One Less - Part 40

by joykatleen

Gibbs had McGee take him home again. He sat on his couch in the dark living room, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to go up to his room. His knee was throbbing. Considering that he hadn't taken any pain pills all day, he supposed he wasn't surprised. He could feel it had swollen against the brace: Like last night, it was likely the swelling causing the pain. Gibbs leaned over to snag his go-bag off the floor. It took him half a minute of rooting around until he came up with a bottle of over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. There was a part-used bottle of water in there, and he grabbed that too. He took double the standard dose. His liver was healthy enough for it. Or it had been last time Ducky'd tested his blood.

Unstrapping his holster, Gibbs put his Sig on the coffee table. Then, remembering the events of last night, he unloaded it and tucked it into his bag instead. His gun safe was just across the room, but it was a mile too far tonight. He unlaced his boot, shaking it off, then used that foot to toe his shoe off before turning to lay back on the couch. Gibbs dug his cell out of his pocket and set it on the floor next to the couch. He put his feet up on the couch arm and grabbed a pillow, jamming it under his head. He'd lay here until the pills kicked in, then maybe order in some Chinese.

It was still dark in the house when his cell rang an unknown time later. Gibbs groaned and groped for it on the floor. His fingers brushed it and he flipped it open. It was McGee.

"Petty Officer Ramey called. He's willing to meet with us this morning."

"What time is it?" Gibbs asked. The room was dark. And very warm. He could feel sweat soaking his undershirt.

"Uh, about twenty 'til six."

"At night?" Gibbs asked. He scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing away the last vestiges of sleep.

"In the morning. You alright, Boss?"

"When?"

"When?" McGee repeated.

"When can he meet with us?" Gibbs asked. He reached back over his head and fished for the pull cord on the lamp by the end of the couch.

"He says as soon as possible. He has things to do before he flies tonight."

Gibbs took a breath. "Have him meet us at the Metro Center Café. 6:30. Come pick me up. Bring coffee." He hung up.

After taking a second to get his bearings, Gibbs sat up and shifted so his feet were on the floor. He was still wearing his overcoat, and warm air was blowing down from the heater vent above him. No wonder he was sweating.

He must have fallen asleep almost immediately after he laid down. More than 12 hours had passed, and he didn't remember dreaming a single dream. It had been a very long time since he'd last slept so deeply without chemical help. He felt rested. Really rested. His head was clear, and other than a distinct feeling of emptiness in his stomach, all systems appeared to be go.

Gibbs shrugged out of his overcoat and pulled off his shirts. He used his polo to wipe the worst of the sweat off his chest and arms, then stretched over to grab the crutches from where he'd dropped them. He levered himself upright and stood for a moment to find his balance on his left leg. He tentatively shifted some of his weight to his right. The knee held for a second before he felt it give, buckling against the brace with a bolt of pain. He grunted loudly and quickly shifted his weight back. Not a good move. He'd hoped, judging by how good the rest of him felt, that he might have gotten over the worst of the pain, and the knee might hold some of his weight. Apparently not. Looked like he was going to have to submit to surgery sooner rather than later. Damn.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

They arrived at the coffee shop on base five minutes late. The sun was just starting to rise, and it was going to be another beautiful morning in the nation's capital. Gibbs had watched the beginnings of the Monday morning commute from the passenger seat while McGee drove. The snow from last week's storm was only partially melted, leaving piles of dirty gray lining the streets. It looked just like it had last Monday, just like it would every day until the temperature stayed above freezing long enough to melt it, or a new storm came along.

Petty Officer Stephen Ramey was already sitting alone at a table in the corner when they walked in. McGee recognized him from his service record and gestured that way. Gibbs saw a taller-than-average, skinny white kid with a sun-bleached blond brush cut and a dark tan. The look of intense concentration he was giving his coffee mug didn't belong on what Gibbs could tell was a face used to smiling.

The shop was fairly busy, as expected on a weekday morning so close to so many government buildings. Most of the tables were occupied, and a buzz of conversation filled the room as pervasively as the smell of brewing coffee. They made their way between the tables, McGee leading, Gibbs following carefully behind on the crutches. He kept all his weight off the knee. He'd taken just one of the Vicodin, wanting to both tamp down the pain and keep a clear head. It had helped, but the joint was still talking to him.

"Petty Officer Ramey?" McGee asked.

"You must be NCIS," Ramey said, looking up at them. McGee produced his badge, showing his ID.

"Special Agents McGee and Gibbs," he said. The two agents took seats on two of the open sides of the table, McGee across from Ramey, Gibbs between them. There was a plate with a few crumbs on it sitting on the table. He'd been here awhile.

"Thanks for meeting me so early," Ramey said. "I'm headed up to Canada for a ski trip later today, and I've got some things to do before I go."

"We appreciate you calling back," McGee said. They would keep this as friendly as possible, as long as possible. A waitress appeared with a coffee pot. Both agents turned over the heavy white mugs that had been waiting at the table, and she poured, topping off Ramey's. They declined breakfast and she went away.

"I've learned it's best to cooperate with you guys as much as I can," Ramey said when she was gone. "You get what you want most of the time, and avoiding it only makes it worse."

"My kind of sailor," McGee said with a big smile. It said, we're all friends here, right?

"So why were you looking for me?" Ramey asked. "You said something about an accident I might have witnessed? I don't remember seeing any accidents."

McGee began. Gibbs had told him to take the lead, thinking his junior agent's more relaxed style might get them further with a sailor who wasn't suspected of anything. Yet.

"A sailor from the Roosevelt died in Washington last week."

There was a brief flash of surprise, and no guilt. "That's too bad. Someone I knew?"

"Yeoman Second Class Ferrara," McGee said.

Some sorrow. Still no guilt. "Frank," Ramey said. "The Captain's Yeoman."

"That's right. Did you know him well?" McGee asked.

"Pretty well. I used to work Mass Communications on the Roosevelt. I wrote his story, about the accident and after he came back. Was it a car wreck?"

"Actually, he was beaten to death," McGee said. Ramey's eyes widened, and he took a quick breath. There it was. A little guilt, a little unease.

"Any idea who did it?" Ramey said. He drank some of his coffee.

"We've got two sailors and a Marine in custody for it."

Now Ramey's face clearly showed his nerves. No poker player, this one. He looked past McGee at the crowded coffee shop and played with his mug for a bit before drinking again.

"What does this have to do with me?" he asked finally, his voice lowered.

"You got into some trouble a couple of years ago, while the Roosevelt was on station in the Gulf," McGee said, matching Ramey's tone. Ramey seemed to still for a moment, then he nodded. The vein in his right temple started to throb. He was working hard at betraying nothing, which all by itself betrayed a lot. McGee was doing well so far, Gibbs thought.

"Yeah, I did," Ramey finally said.

"You got into a fight with the ship's priest," McGee said.

"Yeah," he agreed again. He wrapped both hands tightly around the mug.

"What was the fight about?"

Ramey looked away and raised his mug. His hands were shaking slightly. Whatever this kid was hoping to hide, it was serious.

"It was nothing important."

"The damage to the chapel says otherwise," McGee said.

Ramey shrugged. "I got a little upset. I wasn't thinking straight. I'd been under a lot of stress."

"Apparently," Gibbs said, speaking for the first time. Not that McGee needed his help, but he thought the timing was right for a second voice. "We heard it had something to do with a missing Marine, left behind in Dubai when the ship sailed."

Ramey studied him for a second. "Why does it matter?" he asked. "It was a long time ago."

"Tell us about the fight," McGee said.

"The priest said some things that pissed me off. I was under a lot of stress at the time, and I lost it. It escalated, I took a swing at him. He fought back. He was pretty scrappy, for a priest."

"What did he say to piss you off so badly?"

Ramey shook his head. "It was private. We got into it, the MPs broke it up, I did some counseling and spent the next three years paying the price."

"There didn't appear to have been much of a price," Gibbs said. "You spent one night in the brig, then returned to duty like nothing had happened."

"I paid for it," Ramey repeated firmly and drank more coffee. His hands were still shaking a bit.

"You applied for transfer off the Roosevelt a few months later," McGee said.

"So?" Ramey said.

"Why?"

"I'd been there awhile, and I wanted a change," Ramey said.

"It didn't have anything to do with the fight?" McGee asked.

"No." An obvious lie.

"Personnel turned you down. How come?"

Ramey shrugged, like he didn't know and it didn't matter. But there was nothing nonchalant about his body language. This was a sore point for him.

"I don't know," he said.

"You applied and were rejected twice more after that before finally being transferred last year. How come?" McGee repeated.

"Maybe the Captain liked my work. My transfer was approved right after the last change of command."

That was an interesting connection they hadn't made. Gibbs wondered if the ship's prior Captain had had anything to do with keeping him aboard.

"Was having to stay aboard part of the price you paid for the fight?" Gibbs asked.

Ramey examined him for a second, then dropped his gaze back to his mug.

"You could say that," Ramey said cryptically, and didn't explain. McGee took a breath before continuing.

"You changed your religious preference from Catholic to Protestant, soon after the fight," he said.

"So what if I did?" Ramey said. "It's allowed. It's right there in the Constitution." His voice was sarcastic. But again, they could see that was significant. They just weren't sure why.

"It's unusual, that's all, for a life-long Catholic to do that. Whatever the priest said, it must have been bad."

Ramey didn't take the bait. The agents waited for almost half a minute before McGee continued.

"So the priest said something about Major Ortiz that pissed you off," he said, coming back around to their goal and upping the ante just a little. "Why were you so upset about that? Did you know the Major well?"

"I didn't know him at all," Ramey said. Which confirmed the subject matter of the fight.

"So why did you get so angry when he was left behind?"

"That's not why I was angry," Ramey said.

"No, it wasn't," Gibbs said. Again, Ramey studied him. When the silence lengthened, McGee picked it up once more.

"Why the priest? What made you think he had anything to do with it?"

"I didn't say he did," Ramey said. "I just said I was talking to him about it." He hadn't actually said that, but they weren't going to correct him.

"Why him?" McGee asked. Ramey looked at him strangely.

"Because he was my priest," he said simply. Which Gibbs supposed made sense. But they all knew that wasn't the reason.

"So what'd he say that pissed you off?" McGee circled back around.

"I told you, it was private," Ramey said.

"You were pissed that they'd crossed the line," Gibbs said, getting to the heart of the issue. All this dancing around was making him dizzy. Either the kid knew about the conspiracy, or he didn't. Gibbs would bet the house he did.

Ramey said nothing at first. Then he seemed to deflate all at once. He dropped his head and stared into his coffee mug again. "He wasn't supposed to be hurt that bad."

McGee looked at Gibbs. Finally. Gibbs gave a small nod. Let's go.

"So why was he?" McGee asked.

Ramey shook his head. "I don't know." His nervous demeanor had slipped into a sense of calm, like some inevitable line had been crossed and he didn't have to stress about it anymore.

"He was supposed to be like the others," Gibbs said. Ramey nodded.

"Hurt bad, but not too bad," McGee said.

"That's right," Ramey said.

"So what happened?" McGee repeated.

"I don't know," Ramey said again.

"But you knew he was going to be attacked," Gibbs said. "Before it happened."

"And when he didn't come back to the ship, you wanted to know why," McGee added. "That's why you went to the priest." Ramey didn't answer. They were bouncing back and forth, keeping Ramey a little off balance as he switched his attention from one agent to the other.

"Were you part of it?" McGee asked.

"Part of what?" Ramey asked.

"The attack on Major Ortiz," Gibbs said.

"No," Ramey said firmly.

"But you knew it was going to happen," McGee said.

Ramey drank more coffee, draining the mug. He set it back on the table and sighed. A moment later, Ramey nodded to himself.

"Alright," he said. The agents waited.

"Alright what?" McGee asked when he didn't continue.

"I know who was involved."

"In what?" Gibbs said.

"The assault on Major Ortiz. And the others, too. I know about all of it."

"All of what?" McGee asked.

"I know about all the victims, what happened to them and why. At least all the ones up until I left the Roosevelt last year. And I have proof. But I'm not going any further without a deal."

"A deal," Gibbs stated, clearly broadcasting what he thought of that.

Ramey nodded. "A deal. I can give you everything. All the players, names, dates, hard evidence of who was involved in each the attacks. But I want something first."

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"I want your guarantee that no matter what happens, I get to stay in the navy."

Gibbs looked at him, a hard expression settling across his features.

"If you had anything to do with this, you'll be lucky to get away with a DD and no jail time," he said.

"I know. And I probably deserve worse. But I can make your case for you, give you enough to take them all down. And all I want in return is a chance to keep serving my country. Bust me back to apprentice, put me on laundry detail for the rest of my career. I don't care. But when it's all over, I want to stay in."

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

"Because the navy is all I've got left."

There was almost a minute of silence amid the hum of voices in the diner. McGee wasn't sure where Gibbs wanted to take it, and was waiting for a sign. For his part, Gibbs wasn't sure either. If the kid was involved in any of the assaults, there was no way in hell he was going to get off scot free. On the other hand, if he had the evidence he claimed to have, they needed him.

"Were you involved in any of the assaults?" Gibbs asked.

"Define involved," Ramey said. Gibbs glared at him, but Ramey didn't react. He was still nervous, clearly, but just as clearly determined.

"Did you directly participate in the commission of any of the assaults?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Ramey said.

"Help with the planning?" Gibbs asked.

There was a brief hesitation. "No," Ramey said. A lie? Maybe. But not a big one, Gibbs thought.

"Did you gather intelligence on any of the victims, or in any way play a role in setting any of them up to be attacked?" McGee asked.

"My role was never significant," Ramey said. "Nothing that helped get anyone hurt."

"So what did you do?" Gibbs asked.

Ramey shook his head. "Not until we have a deal." When Gibbs' expression of frustration kicked up another notch, Ramey continued. "I didn't hurt anyone. Didn't cause anyone to get hurt. I can give you everything you need to make a solid case for all 14 assaults that took place before I left the Roosevelt, in exchange for nothing more than letting me keep working, keep serving."

The agents exchanged looks. Fourteen before he left the Roosevelt last year. That was three more than they knew about.

"How'd you come by the information you have?" McGee asked.

"Huh uh," Ramey said, shaking his head again. "Deal first."

Gibbs looked at him again, searching for something that would tell him if it was worth his effort or not. If the kid really had what he claimed to have, and if he hadn't played a significant role in setting anyone up to be assaulted…

"Is the evidence you've got verifiable? Or is it just your word?" Gibbs asked.

Ramey considered. "I've got video," he said. Gibbs felt an immediate sense of surprise from McGee, but he didn't look over.

"Of the attacks?" Gibbs asked.

Ramey nodded. "Some of them. And of some of the planning sessions."

Well, that was impressive. But if Ramey hadn't had anything to do with the attacks, how'd he get videos? And who the hell had taken them?

"Alright. Come on," Gibbs said, and carefully stood. McGee handed him the crutches.

"Where are we going?" Ramey said, as he got to his feet.

"You want a deal, you're gonna need a lawyer."

to be continued...

Sorry for the delay, friends. I know all five of you [grin] eagerly await each new chapter. I'm working as fast as I can. Really. Which reminds me: There's going to be a (planned) delay before the next part. My family is relocating, from two two-bedroom apartments into one three-bedroom house. I'm in charge, and it's causing me unimaginable stress. The computer's going to be unplugged for a few days, then there's the rest of the packing, and the planning, and the actual move, and the unpacking, and the setting up... y'all have been there, I'm sure. Meanwhile, please do keep reviewing. I cherish every comment. joy