A/N: Ok so it's been a few days since I updated this. I seem to be apologising a lot for irregular posting lately. The writer's block seems to be easing though, so hopefully I'll be able to go back to my usual posting schedule. Thanks to everyone who kept reading even with week long breaks between chapters. F.
McGee was bored.
He'd been stuck in this hospital bed for 5 days now; 4 that he could remember. And while he wasn't always the most active of people due to his geek leanings, at least when he was at his computer he was still doing something. Here all he could do was lie there and think. Even reading was difficult- it felt awkward and clumsy trying to hold anything in his right hand, and turning the page was just plain annoying. Up until today, he hadn't really noticed the boredom, mainly because they'd been giving him some strong painkillers and they'd clouded his mind. Now, he was starting to heal and overnight the doctors had begun the process of weakening the medications they had him on. They'd also lightened the bandages on his arm and side, allowing him movement from his elbow down with strict instructions not to try to rotate his shoulder. He was glad to follow those; he'd only tried to move it once, and he wouldn't soon forget the pain it had caused.
It was still rather strange to him, the extent of the damage to his arm; he'd sneaked a look at it once while they were performing the painful task of changing the dressings, and then he wished he hadn't. Crisscrossed with lines of stitches, it looked wrong somehow; he'd barely recognised it as part of himself. He knew his shoulder and upper arm were even worse.
He'd be starting physiotherapy soon, the doctors had told him. Good. He knew he had months of it ahead of him before he could think of returning to work, so the sooner it began the better. As much as he tried not to, he resented Keating having taken his place on the team- even temporarily. From what Abby had told him, Keating was doing a mediocre job of it. Abby had been a constant visitor, coming to see him every night, and having lunch with him yesterday. She hadn't even balked at seeing how messy even a simple task like eating was for him right now. Somehow her lack of concern about that aspect of his injuries had lessened his embarrassment.
Although technically she probably shouldn't, she kept him up to date with what was happening. So he'd heard about the inconclusive interrogation of Adams, and about Tony's relentless search for how exactly Adams had made the call. Keating apparently wasn't being much help. The problem wasn't Keating's computer skills—McGee knew that they were considerable, as good as his own; you couldn't work in the cyber unit for very long without having some pretty heavy duty tech knowledge behind you. No, the problem was that Keating just didn't think like an investigator. That was why he'd been transferred back to Cybercrimes in the first place. McGee itched to get a look at the munitions lockup computer; he was betting that Keating wasn't thinking outside the box enough to not have missed something. Abby was good, but she had so much other evidence to process that she just couldn't devote the time needed to do a comprehensive search. He wanted to help, to do his job, not just be stuck here helpless in the hospital.
Now that he could think clearly, the technological side of this case was bugging him. He was still musing about it when Abby came in for her nightly visit. Gradually he became aware of her watching him reproachfully.
"McGee. You're ignoring me."
"Huh? Oh, sorry Abs." He paused. "Abby, do you remember when Cassidy's team was killed? One of the terrorists was using a text to speech program to make phone calls to the tip line."
"Yeah, so?"
"So have you tried running a voice print analysis on the hotline call?"
"Well, yeah McGee; it was Lieutenant Francis's voice, same as his computer id."
"What if Adams was doing the same thing? What if he was using a text to speech program to mimic Francis's voice?"
"But he'd need a CT scan of the Lieutenant's head and neck for that" she objected.
"How do we know he doesn't have one?" McGee countered.
Her eyes wide, she stood up slowly from the chair next to his bed.
"I gotta check this out." She rushed to leave, pausing at the doorway.
"Thanks, Tim."