One Less - Part 26
by joykatleen
Gibbs balanced the cane against the wall outside the door to interrogation and stepped inside, trying to walk as normally as possible. The shot Ducky had given him had numbed most of the pain. But not all of it.
Despite the opening and closing of the door, Fazio didn't move. Gibbs realized with a touch of surprise that the sailor was asleep. At least Gibbs hoped he was asleep, and hadn't passed out. The last thing he needed right now was the paperwork that would be involved in explaining why Fazio was here and not in the infirmary if he DFO'd.
As he passed behind Fazio, Gibbs flicked his fingers against the top of Fazio's head. He wanted to smack him awake, but considering the damage Gibbs had already done to this sailor's head, he figured it wasn't a good idea. The tap was enough. Fazio jerked upright, a startled look on his face.
"What the…" he started to say indignantly.
"Wake up, Sailor," Gibbs said and settled hard into his chair. Fazio looked at him, rubbed his fists into his eyes, and yawned. Whatever fight there was going to be had already died.
"Sorry about that. I haven't been sleeping well lately," Fazio said.
Committing murder will do that to you, Gibbs thought, but held it.
"Have you been read you your rights?" Gibbs asked.
"Yeah," Fazio said. "That cop from D.C. did it."
Which meant the rights he'd been read were the of the civilian variety. "Did you ask for a lawyer?"
"No," Fazio said.
"You've been placed under arrest for a crime, and I'm required to advise you of your rights as a member of the United States Navy under Article 31 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice."
"That's alright, I know my rights," Fazio said.
"Doesn't matter. I still have to advise you."
"Fine," Fazio said.
"I am Special Agent L. Jethro Gibbs, Naval Criminal Investigative Service, and I am investigating the alleged offense of impersonating an NCIS agent, of which you are suspected," Gibbs began, going through the formal reading of Fazio's right to keep his mouth shut and get a lawyer. When he finished, Fazio quickly agreed to waive his rights, and Gibbs got to the point.
"So, what were you doing in that warehouse tonight?" Gibbs asked.
"Trying to help solve a murder," Fazio said. Gibbs waited, and he continued.
"Petty Officer Ferrara was killed there, almost a week ago. We ship out on Saturday. I didn't want to leave without knowing I'd done everything I could to help catch whoever killed him."
It was reasonable, but it was definitely rehearsed. Gibbs wondered if he'd come up with it in the last hour and a half, or if they'd agreed on it before arriving at the warehouse, just in case.
"And you decided the best way to do that was to impersonate an NCIS Agent?" Gibbs said. Fazio shook his head.
"I wasn't impersonating anything. I was just trying to find a witness, that's all. It's not like I was going to arrest anyone. I thought one of the local homeless might have seen something. NCIS doesn't offer rewards this early in a case, and these guys don't come forward without one."
"So you were going to pay a reward?"
"Sure," Fazio said.
"And what were you planning on doing with the information, if you got anything?"
"If I'd found a good witness, I'd have called you guys." Gibbs stared at him for a moment. The kid looked sincere, eager to please. But there was something that just didn't ring true.
"Anyone else call before we did?" Gibbs asked.
"No. I guess no one saw anything after all," Fazio said. "It was worth a try, though."
"It was worth a try," Gibbs repeated, skepticism plain in his voice.
"Sure," Fazio said. "Why not? It certainly didn't hurt anything."
"Except you."
"Not really," Fazio said. "It's just a concussion. I've had them before." He raised a hand and rubbed at the back of his head where he'd hit the concrete.
"You committed a crime punishable by jail time, a fine, and a dishonorable discharge," Gibbs pointed out.
"Ah, come on," Fazio said dismissively. "I told what I thought was an old homeless guy that I worked for NCIS. I wasn't impersonating anyone. I even showed you my own ID."
Gibbs let the 'old' comment go by.
"And that's what you're going to tell the panel at your court-martial?" Gibbs asked.
"Sure," Fazio shrugged. "Not that it'll go that far. One of ours was killed, and I was doing what I could to help. There's not a ranking officer out there who'll care. It's not like I was impersonating one of them. I might face Captain's mast, if you throw a big enough fit. But that's all."
Gibbs was amazed at how cavalier this kid was being about the whole thing. Like it didn't matter. Of course, his job as a medical first responder required he be calm and cool under pressure. Suddenly Gibbs realized something.
"You keep saying 'I'. What about your buddy?" Gibbs asked.
"What about him?" Fazio asked.
"Who is he?"
"A friend of mine. My roommate. He was just helping out." That confirms that, Gibbs thought.
"What's his name?"
"Danny Lewis," Fazio said. Gibbs knew that in addition to recording the whole thing, McGee would be taking notes, so he didn't have to.
"Middle name?"
"I don't know."
"His birth date?"
Again, Fazio shrugged. "I don't know. It's in October, and he turned 30 last year. That's all I know."
"Is he Navy?" Gibbs asked.
"No," Fazio said. Gibbs narrowed his eyes.
"Really?"
"Really," Fazio insisted. Gibbs was almost certain he was lying, but he let it go. It wouldn't be hard to prove or disprove.
"You know he got shot tonight?" Gibbs asked. At that, Fazio's eyes widened and Gibbs finally saw a crack in his confidence.
"Is he alright?" the sailor asked.
"I don't know. He took off in your car. Norfolk police are at your house now looking for him."
"Why'd you shoot him?" Fazio asked.
"He threw a hand grenade at us. What'd you expect us to do?"
"It wasn't a hand grenade," Fazio said with a frown. "It was a flash-bang. It wouldn't have hurt anyone."
"And we were supposed to know that?" Gibbs asked. Fazio gave him a 'give me a break' look.
"You're law enforcement. You can recognize the difference," Fazio said. He cocked his head slightly. "You did recognize the difference. Instead of taking cover, you went after me."
"Why'd you have it?" Gibbs asked.
"We brought it along for self-defense," Fazio said. "Southeast D.C. isn't exactly Georgetown. If it went bad, we wanted to be able to get the hell out of there without having to hurt anyone. Where'd he get hit?"
Gibbs ignored the question. "So you decide that along with the misdemeanor of impersonating a federal agent you'd go for the felony of possessing – and using – a restricted explosive device."
"It was for self-defense," Fazio repeated. "No one got hurt."
"Really?" Gibbs said, and let that hang for a minute before continuing. "Where'd you get it?"
Another shrug. "It wasn't mine. Danny had it. I don't know where he got it from. Look, is there some way we can work this out? We were only trying to help."
Gibbs paused, gathering his thoughts. He let a minute go by, then two, before speaking again.
"Murder is a mortal sin," he said finally.
After a beat while he tried to follow the change of topic, Fazio said, "What?"
"You heard me," Gibbs said.
"Yes, it is," Fazio said, clearly confused.
"An offense against God," Gibbs said.
"Yeah."
"Destroys the grace of God in the heart of the sinner," Gibbs added, reaching way back into his memory.
"Uh huh," Fazio said.
"You ever kill anyone?" Gibbs asked. Fazio frowned. His mouth opened, then closed. When he spoke, his voice was softer.
"Not directly," he said. "But I work for the Navy. We kill people all the time."
"So you've been a party to murder," Gibbs said.
"No. Not every killing is murder."
"Really?"
"Of course. Only an intentional, unlawful killing rises to the level of a mortal sin."
"So if you accidentally kill someone, it's not murder," Gibbs said.
"Of course not."
"Lose control of your car on the ice, kill a pedestrian, not a sin?" Gibbs asked.
"No."
"Hit a line drive back at the pitcher, he dies from a brain bleed, not a sin?"
"Nope," Fazio said. He was settling back into it.
"Get drunk, take offense at the guy on the stool next to you, knock him off the stool and he breaks his neck in the fall, not a sin?"
"That's a different sin," Fazio said. "But it's not murder."
"Decide some guy needs to learn a lesson, beat him a little too hard, he dies. Not murder?" Gibbs asked.
Fazio blinked, and Gibbs saw the light go on. Not full understanding, but Fazio had just gotten a clue. The Petty Officer stared at Gibbs for a moment, then: "Depends on the lesson he needed to learn."
"Really?" Gibbs said, raising his brow.
"If he needs to learn to stop corrupting innocents, then the beating falls into the category of defense of others. The killing is an unintended side effect, and therefore, not intentional homicide. Not murder." Gibbs was amazed at the logic. Fazio had obviously put some thought into this. He sat silently for a few moments before he threw another curve ball.
"You go to confession much?" Gibbs asked.
Fazio frowned. Again, thrown by the topic change.
"Yes," he said with some hesitation. "Catholics believe we must regularly confess our sins so we don't risk dying in an unrepentant state."
"So you confess your sin and all is forgiven?"
"It's not that simple. You have to be penitent. You can't just fake it. You seek absolution for sin, you accept and perform penance, you get forgiveness."
"So you can go do it again?"
"Of course not," Fazio said with a touch of annoyance and a shake of his head. "Confession is about sincerely seeking forgiveness for past sin, desiring to change future behavior, to live more in the image of Christ. But what does this have to do with anything?"
"What would you say about someone who intentionally sets out to seriously harm another person, seeks and receives absolution, then goes out and does it again?" Gibbs asked.
Fazio considered the question, considered him. Gibbs could see the wheels turning. Did Gibbs know? How much did Gibbs know? Oh yeah, this guy was involved up to his ass.
After a long pause, Fazio answered the question. "I would wonder about the condition of his soul. There is no forgiveness if the intent exists to repeat the sin."
"No matter how good his reason? No matter how righteous he thought his mission was?"
The word made Fazio's eyes widen, but only for a second. "Of course," he said.
"Huh." Gibbs made a sound low in his throat, neither agreement nor dispute. He thought he had Fazio in the right frame of mind for the next series of questions.
"Where were you last Saturday night?" Gibbs asked. For a moment, there was no reaction. Then Fazio's expression changed. Gibbs saw a split second flash of fear before Fazio glanced at his reflection in the mirror and managed to suppress it. He swallowed once, rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, and cleared his throat. Gotcha, Gibbs thought.
"Why?" Fazio said finally.
"Just asking," Gibbs said.
"I worked on the Roosevelt until 1900, hung around onboard for another couple hours. Then I went home. Stayed in all night."
"What'd you do on board after your shift?"
"Nothing much. Talked to some friends who live aboard that I hadn't seen in awhile, shot the bull. Just, hung around."
"What time did you get home?"
"Around 2130, maybe 2200."
"Anyone who can back that up?"
"Danny was home when I got there," Fazio said. "He was in all night, too."
"Anyone else?"
"No."
"You get any phone calls? Anyone come over?"
"No," Fazio repeated. "Why?"
"You know why," Gibbs said.
"You think I had something to do with Ferrara's death?" Fazio asked.
"Did you?"
There was silence. Gibbs could see Fazio wanted to deny it. Something was holding him back.
"I need to make a phone call," Fazio said.
"When we're done," Gibbs said.
"We're done," Fazio said. "I want a lawyer." He sat back and folded his arms over his chest.
"You sure? Once you cross that line, there's no going back," Gibbs warned.
"Under the UCMJ, I'm entitled to a lawyer if I ask for one, as soon as I'm a suspect in a crime," Fazio stated with no small amount of smugness. "I want a lawyer, and you have to stop questioning me until I get one." Gibbs stared at him, his eyes narrowing.
For five minutes or more, Gibbs stared. Fazio held his gaze for the first minute, then looked away. He rubbed at his head, scratched his neck, glanced at Gibbs and glanced away. He dried his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants, put them together on the table in front of him, looked at Gibbs, looked away. He let his gaze wander around the room, bouncing off the mirror, the walls, taking in the red light on the surveillance camera, then back to the table. Gibbs' stare never wavered. There was no sound but Fazio's nervous breathing and the low buzzing in Gibbs' ears.
"I'm not going to answer any more questions until I talk to a lawyer," Fazio said after several more minutes has passed.
"I'm not asking any questions," Gibbs replied. The staring continued. Another period of silence, maybe seven minutes this time, though Gibbs wasn't counting. His mind was wandering, and he felt himself start to drift away more than once. Across the table, Fazio continued to fidget. He'd started to sweat more profusely, though the temperature in the room hadn't changed, and he would occasionally swipe at his forehead with his sleeve.
"Well?" Fazio said finally.
"Well what?" Gibbs asked.
"Are you going to get me a lawyer?"
"Yes," Gibbs said. He knew he was on thin ice here. Under the UCMJ, once a service member requested a lawyer, that was it, game over for interrogation. Chances were that even if Fazio spontaneously admitted to the whole thing at this point, the confession could be thrown out on that technicality. What Gibbs was doing could easily be called intimidation, which was what the applicable articles of the UCMJ – and their civilian equivalent found in the Miranda decision – were designed to prevent. Still, Gibbs wanted to rattle this kid a little, see if it got him anywhere.
He kept it up another five minutes after that, then grabbed the edge of the table and stood suddenly, his chair sliding backwards and hitting the wall below the mirror. Fazio jumped. Gibbs looked him up and down, shook his head with apparent regret, then limped out of the room without another word.
McGee met him in the hall and held out the cane.
"Was he involved?" McGee asked.
"Hell yes, McGee. He was involved. He was probably one of the three Nicky saw."
"So what now, Boss?" he asked.
Gibbs took the cane from him and leaned against the wall. He stifled a yawn. He was well and truly whupped. Interrogations took a certain amount of physical energy, fast thinking, and a clear head. Toward the end, he'd had to fight to focus. "We book him for impersonating an agent, assault, using an explosive device, terrorism, whatever else might stick. Call the MPs at Anacostia. Be sure they keep him away from Radkoff."
"Should I call the JAG defense office?"
"They'll do it over there. Tell them he asked."
Gibbs limped back to the squad room. Ziva was sitting at her desk.
"Well?" he said to her as he dropped himself into his chair.
"Nicky said he was not sure," Ziva said.
"Damn it," Gibbs swore.
"He said if he had to choose one of those six, he would choose Fazio, but it might not be any of them."
"Yeah, alright. Anything on the car yet?"
"Not yet. And no one has shown up at Fazio's house."
"See what you can find on a Danny Lewis, possibly born October…" Gibbs did the math, "...1979. Probably Navy. Fazio says he's his roommate, and the guy who threw the flash-bang."
Ziva went to work on her computer. Gibbs picked up his desk phone to call DiNozzo, then glanced at his watch. Nearly midnight. Tony had said he'd call after he talked to Holbrook and before he went to bed. He should have called by now. Gibbs needed to update DiNozzo, and by extension, Capt. McNally. Especially since he was removing Fazio from the ship's crew. But Gibbs figured if Tony hadn't called yet, he had a good reason. Maybe he hadn't been able to get Holbrook alone.
On the other hand… a thought occurred and Gibbs wrestled his cell out of his jeans pocket. He'd silenced the ringer after ending the earlier call with Tony, not wanting a badly-timed ring to blow the operation in the warehouse. In the aftermath, he wasn't sure if he'd…
"So much for never being unreachable," Gibbs said out loud, making Ziva look up at him. He shook his head at her. He'd forgotten to turn the ringer back on, and there it was, the call from DiNozzo, twenty minutes ago. He clicked the ringer back up.
Not bothering to listen to the message, Gibbs called DiNozzo's cell. It went to voicemail and Gibbs swore again, silently this time. He hung up. Opening his desk drawer, he pulled out his NCIS phone directory. This time, he would call the Agent Afloat's office directly.
His cell rang on his desk while he was still looking up the number and he picked it up. Abby. He frowned. Abby was a night owl: It wasn't particularly late for her to be calling people. But it was awfully late for her to be calling him.
"Where are you?" Abby asked.
"Work. Why?"
"You're here?" she said.
"Where are you?" Gibbs asked, confused.
"Down in my lab. I did it. I got into Petty Officer Ferrara's journal."
Gibbs felt a spike of hope. "Something good?"
"I think so."
"Be right down," Gibbs said.
He stood up and immediately fell back into his chair as pain spiked through his knee. Ducky had said the shot wouldn't last long, but Gibbs had been hoping it would go a little longer than this. He tried again, standing carefully this time and gingerly placing weight on his leg. It held, but it hurt. Ziva had glanced up when he fell backwards, but quickly looked away.
Knowing he was on the edge of exhaustion and would need something more than adrenalin to help him think clearly at this point, Gibbs stopped for coffee from the machine in the commissary. It sucked, but it was hot and fully caffeinated. He briefly considered getting a Caf-Pow for Abby, then realized he wouldn't be able to carry coffee, Caf-Pow, and the cane at the same time.
Abby's head banger music was low, the lighting dim. She was sitting on one of the high chairs in front of her center console, staring intently at a computer screen.
"What are you still doing here?" he asked by way of greeting as he limped into the office.
"I was working on the prints from those flyers and fiddling with this while AFIS worked. Then McGee brought me the flash-bang canister and some DNA to type... Oh my gosh, what happened?" She'd turned in time to catch his last limping step before he leaned against her worktable.
"Had a little accident," Gibbs said, hoping she'd leave it alone. No such luck.
"What kind of accident? Is it your knee again? Have you been to the hospital? Of course you haven't, that's silly. Did Ducky see it?" She hopped off her stool and dragged the other one over to him.
"Abs, it'll be fine," Gibbs said as he sat. "What did you find?"
She scrutinized him closely, looking for the tell. Of all of them, Abby was best at seeing through him. She always had been.
"It's bad, isn't it?" she asked, her voice subdued.
"Ducky said it might be," Gibbs admitted. "But I'm still walking." He didn't think it necessary to tell her about the shot Ducky had given him. "What'd you find?" he repeated. She sighed and turned back to her computers.
"There were a bunch of prints on the flyers, lots of people with minor records, but only one came up Navy, a Petty Officer First Michael Fazio. He's due to report to the Roosevelt tomorrow, so he shouldn't be too hard to find."
"We've already got him," Gibbs said. "What about the canister?"
"Still running. It's a big database."
Gibbs nodded his understanding. "So what was in the journal?" he asked. Abby changed the view on her screen to a word processing program.
"It's definitely a journal. He started writing it during his rehabilitation, at the request of the therapist at Bethesda. I haven't had a chance to read very much of it yet, but the last few entries are important." She scrolled through some text. "He was afraid he'd been found out," she said. "And he was afraid he was going to Hell."
"Really?" Gibbs said.
"Yeah. There're two distinct lines of concern. On the one hand, he'd been talking about sinful desire. Somehow he'd gotten the idea that his homosexuality was something he could change, if he just worked at it hard enough. He'd been consulting various religious and secular programs for 'reforming' homosexuals, and was apparently trying to convince himself he was attracted to women. It wasn't working, though, and he was becoming depressed about it. There's a subtext in there about his 'new temptation.' I think he'd met someone new."
"A male someone?" Gibbs asked.
"Most definitely. Someone close to him, I think someone he worked with."
"That might have gotten him found out, if he was flirting with a straight man." Gibbs mused.
"It might have, but I don't think that's it. The other thing he was obsessing about was that he'd been found out and was going to be court-martialed. He'd told someone, fairly recently, and he thought it was a mistake."
"Who'd he tell?"
"Unclear. It's the last entry, two days before he was killed. Here, let me read it to you." She scrolled up a little and started to read.
"It was a mistake, talking to him. I shouldn't have told him. I've kept the secret for so long. I shouldn't have said anything. It was stupid. But I needed to talk to someone. I thought he'd understand. I thought he'd help me. God, what have I done? All these years, keeping it to myself. Now they know. They might know. It feels like they know. The looks, the jokes. Everything's different. What if they come for me? I could quit. Tell the Captain I'm sorry, but it's not working out. I could still take disability. Escape. They'd wonder, but there'd be no proof. I don't want to quit. If I stay and get DD'd, this will all be for nothing.
"Why can't they just leave us alone? Why is it anyone's business who I love? Being a gay guy working with straight guys is exactly like straight guys working with married women. They're nice to look at, but you don't go after them. They don't hit on married women, I don't hit on straight guys. They don't have anything to fear from me. So why can't they just accept that and leave me alone? Why do I have to hide myself? Some days I hide so deep I'm not even sure I exist anymore.
"The weight of such a burden should be shared, shouldn't it? I thought he would understand. But he said it was wrong. Abhorrent in God's eye. Intentional evil. How can it be evil? It's so real, so much the center of who I am. It's not like I woke up one morning and decided to be gay. I've been this way forever. So how can it be my fault? How can this not be part of God's design? I have brown hair. I have brown eyes. I find men sexually attractive. I don't think I have any control over any of that. He said I could change, that I had to resist the temptation. But I've tried. God I've tried. He just doesn't understand. He thinks I have a choice. If it was a choice, why would I choose this? Wouldn't I choose normal? He doesn't understand. I really thought he could help."
Abby stopped reading and turned to Gibbs, chewing on her lower lip.
"It's so sad, Gibbs. To have to live that way, never being able to be yourself. It's just not fair!" Her voice cracked and Gibbs saw her eyes were wet.
"He didn't have to join the Navy," Gibbs said. "He was smart, capable. He could have had a civilian career doing anything he wanted, for a business that didn't care about his orientation."
"But he wanted to serve his country. Why couldn't he? Why couldn't they just leave him alone?" She seemed almost lost, and her tears spilled over.
"Come here," Gibbs gestured her over to him. He pulled her in close, hugging her tightly.
"They're bastards, Abby. Small-minded, cowardly bastards."
"We're going to make them pay, right?" she asked against his shoulder.
"Count on it." She nodded. He held her for another minute before she pulled away.
"So, is it helpful?" she asked. "What he wrote?" She snatched a tissue out of a box on her computer console, pressing it to one eye, then the other.
"Maybe. There's nothing else on who he might have been talking to?"
"I'm working my way backwards," Abby said as she tossed the tissue into the trash. "He's been worrying about the state of his soul for awhile."
"The priest said he'd been upset about something. Asking about forgiveness for mortal sin."
"Being gay isn't a mortal sin," she said.
"It is if you consider it sexual immorality." Something clicked in Gibbs' memory. "The priest said Ferrara talked a lot about New Testament versus Old."
"That would fit," Abby said. "The Old Testament is pretty clear on the whole gay issue. But most modern religions believe the New Testament overrides the Old, and that ancient instructions are subject to modern interpretation."
Gibbs nodded, impressed once again by her quick mind. "Any idea when he first started worrying about being found out?"
Abby went back to the computer.
"Nothing that I've found yet. But I've only gone back about a week. I called you as soon as I realized I'd gotten in."
"Can you keep working it?" Gibbs asked.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said firmly. "I want to help get the dirtbags who did this."
"Okay," he said with a smile. Abby might have just been a scientist when she got here, but she was definitely one of them now. "See if you can find a date, or an event, that might have started him worrying about his soul. See if there're any names. I need to know who knew." Gibbs stood carefully, testing the weight on his leg before committing to a step. "Anything on the DNA McGee brought down?"
Abby shook her head fondly. "You know DNA takes time. Tomorrow."
"When you get it, the sample on the hat will be Fazio. If there's another, it's our unknown. I'm hoping one of them'll match the source from Ferrara." He started away.
"Are you going home?" she called after him.
"Bethesda," Gibbs said over his shoulder. "Ducky's orders. Call me if you find anything else."
"Will do." Gibbs stopped in the doorway and turned back, leaning against the frame.
"So how'd you get in?" he asked her. She smiled, looking almost embarrassed.
"I realized he had to have been writing it in English, then doing something to it before he saved it. So I reverted to the prior auto saved version. It's a little button in the program. I told it to revert, and it did. To English."
"That simple, huh?" Gibbs said.
"Sometimes it's the simple stuff that gets you. Go take care of you."
to be continued...
Thanks so much to those of you who are reviewing. I appreciate readers, but I appreciate reviewers more. Good to hear what I'm doing right. Or wrong. :o)