged. "Playing video games with Tony, last I saw."

"Come on," he said to Ziva, who hastily stood, shoved her feet back into her unlaced boots, and jogged to follow.

They descended to Abby's lab. McGee was standing behind the swivel chairs at Abby's main computer station, watching DiNozzo and Abby playing some kind of shoot-em-up video game. As Gibbs and Ziva entered, McGee looked back at them and a guilty expression passed over his face. Busted.

"Who's winning?" Gibbs asked from just behind DiNozzo's right ear. DiNozzo jumped, but Abby kept firing her weapons.

"I'm cleaning his clock," Abby said with delight. "Ah ha! Gotcha!" she squealed as one of the characters died a bloody and graphic death.

"No fair, interference," DiNozzo objected. "I was distracted." Abby did a little victory dance.

"There's plenty of distractions in the field, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "Gotta learn to focus." He reached for one of three pizza boxes resting on the center work table and flipped up the lid, snagging a piece. Cold, but good.

"Where'd you put Nicky?" Gibbs asked.

"Um, about that," DiNozzo said. Gibbs cocked an eyebrow at him.

"He flat refused, Boss. Said he would be fine at his warehouse. I really pushed it, but he said if I rented him a motel room, he probably wouldn't stay in it anyway. I took him back to the warehouse, had him show me which room he was staying in. He said you know where to find him if you need him."

"Yeah alright." He took another bite and turned to Abby. "You didn't have to stay, Abs," he said around a mouthful of pizza.

She shrugged. "Didn't have any plans anyway."

"You have that list of businesses I asked for?" he asked her.

"Here," she handed him a sheaf of several papers stapled together. On the top page, Gibbs could see yellow highlighting indicating the 'gay-oriented' businesses. Gibbs handed the papers off to DiNozzo.

"You and McGee go flash Ferrara's photo around the places Abby highlighted. See if anyone saw him Saturday night, or anytime in the past. Don't be Navy, you'll probably get more cooperation."

"Don't be Navy?" DiNozzo asked. "So what should we be?"

"How about a couple looking for a missing friend?" Abby suggested, and Gibbs could have sworn DiNozzo paled just a little. DiNozzo looked at McGee, at Gibbs, then back at Abby.

"A couple? Me and McGee?" He was incredulous.

"Sure. Why not?" Gibbs said. "McGee's a handsome kid." Gibbs was working hard to keep his face even. He knew Tony wasn't homophobic, would never treat a gay man with anything less than respect. But like most men he knew, Tony was nervous about being tagged that way himself. He stuffed the rest of his slice into his mouth.

"But Boss, I'm not, I mean, no one's going to believe…"

"Come on, partner, you heard him," McGee said, putting a small twist on the word 'partner' and batting his eyelashes. That did it, and Gibbs lost it, his face cracking into a grin. Beside him, Abby giggled.

"You two would make a cute couple," Ziva said.

DiNozzo choked, shaking his head. "This is above and beyond the call, boss."

"You'll be fine. Call if you find anything." He turned to go, leaving DiNozzo still sputtering behind him.

Gibbs updated Ziva on what they'd found aboard the Roosevelt, figuring McGee would do the same for DiNozzo. He had her pull a copy of the file on Lt. Hutchinson to reacquaint herself with the case, then sent her home and sat at his desk to read the file himself. Lieutenant Brandon Hutchinson, U.S. Naval Academy Class of 2004. Intelligence Specialist. Assigned to the U.S.S. Roosevelt on graduation. Good sailor, scored high in all proficiencies, made promotion as scheduled at the end of his first year. Approaching the end of his second year, while the Roosevelt was docked at Norfolk for Fleet Week, he was attacked and left for dead in Newport News, Virginia. DiNozzo, McGee and David had investigated the assault. Gibbs himself had been hiding in Mexico. He'd been gone four months, and his team had gone on without him. They'd done fine, mostly. But this one had gotten by them. Not that he'd have done any better had he been here. There just hadn't been anything to go on. Hopefully, with what was likely a new victim of the same attackers, they'd get somewhere this time.

Gibbs read through the rest of the report, then moved on to Ducky's autopsy report and the transcript of Nicky's interview with DiNozzo and David. He had some other paperwork to attend to, and when his desk phone rang almost two hours later, he was startled to realize it was almost 1:00 in the morning. Behind him at the Middle East desks, the night was in full swing. A low buzz of conversation in foreign languages spilled over the wall. It was almost soothing.

He snatched it up on the second ring. It was Abby. She had something. Gibbs was surprised she was still in the building. He asked her if it could hold long enough for him to refill his coffee, and did she want some Caf-Pow? A small one, she said.

"Abby," he called as he walked into the lab ten minutes later. She was sitting at her desk in the back part of the room, her desk lamp illuminating the otherwise darkened space. Her head was down on her arms on the desktop, her pigtails spread around her. The lab was silent.

"How come you're still here?" he asked. She sat up and accepted the Caf-Pow he held out. She took a sip, then set it on her desk.

"I stayed to wait for Tony and Tim," she said. "I worked for awhile on the stuff you brought from the Roosevelt. It was just stuff. Then I started playing in the records and I found something. Something bad." She seemed a little dejected.

"Bad how?" Gibbs asked. He set his coffee down and put his hands on her shoulders, massaging the tight muscles he found there. She groaned in appreciation.

"You've got great hands, Gibbs," she said.

"That's what they tell me. What did you find?" He patted her back and withdrew. She straightened, grabbed her soda and led Gibbs into the main part of the lab, turning on lights as she went.

"Since we've got two matching crimes, I wanted to see if I could come up with any more." She hesitated.

"And did you?" Gibbs prompted.

"I did." She worked her computer. "I found eight more over the past seven years."

"Eight?" Gibbs said in surprise. "How similar?"

Abby sighed. "Virtually identical. Young males, alone at the end of a night's liberty, assaulted but not robbed, injured seriously enough to end their careers."

"Anything like the note?"

"In three of the eight," Abby said. "Four of nine once you factor in Lt. Hutchinson."

"Three more? Damnit. What's the timeline?"

"Those three were the most recent of the eight I found. They happened last April, January of 2007, and October of 2005. Lt. Hutchinson was June of 2006."

"If there were no notes, why'd you include the other five?" Gibbs asked.

"Every one of the victims was from the Roosevelt," Abby said.

Gibbs stared at her. "Nine sailors from the same aircraft carrier seriously injured in assaults, and this is the first we've heard of it?"

"Eight sailors, one Marine," Abby corrected. "And it's the geography." She poked at her computer and a world map appeared on the plasma on the wall. Gibbs stepped over to it, and a series of red spots appeared. She was right: the dots were scattered across the globe.

"They happened everywhere. Petty Officer Ferrara and Lt. Hutchinson were the only two stateside. The other eight happened in seven different countries. They would have been investigated by local authorities, supervised by…"

"The agent afloat," Gibbs interrupted. "Damn it," he repeated.

"It's been Fredrick, since 1999," Abby said, and Gibbs suddenly understood her dejection. One of theirs had failed to notice – either through negligence or with intent – that there was a group of serial criminals aboard his ship.

"I need you to find out how many sailors have been aboard during that entire time period," Gibbs said.

"Already did. But didn't Nicky say he saw Marines?"

"Marines are only assigned to carriers short-term, six months at most. If men from the crew have been attacking people for six years, it's sailors."

"I actually found four Marines who were aboard for most of the attacks. Liaison personnel, for the Marine units. That was the Marine victim's assignment. But none of them was there for every attack." She tapped some more keys. "Among sailors, I've got 51 officers and 22 enlisted who've been assigned to the Roosevelt since she sailed from Norfolk after 9/11. The first attack I found came in January of 2002, when the ship made port in Saudi Arabia," Abby reported.

"Well, that narrows it down, anyway," Gibbs said. "Better than 6,000." He stopped, and his face showed something had occurred to him.

"What?" Abby said.

"I've got to keep him on board," Gibbs said, and reached for Abby's phone. He dialed a number from memory, glancing at his watch as it rang. One o'clock in the morning. This was so not going to go over well.

"Who?" Abby said, and Gibbs shook his head, putting a finger to his lips.

Gibbs spoke to the Navy's fleet operator, who put him through to the switchboard on the Roosevelt, who put him through to the Watch Officer. It rang five times and Gibbs was beginning to wonder if anyone would be on duty in the Watch Office of a ship docked in home port in the middle of the night, when the phone was finally answered.

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. I have an urgent call for Capt. McNally." He paused, listened, then nodded. "I know he's in quarters. This is urgent. Put me through." More silence, and Gibbs rolled his eyes.

"Sergeant, I understand your orders. I am countermanding them in the name of National Security. I need to speak to Capt. McNally immediately. If you'd like, I can get the Secretary of the Navy on the line, and he can tell you the same thing. But he's also in bed already, and he won't be nearly as nice as I am."

Gibbs nodded to himself, and put the phone against his chest. "You pull the reports on those cases you found?" he asked Abby.

"Already ready for you." She gestured to a stack of manila folders on her side table.

"Can you send electronic copies to everyone?"

"Sure," Abby nodded, and hustled back to her office, where she began working on her desktop computer.

"Abby!" Gibbs called after her. She looked over her monitor at him.

"Good job," Gibbs said, and she smiled.

"McNally," came a voice over the phone, and Gibbs focused.

"Captain, it's Gibbs from NCIS. Sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night, sir," Gibbs said.

"How did you manage to get Sergeant Safina to wake me up?" McNally asked. He didn't seem upset, just curious. "I left her pretty specific orders that I wasn't to be disturbed unless we were under attack. And since we're still in home port, I figured I'd be safe."

"Sorry about that, Skipper. It is urgent. Have you done anything about Special Agent Fredrick yet?"

"I left a few messages this evening. Haven't spoken to anyone. Neither your director nor the SecNav have been available."

Gibbs was relieved. "Good. I need him to stay aboard for awhile," he said. There was silence on the line.

"Why?" McNally finally asked.

"I'd rather not get into that yet, sir. I believe it's vital to our investigation that he stay in place until it's concluded. And I need to send you another agent."

"Why?" McNally said again. Gibbs racked his brain for an explanation.

"In light of the delay in reporting Petty Officer Ferrara missing, Headquarters will be running an audit of Fredrick's reports, to be sure he's meeting NCIS standards for quality and timeliness." Gibbs wasn't usually good at bureaucratic bull, but that wasn't half bad. It almost sounded reasonable.

More silence. "A reporting audit," McNally said. "And what will your man really be doing aboard my ship?"

"Were you aware that TR has lost nine sailors and one Marine in the past seven years to aggravated assaults while on shore leave?"

"I was not," McNally said with a hint of surprise. "I've only been billeted here since July of 2006. I know of two, one last spring, and one in January of '07."

"There have been ten that we know of since she sailed in 2001. I believe the attacks are connected, and I believe Agent Fredrick has information that might prove valuable to the investigation. Either he doesn't know it, or he's hiding it, and I need to find out which before you cut him loose."

There was another period of dead air while McNally seemed to consider that.

"You know we're sailing at the end of the week? If it takes more than a few days, your man's going to have to come along. And quarters are pretty tight."

"I know that, sir."

A pause. "I was pretty upset about the delay in reporting Frank missing. It wouldn't be totally out of character for me to demand that NCIS send another agent for an audit…" the Captain mused.

"Exactly, sir," Gibbs said.

"Very well. I'll hold off on taking action against Fredrick for now. When can I expect your man?"

"Mid-morning."

"You'll keep me informed?" McNally asked.

"Yes sir. We will."

Gibbs signed off and hung up the phone. Now, how to break it to DiNozzo?

to be continued...

Well, how do you like them apples? Lemme know...