One Less - Part 10
by joykatleen
Gibbs and Ziva drove to Lt. Hutchinson's home in Mitchellville, Maryland, about 15 miles from Washington. Ziva said the former sailor had sounded confused as to why they wanted to talk to him after all this time. But he'd readily agreed to meet with them.
The snow had stopped overnight, but the sky was still heavy. He'd missed the weather forecast he usually caught off his bedside radio. Looking at the heavy overcast, Gibbs had no doubt there was more to come.
Hutchinson's house was a larger than average, single story home designed with traditional architecture, a covered porch, and an honest-to-God white picket fence. As they started up the walk, the deep bark of a large dog heralded their arrival. The dog barked twice in succession, then paused before barking exactly twice more and falling silent. Gibbs and Ziva exchanged looks. They hadn't heard anyone shushing it.
The front door opened as Gibbs raised a hand to knock. No one seemed to be there, but once it was fully open, a yellow Labrador Retriever came out from behind it and stood in the doorway. It looked at them without any sign of welcome, seemed to judge, then wagged its tail several times and backed out of the way.
"Come in," came a voice from somewhere inside the house. Gibbs led the way, his senses on alert. Behind him, he could feel Ziva's unease. The dog turned away from them and calmly walked toward the back of the house. As Ziva closed the door, he noticed a knotted rope tied to the lever-action handle. The dog had opened it.
In front of them, the small foyer featured a set of closed French doors to their left and an open archway to what looked like a formal dining room to their right. Ahead the house opened into a great room Gibbs estimated was at least 30 by 20 feet, with 14 foot ceilings. It was tastefully but minimally furnished, with wide walkways around the furniture. A pair of ceiling fans turned lazily above them. Through floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the great room, they could see a large, landscaped backyard with a covered in-ground pool. Gibbs noticed it was warmer than average in the room.
"Follow the dog," the voice called out to them. Gibbs refocused on the lab, who had stopped in the back right corner of the great room and was looking over its shoulder at them. Again, the agents exchanged looks and Gibbs shrugged. He felt no danger.
Following the dog around the corner, they found themselves in a huge kitchen. The owner of the voice was sitting on a high wheeled stool, rapidly stirring something in a pan on the stove. At one end of the long room, out of the way, was a low-profile sport wheelchair.
"NCIS I presume?" the young blond man said. He was small, probably no taller than Ziva had he been standing, but his proportions were all wrong. His shoulders and arms under the long-sleeve t-shirt he was wearing were wide and bulging with muscles, yet his legs were thin and bony, their wasted condition obvious even under the thick sweat pants he was wearing. Gibbs had seen that kind of mismatch before in paraplegics who took care of themselves. And this young man obviously did.
"Agent Gibbs, Officer David," Gibbs introduced them. The dog moved over next to the stool, and the man in it leaned sideways to pick a dog treat out of a canister on the counter. He flipped it to the dog, who caught it neatly and retreated into the dining area. The dog crawled under the table, flopped onto the floor and ate his prize.
"Have a seat. I'll be done in a minute. This stuff'll burn if I'm not careful."
The man at the stove switched stirring hands, reached for a bottle of something on the back of the stove and poured a splash into the pan. A sizzle, and a cloud of steam, and a wonderful smell erupted.
"What are you cooking?" Ziva asked. They sat on bar stools at the counter-topped half-wall that separated the cooking area from the eating area.
"Not sure what I'm going to call it yet," he answered. "But it's going to be lunch. A cream-based sauce for pasta and chicken. It's got three kinds of bell peppers, cilantro, garlic, lime juice, chicken stock, butter. Oh, and Tequila," he added, holding up the bottle. "I like to experiment."
Putting the bottle back, he raised the spoon to his mouth and took a small taste, then rolled his eyes. "Heavenly," he said. He turned down the heat, stirred a few more times, then put a glass lid over the pan.
"That'll do it. Sorry about that." He wiped his hands on a dish towel before pushing himself off the counter and over toward them. The stool rolled smoothly across the hardwood floor. He grabbed the corner of the counter to stop the forward motion, positioning himself across the counter from where the agents sat.
"Brandon Hutchinson. Good to meet you," he said, and offered his hand to each of them in turn. His grip was firm. "Have we met before?" he said when he shook with Ziva.
"We have. In the hospital after you were injured. I was one of the investigating officers," Ziva replied.
"I thought you looked familiar," Hutchinson said.
"Your dog is very talented," Ziva said.
"He's a certified assistance dog. He gets things for me, opens the door when I tell him to, carries things when we walk, lets me know if someone's approaching the house. He even screens visitors and decides if they're okay before he lets them in. That's not something he was trained to do, he just does it. And he hasn't gotten it wrong yet, have you Vince?"
At the sound of his name, the dog raised his head and looked at them, slapping his tail on the floor twice. He seemed to consider the situation, then yawned, licked his lips, and laid his head back on his paws.
"Can I offer you a drink?" Brandon asked. "I've got bottled water, orange juice, couple kinds of soda. I can brew some coffee if you'd like."
"Sure," Gibbs said. "Coffee'd be nice." Ziva echoed his sentiment. They watched as Brandon rolled back and forth across the kitchen, gathering the required items and getting the coffee maker started.
"So, what can I do for you?" Brandon asked when he'd resettled across from them again.
"We need to ask you a few questions about your assault, Lt. Hutchinson," Ziva began.
"Please, it's just Brandon. I've been out of the Navy a long time."
"Brandon," she said and smiled at him. "A sailor was attacked in Washington over the weekend and there are some similarities between his attack and yours." They had agreed on the way over to stick to only the most recent attack, and not mention the other victims. Yet.
"How badly was he hurt?" Brandon asked.
"He was killed," Gibbs answered.
"Damn. I'm sorry to hear that." He crossed himself. "It was nothing short of a miracle that I survived, or so they said."
"What do you remember about that night?" Gibbs asked.
"Not much, unfortunately," Brandon answered. "I was out with some friends from my unit. We were docked at Norfolk during Fleet Week, training at Dam Neck. We'd spent a week over there in lock down and we were scheduled to sail in a few days, so our CO gave us the weekend. We were bar-hopping in Norfolk, nothing serious. The last thing I remember is being at Joe's Grill, but according to my friends, that was three hours before we went our separate ways, and nearly six hours before I was found."
"Was it unusual for you to go off by yourself?" Ziva asked.
"I didn't go off by myself," Brandon said with a grin. "They left me there. I wasn't much of a ladies' man, even before this." He patted one of his legs. "Of the group I hung out with, I was almost always the last to hook up. They'd find someone to wine and dine, and I'd get left."
"Any idea why you were in Newport News? That's 25 miles from Norfolk," Gibbs said.
"I don't know. It's not like I never went there, but it wouldn't have been normal on a night like that."
"If you had to guess, can you give us an idea of where in Newport you might have gone, if you had decided to go there after the rest of your group left?" Ziva asked. Brandon looked at her for a moment longer than a casual glance. It was a strange question, to be sure.
"It was almost three years ago," Brandon said.
"I know," Gibbs said. "But it might help us find out who killed our victim if you had some idea of how you ended up where you did."
"I'd just be speculating," Brandon said, again seeming to hesitate.
"Please," Ziva said.
"I might have gone to Hilton Village," he said.
"Why there?" Ziva asked.
"I… I used to know some people there," Brandon said, and the hesitation was now clear.
Gibbs scanned his memory for anything he knew about Hilton Village. He knew it was a long, skinny neighborhood of mixed businesses and residences, bounded on the west by one of the off-shoots of Chesapeake Bay, on the east by an interstate and a major rail line. Public parks on both ends. As for the cultural make-up of the area, he was lost. He wished McGee was here: the kid would have all the area's vital stats on his PDA in under a minute, Gibbs was sure.
"Did any of the people you knew see you there that night?" Ziva asked.
"I didn't ask," Brandon said. "But why would it matter? There's no way to know if I went anyplace specific that night or not. I'm just guessing."
"Hilton Village. That area's a lot like Dupont in D.C., isn't it?" Gibbs asked on a hunch. Brandon flinched, and looked away. His reaction hinted at the answer to what Gibbs really wanted to ask, but hadn't yet figured out how to approach.
"Sort of," Brandon admitted. "Same kind of mix of residences and business, if that's what you mean."
The dog, still under the table, suddenly lifted its head and looked toward the front of the house. He let out a sound that was part bark, part whine, then jumped to his feet and dashed out of the kitchen toward the end of the house.
"Alex's home," Brandon said. There was a low rumbling from the part of the house the dog had gone to. The garage door going up.
"Who's Alex?" Ziva asked.
"He lives here," Brandon said, and glanced at Gibbs. The information Gibbs needed was there, just out of reach. "He's been away on a business trip. Supposed to be in last night, but his flight was delayed coming out of DFW."
Footsteps approaching, and a tall Hispanic man came into the kitchen, the dog hot on his heels and bouncing up and down. The man had a laptop bag over his shoulder and was towing a small wheeled suitcase. He radiated a sense of tired, and glad to be home.
"Oh, hello," he said when he saw them sitting at the counter. He slung the laptop onto the table and collapsed the handle for the suitcase. At his feet, Vince the dog was whining and carrying on, his tail smacking against the chair and table legs.
"Alex, this is Agent Gibbs and Officer David from NCIS," Brandon supplied. Alex had reached down to scratch the dog's ears, and when he straightened, his face clearly showed anger.
"What are they doing here?" he demanded.
"It's alright, Alex. A sailor was killed yesterday. His attack was like mine."
"So now they show up again, after all this time. Who was killed, an Admiral's kid? Must be, for this to suddenly be important again."
"Knock it off," Brandon said.
"I don't want them here," Alex said.
"It wasn't their fault," Brandon said, his voice softening. "They did the best they could."
Alex snorted, an unpleasant sound. Vince sat down, watching the humans interact, looking back and forth between Brandon and Alex, with an occasional glance at the NCIS agents. He seemed wary, uncertain.
"Why don't you take Vince for a walk. We won't be long."
"You don't have to talk to these people, B. You're not in the Navy anymore."
"I know. We won't be long," he repeated.
"Fine." Alex stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later, he whistled for the dog, who looked up at Brandon and whined.
"Go," Brandon said, and Vince took off after Alex.
When the front door slammed a minute later, Brandon sighed.
"Sorry about that. He doesn't like the Navy much. Blames them for my injuries." Brandon pushed off the counter and crossed to the coffee maker, pouring three mugs full. Using two of the cups to push the third, he slid them around the counters to where they were sitting.
"You need cream and sugar?" he asked. Both agents declined and reached for their cups. Gibbs sipped at his mug: not bad. A little more chicory than his brand, but still not bad.
"Are you homosexual?" Ziva suddenly asked. Gibbs looked sharply over at her and put his cup down, hard. Some of the coffee spilled out onto the counter. She ignored him. Brandon, too, seemed taken aback, but then he smiled and shook his head in resignation.
"What happened to 'Don't ask, Don't tell'?" he asked. He tossed Gibbs a dishcloth, which Gibbs used to wipe up the spill.
"You are not in the Navy anymore," Ziva said, repeating what Alex had said moments before.
"And we only care because we think that might have been the motive behind the sailor's death, and possibly your assault," Gibbs added as he handed back the cloth. They were in it now.
"I always thought it was the motive," Brandon said. "Alex was sure of it. He's also convinced that was the reason the case was never solved. That the Navy didn't care because they figured out I was gay."
"And what do you think?" Ziva asked. She raised her own mug.
He shrugged in a 'what can you do' motion. "I think there weren't any witnesses, and I couldn't remember enough to give you a place to start, much less enough to find a suspect. I think Officer David here, and her partners… What were their names?"
"Agents DiNozzo and McGee," Ziva supplied.
"That's right. I think you did the best you could with what little you had."
"We did," Ziva said.
"But we have more now," Gibbs said. "There was a note, found in your pocket. Do you remember that?"
"I remember being told about it. 'One Less,' wasn't it?" Brandon asked.
"Yes. The sailor who was killed had the same note in his pocket."
"Was he…" Brandon paused, and Gibbs filled in the blank.
"His family confirms he was gay, yes. We know he spent the last few hours of his life at a couple of clubs in Dupont, and he was found not far from there. Which was why it would be helpful to know where you were the night you were attacked."
Brandon thought about it, then picked up his coffee mug and stared into it. There was a long moment of silence which neither Gibbs nor David disturbed before he finally spoke again.
"What the hell. Like you said, I'm not in the Navy anymore. The Powers that Be in my command chain didn't want to acknowledge that one of their hotshot Annapolis grads was gay, so they didn't ask when Alex spent every moment with me at the hospital. And I sure as hell didn't tell. I managed to hold on to an honorable discharge, and they can't exactly change it now." He took a drink and looked up at them. "There's a bar in Newport News, called the Corner Pocket. It's on Jefferson, east of the Amtrak station, on the edge of Hilton Village. If I went to Newport that night, that's probably where I would have gone. There, or into Huntington Park, if I was really feeling brave. In fact, I've always sort of figured that's what happened. That I ran into a homophobe after leaving the club. It wouldn't have been unusual."
"To be there? Or to run into a homophobe?" Ziva asked.
"Both. Either. If I could get away from my friends and go clubbing, I would. I mean, it was dangerous, but I was a young buck, and I figured I was immortal." He stopped, shook his head. "Not so much."
"Your last billet was where?" Gibbs asked, though he already knew the answer. He wanted to move them to more neutral ground, stabilize the high emotion.
"Aboard the Roosevelt," Brandon said. "I was with the Naval Special Warfare Development Group."
"SEAL Team Six, right?" Ziva asked, picking up Gibbs' lead.
"Yes. But I was just an analyst. N2 Intelligence. Nothing special." He smiled. "I was what the bosses call 'Combat Support Services'. We had another term for it…"
"Drylanders," Gibbs supplied.
"That's right," Brandon's smile turned to a grin. "Were you there?"
"Nah. First Marines, retired after Desert Storm," Gibbs said.
"Had you been on the Roosevelt long?" Ziva asked.
"It was the only billet I had. Assigned there right out of Annapolis. A little over two years."
"Did you like it?" she asked.
"I loved it. I would have stayed there forever. Capt. Macke ran a tight ship."
"Did anyone there know about your orientation?" Gibbs asked.
"Not that I know of," Brandon said. "I kept it real quiet. I had planned to make the Navy my career."
"Were you and Alex together long before you were injured?" Ziva asked.
"Yes," Brandon said, frowning slightly. It was clear he didn't know why she was asking. "We've been together for eight years," he added.
"What did he think of your career choice?" Gibbs asked.
Brandon didn't answer right away. He glanced past them out the large window that continued into the kitchen from the great room, then drank more coffee. There was nothing out there, but Gibbs figured he wasn't looking that far, anyway. When Brandon finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
"He didn't like it. But he respected it. I met him when I was in Third Class at Annapolis. We were less than six months post-9/11, and I was committed. I was going to help strike back, participate in the payback, you know? We fell in love pretty quick, built a relationship on the quiet. The only disagreements we had in the early days were over the Navy. He didn't understand how I could want to spend the rest of my life in the closet, working for an organization that would disown me if they ever found out I what I really was. But he respected my dedication.
"After graduation and before I shipped out the first time, we held a civil commitment ceremony and bought this house. Alex's a computer genius. He makes almost five times the highest pay rate I would have ever made in the Navy. And his coworkers don't care about his orientation. We decided to live here, away from Norfolk and far enough from Annapolis that the chances of running into someone I knew from the Academy while Alex and I were out together was slim. While I was deployed, I went out with my crew, flirted with the girls, put on the good show. I honestly don't think anyone knew."
"The homicide yesterday may have been committed by someone on the Big Stick," Gibbs stated, watching for Brandon's reaction. Surprisingly, there wasn't one.
"Okay," Brandon said.
"That doesn't surprise you?" Gibbs asked.
"Not really," Brandon shrugged. "If someone on board found out he was gay, there would be consequences."
"How would someone have found out?" Ziva asked.
"It would have been easy, if he wasn't careful. It's a big carrier, but it's a small town. A turn of phrase, a certain reaction to a joke. If someone suspects, that's all it takes. Rumors spread and soon everyone suspects. Then you have to either prove them wrong or resign."
"Were you careful?" Ziva asked.
"Always," Brandon said, and he seemed absolutely certain.
"Can you think of anyone you served with who might have figured you out?" Gibbs asked. "Someone who might still be aboard?"
"You think someone from my ship might have attacked me," Brandon stated.
"It's a possibility, especially considering the similarities between your attack and the homicide."
Brandon considered. They could see him casting back into memory, thinking things through.
"I really don't think anyone knew. There were a couple of other guys aboard ship who were gay, and we knew each other, but they wouldn't have done this kind of thing."
"Is there any chance one of them was not as discreet as you were? Told someone who might have objected?" Ziva asked.
Brandon thought again, but ended up shaking his head.
"I don't know. They certainly wouldn't have told anyone on purpose. We didn't hang around together or anything. It was something we avoided, actually. Alone, it's easier to hide. There would have been no upside to anyone talking."
"Can we get the names of the others you knew?" Ziva asked. "To see if they suspect anyone?"
A wry shake of his head met that request. "No, ma'am. That I will not do. 'Don't ask, don't tell' isn't much of a policy, but it's all we've got. I can probably make some inquiries myself if you'd like. If they're still in, they won't talk to you anyway."
"That'd be helpful," Gibbs said, a sideways look at Ziva telling her to let it go.
"You know, it never occurred to me that it might have been someone I knew. I just assumed it was a run-of-the-mill gay bashing," Brandon said.
"It's early in this investigation. But we have a few leads, and a good witness," Gibbs said.
"What was his name?" Brandon asked.
"Who?" Gibbs asked, thinking for a second he was asking for their witness's name.
"The sailor who was killed."
"Yeoman Third Frank Ferrara," Gibbs said. Brandon frowned, then nodded.
"He was the one who lost his leg in the deck accident, right? Keeping that Super Hornet from going in the drink?"
"Yup," Gibbs agreed. "Did you know he was gay?"
"Nope. Never met him. I only remember his name because of the accident."
Gibbs let that sit for a moment, until Ziva spoke again.
"What did Alex think of your clubbing?" she asked.
Brandon frowned. "Why does it matter?" he asked.
"Did he know?" Gibbs immediately followed up.
"Not at first. I didn't think he'd understand. It was hard on me, having to deny what I was, and being able to go out and 'be gay' was a relief valve. Helped me keep it together. But it felt kind of like cheating. A friend of mine convinced me I should tell him, that to keep it a secret wasn't right. So I told him. I think he was more upset that I thought he wouldn't understand than at what I was doing. We argued a little, then..." He smiled, his face reddening a bit. "... Then we made up. He didn't mind. He trusted me not to break my vows."
Gibbs considered that, and read him as true. He closed his notebook.
"That's all we have. Do some thinking about the crew you worked with, sailors and Marines. If you think of anyone who might have figured you out, or who might have gone to this length to get rid of you, give me a call." He held out his card. Brandon took it.
"I will. Sorry again about Alex," Brandon said.
"It's alright. He has a right to his opinion. Tell him we're going to get them this time."
Brandon tilted his head, considering Gibbs. Gibbs held his eye until Brandon nodded.
"I believe you. I'll call if I think of something."
"Can you explain something to me?" Ziva asked, breaking 10 minutes of silence on the ride back to the Navy Yard. The sky had darkened while they were in Hutchinson's house. The snow now looked like a sure thing.
"What?" Gibbs asked. He'd been lost in his own thoughts, and hadn't really noticed the silence until she spoke.
"Don't ask, don't tell?"
"Nope," Gibbs said. He rubbed at his eyes. The tension he'd felt building yesterday was back, and with an unhealthy dose of too much alcohol and not enough sleep in the mix, it had already become a headache.
"No?" Ziva said, startled. Gibbs was close-mouthed, but he'd never before refused to help her understand something.
Gibbs glanced at her, saw her surprise, and continued. "I can't explain it. Don't understand it myself."
"Oh," Ziva said. She was clearly confused.
"The theory is that what they don't know about they don't have to deal with," Gibbs continued. "If they don't know a sailor is gay, they don't have to decide whether he deserves to stay in the Navy or not."
"Why would being gay make a man less worthy of being a sailor?" Ziva asked.
"It doesn't," Gibbs answered.
Ziva frowned. "But if being gay doesn't make him less of a sailor, why could he not stay in the Navy?"
"They say having gay men in the military is bad."
"I do not understand." Ziva said.
Gibbs sighed. "It's just old-fashioned prejudice. Old straight men don't understand sexual attraction to other men, and they imagine the worst."
"The worst?" Ziva asked.
"A breakdown of discipline. They think gay sailors will lust after their brother servicemen, like being gay equals having no self-control." Gibbs paused, sighed a little.
"They say it's bad for morale. The same groundless argument they used to try and keep out blacks. And women. What they don't want to believe is that gay or straight has nothing to do with being disciplined and patriotic and willing to sacrifice for your brothers or your country."
Gibbs fell silent, and Ziva considered his answer.
"Do they know how many gay men are in the Navy?" Ziva asked.
"Almost 65,000 gays and lesbians in the military as a whole," Gibbs supplied. "Or so say statistics."
"That is a lot of personnel to lose if they were to all be discharged," Ziva noted.
"They won't be. They can't spare personnel when the country's at war, no matter how bad they think it is for morale."
"So what do you think?" Ziva asked.
"About what?" Gibbs asked.
"About serving with gay men?"
"Why the hell should I care? If a man does his job and keeps his attitude to himself, why does it matter who he chooses to sleep with?"
"But what if he wanted to sleep with you?" she asked.
"You think I've never been propositioned by a man before?" Gibbs asked, glancing at her with a small smile. "Guy offers, I say no thanks, there's no problem."
Ziva's eyes widened and Gibbs turned back to the road, hiding his face as his smile turned to a grin.
For several minutes, silence returned. Then Ziva spoke again.
"It is very much rooted in religion in Israel."
"Isn't everything?" Gibbs asked, and Ziva laughed a little, granting him the point.
"It does seem so. But the more orthodox a person is, the more likely they are to believe that being homosexual is a sinful choice. Nonetheless, the sexual choices of young men do not preclude them from military service. It is required by law that all able-bodied men serve. It is the duty of being Israeli."
"Different history breeds different duties," Gibbs said by way of explaining her second point. Then he continued. "Homosexuality is all about religion in America, too. Religious conservatives believe it's a choice. The liberals believe there is no choice: it's genetic."
"And what do you believe?" Ziva asked.
Gibbs shrugged. "Live your life with honor, stay off my case load, and like I said: Why the hell should I care?"
to be continued...
Oooo... there be clues there. Didya catch 'em?