One Less - Part 25
by joykatleen
Note: This was a bad break, and an awkward place to re-enter the story, so to refresh:
Gibbs has just practically had the bejeezees kicked out of him by Ziva when she was blind and deaf from the effects of a [really powerful] flash-bang. Gibbs is bleeding from his neck where Ziva nearly cut his throat, and his right knee is whacked from her kicking it, then him landing on it. She's still out of it. Gibbs can see, but his ears are ringing real bad, blocking out most sound. They're lying side-by-side on the floor of Nicky's warehouse, McGee standing over them with his flashlight, trying to understand what the heck happened. One bad guy in custody...
McGee's light suddenly spun away from them and he drew his gun. Gibbs twisted around and sighted his own gun in the direction of McGee's light. The guy handcuffed to the pole was awake and – judging by the expression on his face – not happy.
"He's clean," Gibbs said. They both lowered their weapons. "There were two. Is the car still outside?" He realized he could hear his own voice again, albeit inside his head. Shouldn't be long now. Beside Gibbs, Ziva sat up, still tightly clutching his badge.
McGee hurried over to look outside. Gibbs holstered his gun and tried to push himself off the ground. As soon as he moved his right knee, he had to stifle a cry of pain. Or at least he thought he stifled it. McGee looked back over his shoulder, concern on his face. Gibbs waved him on and rolled into a sitting position, his left leg stretched out in front of him, his right still bent almost 90 degrees and apparently stuck that way. He told himself to straighten it, and it moved just enough to know that was a bad idea. He felt his pulse pounding in the artery behind his knee. This was not good. McGee looked out through the man door and came back shaking his head. The other suspect and the car they'd arrived in were gone.
"Go get the sedan. And call Metro to transport this guy."
McGee said something to him. Gibbs heard the tone of his voice, but the words were still lost in the ringing. He Gibbs shook his head. "Not yet, McGee."
McGee nodded, then gestured toward him. Gibbs frowned, not understanding. McGee crouched down in front of him and reached out to touch Gibbs' neck. Gibbs jerked back at the pain. McGee withdrew, then shone his light on his hand. A thick smear of blood. Gibbs was bleeding. Ziva's knife.
"Got it," Gibbs said. He pressed his jacket forearm against the wound he knew was there and applied pressure. McGee nodded again and stood. He picked up Ziva's knife, which he wiped on his jeans before sliding it into his belt. Then he carefully picked up her gun and unloaded it, sticking the weapon and the clip into his coat pocket. He headed outside. Gibbs turned to look at Ziva, who was sitting very still beside him. She had one hand braced on the floor, the one with his badge in it pressed against her chest. Her legs were out in front of her and she was leaning slightly forward. She was staring straight ahead, her head cocked sideways.
"Ziver?" Gibbs called loudly. No response. He sighed, then warily reached over and lightly touched the back of her free hand. She turned her face toward him and took his hand, squeezing it. He returned the squeeze and held on.
xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox
A D.C. Metro Police cruiser showed up 15 minutes later. By then, the ringing in Gibbs' ears had subsided to a low buzz that he knew from experience could last for hours. At least he could hear speech again. The bleeding at his neck had slowed to an ooze, but hadn't yet stopped. Ziva had stuck him deep. He was probably lucky the knife had missed his carotid artery.
Ziva had similarly recovered, enough to explain what had happened from her perspective and to start apologizing for attacking him. He told her – repeatedly – that he would have done the same thing, that it was fine, that he was fine. But he didn't try to get up, and his team noticed.
Right behind Metro came the medics. They checked the sailor – his ID card showed him to be a Petty Officer First named Fazio – and found a large goose-egg on the back of his head. They decided he needed to go to the emergency room. And since he was under arrest, someone would have to stay with him. Realizing the choice was sending an NCIS agent, or giving Metro enough of the facts of the case to convince them they weren't going to be sued for false arrest, Gibbs told Ziva to stay with Fazio, and start working the paper. She objected. She wanted to stay until she was sure Gibbs was alright. A withering look from him had her relenting. McGee gave her back her weapons and she joined the Metro cop for the ride to Bethesda.
A second ambulance showed up before the first departed. The Metro cops, concerned about Gibbs' injuries, had called for it. Gibbs let the medics clean the wound at his neck and apply a couple of steri strips to close the deepest part of it. They tried to examine his knee, but he waved them off. It would be fine.
Once they were finally alone again, Gibbs had McGee help him stand. He managed to get upright and partly straighten his knee, but not enough to put weight on his leg, even if that were a good idea.
"Uh, you think we should go to the hospital, boss?" McGee said as he looped Gibbs' arm over his neck and helped him hop toward the door.
"No," Gibbs said shortly. As they approached the door, Gibbs pulled back. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at a spot on the floor in front of them. McGee shone his light where Gibbs indicated.
"Looks like oil. Or paint?" McGee guessed.
"Could it be blood?" Gibbs asked.
"Maybe. Did you shoot?" McGee asked.
"No. But maybe Ziva got a shot off."
McGee swung his light ahead, finding more of the spots and visually tracking them to the exit door. He moved the light in widening circles around them until it caught a reflection off something metal.
"There's the brass," McGee said. "I should collect it. Get a sample."
"You should. And find the grenade canister."
McGee helped Gibbs out to the sedan and onto the passenger seat before getting his gear from the trunk. When the young agent disappeared back into the warehouse, Gibbs slid the seat all the way back to create maximum room and used his hands to lift his leg into the car. He panted, trying to tamp down the pain. When he was in, he leaned his head back and tried to catch his breath.
It took longer than he liked to get his breathing under control. When he thought he could finally speak complete sentences, Gibbs called Ziva. She confirmed she'd fired only once, at the sailor's legs. She was pleased to hear she might have hit him. Gibbs told her to start making calls, to get notice to all local civilian and military hospitals and late-night clinics to be on the lookout for a gunshot victim. She said she would, then asked after Gibbs' health again. He hung up without answering.
Gibbs waited while McGee took samples of the blood and collected the flash-bang canister and the single cartridge from Ziva's gun. His back where he'd landed on his Sig was throbbing, and it felt like he was being stabbed again every time he moved his neck, or even talked or swallowed. But those Gibbs could deal with. He'd been hurt before, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last time. Nothing that wouldn't heal on its own.
The knee, however, he wasn't so sure he could ignore this time. It might actually need something more than ice and a wrap. Maybe he'd go see Ducky at home tomorrow.
McGee returned to the car and reported he'd been unable to locate the slug from Ziva's gun. NCIS – like most urban law enforcement agencies – used hollow-point bullets that mushroomed on impact with flesh. They were good for close-quarters shooting because they were far less likely to pass through the person they hit and endanger bystanders and other cops. They also tended to do a little more damage than a through and through as they tumbled around inside the body. Which meant the sailor was going to need medical attention, sooner rather than later.
As McGee drove them back to the Navy Yard, Gibbs called the infirmary aboard the Roosevelt. He asked to be connected to the Chief Physician. It was almost 10 p.m., and the duty nurse gave him a hassle about waking up the boss when there was no medical emergency. Gibbs ignored him. When he had the man on the line, Gibbs explained who he was and why he was calling.
"You're likely to see him in the next day or two. Might be for the GSW, might be an infection if he tries to remove the slug without proper medical supervision."
"Where was he hit?" the doctor asked.
"Probably the lower extremities."
"Any idea how serious the wound is?"
"No. There was minimal bleeding at the scene," Gibbs said.
"That might just mean his clothes caught the worst of it," the doctor said. "Are you sure he was one of our sailors?"
"Yes," Gibbs said. The chances that the two men who'd shown up tonight were not from the Big Stick were too slim to talk about.
"Alright, I'll keep an eye out. I assume you'd like to be notified if a sailor with such a wound comes in?"
"We would. We may have a name soon. If he comes aboard, we'll have him brought to you."
"Fair enough." Gibbs gave the doctor his number and signed off.
McGee's phone rang as they were entering the lobby elevator, McGee acting as Gibbs' awkward crutch. McGee paused and worked the cell out of his pocket without letting go of Gibbs.
"Hello? Yeah, we just got here... oh, okay... we'll be right there." He clicked off. "Ducky's here. He wants to see you downstairs," McGee explained.
Gibbs sighed and shook his head slightly. He'd been hoping to avoid this confrontation until morning, at least.
"Fine," Gibbs said. They rode down to autopsy.
"What're you doing here so late, Duck?" Gibbs asked as McGee helped him hitch himself up onto one of the tables.
"A little bird called me to say you'd been injured. I knew it was unlikely you would go to the hospital like any reasonable man would, so I came to see if my services might be required."
"Would that be a little Israeli bird?" Gibbs growled.
"She was quite concerned she might have hurt you," Ducky said.
"I'm going to kill her," Gibbs growled.
"Never mind the threats, Jethro. Besides, it looks to me like she was the one who nearly killed you. Let me see your neck."
"It's fine," Gibbs said. Ducky sighed.
"I hear you did your job very well tonight. Now let me do mine."
Gibbs acquiesced with ill grace, and Ducky turned on the overhead exam light. He looked closely at the neck wound. There were actually two cuts: The longer one was about two and a half inches long but shallow, hardly more than a deep scratch. The second was shorter, about an inch, but Ducky could see from the edges of the wound that it was much deeper. The medics had placed three steri strips close together to close it. Ducky realized Gibbs had been incredibly lucky to have come out of this alive: the deeper wound was less than a finger width from the bulge of his artery. Ducky said a silent prayer of thanks for providence, or luck, or whatever it was that kept his family safe. Most of the time.
"Gonna need stitches?" Gibbs asked, breaking Ducky out of his ruminations.
"The knife was very sharp and the edges of the cut are well-defined. The steri strips will probably take care of it. Might need a little surgical glue. You're likely to have a bit of a scar."
"Got plenty of those already," Gibbs said.
"As I am well aware," Ducky said. "What about your knee?"
"It's fine," Gibbs said again. And again, Ducky ignored him.
"Timothy, be a good man. Go to the garage and get my bag, will you?"
"Of course, Ducky," McGee said. He accepted Ducky's keys and hopped to. When he was gone, the doctor turned back to Gibbs.
"Let me see it," Ducky said, his tone brokering no objection this time. With a sigh, Gibbs put his hands under his knee and lifted his leg up, twisting around to rest his heel on the table. His knee was stuck at a 45-degree angle. He managed to keep from groaning, but his face must have betrayed him because the medical examiner 'tsked' at him as he unlaced Gibbs' boot and worked it off. The sock came next, then Ducky tried to push up his pant leg. Gibbs had changed into a pair of comfortable jeans for the sting, and the cuff would go no higher than his calf.
"You want to take them off, or shall I cut them?"
The jeans were old, and cutting them would certainly be easier than trying to get them off without standing up again. On the other hand, he didn't have any pants to change into, and Gibbs did not want to spend the rest of the night's work in Ducky's too-small scrubs or one of Abby's jumpsuits.
In answer, Gibbs undid his belt and laid back on the table. Using his left foot for leverage and trying not to move his right leg too much, he managed to shimmy the pants down over his hips. Ducky pulled at the cuffs and the jeans slid away. With Ducky's help, he sat up again. He felt the cold of the steel autopsy table press against his skin through his boxers and shivered a little.
"My usual guests don't seem to mind," Ducky said with a small smile, then focused on Gibbs' knee.
"Oh my," he said, and Gibbs had to agree. His knee was twice the size it ought to be. It was hard to tell under the swelling, but the kneecap looked slightly off kilter, a deepening purple bruise running alongside it.
"Wiggle your toes," Ducky instructed. Gibbs did. He felt a twinge in his kneecap. The medical examiner felt at the top of his foot for a pulse, squeezed his big toe and released it, then took hold of his foot and slowly rotated the ankle joint.
"Does that hurt?" Ducky asked as Gibbs hissed.
"Yeah," Gibbs said. "Not the ankle. I can feel it in the knee."
"Can you straighten it?"
"Probably. I'd rather not," Gibbs said. Ducky ran delicate hands up both sides of Gibbs' calf, gently squeezing as he went. He got to the knee and palpated it, pressing gently around the surface of the kneecap. He noted the places where Gibbs reacted to the pain despite himself, then moved higher and squeezed his thigh. Nothing there. Satisfied, Ducky released him and shook his head.
"Well, you've certainly done it this time, Jethro," Ducky said. "I don't think ice and a wrap is going to take care of it."
The fact that Ducky's words echoed Gibbs' earlier thought was a little disconcerting. But he knew when the doctor was serious and he sighed.
"What's it look like?" Gibbs asked.
"The kneecap's not broken. Maybe dislocated. I wouldn't be surprised if there's some ligament damage. You need an x-ray at least. An MRI would be better."
"I've got a suspect on his way here for interrogation. It's gonna have to wait. What can you do in the meantime?"
Ducky sighed. "I can take an x-ray and give you my best medical opinion on how long you can wait before going to the hospital. If I decide it can wait, I'll do what I can to make you comfortable. If it can't, I'll call you an ambulance."
"Fine," Gibbs said. Ducky brought over the portable x-ray and Gibbs laid out on his side. Ducky put on a lead apron, and draped another over Gibbs.
Gibbs kept the knee bent and Ducky worked around it. It took 20 minutes for the medical examiner to shoot pictures of each side of Gibbs' knee, develop the film, and pop them all onto the light board. McGee had returned, and as Gibbs gingerly slid to the end of the table to look, McGee's eyes widened in shock.
"That looks bad," McGee commented. Gibbs turned and gave him a look.
"Maybe not that bad?" McGee backtracked with a question in his voice.
"It's certainly not good," Ducky said. "There's no damage to the patella itself, but as I suspected, there is a dislocation. See this here, and here." He pointed to two places on the x-rays.
Gibbs could clearly see the misalignment between the kneecap and the tibia bone in his lower leg. He could also see what he was pretty sure were spaces among the tendons where none should be. Ducky spent another minute looking at the films, tapping on them with a pen and comparing one to another.
"If I can reduce it, the rest can hold a couple of hours," he pronounced.
"Why do I think I'm not going to enjoy that," Gibbs said.
"It's up to you. If they do it at the hospital, they'll sedate you, and you'll wake up fixed. Of course, you likely won't wake up until tomorrow morning."
"I'm running out of time, Ducky. I've got to talk to this guy tonight. Do what you can."
"Very well. McGee, I need you to stand behind him, hold his chest, like this." Ducky demonstrated. McGee took his place, wrapping his forearms around Gibbs' chest, his elbows under Gibbs' arms, wrists locked together. "When I'm ready to do it, you can push back against McGee. That'll help," Ducky said. He went back around the table in front of Gibbs. "Now let me just check something…"
Ducky felt around Gibbs' kneecap. He 'hmmed' a couple times, put one hand on Gibbs' thigh just above the knee as if feeling for injury, and slid the other down his leg. Ducky felt at the calf, tsked at Gibbs again, then suddenly grabbed the back of Gibbs' ankle and jerked up, pushing down hard on the thigh at the same time.
"Son of a bitch!" Gibbs shouted as his leg fully extended. He grabbed at the table with both hands, pressing hard back against McGee, suddenly panting as if he'd chased a suspect a mile.
"How's that?" Ducky asked pleasantly, still holding the leg outstretched. Gibbs tried to catch his breath.
"Damn, Duck, what're you trying to do, kill me?" Gibbs exclaimed.
The doors to autopsy swooshed open and Ziva came through, reading something from a file. "Our suspect was released from the hospital. I put him in… Oh!" she said as she looked up, startled at the scene laid out in front of her: Gibbs in his underwear, gasping for breath, Ducky holding one of his legs, McGee with his arms still wrapped around Gibbs from behind. Her mouth fell open, and she spun away from them. But not before they all saw her olive skin flush scarlet.
"I will be upstairs," she said, and fled the room. Ducky laughed out loud, and even Gibbs couldn't help but smile a little through the echoing pain.
"You can let him go now, McGee. How does it feel?" Ducky repeated his question as he slowly let Gibbs' knee return to 90 degrees. Gibbs swung his foot a little, then cautiously straightened his leg.
"Better," he said. "Much better."
"Glad I could be of assistance," Ducky said. "Stay there." He brought his medical bag over and took out several wide tensor bandages. He wrapped the knee tightly, then prepared a shot.
"This'll keep it from distracting you. But as soon as you're done with the suspect, I expect McGee to take you directly to Bethesda." Ducky saw the objection forming on Gibbs' face and held up a hand to cut him off at the pass.
"Timothy, I'm holding you responsible if he doesn't get there," Ducky told McGee while still looking at Gibbs. Seeing no further comment from Gibbs, he turned to McGee and continued.
"And believe me, you do not want to have to explain to me why you failed in this assignment."
"Yes, Ducky," McGee said seriously.
"Good. Now, you wouldn't want poor McGee to be on my bad side, would you Jethro?" Ducky asked, returning to Gibbs.
"Just give me the shot," Gibbs grumbled.
xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox
Half an hour later, Gibbs was dressed and walking again, albeit with a pronounced limp and the assistance of a cane Ducky had produced from somewhere. There was a vague pain every time he took a step, but it was certainly better.
The metro cops had searched Fazio before putting him in the ambulance, producing a cell phone, a set of keys, his wallet and the Navy ID card he'd shown Gibbs. Ziva had taken custody of all of it and spent the time since her return running him down. When Gibbs appeared in the darkened squadroom, her eyes widened at the sight of the cane and the square of white gauze Ducky had taped over the steri-strips, but she said nothing.
"What'd you find?" Gibbs asked. He leaned back against the outer edge of his desk, crossing his ankles to take his weight on his left leg, and looked at Ziva expectantly. She picked up a page of notes and started to read from it.
"Corpsman First Class Michael Fazio, assigned to the Roosevelt since 2005. All fitness reports show him to be an excellent medic. No reprimands, no letters of caution, nothing in his SRB to indicate he has ever had any trouble with anyone. Since the Roosevelt docked in Norfolk, he has been splitting his time between assignments on board and at Portsmouth Hospital. He has not reported aboard for tomorrow's arrival deadline."
"Where's he been living?" Gibbs asked.
"He pays the rent every other month on a two bedroom house in the Coronado area of Norfolk."
"Who pays it the rest of the time?"
"I do not know. The check is made out to a property management company. Tax rolls show the property belongs to a holding company that owns numerous other buildings throughout the area. The CEO of the holding company lists no phone number in corporate documents, however, there is only one Thomas Gangopadhyaya in the tri-state area. I left a message on his voicemail."
"Only one?" Gibbs said facetiously.
"It is a common name on the Indian sub-continent," Ziva smiled.
"What else?"
"I noted the license number of the car they arrived in and ran the plate. It was registered to Fazio. I put a BOLO out on it. I also contacted Norfolk Police. They went to the house and confirmed that no one appears to be home. They are sitting on it, pending a search warrant which I am in the process of drafting. Since he only pays half the rent, it is likely he has a roommate. Perhaps the second suspect from tonight."
"Maybe," Gibbs said. "If he's going back home, even if he left D.C. immediately, he couldn't make it back to Norfolk for another…" Gibbs checked his watch. "Another hour."
"Yes. I informed the officers on scene that it was possible one of our suspects was driving there from here. Since he might be a suspect in a homicide, they have agreed to stake out the house, and pick up anyone who shows up."
Gibbs knew they didn't have enough to call Fazio's roommate a suspect yet, assuming he even had a roommate, but he applauded her initiative. Ziva continued.
"Fazio's cell phone records show nothing obviously significant. His bank statements show he pays monthly utilities only every other month as well. All other expenses are within acceptable limits, except his charitable contributions. He sends one hundred dollars per month to the Wounded Warrior Project and exactly ten percent of his monthly income to Blessed Sacrament Church in Norfolk. Ten percent to the penny."
"So he's a devout Catholic," Gibbs said.
"It would appear so," Ziva agreed. "Can you use that?"
"Probably," Gibbs agreed. "How'd you get the financials so quickly?" He would have expected to have to wait until morning for bank statements. Unless they seized them from the suspect, or McGee hacked into something.
"McGee has taught me a few things," Ziva acknowledged with a smile. "Besides, I am feeling particularly motivated tonight."
Gibbs could imagine why.
Ziva continued. "The emergency room physician at Bethesda said Petty Officer Fazio suffered no fractures or cerebral bleeding from his head injury. When he was informed that Fazio lost consciousness, he wanted to admit him for observation. However, I told the doctor that I would be transferring him to the detention center infirmary at NSF Anacostia. The doctor agreed to release him to my custody, providing we watched for signs of concussion during the transfer. I brought him here first, but we will need to take him to Anacostia when you are finished with him."
"Good job," Gibbs said.
Ziva nodded. She seemed about to say something else, but turned away. Gibbs knew he would eventually have to address her feelings of guilt over injuring him, but not tonight. Tonight, he was hurting, and tired, and all he wanted to do was get the dirtbag in interrogation to spill his guts and then go home. By way of the ER, if he couldn't talk McGee out of it.
"I'm going to have a chat with Petty Officer Fazio. Make a six-pack with his picture and take it to Nicky's motel, see if he can pick him out."
"Got it," Ziva said. She turned back to her computer and started working. She would pull up ID photos of five other similarly-featured sailors and put them together on a single page. If Nicky could pick Fazio as one of the men he'd seen that night, it would bring them a lot closer to a conviction.
Gibbs shuffled through the squadroom and down the hall toward interrogation. He pushed open the door to observation. McGee was standing there in the dark, watching Fazio through the glass. The sailor was sitting at the table with his head pillowed on his arms. The jacket he'd been wearing was over the back of his chair, his ball cap not in sight. His head was shaved close, tighter than a standard crew cut. Gibbs figured he'd had it done in preparation for shove-off. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt and a pair of worn black cargo pants.
"Where's his hat?" Gibbs asked McGee, thinking of the surplus of DNA that would be present on it.
"Already in the lab," McGee said. "Along with the blood and the canister. Ziva took his prints, too."
"Good. You set up in here?" Gibbs asked. This late at night, bringing a tech down to work the recording equipment meant taking someone out of MTAC's already skeleton staff. McGee could do double duty: Run the equipment and watch Gibbs' back too.
"All set," McGee said.
Gibbs nodded again and moved down the hall.
to be continued...
Thanks to those of you still reviewing. It makes me happier that you can imagine to hear from readers who are enjoying the fruits of my late-night labors. Do drop me a line or two if you can...