One Less - Part 14

by joykatleen

Gibbs leaned into the iris scanner that held the door to the Multiple Threat Alert Center, its blue laser-like light stabbing into his head and making him cringe. On days like this, he would gladly pay money not to have to subject his optic nerves to the scanner. But neither McGee nor David had the unlimited access to MTAC that he had as senior agent. The door buzzed and he stepped through into the dim light.

MTAC was a round-the-clock operation where agents and techs monitored international communications to produce indications and warnings of potential criminal and terrorist threats that could affect Naval operations. The center's ability to host teleconferences between parties in up to six different locations made it useful for mundane tasks as well as high-profile ones. As Gibbs descended the ramp that led to the 'stage' area in front of the 10-foot-high by 15-foot-wide main screen, he scanned the room. There didn't appear to be much going on right now.

The main screen at the front of the room was divided into four views: the largest view took up three-quarters of the screen to the right, and three smaller views were stacked in a column along the left side. As needed, each of the views could be tuned to a different source. At the moment, all four views were showing color bars. Along the left wall of the room was a bank of three computer stations, each with a 42-inch plasma mounted to the wall above it. Those, too, could be used for teleconferencing or to display other visuals as needed. A tech sat at each computer, monitoring the worldwide activities of NCIS. The tech at the rear-most computer noticed Gibbs come in and stood, moving out of the way.

"Your conference is set up here, Special Agent Gibbs," the tech said. "Whenever you're ready." He held out a wireless headset with lip mike. Gibbs took it and tucked the file folder under his arm to put the headset in place. At Gibbs' motion, McGee took a seat in the chair the tech had vacated and checked the settings. Ziva stood off to the side, out of the camera's range but close enough to see and hear what was going on. McGee put on his own headset, the mike arm pushed up out of the way next to his head. He picked a third set off a nearby shelf and turned in his chair to hold it back to Ziva. All three of them would be able to listen in on the interview without anyone else in the room hearing, but only Gibbs' voice would be heard by the sailor on the other end.

The plasma above the McGee's head – and the computer screen in front of him – showed a young black man in Navy work blues sitting at a long, narrow table, reading a novel of some kind. The quality of the shot wasn't great. It was streaked with static and poorly lit and quite typical for at-sea communications. Nonetheless, it clearly showed that he was in the Mesa Verde's conference room, and that he was alone. He was smaller than the average sailor, maybe 5'6 and 120 lbs, and appeared to be somewhere between 25 and 30 years old. That would be right, Gibbs thought, for a PO2 half way through his second enlistment. As Gibbs slipped on the headset and approached the screen, the kid turned a page, glancing up at his video screen as he did. He realized there was someone in the MTAC camera's range and jumped to his feet, standing at attention. The abandoned book flipped closed on the table.

"Culinary Specialist Second Class Demmings, sir," the kid said and snapped off a salute. The sound was good, making up for the poor visuals.

"At ease, Petty Officer," Gibbs said into his microphone, which he was still in the process of adjusting. The kid took a parade rest stance, hands behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, head up, eyes at middle distance. Not easy to do when looking at a video screen.

"Have a seat, sailor. This isn't a formal meeting." The kid focused on Gibbs' image on his screen, looking uncertain. Gibbs tried to reassure. "Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. I just need to ask you some questions about your assault."

Demmings slowly sat in the chair he'd jumped out of and folded his hands on the table in front of himself.

"Why now, sir?" the kid asked. "It's been more than three years. The statute of limitations has run."

Gibbs was surprised that the kid knew that. "We believe your assault may have some connection to a recent homicide here in DC. I'm hoping you can help us out," Gibbs said.

"Sure, if I can," he said. The kid seemed suddenly tense, and Gibbs had no trouble imaging why. Nicky had reported the men who attacked Ferrara had been calling Ferrara every foul, evil name in the homophobe's dictionary. If they'd done likewise with this kid, he had to know what their motive had been, and had to be wondering if and when someone was going to figure it out and throw him out of the Navy.

"Who died?" Demmings asked before Gibbs could get his first question out.

"A Yeoman Third from the Roosevelt named Frank Ferrara," Gibbs said. Demmings nodded.

"The guy who lost his foot in the deck accident."

"You knew him?" Gibbs asked.

"Casually. We sometimes worked out together. Before his accident."

"You have any thoughts on why someone would want to kill him?"

"No sir. He was an okay guy. Quiet, kept to himself. I didn't know he'd made it back to duty. What happened to him?"

"He was on liberty. Someone beat him to death."

Demmings said nothing for a long breath. Then: "That sucks."

"Agreed," Gibbs said. "He was on his way back to ship. I understand that was also what happened to you?"

"Yes sir. Couple of guys tried to mug me, but I managed to escape. Broke my arm pretty good, but it could have been worse."

"How many were there?"

"Two," Demmings said.

"Tell me exactly what happened," Gibbs said.

"It was a long time ago," Demmings said, and again, Gibbs sensed his nervousness. God, this case was a nightmare.

"It's alright, sailor. Tell me what you can," Gibbs said, and hoped his message was getting through: he needed the facts, not the wicked details.

"I was walking back to the ship. I'd been drinking. I wasn't drunk, I had early watch the next morning, but I was some under the influence. I thought I heard someone following me, but I wasn't sure. I mean, it wasn't exactly my town, you know? I thought…"

There was the sound of alert tones in the background: five short dings, a pause, then repeated. Demmings stood up.

"Might want to cover your ears, sir. Twenty seconds to impact." Demmings moved to the side of the room and braced his back and head flat against the wall, knees slightly bent. He pressed the heels of his hands to his ears. Gibbs just had time to say "mute it" to McGee – who instantly complied – before the picture jumped, shook, snowed out momentarily, then returned and stabilized.

"What was that?" McGee asked. He turned to look over his shoulder at Gibbs.

"Shock trials." Gibbs said. When McGee looked confused, he elaborated. "It's a new ship, and they're bombing it."

"What? Why?" McGee asked, startled.

"To see if it'll sink," Gibbs said with a hidden smile. When McGee's look didn't abate, he rolled his eyes a little and went on. "They set off depth charges of pre-determined power at specific distances from the hull. It's to see how the ship'll react when it's hit with a concussion blast. Lets them plan for the real thing."

McGee nodded hesitantly, then turned as Gibbs pointed over McGee's shoulder at the screen. McGee turned back to see Demmings was once again seated at the table and looking expectantly at them. McGee raised the volume.

"Thanks for the warning," Gibbs told Demmings.

"It'll happen again in 10 or 15 minutes," Demmings said. "They come in threes. That was the first."

"Fair enough," Gibbs said. "Continue."

"Like I said, I thought someone was following me. I turned just as someone hit me on the side of the head with some kind of pipe. There was an explosion in my head, like the Fourth of July. It knocked me down, but not out. Someone kicked me in the gut. Knocked the wind out of me. I tried to get up, but then someone landed on my back and pinned me down. The other guy started whaling on my arm with the pipe. I fought them, hard as I could. Guy with the pipe got me a couple more times before I got away."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. There was something there. He rewound the conversation.

"Why did you turn?"

"Sir?" Demmings asked.

"You said you turned around just as the guy went to hit you. Why'd you turn?"

Demmings hesitated. "I must have heard something."

"From where?"

"Behind me. That's where the guy came from. He must have made some noise. Or something."

"How'd you get away?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't know. I guess I fought hard enough."

That didn't wash. The guy in front of him was Ziva's size, and as a culinary specialist – the Navy's fancy title for a cook – he wouldn't have had a fraction of her training. No way he'd have been able to overpower two assailants with a badly broken arm. The kid was holding something back.

"Were you armed?" Gibbs guessed. Carrying a weapon while out of uniform on foreign soil was definitely against regs.

"No sir," Demmings said immediately. Truth.

"Was someone with you?" Second guess, and a score. The kid hesitated, shifting in his seat.

"No," he said. A lie.

"Who were you with, Petty Officer?" Gibbs asked, his voice hardening slightly. Demmings was a victim, but he was hiding something, and Gibbs needed to know what it was.

"No one," Demmings said. He looked down at his hands.

"Was it a local? Or someone you knew?" Gibbs asked.

"Read the report, sir. I was alone," he insisted.

"Your friend heard them coming, or saw them, warned you, told you to look out. That's why you turned. That's why they missed knocking you unconscious." Gibbs was pushing now.

"That's not what the report says, sir," Demmings said.

"But it is the truth," Gibbs said firmly, just a hint of command showing. "Your friend ran at first, or wasn't right there with you, but he was there in time to help you get away. Did you injure any of them?"

"I don't think I did," Demmings said. He could admit that without admitting the lie.

Gibbs turned slightly away from the camera and held the folder containing Demmings' crime report to Ziva. He fisted the mike, effectively blocking his voice.

"Was there DNA?" he asked. Ziva took the folder and started rapidly scanning the contents.

"Was your friend injured?" Gibbs asked, turning back to face the screen.

"No. I mean, there wasn't…" Demmings stuttered to a stop. Gibbs put on his best paternal expression and took out the voice he used with crime victims and frightened children.

"Son, I know what you were doing that night. And I don't care. The same people who attacked you have done it to at least 11 other sailors just like you. And this weekend, they killed one of them. You're the only one they let get away without a career-ending injury. I need to know what you know. And I need to know what your friend knows."

Demmings was shaking his head. "Sir, I can't."

Gibbs sighed. Behind him, Ziva spoke softly. "He had a significant amount of blood on his clothing that was not his. The source was uniform, but unidentified." Gibbs nodded in acknowledgment.

"Why did you request transfer off the Roosevelt?" Gibbs asked. He'd read on the kid's SRB that he'd requested and received assignment to a different command when he was reinstated. He'd spent almost two years at Naval Air Station Miramar before being promoted to his current rank and transferring to the Mesa Verde two months ago.

Demmings frowned. "Sir?"

"Answer the question," Gibbs said flatly.

"I needed a change," Demmings said with a shrug. "Wanted to stay stateside for awhile."

"You know who they were, don't you?" Gibbs asked.

"No, sir."

"But you knew they were from your ship," he said.

This time, it was Demmings who sighed. "They could have been. They wore desert camos. They spoke English."

"You told the locals and the investigating agent that you didn't remember what they said to you. You do remember, don't you?" Hesitation, then Demmings seemed to shrink a little in his seat.

"Yes sir," he said finally.

"You'd heard it before?"

"Yes sir."

"From them?"

"I don't know who they were."

"From sailors on your ship?"

"Sometimes."

"And your friend. He'd heard it too?"

Nothing. The kid did not want to give it up.

"You don't know who they were?" Gibbs tried again.

"No sir. I swear. I didn't get a good look at any of them. It all happened very fast."

Gibbs believed that. Which left them nowhere. "Your friend see them?" Gibbs asked. Again, Demmings said nothing. Gibbs stared at him through the miles, letting the silence build. It usually worked. This time, while Demmings clearly grew uncomfortable, he made no move to fill up the void. Gibbs tried something else.

"You like your billet?"

"Sir?" Demmings asked, thrown off by the out-of-left-field question.

"Do you like it aboard the Mesa Verde? Brand new ship, brand new crew?"

"Yes sir, very much," Demmings said. Suspicion had appeared, right where Gibbs wanted it to be.

"Alright, Petty Officer. This is what we're going to do." Gibbs let his voice harden a little. "I'm going to contact your Captain, tell him I'm pulling the plug on his shock trials, ordering his ship to the nearest port so you can be flown to Washington as part of an active NCIS investigation. He's going to be pissed at the interruption, and he's going to want to know what we're investigating, and I'm going to tell him you're an uncooperative material witness in a homicide. How long do you think your stay on the Mesa Verde will last when he finds out his trials were extended by a couple day's sail because you won't tell me what I want to know?"

"But sir, you don't understand!" Demmings said plaintively.

"I do understand," Gibbs said firmly, then softened again. "I know what you're afraid of. I'm not going to say it on this channel, but I know." He paused a moment to let that sink in. "This is not about you. It's about a group of US Navy personnel who are on a crusade to destroy the lives and careers of good men. So far, you're the only one lucky enough to walk away. I need your help if I'm gonna stop them from doing it again."

He paused again, gathering thoughts. Time for the big finish. "Between your assault and Petty Officer Ferrara's murder, they hit three others. One of them was intentionally deafened. One of them's paralyzed. One of them – a decorated corpsman with 18 years of service – probably wishes he was paralyzed so he didn't have to feel the constant pain from the torture he suffered at their hands. You going to be alright with seeing things like that happen to more sailors when you could have helped stop it?"

Demmings said nothing, but he was clearly fighting a fierce battle with himself. Gibbs let him. It was in his hands now.

On screen, the alert tones sounded again. Mechanically, Demmings stood and returned to his place against the wall. McGee cut the sound. Again the shake, the roll, the snow. It lasted longer this time and when it cleared, Demmings was still standing against the wall, hands at his sides.

"He was a couple hundred yards back, on the other side of the street. That's why I turned. I thought the feeling I had of being followed might be him. Then the pipe upside my head, a burst of light and sound. I went down. One of them was holding me down, the other one holding my arm out and hitting it with the pipe. They were too busy beating on me to see him coming, then he was all fists and feet. I don't think they got a good look at him. They probably think he was just a good Samaritan. They ran off pretty quick when they realized he could fight."

Demmings took a breath. "He's still in the Navy. If they find out he was with me…"

"We'll protect him," Gibbs swore.

"If you interview him, like this, he'll deny it."

"We have other ways," Gibbs said.

"He's an officer," Demmings said.

"It doesn't matter. I'm not looking to ruin careers." It was what he'd told Goetz five years ago, right before the Master Chief told him the real reason for his secrecy. Demmings bit the inside of his mouth.

"The blood on my clothes was his," Demmings said after another few moments, the comment coming out of nowhere. "He had one of them around the chest and caught an elbow in the face. His nose bled, bad."

"Alright," Gibbs said.

"He did some damage to one of them. Kicked him in the side of the head. Knocked him out. That's how I got away. His buddy was dragging him out of the line of fire after Adrian kicked him. There might be medical reports."

"We'll look."

One more pause, as if Demmings was hanging on to this last piece of information with everything he had. Then, "Adrian Holbrook. Lieutenant JG. He's probably a Lieutenant by now. Might not even be on TR anymore."

"You don't know?" Gibbs asked.

"We… I never talked to him after that night."

"Not at all?" Gibbs was surprised.

"No sir," Demmings said. Then: "Don't hurt him, please?"

"We won't," Gibbs said. "You have my word."

Demmings nodded.

"Could it have been a flash-bang grenade? The light and noise in your head that night?" Gibbs asked. McGee glanced back over his shoulder at Gibbs, curiosity clear.

"Could have been," Demmings agreed. He thought for a moment, then nodded. "Probably was, now that you mention it. It all sort of ran together, the light, the noise, the impact. But yeah, it could have been."

"And you're sure you don't have any idea who it might have been?" Gibbs said.

"No sir. On my mother's life, I swear it."

"Alright, Petty Officer. You think of anything else, you contact me directly at NCIS headquarters. No one else. You're dismissed."

"Thank you, sir." He pushed away from the wall, snatched his book off the table, and practically ran out of the room. McGee hit a button and the screen went to color bars.

Gibbs pulled off the headset and handed it back to the tech, who had stepped up when the screen went blank. Ziva did likewise and McGee surrendered the chair.

"Flash bangs, Boss?" McGee asked.

"Abby found indications of a flash-bang in the warehouse. Nicky said he heard a loud bang before the fighting."

"So that's how they're disabling their victims?" McGee said.

"Maybe. Ziva, pull TR's medical records for the night of Demmings' assault, and the next three days," Gibbs said.

"To see if anyone sought treatment for a head injury, or other injuries from a fight," Ziva said.

"McGee. There's got to be a point of common contact for these victims. Somehow someone is discovering their secrets. Find it."

"Got it," McGee said.

"And find out how easy it would be to get military flash-bangs. See if you can buy them on eBay."

With a half grin, McGee nodded. The two of them hurried out.

Alone but for the techs, Gibbs sat in one of the gallery seats and leaned forward, trying to massage the pain out of his temples. This case was like walking a mine field in the dark. And Gibbs had no map.

After finding the mess and returning to the NCIS office aboard the Roosevelt, DiNozzo spent the rest of the morning reading reports. To maintain his supposed purpose, he started a list of crimes reported to the Master at Arms, the Shore Patrol, or directly to the NCIS officer, noting the date and time, the nature of the crime, initial steps taken to solve it, and its resolution. Most of the reports were of the single-page variety. Something went missing, someone got into a fight, some contraband was found with or without owner. The usual petty stuff that filled up every law enforcement officer's routine. DiNozzo had been there before.

The Navy really was a microcosm of the rest of America. There were the same petty thefts, the same petty arguments that got out of control, the same number of people who totally lost it and did something really stupid in the heat of the moment. It could be counted on that there'd be about the same number of bad guys per hundred on a Navy ship as there were in any similarly-sized city in the country. It was why he had a job. While it was true that the Navy tended to attract those with higher-than-average patriotism, it also attracted those with higher-than-average levels of testosterone. A potentially explosive combination when a ship was in foreign ports. Also, the Navy attracted more than its share of those who had a good reason to get out of town for a few years. The Navy and the Air Force tended to be where people went when they wanted to run away with the military, but didn't want to get killed.

The Roosevelt had been docked in Norfolk more than three months, and two-thirds of its crew didn't live on board. Which meant most of the reports Fredrick had written were of the infraction or misdemeanor variety. The most significant crime DiNozzo had found so far was a sailor who'd come back two hours post-curfew, fall-down drunk after breaking up with his long-time girlfriend, and decided to trash the enlisted recreation room in the middle of the night. He'd faced Captain's mast, and was still on restriction and extra duties. Based on the damage report, he probably would be for the entire crossing of the Atlantic.

After more than an hour of this, DiNozzo's only conclusion was that there'd been very little actual violence involving ship's crew in the past four months, and even less involving civilians. It seemed like when the ship was in home port – and within the immediate reach of both Navy and Virginia State justice – everyone tried their best to behave themselves.

Fredrick had spent the morning sitting at his desk across the small room, pretending to work on a laptop, and pretending not to watch what DiNozzo was doing. It was a skill, DiNozzo knew. He was a near master at it himself after so many years working with Gibbs. There'd been little conversation between the men, just an uncomfortable silence broken only by turning pages, squeaking chairs, and a small radio Fredrick had hung from an upper shelf. It had been playing smooth jazz at a just-barely-there level, not a bad choice, as far as DiNozzo was concerned.

"What are you really doing here?" Fredrick said suddenly, just before lunch time. He turned in his chair to face DiNozzo. Tony mentally paid off the bet he'd had with himself about how long it would take Fredrick to ask the question.

"Making the boss happy," DiNozzo said. "The boss is happy, I'm happy."

"So your boss told you to come read my reports?" Fredrick said.

"To look into your reporting practices," DiNozzo clarified, and shrugged. "I go where I'm told." He flipped the file he was reading closed and reached for another.

"What are you looking for?" Fredrick asked.

"Irregularities," DiNozzo said. He opened the new folder and started to read.

"What does that mean?" Fredrick asked.

"Hell if I know," DiNozzo said. He looked up and grinned at Fredrick. "I go where I'm told."

Silence returned for several minutes before DiNozzo started the conversation again. "This stuff if all pretty minor. You get much real crime when the carrier group is underway?"

"Why?" Fredrick asked.

Again, Tony shrugged. "Must get boring, dealing with this crap day after day."

Fredrick considered him for a moment, then nodded. "It can. You ever been afloat?"

"Nope," DiNozzo said, remembering his cover. "I've spent most of my time stateside."

"Where at?" Fredrick asked.

Abby had made Anthony DiNardo an analyst from day one. She was a firm believer in the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid.

"The Navy Yard, mostly. Working MTAC, lately."

"So you're an 0132?" he asked, using the Federal Government job series number by which analysts were commonly known.

"Yup. Used to work contraband, drugs mostly, some weapons. But about a year ago, I was assigned to case analysis."

"Who'd you piss off?" Fredrick asked with a smile.

"Let's just say I had no idea she was the CNO's niece and leave it at that," DiNozzo grinned and Fredrick chuckled.

"So how 'bout you? You been afloat long?" DiNozzo asked.

"Assigned here right out of FLETC. It'll be ten years in the fall."

"You really like it that much?" DiNozzo asked, raising his eyes.

"It's why I joined up. Did a stint in the Navy aboard a carrier."

"Oh yeah? This one?" DiNozzo asked.

"No. The Enterprise."

"Ah, the Big E," Tony said.

"You know it?"

"Toured it once during Fleet Week," he said. "How come you didn't stay in the Navy?"

"Didn't like people looking over my shoulder," Fredrick said. "Didn't like being Government Issue."

"So you went to work for NCIS?" Tony said with surprise.

Fredrick smiled. "I worked Norfolk PD while I finished college. The feds pay better."

"Hm," Tony said, and moved on to the next file.

"So how come you're here? In NCIS, I mean," Fredrick qualified.

"Seemed like the thing to do at the time. Graduated from college, didn't want to work in the corporate world or for the local police. NCIS was hiring." Tony shrugged. "And the rest, as they say, is history."

It was a shaky start to a friendship, but it was a start. They chatted about light topics until the lunch bell sounded, then sat across from each other in the mess. Fredrick really did enjoy being the Sheriff of a city of 5,500: he carried a aura of pride in his work that was easy to see. By the time lunch was done and Tony had accepted Fredrick's offer to join him for his afternoon workout in the hangar bay, DiNozzo was leaning toward believing Fredrick had nothing to do with the attacks on gay sailors. He seemed open – after the ice broke, anyway – honest, and dedicated to the job. Of course, they hadn't gotten to the topic of sexual orientation yet. DiNozzo was playing his role as Gibbs had instructed: aggressively straight. He gave long appreciative looks at every female sailor he passed, and made light comments to Fredrick about several who caught his attention. Nothing that would be considered over the line, but clearly enough to show he was attracted. Fredrick nodded or smiled, but said nothing more. After all, he had to live here.

DiNozzo was redressing in the locker room after his shower when his agency cell rang. He snatched it out of his pants pocket. "DiNardo."

"Can you talk?" Gibbs said. DiNozzo looked over at where Fredrick was just coming out of the shower.

"Well, I don't know sweetheart, I'm kind of working. Can I call you right back?"

"Right back, DiNozzo," Gibbs said and hung up.

"That was my girlfriend. I'll catch up with you later," he told Fredrick. He quickly finished dressing, then hustled out of the locker room, up the stairs and onto the deck. It was cold outside, a strong wind blowing, moisture being kicked off the water. DiNozzo shivered at the sudden change from warmth to cold. He quickly dialed Gibbs' cell.

"Sorry about that, Boss," DiNozzo said. "I was with Fredrick."

"Anything yet?"

"He's a nice guy. Seems upstanding. We haven't gotten to the issue yet."

"Keep at it. There's a sailor I need you to interview. Lt. Adrian Holbrook, he's a Flight Officer." Tony patted his pockets. He had nothing to write with. Or on.

"Um, can you get McGee to email me the details? I don't have anything to write with," he said. He was under some shelter, but the wind still tossed his damp hair around and made a whistling sound against the phone. He turned toward the wall to shield it.

"Why not?" Gibbs asked.

"I was working out. Gotta keep up the image, you know?"

There was nothing for a second, and DiNozzo frowned, listening to the wind blow and scanning back for why that might have been an unacceptable answer in Gibbs' mind.

"There was another victim, only this one got away. Broken arm, surgically repaired, didn't have to retire. He was with Holbrook the night it happened."

"With him?" DiNozzo asked, his tone implying the question.

"Yes. They both hid it. Victim – CS2 Demmings – transferred off the Big Stick after his recovery. Holbrook is still there. Get him someplace private and find out what he saw. Do it gently. He'll deny being there."

"Got it, Boss."

"I'll have McGee send you the info. And DiNozzo?" Gibbs added.

"Yeah Boss?"

"Try the pilots ready room, or the chapel. Private. Quiet. Warm."

"Got it." Gibbs hung up and DiNozzo snapped his phone shut.

to be continued...

Clues, clues, and more clues... reviews and comments (especially constructive criticism) are gladly welcomed, here or at joykatleen AT aol DOT com