One Less - Part 17
by joykatleen
When first light came and Nicky woke, it took him a minute to figure out where he was. He hadn't slept so well in longer than he could remember. He'd figured it wasn't likely he'd have to suddenly leave from here, so he'd stripped down to the new underclothes Abby had insisted he buy, put on the sweats Gibbs had given him, and climbed between the crisp sheets. It was wonderful. He was awake now, but he wasn't sure if he should get up and have breakfast without asking the Gunny first, so he just lay in the bed and enjoyed the warmth, the softness, and the complete lack of fear.
When the little clock beside the bed hit 8:00, Nicky started to wonder if maybe he shouldn't be getting up. Maybe Gibbs was already gone to work. Maybe he'd left a note.
Nicky dressed in his inside clothes and went to the bathroom down the hall. He took his medicine, washed his face and hands, rinsed out his mouth and used a little of the toothpaste he found in a drawer to clean his teeth. Satisfied, he went to the kitchen looking for a note. Nothing. But there was an almost full pot of coffee on the burner. It smelled old. Nicky thought about putting some in a mug for himself, but decided to find the Gunny first.
He stood still in the center of the kitchen and closed his eyes, listening to the house. It was something he'd learned to do in the Marines. He could usually tell if there was anyone alive within shooting distance. It had nothing to do with hearing. It was more a feeling he got when there was someone nearby. It had never failed him, and sometimes he could use it tell the difference between real people and hallucinations. He couldn't feel things that weren't real.
After a minute, he opened his eyes and frowned. There was someone here, but he couldn't figure out where. Somewhere close.
Nicky looked around himself. The kitchen was in the middle of the house, and he could see the living room toward the front, a den at the back. Both rooms were empty. There hadn't been anyone in any of the rooms down the hall by where he'd slept: He would have felt them already. There was a little room off the side of the kitchen, and Nicky looked through the doorway. A washer, a dryer, and a set of stairs leading down. He stepped onto the landing and looked down over the rail into the basement.
"Hello? Are you there, Gunny?" Nicky called softly.
There was something made of wood in the middle of the basement. It had windows. It looked like a little house. A very little house. It was on sawhorses, and Gibbs was lying on his back on the floor under it. For a second, Nicky thought something bad had happened to Gibbs, and he started down the stairs as quick as he could. Three steps down, Gibbs heard him and suddenly sat up with his back to the stairs, smacking his head on the bottom of the little house.
"Gunny, you okay?" Nicky asked, and Gibbs spun toward him, rising from seated to kneeling in one quick motion and reaching for his hip. His hand closed on empty air, and he seemed to pause for a second before sitting back on his heels and rubbing his head.
"Nicky," Gibbs said. He slid out from under the wheelhouse and stood.
"You alright?" Nicky asked again.
"Yeah. Didn't hear you. What time is it?" Gibbs moved to the workbench and picked up his coffee mug. He raised it to his lips but some sixth sense stopped him from drinking. He stuck his finger in it and grimaced at the cold.
"After 8:00."
"What?" Gibbs said, looking sharply at him. "Damn it." He smacked the mug back down on the bench and dashed for the stairs. He squeezed past Nicky and a second later Nicky heard him on the upper stairs.
Nicky returned to the kitchen. He figured when Gibbs came running back down, he would need some coffee. So he dumped the pot of cold and starting looking for filters and grind. The shower started upstairs. He looked out the window and saw that the storm had stopped, though the sky still wasn't clear. There was a smooth blanket of thick snow on Gibbs' back porch and across the backyard. Nicky hoped the roads had been plowed, because otherwise Gunny was really going to be late.
When Gibbs reappeared a scant 10 minutes later, the coffee was done and Nicky was ready to go. Nicky had gathered his pack and his outer clothes and was sitting at the kitchen island waiting for him. Gibbs pulled a clean travel mug out of the cupboard and filled it with fresh brew. He sipped a little, then turned to Nicky.
"Good coffee. You want some to go?" When Nicky nodded, Gibbs filled another mug.
"I don't keep sugar," Gibbs said, remembering Nicky's sweet tooth.
"That's alright. Did you sleep good in the basement?"
"Usually do," Gibbs said, and grabbed his overcoat. They headed outside. The day was overcast and gray. The weather suited Gibbs' mood. He considered the snow in his driveway: The wind had blown drifts high against the house, but the driveway was mostly clear. A couple of inches, but Gibbs figured the sedan could take it.
Gibbs had worked on the boat for several hours before his crossing eyes and tired hands made it impossible to continue. Still, he wasn't ready for sleep. He'd thought about taking a shot of bourbon – it had certainly helped last night – but didn't want to be even a little tipsy with Nicky in the house. So he'd laid out on the floor under the wheelhouse and stared up at the underside of it, much like he would do once she was on the water.
He tried hard, most of the time, to keep himself in the present. It was easier, and if Gibbs was willing to admit it to himself, safer. But the nightmare had forced the past into his mind and he'd had a hell of a time re-grounding himself. It wasn't just Ari and Kate. It was Shannon and Kelly, the others he'd lost, the times he'd failed people who counted on him. Every time he thought his brain had reached the end of the list, another of his demons appeared. He hadn't had this much trouble centering himself in more years than he could remember.
Nicky's feet on the stairs had woken Gibbs from another dark dream. He didn't realize what had wakened him at first, and that combined with the knock on the head made him start badly when Nicky called out to him. His instinctive reach for his sidearm was aborted almost before his hand closed on empty air as his brain caught up.
Now he was running late. For the second morning in a row. He hated being late. It was unprofessional. Un-Marine-like. It felt like weakness.
"Hey Gunny, how come you were sleeping in the basement?" Nicky asked as he helped brush the snow off the sedan's windows. "That bed you gave me was really comfortable. Isn't yours comfortable?" Nicky's eyes widened. "That wasn't your bed you gave me, was it?"
"I've got my own bed," Gibbs said. They climbed into the car and Gibbs started it up.
"Good, cuz I'd had felt real bad if… So why were you sleeping in the basement? That little house you're building is awfully small. Is it a dog house?"
Gibbs shook his head. "You always ask so many questions in the morning, Nicky?" He gunned the engine a little, waiting for it to warm before they pulled out.
"Sorry, Gunny. I like mornings. I'll shut up now."
"It's alright. I'm in a bad mood. I don't like to be late."
"You should use an alarm clock. I've never needed one. I usually wake up at first light, even if I can't see the light. It's like my brain just knows it's morning. I really like mornings."
"Nicky, enough," Gibbs said. He sipped at his coffee.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. It's a sign of weakness." Gibbs put the car in gear. The wheels spun a little before they found purchase and the sedan pushed backwards through the snow.
"No it's not," Nicky argued. "It's a sign of strength. It's what men do when they're wrong."
Gibbs looked over at him and smiled. "Haven't had anyone do that in a while," he said.
"What?" Nicky asked.
"Argue with me about the rules."
"What rules?"
"Never mind. Can you just be quiet for a few minutes?"
"Sure thing." Nicky mimed locking his mouth and throwing away a key, then turned to look out the side window.
"Looks like there might be more snow," Nicky said a minute later. "I used to like the snow. Not so much now."
Gibbs drank his coffee and tried to ignore Nicky. To his credit, Nicky did keep remembering he was supposed to be quiet, but it was like he couldn't help himself. Gibbs supposed he didn't get to spend much time talking to real people. And it wasn't bad, really. Gibbs was just in a lousy mood.
He'd almost managed to wall off Nicky's chatter as just so much white noise, when the other man said something that caught Gibbs' attention.
"I should what?" Gibbs asked, not sure he'd heard right.
"You should let me go back, and tell them where I am," Nicky said. He seemed uncertain.
"Tell who?" Gibbs asked.
"The Marines. You should tell them where I am."
"Why?" Gibbs asked.
"Because then you could catch them for sure," Nicky said. When Gibbs frowned at him, he elaborated. "Yesterday, they found out where I stay, and they came back looking for me. I was by myself and I was scared and I ran away. Maybe if you tell them I'm back there, they'll come again, and if you're there hiding out where they can't see you, I won't be so scared, and you can catch them. It works that way sometimes, doesn't it? I mean, it does on Law and Order."
"Yeah, it works that way sometimes," Gibbs said, his mind ranging in that direction. It could work. But would it be worth the risk? These bastards had proven they could surprise their victims and incapacitate them without much trouble. Gibbs' team would have to be very careful, or Nicky would pay the price.
"Isn't that a good idea?" Nicky asked.
"It could be dangerous," Gibbs cautioned. Nicky shrugged.
"No guts, no glory," Nicky said, and Gibbs had to smile.
"I'll think about it," he said.
The drive took longer than usual, too many people who didn't know how to handle the snow. It was more than half an hour after leaving the house before they pulled into the parking garage at NCIS. Gibbs got out of the car, leaving his stuff behind.
"You can leave your bag here, Nicky. I've got a job for you this morning."
"Okay," Nicky said, and climbed out. He trailed after Gibbs as they walked out of the garage and down the block away from the headquarters building. Nicky was looking around, trying to figure out where they were going, but he said nothing. Navy efficiency meant the sidewalks inside the Yard had already been shoveled and the going was easy.
Gibbs walked him across the Navy Yard to the base's small market and supply shop. The shopkeepr and his wife had run the base exchange together for several decades until she'd died two years ago. Now Gregor ran it alone.
When the bell over the door rang, the proprietor looked up from the newspaper he was reading.
"Gibbs! Long time no see. How've you been, old friend?"
"Who're you calling old, Gregor?" The two men greeted each other with a handshake and a one-armed hug.
"This is Corporal Masterson, US Marines, Retired. He goes by Nicky. Nicky, this is Gregor."
"Hello," Nicky said. Gregor offered a hand to shake, but Nicky was skittish and looked to Gibbs for guidance.
"It's alright, Nicky. Gregor's a friend." Nicky shook, quickly, then stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.
"Nicky needs some work. You got anything that needs doing?" Gibbs asked, and narrowed his eyes at Gregor. They'd known one another a long time. As a recently retired Marine who still had some strings to pull, Gibbs had arranged it so one of Gregor's grandsons could join the Corps even with half a dozen misdemeanor drug possession charges on his record. The former addict had become an excellent Marine and had been a credit to the Corps for many years before being killed by an IED in Iraq in 2004. Despite his death, Gregor still felt he owed Gibbs for turning his grandson's life around. In his mind, the boy had lived much longer as a Marine than he ever would have on the streets.
As a result of their history, and because he knew Gibbs pretty well, the older man didn't ask Gibbs to explain his request.
"I've got some stock that needs unpacking in the back. Might take a couple hours."
"Perfect. Nicky, I'll pick you up for lunch."
"Okay," Nicky said with a shrug. He still looked a little nervous.
"Would you like something to eat, Nicky? Okay if I call you Nicky?" Gregor asked.
"Sure. Yes, it's okay. That's my name. Nicky. And something to eat would be nice."
Gregor smiled. "I have some muffins in the little kitchen in the back. And some coffee. Why don't you get some, then I'll show you what I need done. You can hang your coat up on the rack back there."
"Okay," Nicky said agreeably. He turned to Gibbs. "Don't forget to think about the plan, 'kay Gunny?"
"I will," Gibbs agreed, and Nicky nodded, then stepped through the curtain Gregor indicated.
"So why am I hiring someone to move my boxes around?" Gregor asked quietly as the curtain fell back into place behind Nicky.
"He's a witness to the murder of a sailor. Homeless, a little off, but a good man. The suspects came after him last night, and I need him where I can find him. Keep him busy for me?"
"Any chance the suspects might come looking for him here?" Gregor asked. He seemed only curious. The Navy Yard was a pretty secure environment, populated as it was by members of a well-armed military force.
"Highly unlikely. I just can't have him sitting over at the office. And he likes to work for what he gets."
"We'll get along fine then. I'll see you at lunch time." Gregor gestured him out, and Gibbs clapped him on the shoulder.
"Thanks." He headed back to the office.
When Gibbs stepped off the elevator, he found Ziva and McGee staring at something on the plasma next to McGee's desk. He had enough time to recognize the image – someone sitting in interrogation – but not enough to figure out who they were looking at or why, before Ziva glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the elevator's ding, saw Gibbs, and quickly touched McGee's arm. The image on the screen vanished. Gibbs rounded the corner and went to his desk as the two agents quickly returned to their own. Gibbs filed it away.
"Good morning, Gibbs," Ziva said, her voice the perfect sound of innocence.
"Officer David," Gibbs acknowledged. He took off his coat and gloves, setting them on the cabinet behind him, then unclipped his holster and stowed his gun. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ziva still staring at him, and on the other side realized McGee was trying not to.
"Something wrong?" he asked them as he sat in front of his computer. They again looked at each other, then Ziva spoke.
"Traffic bad?" she asked.
"Nope," Gibbs said. He knew they were trying to figure out why he was late the second day in a row. He also knew he wouldn't ease their curiosity. It just wasn't his style. He worked his computer for a minute, waiting for them to make a move. When neither did, he looked up again.
"One of you have something for me? Or are you just going to sit there exchanging meaningful glances?" Gibbs asked them. McGee was first to speak.
"Um, Abby emailed me the deck officer's logs for the attacks where we have duplicate DNA." He referred to a printed page on the desk in front of him. "I'm working on cross-referencing individuals who was signed off the ship on the night of each attack, looking at the time frame of the attack, groups who signed out in close time proximity to each other, then pulling the service histories and duty logs for everyone who's…"
"Get to the point, McGee," Gibbs interrupted.
"Right. Our best lead is the two common samples from the attacks in Spain. March of 2004 and January of '07. The same individuals were assigned to the ship and off duty both those nights, three years apart. It's possible we already have enough information to statistically eliminate all but a few of the Roosevelt's sailors. Might give us somewhere to go."
Gibbs nodded. "Anything on the flash bangs?"
"I found three places in the tri-state where they could have bought reloads. I thought we could go check them out this morning."
"Ziva?"
"It appears that McGee did not miss anything. I was not able to come up with anything that links all twelve victims." Gibbs sighed. They had to be missing something. But like his agents, he had no clue what.
"Is that O'Sullivan in interrogation?" he asked, gesturing at the blank plasma. Both agents looked at it, as if wondering what Gibbs was seeing that they weren't.
"He arrived approximately one hour ago," Ziva confirmed.
"What's he doing?" Gibbs asked, and looked expectantly at the screen. McGee and Ziva exchanged another look, then McGee clicked the remote and turned the view back on.
"He's writing," McGee said.
"Very rapidly," Ziva added. Gibbs could immediately see why they'd been watching O'Sullivan with such interest. The Marine sitting at the table in interrogation was in fact writing something very quickly on a yellow-lined legal pad. As they watched, he reached the bottom of the page, then tore it off and set it upside down on a stack of similar pages. His hands were cuffed in front of him, and he adjusted the chain before starting over on a fresh page. The stack of torn-off papers was visibly thick, about half the pad if Gibbs was any judge.
"He's been doing that non-stop since the brig guard left him there," McGee reported.
"Where'd the guard go?" Gibbs asked.
"He is standing post outside the door," Ziva replied. "He said the prisoner was no danger to himself."
Gibbs considered the man on the screen. He was wearing a utility uniform: green t-shirt and khaki cammies in the MARPAT woodland pattern. It was the standard uniform for Marines in confinement, unless they caused trouble. In which case, they'd be wearing jumpsuits whose various color designations told guards and other prisoners how much trouble they'd caused. The young Marine had a dark brush cut. Regulation high and tight. He was also obviously a very large man, dwarfing the chair he was sitting in. It looked like his knees were probably pressing against the underside of the table. He had to be 6'8, and though he looked thin, he probably weighed more than 250, maybe even 275. The small size of the room only added to the illusion that he was sitting at a child's play table.
"Anything on Brisbin yet?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Nothing," McGee said. "There's no phone listing for him in Coeur d'Alene or surrounding areas. The address the checks go to is a mail drop. They say he comes in once a month on check day. He doesn't get any other mail there. I've tried all the usual tricks, but he's nowhere."
Gibbs turned to face them. "Alright. Go work on the flash-bangs," Gibbs told them. While they gathered their gear, he pulled O'Sullivan's file out of his briefcase, along with the file on Demmings' attack. Gibbs had read both the night before. Before his demotion and confinement, O'Sullivan had been a member of the Second Marine Logistics Group out of Camp Lejuene, North Carolina. He'd been leader of a squad of 12 Marines responsible for the inventorying, maintenance, repair and distribution of small arms for the First Battalion, Second Division. They'd gone to Iraq aboard the Roosevelt in the Spring of 2005. As the Marine units had been dropped off at various bases throughout Europe and the Middle East, O'Sullivan and his squad had stayed with the Battalion's dwindling armory aboard the Roosevelt. Which meant he'd been with the ship's crew for all three of the attacks that had taken place that year, including the one on Major Ortiz.
According to his SRB, O'Sullivan was an average Marine. Nothing significantly positive or negative about him. He was of average intelligence, with average skill at just about everything he did. He'd received no commendations beyond the usual. Every CO who'd put a note in his jacket said O'Sullivan was an adequate Marine, made his marks, earned his promotions on schedule, but nothing more. The only thing close to noteworthy had been two non-punitive letters of caution for fighting. Not necessarily a red flag: Hell, Gibbs had earned one of those himself early in his career, before he'd settled down.
Gibbs knew that the complement of small arms O'Sullivan was responsible for included flash bangs. Add that to his evasiveness about explaining his injury, his apparent difficulty controlling his anger, and the fact that his stated religious preference was Catholic, and he became a more than logical suspect.
Gibbs glanced once more at the plasma. O'Sullivan was still writing, pausing occasionally to adjust the cuffs or make some other small movement, but never for more than a few seconds before returning to his work. Gibbs said a soft "huh" to himself, then clicked off the screen and went to meet the man.
Outside interrogation, a Marine brig guard was lounging on a straight chair. When Gibbs rounded the corner, the guard glanced up at him, then did a double take and frowned.
"Gibbs?" the Marine asked. Gibbs looked more closely at him, trying to place the semi-familiar face. Hispanic, a little smaller and a lot younger than he was, Staff Sergeant racks on his arms. He glanced at the name tag and an old memory struggled to surface.
"Acosta… Allan?" he asked.
"You got it. Long time no see." The Marine stood and the two men shook hands familiarly.
"What's it been, 15 years?" Gibbs asked as they separated.
"Almost 20, old man," Acosta said with a grin, and he reached up to touch Gibbs' gray hair. Gibbs flinched away with a smile. That was the second time in less than an hour someone had called him old.
The memories came back, like it was last week instead of a lifetime ago. Acosta had been a young recruit with scads of potential, but he was too full of piss and vinegar, too eager to prove himself to anyone who challenged him. Gibbs had been one of the supervisory non-commissioned officers responsible for the brig at Camp Pendleton, and Acosta had been a frequent visitor there. Never anything serious, but he had a habit of pissing off the wrong officers and ending up in lockdown for days or weeks at a time. Gibbs had tried to work with him, tried to change his course, but the kid was too ornery.
"You stayed in," Gibbs stated the obvious.
"Yup. Came time to reup, my CO wanted to muster me out. I realized I wanted to stay. Took that on as my next fight."
"Why?" Gibbs asked. "Unless I'm remembering wrong, you couldn't wait to get out."
Acosta smiled, his expression rueful. "No, you're right. But when the time came, I suddenly realized I'd never had it so good. What other job was I going to get where they housed me, fed me, and let me play with guns?"
Gibbs chuckled. "So you're at Quantico?" he asked.
"Almost a year now. I finally made E-6 back in 2003." The pride was clear in his voice.
"Going for Gunny?" Gibbs asked. Acosta shook his head with a grin.
"Nah. I'll have my 20 in next year. If I stick around after that, it'll just be to stay in the uniform."
Gibbs nodded, a small spike of jealousy poking his heart. When he'd made Gunnery Sergeant, he'd known without a doubt that that was how he'd spend the rest of his working life. Then the phone call, the mortar attack, and it was all over.
"How about you? Did you start here after you retired?" Acosta asked.
"Nope. Messed up my leg in Desert Storm. Been here about 18 years."
"Wow. Who'd have figured I'd be the one to stay and you'd have to go."
"Yeah," Gibbs said, tamping down the pain of that irony by sheer force of will. He'd never regretted joining NCIS, but he often wished he'd been able to stay an active duty Marine. It had taken him years at NCIS to be as comfortable out of his uniform as he had been almost immediately in it.
"So what do you want with O'Sullivan?" Acosta asked. He could see the effect his words were having on Gibbs in the older man's suddenly shuttered expression, and he moved the conversation to more neutral ground.
"He might have been involved in something we're investigating."
"You know he's been in custody about eight months, right?" Acosta asked. Gibbs nodded.
"It's a cold case. We just want to see what he remembers. What can you tell me about him?"
"Nice kid. A little strange in some ways. But disciplined and compliant. A natural-born grunt. He's harmless enough unless he's been drinking. He's got four months or so left on his sentence, then he'll be dishonorably discharged and sent on his way."
"A DD for an accident?" Gibbs asked. He'd read that in O'Sullivan's file, but he thought there might be more to it.
Acosta shrugged. "It was part of the deal he made. The punch that took out his buddy was intentional. The result wasn't, but he had civilian training as a medical technician prior to joining the Corps, and the JAG prosecutor said he should have recognized the potential seriousness of the injury, gotten him help sooner. They were going to charge him with reckless homicide after the victim's parents took him off life support, but the guy didn't die. Court Martialing him for attempted murder was their next move. If he'd been was found guilty it would have meant a year's hard labor at Leavenworth followed by eight to twelve in a civilian prison. He took a plea."
"Yeah, alright," Gibbs said.
"Hey, can I play?" Acosta asked, a sudden gleam in his eye. "I learned interrogation techniques from a master." He popped the back of his hand against Gibbs' chest. Gibbs shook his head with a smile.
"Nah. But you can watch. Observation's through there." He indicated the closed door.
"I think I'm going to enjoy this. It'll be just like old times. Only it's not going to be my neck you're breathing down." He paused for a second, wanting to say something, but clearly hesitating. Gibbs cocked his head a little, giving him the moment.
"I never got the chance to thank you, Gunny. For showing me what it meant to be a Marine, how a man should live. You really did make a difference."
Gibbs held his gaze, saw the sincerity there, and nodded once.
"If it hadn't been me, you'd have figured it out on your own." Gibbs pushed through into interrogation.
to be continued...
The next part of this should be up tomorrow (yes, our tomorrow) and we'll find out what - if anything - O'Sullivan knows. Thanks for reading, and for feedback. It's always welcome, here or directly at joykatleen AT aol DOT com.