One Less - Part 35
by joykatleen
The return flight was uneventful, the helicopter flying into the sun as it set. During the short drive through the dark streets to the Navy Yard, the two men rode mostly in silence, each consumed with his own thoughts of what had happened on board and what would happen next. Gibbs had Goetz drop him off in front of the building, and with a final thanks, Gibbs waved him off.
There was a stack of pink message slips piled neatly in the center of his desk when Gibbs arrived back in the squad room. He fell into the chair – he was going to have to get better at that – and stowed his Sig before shuffling rapidly through the stack. Nine little pink squares, a mix of McGee's handwriting and Ziva's printing, one in red marker that had to be from Abby, plus two in a script he didn't recognize and couldn't make out. He still didn't have his glasses.
Gibbs turned on his desk light and pushed the papers to the top of his desk. Shining the light directly on the stack at that distance made the print clear enough to read. There was little that interested him at first. Routine stuff from personnel and the director's office, nothing that couldn't wait.
The seventh message caught his attention. It was one of the ones taken by what had to be the switchboard operator. Acosta, calling from Quantico. O'Sullivan had asked the brig guard to call and tell Gibbs he'd remembered something else that might be helpful. No indication of what it was. Gibbs set that one aside, and moved on. The eighth was actually a note from Abby, asking him to let her know when he got in. No hurry. The final message had been taken by McGee. Gregor over at the BX had called at 5:30. Gibbs hadn't returned, and the store had closed at 5:00. He'd be taking Nicky to his house for the night, unless Gibbs had other plans. Gregor's home number was scrawled on the bottom. Gibbs glanced at his watch. It was almost 6:00. He'd forgotten that Gregor closed early on Friday nights. Gibbs figured Nicky would be fine.
He returned the call from Acosta, getting him on his personal cell.
"O'Sullivan thinks he might know someone with information on an attack on a Marine Major, connected to the cases you were asking him about," Acosta said when Gibbs had him on the line.
"Really?" Gibbs said. He wasn't about to get excited, but the kid's information had been good so far, and they had zero leads on Ortiz. "What's he got?"
"He won't say. Says he'll only tell you."
"Why?" Gibbs asked.
"Because you told him to," Acosta said. Gibbs sighed. He had, hadn't he.
"Can we do it by phone?"
"He insisted he wanted to see you face to face," Acosta said. "You want me to try and find out what he knows?"
Gibbs considered. "Nah. You got access to a videoconference facility?"
"Yeah, I mean, we have one. We sometimes use it for hearings when we can't arrange transport."
"Can you set us up?"
"I'm about to go EOW. You need it to be tonight?"
"I do," Gibbs said.
"I guess I can try, if O'Sullivan's okay with it."
"Tell him that's the way I need it to be. If you can set it up, call me in MTAC." Gibbs recited the information Acosta would need to request a conference in the secure room.
"I'll see what I can do. I suppose I owe you a little something."
"Just a little?" Gibbs asked. He didn't wait for Acosta to reply. "Any problems, call my cell." Gibbs gave him that number too, then pushed the disconnect button before releasing it and dialing up to MTAC. He spoke to the watch supervisor, warning him of the pending conference call. Poking the disconnect one more time, he called down to Abby's lab.
"Yeah, Abby, I'm back. What'da you need?" he asked.
"We've got something to show you," Abby said. "Can you come down?"
"Be right there," Gibbs said.
This time when he stood on the leg brace, he felt a distinct complaint from somewhere on the outside of his knee. He realized he hadn't taken any pain pills yet today and briefly considered, then rejected, taking some now. He'd just have to stay off it as much as he could until he got home. Then he'd take something before bed. Kill two birds.
Moving carefully, he rode the elevator down to Abby's. When the elevator doors opened, he frowned. Her music was on, but it instead of the usual head-banging metal, it was… classical? The light coming out of the lab was subdued and flickering. Candlelight? What the hell was she up to now? He hobbled into the lab. Abby, Ziva and McGee were standing in a half-circle in front of the plasma, their backs to him. Several dozen candles sat in jars around the lab.
"Hosting a séance?" he asked as an opener.
Abby turned to look at him. "Of course not, silly. The music's all wrong for that. We're just trying to create an atmosphere of intense concentration."
She handed the remote clicker to McGee and tromped into her office, emerging a moment later with a tiny coffee cup. About six ounces, if Gibbs had to guess. She brought it and one of her lab stools over to him, making room for the stool between McGee and Ziva.
"Sit. And here." She held out the little cup. He settled back on the stool, transferred both crutches to his left hand and took the cup.
"What is it?" he asked. He sniffed at the lid. Smelled like his coffee. Took a sip. Yup. Abby took the crutches and leaned them against the work station behind them.
"You're not going to be able to carry coffee for awhile, so I figured this was about the right amount to drink while you're down here. I'll keep the pot going."
Gibbs gave her a half smile and a nod. "So what'd'ya got to show me?"
"We're trying to put it all together, so we know where we're at," McGee provided. He clicked the remote a few frames to a collection of the victim photographs.
"We put what we know about each of the attacks on a separate slide, then set up a comparison chart," McGee added, and showed them.
Gibbs followed along as his junior agent made a concise presentation of their complicated case. On Ferrara, they had one in custody, one identified, and the third likely among the Marines they'd talk to in the morning. DNA present on Ferrara's body was a positive match to the blood from the warehouse, which Abby had positively matched to Lewiston. Once they had him in custody, they'd have somewhere to go on the other sailors involved in Goetz's attack.
Then, if what they'd discovered about recruitment was true, at least one of Lewiston or the other two men who'd left samples on Goetz would be involved in the attack on Brisbin, which was connected by DNA to the attack in Spain three years prior. Bridging the gap between those two attacks might get them something useful on the ones in between. A little more work on Radkoff and they'd likely get somewhere with Hutchinson, which was as far back as the statute of limitations would let them go.
"That it?" Gibbs asked when McGee was done.
"Yes," the younger agent admitted.
"We need to get something more from Radkoff," Ziva said.
"We will. Has his lawyer called yet?"
"We have not been advised that he has asked for one yet."
Gibbs' phone rang and he dug it out.
"We're ready to set it up, Gunny," Acosta said. "About 15 minutes."
"I'll be there," Gibbs said, and snapped his phone shut.
"Ziva, go home and be ready to go to Norfolk in the morning. Abby, just go home. McGee, with me." Gibbs slid off the stool and McGee handed him the crutches, then trailed after him.
"Need you to run a videoconference for me," Gibbs said when they were on the elevator headed up.
"Who with?" McGee asked. The elevator dinged at the upper level of the third floor.
"O'Sullivan's got something more to say. Might be about Major Ortiz."
"What does he know?" McGee asked.
"That's what we're going to find out, McGee," Gibbs said, making McGee blush a little.
"Right," he said.
At the door to MTAC, Gibbs leaned into the retinal scanner and felt a small twitch of pain at the back of his eye. He gave a silent prayer that the headache wasn't on it's way back. McGee grabbed the door and they went into the darkened room.
There were three techs in the room. The main screen was dark, but two of the monitoring stations showed activity. The shift supervisor saw Gibbs descending the ramp and stood to greet him, indicating an empty station.
"Your conference will be there, Agent Gibbs," the tech said. "You can take the seat if you want." Gibbs nodded his thanks and sat in the chair in front of the monitor. McGee took the crutches and set them out of the way. He had a quiet conversation with the supervisor, then pulled up another chair. Gibbs rolled sideways and gave McGee space. While he waited for McGee to set it up, Gibbs glanced around the room. At one of the active stations, the tech was watching a split screen: A ship at sea from the viewpoint of an approaching aircraft on one side, a radar sweep pattern on the other. The second station showed a changing series of snapshots of Naval operations. Gibbs considered that, then realized the tech was building a slide show.
The screen in front of McGee flickered to life, filling with color bars. He handed Gibbs a headset. After a moment, the view changed to an empty room, the shot tight on two empty chairs sitting on the opposite side of some kind of flat surface. A table or a counter maybe. Acosta had said they used the setup for hearings, so Gibbs supposed the camera only needed to see two faces: The accused and his lawyer.
They waited another three minutes before there was a subtle change in the light, and Gibbs heard movement through his headset. O'Sullivan appeared and took one of the chairs. His t-shirt was dark with sweat under his arms and down the center of his chest. His dog tags swung free outside his shirt. He must have been in PT. The big Marine looked up at the camera, then looked back over his shoulder.
"Is he live?" O'Sullivan asked. The responding voice off camera was Acosta's.
"You there, Gunny?"
"Here. Can you hear me?" Gibbs spoke into the microphone at his throat.
"Yes, sir," O'Sullivan said. His gaze went to a spot just below the camera and he spoke at that level.
"There's nothing on my screen," O'Sullivan said. McGee worked the computer in front of him for a moment, then O'Sullivan suddenly nodded.
"There you are," he said. "Thanks for talking to me, Special Agent Gibbs," O'Sullivan said.
"You have something for me?" Gibbs asked.
"Yes, sir. Something I remembered a couple hours ago. I was thinking about the time that led up to what you were asking me about. I remembered something else that happened. Something I didn't think of yesterday," he said. His eyes flickered up to the camera. Gibbs realized a couple of things: the video screen on which O'Sullivan was watching them was below the camera, and O'Sullivan was trying hard to convince Gibbs that whatever he had to say was something he hadn't remembered last time they met.
"It's alright. I appreciate you giving it some thought."
"It's just, I want to be sure you don't think I was holding anything back," O'Sullivan said earnestly, and Gibbs suddenly realized why he was trying so hard.
"Is that why you wanted to do this face to face?"
"Yes, sir," O'Sullivan said, looking directly into the camera now. "I wanted you to see me, to know I'm telling the truth. That I just remembered this. I don't want you thinking you should change the deal."
Gibbs actually smiled at him. "It's alright, Tadhg. You didn't have to convince me. I know you weren't holding anything back. Why would you, with what I was offering?"
"Exactly," O'Sullivan said emphatically. "I wouldn't. You need to know that."
"I do know that," Gibbs said. "The deal's done. I won't be changing my mind."
"Thank you, sir."
Gibbs nodded. "Have they moved your daughter yet?"
"Tomorrow. My dad's going to ride with her in the ambulance. So she won't be scared."
"Good. So what do you have for me?"
"You remember we talked about Major Ortiz?" His gaze was back on the monitor below the camera.
"Yes," Gibbs said.
"We stayed in Dubai an extra two days while they searched for him, then sailed for two days before word came that he was found."
"Right," Gibbs agreed.
"During the two days we were at sea, there was a fight in the chapel. A sailor got into it with the priest."
"Physical fight?" Gibbs asked.
"Most definitely. They tore the place up. Caused some serious damage."
"What were they fighting about?"
"Scuttlebutt said it was about Major Ortiz. The sailor was really upset that we'd left him behind. He apparently thought the priest had something to do with making the call to sail on. Guy went totally crazy. Took three MPs to pull him off. Thing was, it was a sailor, not a Marine. You'd have expected one of ours to be demanding a few answers from the officer corps. And why the priest? It's not like he had anything to say about it."
"Who was the sailor?" Gibbs asked.
O'Sullivan shrugged. "I don't know. But the weird thing was he didn't go anywhere. I mean, he attacked a senior officer without provocation. He should have been court martialed. Discharged at a minimum. But he wasn't. He was back on duty before the chapel was even repaired."
"Odd," Gibbs commented. O'Sullivan looked back into the camera lens.
"I don't know if it's related, but I thought it might be important. There had to be some reason why he stayed aboard. Lots of speculation, but no good reason I ever heard. No one ever heard from him directly as far as I know. He just went back to work like nothing happened. Then when they found the Major, that story took over and no one cared about the fight anymore. I don't know who he was, but that kind of thing would have generated a ton of paperwork. You should be able to find it."
"We will. Anything else?"
"No. Except..." O'Sullivan looked down at his monitor and licked his lips. Nervous now.
"I got a call from JAG this afternoon. They want to meet with me. You know what it's about?"
"Maybe," Gibbs said.
"Should I agree to it?" O'Sullivan was watching the screen intently.
"Yes," Gibbs said without hesitation. "Take your lawyer with you."
The big Marine nodded several times in rapid succession. "Okay. I will. Thanks. A lot."
"You think of anything else, call me. Staff Sergeant Acosta's got the number."
"I will."
"Is he still there?"
"I'm here, Gunny," Acosta's voice from off camera. The Staff Sergeant leaned down into the frame.
"You hear that?"
"Yup."
"Anything he has to tell me, you'll arrange the call?"
"Will do."
Gibbs made a cut it motion to McGee, and the screen went back to color bars.
"What do you think it means, Boss?" McGee asked. Gibbs took off his headset and handed it to McGee, who put it and his own away.
"Don't know. Might be nothing. But if the sailor was that pissed at the priest, chances are he knew the priest had something to do with Ortiz. Find the report."
McGee nodded. He got up and handed Gibbs the crutches, then followed him up the ramp and out of MTAC. McGee jogged down the stairs into the bullpen while Gibbs went for the elevator.
While McGee did his thing, Gibbs sat at his desk and called Gregor. The shopkeeper had offered Nicky his spare room for the weekend in exchange for his work that day in the BX. Gregor told Gibbs that there might be something long term in it – he was alone in a big house since his wife died, and he could use some company. Not to mention some discount labor at the store. It had taken a little pushing by Gregor, but Nicky had eventually agreed.
"How much longer is he at risk, Gibbs?" Gregor asked.
"Shouldn't be much longer. He'll probably be fine by Monday. We've got two suspects outstanding. One unidentified. Just keep him out of downtown this weekend."
"Will do. He really is a good man," Gregor said.
"I know."
By the time he hung up, McGee had something.
"I found the incident report," McGee said from his desk. "It was classified."
"But you read it, right?" Gibbs asked. He pulled out the lower drawer of his desk and turned his chair sideways so he could rest his leg on it.
"Yeah. It was like O'Sullivan said. The night after the ship sailed from Dubai in 2005, Cmdr. Thayer was taking confession from a sailor who became increasingly distraught. They began to argue, and before Thayer could calm the sailor, it got physical. The sailor attacked and Thayer defended himself. By the time the scuffle was noticed and MPs were called, significant damage had been done to the furnishings in the chapel."
"What else?" Gibbs asked.
"Mass Communications Specialist Second Class Steven Ramey was briefly detained in the ship's brig, but at Cmdr. Thayer's insistence, he was released to return to full duty the next day, with a recommendation for no charges, only counseling to help him overcome the issue that had caused him to lose it."
"That it?" Gibbs asked when McGee stopped again.
"Yup. I've got Ramey's SRB coming up..." McGee worked his computer, scanned the results for a moment, then continued.
"There's a note about the incident in his record, but there was no additional punishment, as far as I can tell. He remained in his rank and position until..." McGee scanned again. "He was reassigned to the USS Bataan in last year. It was his fourth request for reassignment since the incident. The prior three were rejected."
"Reason?" McGee did some searching.
"Doesn't say. Just request denied."
Gibbs considered that. The Navy rarely cared which sailor filled a particular slot. One warm body was as good as any other unless a commanding officer specifically wanted someone somewhere. To have a request for transfer denied three times in four years meant someone really wanted this sailor to stay put. Why?
"Same officer sign off on the rejections?" McGee looked.
"No. It's just a rubber stamp from the Office of Navy Personnel."
"What about the approval?"
"Signed by the Command Master Chiefs of both ships, without comment," McGee said.
Gibbs thought about that some more.
"Was he up for promotion between the incident and his reassignment?"
"No. He didn't apply."
Another moment of silence.
"How long had he been in the Navy before the fight?"
"Five years. Almost all of it aboard the Roosevelt."
So he'd been a Petty Officer Second for more than five years. His career appeared to have stalled after the incident, even though there was no direct negative effect from the fight with the priest.
"Isn't Bataan in Norfolk right now?" Gibbs asked. McGee checked.
"Yes."
"Alright. See if you can find any connections between this guy and any of the victims. Or anyone else we know. And confirm a current address. Send what you find to DiNozzo's email. We might want to talk to him while we're there tomorrow."
"You need me there?" McGee asked.
"No. I need you here."
"Got it," McGee said.
"And go home. You can work on it there."
"You sure, Boss?" McGee asked.
"You can take me home on the way," Gibbs said.
"Sure thing. Let me get packed up."
While McGee gathered his stuff, Gibbs did the same. The complaint from his knee when he stood this time was louder. Probably ought to stay off it the rest of the night.
xxxxxxxXXXXXXXxxxxxxx
Colonel Zavala's second in command called while they were on the way to Gibbs' house. The platoon was all present at Camp Allen, and the blackout had been established. They were clear to begin interviewing the Marines in the morning. Gibbs thanked the man and hung up, a little surprised the Colonel had made it happen that fast. He wondered again about the Colonel's sudden change of heart.
At his house, Gibbs shooed away McGee's attempts to help him get settled. The younger man reluctantly left him leaning against his kitchen island with the take outs they'd picked up on the way. When Gibbs was sure he was gone, he grabbed the take out bag and a beer from the fridge. Using only one of the crutches, he hobbled out to the living room and fell onto the couch.
Gibbs put his leg up on the coffee table and dug in. It had been a long day, and moving around on the crutches made everything take twice as much energy. After a day like this, he would usually take a long, hot shower, work on the boat for awhile, and go to bed early. The shower probably not a good idea: Even if he could figure out how to keep the brace dry, he wasn't sure he could stand that long. Trying to get down the basement stairs was also not wise. Which left going to bed early. Not such a bad idea, really. He could feel a definite pain from his knee, and echoes in his temples. Not a full-blown headache, and certainly nothing like what had been plaguing him the last few days. But pain nonetheless. He'd finish his meal, take a couple of Ducky's pills, and try to make it upstairs without killing himself. Sounded like a plan.
to be continued...
We are Sooooooo getting there. Won't be long now. But it's going to be a little longer than you'd like, because I think this is it until after Christmas. Maybe one more, but no promises. Things are, as we say in the upper-middle-class-wannabe-ghetto I live in, "hecka busy" around here. So, until then, enjoy your holiday time with family and friends, and be sure to look out for those who don't have any. Oh, and drop me a line or two if you've got a minute. It's the giving season! joy