One Less - Part 21
by joykatleen
Twenty minutes later, McGee returned from talking with O'Sullivan. At Gibbs' questioning look, he said he had some ideas, but it would take some time. And some work. Did Gibbs want him to get on it now? Later, Gibbs told him, and McGee went back to crunching the numbers.
Security escorted Petty Officer Radkoff into the squadroom a little under an hour later. The young man was wearing the new Service Dress uniform, which he'd obviously put on fresh for the trip to the Navy Yard. He was carrying a long overcoat over his arm, his garrison cap and gloves in one hand. Gibbs was just coming down the stairs from the upper level and saw Radkoff step off the elevator. Even from that distance in that one look, Gibbs could see he was nervous.
"Ziver," Gibbs called softly from above. She looked up at him. Gibbs nodded to the pair headed for them and tossed his head slightly toward the hallway leading to interrogation. Ziva glanced at them, then nodded her understanding and stood to greet their visitor. Gibbs continued down the stairs and around the corner away from his desk.
Demmings – the victim who'd escaped without a disabling injury – had said his partner had injured one of his attackers. A sailor who'd been bragging about being involved in the attack had gone to the infirmary the next morning with a matching injury, and Radkoff claimed to have witnessed him suffering that injury while on duty. If Radkoff had lied about the cause of the injury, chances were it was because he'd been involved in the attack, too. Or at least was good enough friends with someone who had been involved to risk his military career for him. Gibbs was eager to get Radkoff into interrogation.
He waited until Ziva and Radkoff were gone, then returned to his desk. Gibbs had read through Radkoff's file and had a good sense of what kind of sailor he was. A hard worker, well-liked, rated above average in all aspects of his regular reviews. There was nothing in his file that indicated he was anything special, but he certainly did his job well. Gibbs knew from experience that the more specialized the unit, the more you had to shine to receive any kind of commendation or recognition. The things that got run-of-the-mill sailors noticed were the things SEALs and SWCCs did on a routine basis. That fact that this sailor had made it through SWCC training by itself said something about his character. Which is why Gibbs knew that for Radkoff to be this nervous about a call to NCIS, he had to be feeling guilt about something. But was it the right thing?
Gibbs had also noted that the only trouble Radkoff had been in up until now had involved bad judgment with women. A couple of curfew violations while on shore leave with local girls, one breach of operational security to call a girlfriend during a communications blackout, a complaint to Radkoff's C.O. from one girlfriend when he left her for another. Those things were noted in his file, but had not impacted his career. Gibbs thought knowing about that propensity might be useful.
He took Radkoff's SRB and his coffee and went to the observation room. Ziva was there in the dark, watching through the glass. Radkoff had set his things on the end of the table and was sitting in the interviewee's chair, alternately looking at his reflection in the glass and staring at his hands, smoothing out his uniform and wiping away the sweat that kept beading on his forehead and the sides of his head under his brush cut.
"He is very anxious," Ziva said.
"Hmm," Gibbs agreed.
"Do you think he knows why he is here?" Ziva asked, glancing at Gibbs as he took a sip of his coffee.
"Probably."
"He may have done something else we are not aware of," Ziva said.
"Not likely," Gibbs said. They watched him fidget.
"Is it hot in there?" Gibbs asked the tech, who checked a reading.
"Nope. Seventy-six and fluorescent." Gibbs smiled to himself. The Government building winter weather forecast. In the summer, if they were lucky, it was seventy-two and fluorescent.
The differences between O'Sullivan and Radkoff was striking. Both had been called down to NCIS unexpectedly – a nerve-racking experience for most service members whether they'd done something wrong or not. Yet O'Sullivan had sat calmly, keeping himself occupied, while Radkoff was staring at the walls, seemingly ready to jump out of his skin.
To gauge the extent of Radkoff's nerves, Gibbs suddenly reached up and slapped his hand hard against the glass. In interrogation, Radkoff jumped like he'd been shocked. In observation, the tech said "Hey!" before quieting again at Ziva's glare. That answers that, Gibbs thought.
"Why don't you go talk to him, Officer David," Gibbs said. "See what he has to say."
"Very well," Ziva said, surprised, but covering quickly. "Is there anything in particular you would like to hear?"
"Just the truth, Ziva," Gibbs said. Ziva gave him a sly smile.
"Of course," she said. She took the file from him and stepped out into the hall. Gibbs sipped his coffee and waited for the show to start.
xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox
Radkoff jumped again and spun toward the door when Ziva pushed it open. They should all be this easy, Gibbs thought. He watched as Ziva pulled the interviewer's chair a foot or so away from the table and sat. She studied him for a moment.
"Hello, Petty Officer Radkoff," Ziva said. Her voice was modulated slightly deeper than normal. Attractively so, Gibbs thought. She'd read his file too, and obviously great minds thought alike on this one.
"Hello, ma'am," Radkoff said and swallowed. He took a deep breath and seemed to steady himself.
"Officer David," Ziva said. "Not ma'am."
"Officer?" Radkoff asked with a raised eyebrow.
"I am an agent with the Mossad, temporarily assigned in a liaison position with NCIS."
"Mossad? What have I done to annoy the Israelis, Officer David?"
"Nothing that I know of, Petty Officer Radkoff."
"You can call me Sasha," he said with a small smile. In the observation room, Gibbs grinned into his coffee cup. Score one for the Israeli.
"And you may call me Ziva," she said and returned his smile.
"So, Ziva, what am I doing here?" he asked. He took another breath and visibly relaxed.
"Some old business I would like to talk to you about," Ziva said.
Gibbs cell phone rang, startling him in the quiet of observation. He glanced at the caller ID – blocked – and flipped it open.
It was the director. Gibbs' presence was required on the executive level. He glanced through the glass at Ziva's obvious comfort with Radkoff, and said he'd be right up.
xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox
It took him half an hour to answer all the director's questions, then he spent another 20 minutes listening in on a conference call between the Director and the Secretary of the Navy. Gibbs was actually impressed that the Director managed to fully brief SecNav on their string of connected cases without spilling the connection. Politics was a game for experts, of which Gibbs certainly wasn't one.
He was surprised to see neither McGee nor Ziva in the squadroom when he descended from the upper level. Refilling his coffee on the way, Gibbs went to the observation room. McGee was standing in the dark, watching Ziva and Radkoff through the glass. Ziva was sitting in her chair, leaning forward on her elbows with her back to the mirror. Radkoff, too, was leaning forward so less than a foot separated their faces. Radkoff was grinning slightly. The room was silent.
"What's going on?" Gibbs asked.
"They're having a staring contest," McGee said. "Radkoff hasn't blinked in almost..."
"Coming up on four minutes," the tech reported.
"What?" Gibbs asked.
"He challenged her to it," McGee said.
Gibbs looked at him, a look of disbelief on his face.
"I've been gone for an hour, and they're playing games?" he asked incredulously.
"Radkoff admitted about half an hour ago that he and Hartman attacked Demmings in Italy."
Gibbs was thrown for a second. "Really?" he asked.
"She convinced him she thought whoever had done it had done the right thing, saved the Navy the bother of a court martial. He thinks Demmings left the Navy after the assault, so he considers it mission accomplished. Even so, he was still hesitant to give details, so she also convinced him the statute of limitations had run, and they wouldn't be able to charge him with assault even if he went straight to JAG and admitted the whole thing."
"Really?" he said again. While that was technically correct, there were several other things they could charge him with, the least of which was misconduct that discredits the military, a catch-all crime for enlisted personnel under the general articles of the UCMJ. That by itself could get him dishonorably discharged. But his guess was that the sailor didn't know that.
"He said Hartman was involved in the attack on Major Ortiz, but swears he was only recruited after that, only for Demmings."
"Recruited?" Gibbs asked.
"That's the word he used. He said each man is recruited for a specific upcoming mission. After that one, or one more if he wants, he's encouraged to recruit someone to replace him."
"Clever," Gibbs commented. "Spreads the wealth. So if Radkoff was only involved in one, who'd he bring in to replace him?"
"He won't say. The next attack was Lt. Hutchinson, and he knows the statute hasn't quite run. He denies it was him, but he won't say who it was."
"Anything on who's pulling the strings?"
"That's what she's still working on. He says he doesn't know, but she's not sure."
"Anything else?" Gibbs asked. McGee frowned, checking his memory.
"That's everything so far," he confirmed.
"And you don't think she's going to kick your ass for giving away all of her success and leaving her nothing to tell me?"
There was a stunned silence from McGee, which Gibbs enjoyed for a moment before continuing.
"You find anything yet?" he addressed McGee. The young agent blinked a couple times, refocusing himself.
"A few things. Cross-referencing everything cuts the suspect list on four of the victims to less than 20 possibles each. But we got lucky with the two attacks in Spain. With the data we've got, and assuming it was someone on the ship, there's statistically only seven people that could have been involved in both attacks."
"So two of those seven were involved in both of those assaults, guaranteed?"
"Almost guaranteed," McGee said. "There's a slight chance it could have been someone from Rota, or a local not connected to the military at all."
"How slight?" Gibbs asked.
"Very. But, you know, I mean, what if…" McGee was stammering, and Gibbs decided to cut him break.
"So except for that small 'what if,' two of seven names you've got were involved?"
"Right," McGee said, relieved to be moving on.
"Best number I've heard so far."
From interrogation came a sound of triumph. Radkoff was rubbing his weeping eyes, and Ziva was wriggling in a seated victory dance. He'd blinked first.
"Now you owe me one," Ziva crowed. She reached over the table and touched his shoulder coyly. Gibbs rolled his eyes. She was one hell of an actress, even from the back.
"Come on," Gibbs said, and ushered McGee out into the hall. "So who are the seven?"
McGee pulled out his PDA, clicked it a few times, then read off the names. Five officers, two enlisted. They rounded the corner into the squadroom.
"Alright. Find them and invite them down."
"Uh, okay. But we don't have enough, Boss," McGee said. Gibbs sat behind his desk.
"Enough what?"
"Probable cause. It's a high statistical probability that two of those seven were involved in the attacks in Spain, but there's no other evidence. The statistics alone aren't enough to force them here if they're still in the Navy and don't want to come, and aren't enough for arrest warrants if they're out of the military," McGee explained from his own desk.
Gibbs sighed. He knew the law was there for a reason, but sometimes it frustrated the hell out of him. "Find them anyway."
McGee set to work again. A thought occurred to Gibbs: "How many of them are Catholic?" he asked.
McGee checked. "Three."
"Start with them."
xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox
McGee located the three men in short order. Unfortunately, none of them were going to make it to NCIS this day. The closest of them was stationed at Naval Air Station Patuxent River in Maryland. Gibbs called the Commanding Officer at Pax River and arranged to have that man sent up to the Navy Yard first thing in the morning, as part of an ongoing investigation. Of the other two Catholics, one was out of the Navy and living in Kentucky, and the other was in Afghanistan. Nothing they could do about them. At least not until they had something more on them that just a statistical probability.
Of the non-Catholics on McGee's list, three were still in the Navy. One was in California, one in Washington State. The third was still assigned to the Roosevelt, but according to the deck officer was not scheduled to report aboard until the next day. The last of the non-Catholics was out of the Navy, living in Baltimore. They could easily drive out to meet with him, but Gibbs wasn't sure he wanted to give the guy a heads up until he had more.
Ziva came up to report what she'd gotten from Radkoff, and was not silent about her annoyance over McGee having already spilled the rice. Beans, Gibbs mentally translated, but didn't bother to correct her. She had come at the question of who was at the top of the conspiracy several ways, but each time the end result was the same: Radkoff claimed not to know. He also steadfastly refused to name the sailor he'd recruited to replace him after the attack on Demmings. Gibbs figured that would change when reality set in. For now, the sailor saw himself as bullet proof. Gibbs told Ziva to call the Shore Patrol and have Radkoff arrested for general misconduct. They'd take him to the brig at Naval Support Facility Anacostia, the closest overnight detention facility to the Yard. Gibbs would figure out what to do with him tomorrow.
Gibbs sent Acosta and O'Sullivan back to Quantico. O'Sullivan had spoken to the hospital, then Acosta had allowed him to call his parents to pass on the news. They were hesitant at first, but reassurances from Acosta that this wasn't a scam, and that only good things could come of it, eased their minds.
The windows in the squadroom showed the daylight already gone when Gibbs decided they'd done all they could for today. Besides, the Base Exchange closed at 6:00, and he needed to collect Nicky. He told Ziva and McGee to pack it in, then called down to Abby to deliver the same message. He gathered up the SRBs McGee had left him and everything else they had on paper and stuffed it in his briefcase before heading over to the BX.
On arrival at Gregor's shop, Nicky informed Gibbs that he wouldn't need to return to Gibbs' house tonight. He'd been paid for his day's work, the retired Marine said, and he'd won another $40 playing chess. Gibbs had raised an eyebrow at that, and the twinkle in Gregor's eye belied the solemn agreement that Nicky had, in fact, won fair and square. The old man had a soft heart, Gibbs knew. With his newfound wealth, Nicky said he wanted to spend the night in a motel. No insult, Gunny, he'd been quick to assure. But since he had earned some money fair and square, he wanted to treat himself. Gibbs figured it was safe enough, as long as the motel he chose wasn't anywhere near the warehouse. Nicky agreed, and said he'd call before he travelled very far in the morning. Gibbs cautioned him to stay away from the warehouse until they caught the men responsible for Ferrara's death, and Nicky solemnly agreed.
With a wave of thanks to Gregor, and an invitation from the shop keeper for Nicky to come back and work again any time, they headed out. Gibbs drove Nicky to the motel he wanted. It was better than a 'rent by the hour or by the month' flophouse, but not so upscale that ID and a credit card would be required to rent a room. It was four miles from Nicky's warehouse, and Gibbs deemed it far enough. Nicky repeated his promise to stay in the neighborhood for dinner, and to call in the morning. Gibbs dropped him off, then drove around the building and found a spot to park on the edge of the mostly-empty parking lot. He watched through the lobby windows while Nicky checked in, got his room key, and walked down the outside hallway to his room. Gibbs noted the room number and headed home.
Dinner was a quick affair, a small pot of stew cooked on the stove, and afterwards Gibbs opened his briefcase and started re-reading what they had. He needed to get a handle on this thing. There were too many players, too much information banging around inside his head. Somehow, he had to make sense of it, and fast. The Roosevelt was set to sail in less than three days.
Which reminded him. Gibbs leaned on the edge of the kitchen counter and called Tony.
"I don't think it's Fredrick," DiNozzo said after he found a private place to talk.
"Why not?" Gibbs asked.
"He loves his job too much to risk it. He's lived on this ship almost 10 years, and he's convinced you're going to get him fired because he didn't file the missing persons report. I don't get any sense from him that he's worried about something bigger coming out. And not in a 'they'll never catch me' kind of way. I think he's just clueless."
"You sure? He's in the best position to have been covering this up," Gibbs said.
"I know. He's no fan of gays in the military, and he absolutely knew about Ferrara. But I still don't think he's involved."
Gibbs took a breath. "Find out for sure. I do not want to have to follow this case across the Atlantic."
Gibbs filled him in on O'Sullivan, Hartman, and Radkoff, and the statistical narrowing McGee had done. He gave DiNozzo the name of the one of seven that was still assigned to the Roosevelt. Gibbs would call the deck officer in the morning and have him alert NCIS when the guy reported for duty.
"We're seriously against the clock here, DiNozzo. If Fredrick's not involved, find out why he didn't know. Capt. McNally's gonna want his pound of flesh in any event, so if it wasn't him, get him ready to defend himself."
"Will do." DiNozzo asked.
xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox
Gibbs managed to make it through the night in his own bed. Which isn't to say he didn't have nightmares: He'd woken twice, choking back the screams. The first time, it was Kate. The second, it was Nicky standing next to him when the mortar blew in Kuwait.
When he caught his breath that time, Gibbs again went down to the basement, but only long enough to fill his mug with bourbon and toss it back. And do it again, and again, until the bottle was empty. Then he'd returned to his room and laid out on the bed, waiting for the alcohol to do its thing. It had been a lot of years since he'd wanted drugs – of any kind – to help him sleep. Even longer since he'd used them. He'd never tried to rationalize the need in the past, and he didn't this time, either. He needed to sleep. He didn't want to dream. That's all.
It had worked, but the side effects were predictable. A long shower, some eye drops, twice-brushed teeth, and Gibbs finally felt something less than half dead. Two cups of extra dark and four aspirin pushed the pounding in his head back to a tolerable level. At least he knew what had brought on the headache this morning.
The morning had dawned gray and dreary. Appropriate for his mood, Gibbs figured. The roads were clear and the traffic wasn't any worse than usual. Driving in with his third cup balanced on his steering wheel, Gibbs gave some thought to how he'd woken up. There'd been no ringing phone this time, no sudden move from sleep to wake. Just a slow, measured rise to awareness through gradually-lightening layers of fog until the pain in his head and a queasy feeling in his stomach drove him out of bed. Nothing he wouldn't have expected considering the quantity of liquor he'd consumed.
What had been unexpected was how he'd been lying when he finally woke.
Shannon had loved to tease him about the way he slept. He would start out on his own side, but always ended up curled around her on the far side. The first couple of times they'd shared a bed and he'd woken that way, he'd been nervous, thinking she'd feel like he was smothering her or something. When he'd finally admitted why he always jumped away when he woke up, she'd smiled at his discomfort, kissed him on the nose, and told him it was alright. She liked it. It made her feel loved, protected, safe. She called him her teddy bear.
The first time he deployed after they were married, she'd sent him a little brown teddy bear in Marine Dress Blues. It made him smile. He'd tucked it away in his kit and it had travelled with him always. Until Kelly was born. Then it had gone into her crib, her bed, and finally her casket.
In the months after they died, after he made it home, he'd often woken to find himself hugging her pillows on her side of the bed, tears drying on his face. The occurrences had faded over time. When he remarried, he had occasionally woken wrapped around his new wife, early on. She'd hated it.
He'd stopped moving across the bed after that. Two more wives, a handful of lovers. He'd learned to stay put when he slept. Usually, he slept flat on his back. Sometimes on his stomach with an arm under his head. But whatever position he fell asleep in was how he woke up. Until last night, when Gibbs had woken to find himself curled around a pillow on the far side of the bed. He was hugging it so tightly the creases were pressed into his face and chest. There were no tears, but when he'd tried to roll over he'd discovered the muscles in his limbs were clenched so tightly he had trouble straightening them.
The death of his family had not been in his dreams this time. And after drinking the bourbon, he didn't remember dreaming anymore. But to have woken that way, he must have been thinking of her.
What the hell was going on with him lately? Stopped at a red, Gibbs put more drops in his eyes, rolled them around in their sockets and drank more coffee. He did not like feeling this way.
xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox
Thursday morning. Three days since Nicky had shown up at the Navy Yard. They were making progress, but not nearly fast enough. On Saturday afternoon, the Roosevelt – and all the suspects she carried – would sail for the Persian Gulf and out of their reach. Not that they wouldn't be able to recall any good suspects they had. But the requirement for proof would rise exponentially. There wouldn't be any casually bringing someone in for a chat. They'd have to be damn sure of a sailor's guilt before they'd be allowed to fly a transport out to retrieve someone from a carrier at sea.
Gibbs was first one in the squadroom. He grabbed a coffee – his fourth of the morning, but who was counting – and stowed his coat and gun. There was a message from the Watch Commander at Anacostia's detention facility. He wanted to know what they should do with Radkoff. The charge he'd been arrested on was a wobbler: could be felony, could be misdemeanor, depending on the nature of the misconduct he was accused of. Radkoff's CO had already called Anacostia. If it was a misdemeanor, he wanted Radkoff back at their base ASAP. Gibbs returned the call, telling the Watch Commander that in addition to the stated charge, Radkoff was a material witness in a homicide. The paperwork would be there shortly. Hanging up the phone, Gibbs started working on a material witness warrant. With one of those in hand, they could hold Radkoff indefinitely. He would eventually interrogate Radkoff again himself, but not until he had more solid information to threaten him with. If nothing else, Gibbs knew Radkoff had the name of the guy he'd recruited. That sailor – or Marine – was responsible for Hutchinson, and that case was still open. Gibbs wanted him. Bad.
McGee arrived with a cheery 'morning, Boss,' that was immediately followed by a classic double take. Gibbs must look worse than he thought.
"You okay, Boss?" McGee asked, stowing his stuff.
Gibbs glared at him and McGee swallowed and looked away. Gibbs turned back to his work and tried to ignore both the pounding in his head and the aura of concern wafting at him from McGee's desk.
Ziva hadn't yet arrived when his desk phone rang. Gibbs snapped it up. "Gibbs."
"Hold for Colonel Hatton," a young male voice said, and the line fell silent. Gibbs had only a few seconds to try and make sense out of that before there was static, and a voice he hadn't heard in almost 20 years came over the line.
"Is that you, Gibbs?" the voice asked. Gibbs felt himself straighten in his chair, his eyes going to middle distance.
"Colonel Hatton?" Gibbs asked. "How the hell are you, sir?"
"Holding my own, Gunny. It's good to hear your voice."
"You too. It's been awhile," Gibbs said.
"It has," Hatton agreed. There was a burst of static, then the line cleared.
"You have some time today to meet with your old CO? I'd like to take you to lunch," he said.
"Where are you, sir?" Gibbs asked. He truly had no idea where the Colonel was. Gibbs hadn't even known the man was still in the Marines. He certainly shouldn't have been. Hatton had been Gibbs' last commanding officer, top man in charge of the First Battalion, First Marines out of Camp Pendleton. Most everyone Gibbs had known from that time in his life was long retired. Yesterday it'd been Acosta, now Hatton. Old home week.
"I'm scheduled to be in D.C. in a couple hours. You could pick me up at Andrews, we'll grab a bite." The static surged again, loudly enough that Gibbs took the phone away from his ear for a few seconds while it settled. He realized the Colonel was calling him from a satellite phone aboard an airplane.
"Ordinarily, I'd love to, Colonel. But I'm working this case that's keeping me pretty busy and I…"
"I know, Gunny," the colonel interrupted him.
"What?" Gibbs asked, and Col. Hatton repeated himself.
"I know about your case. And I'd really like to take you to lunch when I get in. Can you manage it?"
Gibbs considered that, trying to understand the message that was lying beneath the Colonel's words.
"Alright. Where?"
"It'll be an Air Force C-130, tail number 0499. Should be in around 1115. Not sure what hangar, you'll have to ask. Looking forward to seeing you, Gibbs."
"Yeah, you too, sir." The line went dead. Gibbs sat for several seconds with the phone next to his ear before gently setting it in the cradle.
"McGee," he said, and across the aisle, the young agent's head snapped up from whatever he'd been doing on his computer.
"Give me a quick search on Marine Colonel John Hatton. Should be retired."
"What do you need to know?" McGee asked, already tapping keys.
"Where he is and what he's doing," Gibbs said. McGee nodded.
It took him less than two minutes.
"Colonel John Hatton, retired from the Marine Corps in 1994, remained in the ready reserves, voluntarily recalled in 2004. Currently the Executive Officer of Camp Phoenix in Afghanistan."
"What the hell does he want with me?" Gibbs mumbled to himself.
"Boss?" McGee asked.
"He have any connection to the Roosevelt?" Gibbs asked more loudly. McGee considered that, then did a search. This one took longer.
"He was aboard the Roosevelt when it went to the Persian Gulf in 2005, as Commanding Officer of the First Battalion, Second Marines."
"So he would have been Major Ortiz's CO," Gibbs said.
"And possibly knew – or at least knew of – both Petty Officer Demmings and Lt. Hutchinson."
"Not likely. Senior Marine officers wouldn't have any reason to interact with junior sailors. Was he aboard for Ferrara's accident?"
"Um, yes. Yes he was."
Gibbs considered that. "He have kids in the service?" A pause while McGee looked that up.
"Two, both Marines. A daughter, Capt. Grace Hatton, Annapolis Class of 1997, Third Medical Battalion, Third Marines, in Okinawa. And a son, Capt. John Hatton Junior, also Annapolis Class of 1997. Currently serving in Marine Heavy Helicopter Squadron 366, Cherry Point. They're twins."
"Junior married?" Gibbs asked. He was trying to figure out what possible connection Hatton might have to their case, and how he'd become aware of it at all.
"Yes. Wife and three dependents living in base housing."
Gibbs considered that.
"What're you looking for, Boss?"
"The reason Col. Hatton would be coming all the way to D.C. to take me to lunch," Gibbs said.
"Do you know him?"
"He was CO of my Battalion when I was discharged," Gibbs said.
"So maybe he's just touching base with an old friend," McGee suggested.
"We weren't friends. He was a senior officer. He gave orders to a guy two guys above my boss."
"Maybe he knows something about the case," McGee said.
"That's what I'm looking for," Gibbs said. "What could he know?"
"Could he have been involved?" McGee asked. Gibbs snorted.
"Not a chance."
There was a moment of silence, then McGee ventured: "How do you know?"
Gibbs cocked his head, looking across at McGee. "I know."
to be continued...
Sorry for the delay. We're getting closer to where I run out of words, so things are slowing down a little. Reviews and comments - good or bad - will increase my writing speed. Promise.