Disclaimer : Still own nothing. Just having fun.
Author's Note : Lots of thanks to everyone who's read, favorited and followed so far! Extra thanks to everyone who's taken the time to leave a review or drop me a PM. Answers for all the questions are coming.
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7:52pm – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
The distinct scent of Chinese takeout and sweat - though he prefers to call it determination - fills Tony's nostrils as he searches into the life of Bailey Chase. Ever since they hit the bullpen, Gibbs has impatiently bounced between Abby's lab to autopsy and back again on the off-chance that someone has results by now.
For all his years on Gibbs' team, DiNozzo has yet to see anything perturb his boss, let alone a case. He still doesn't know why the announcement that their victim was only a teenager, likely no older than sixteen, managed to get under his skin.
Glancing down at the takeout containers cluttered on his desk, Tony leans forward and frowns. Tim and Ziva are completely absorbed in their work. He sighs quietly, turning back to his own monitor. So far, he has managed to get to the bottom of nothing but his shrimp fried rice, Ziva's chicken chow mein and Tim's General Tso's chicken.
While it isn't quite the progress he intends, its progress nonetheless.
Just when he decides to ask his teammates about their research, Gibbs rushes back into the bullpen, knuckles white against his coffee cup.
"Somebody tell me something."
Tony hops out of his seat first, aiming the remote at the plasma. A picture of a long-faced, dark-haired man in dress whites appears on the screen, followed by an image of the corpse, allowing the team to complete a cursory comparison of the man's dimpled chin and olive complexion.
"Abby used fingerprints to confirm that the male corpse is Lieutenant Junior Grade Bailey Chase, 36. Paygrade O-2. Born and raised in Akron. Graduated from Penn State in 1992 with a degree in Physics. Enlisted in 1994 to get his PhD in oceanographical acoustics from the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California. After he finished the program, he optioned out of active duty to work at the Naval Research Laboratory in Bethesda. Been there since 2001."
"I took a few minutes to skim his thesis," Tim interjects. "Really exciting stuff. It's about how different frequencies of sound waves travel in water and their use in - " He stops when he notices the three sets of eyes glaring him down. Cheeks flushed, he turns back to his monitor.
"What's he working on now?" Gibbs growls.
"Don't know, boss. It's classified." Tony drops back into his chair to signal the end of his information.
Ziva loads a few documents and a newspaper article to the screen. "Chase has maintained the same residence here since relocating from California. According to the bank, he pays his mortgage on time. There are two credit cards registered to his name with no charges for anything other than food or gas. He has no surviving next of kin, his parents and two sisters were killed in a car crash in 1994. The man is a park ranger, Gibbs."
"Boy scout, Ziva," Tim corrects on reflex, continuing to sort through his information.
"If the neckerchief fits, McGoo." Tony grins, bracing for the head slap that doesn't come.
"Wait, did you say he paid his mortgage, Ziva?" Tim asks, eyes still on his computer.
"Yes, why?"
There's a long silence as the team watches Tim transfer bank statements and call logs to the plasma.
"McGee?"
"Most of Chase's recent calls were either to work or a landline listed to a Malcolm Quinn. There's one call that Chase received on Saturday afternoon that I haven't been able to trace yet. The number was activated on Wednesday morning at a local convenience store in Columbia Heights. Only call I can find to that number was the one that came through Chase's phone."
"Probably a burner," Tony offers.
"Where is it now?" Gibbs asks.
"Don't know, boss." Tim directs the team's attention to Chase's financials. "Bank account is pretty standard. Deposits his paychecks every other week. His set up automatic payments are made to his utility companies and credit cards. But what's missing?"
"Mortgage payment." Gibbs nods. "Bet he's got money stashed somewhere else. McGee, find it. DiNozzo, you and Ziva go interview the friend and the owner of the convenience store."
As Ziva and Tony reach after their gear and Tim settles into his computer, Gibbs sprints out of the bullpen.
Watching the retreating form, Tony wonders what he fails to see in this case.
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9:01pm – Morgue – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Waiting just inside the morgue doors, Gibbs sips his coffee and inhales the familiar reek of death that fills the room. Even though he never knows quite how to describe the smell of decay and putrefaction that inhabits this place, he's always associated it with answers.
Unable to stop himself, he remembers the moment he saw his little girl on a slab.
It was the first time he smelled death outside of the desert.
Standing by one of the tables, Mallard and Palmer, dressed in their gloves and gowns, are in the midst of the female victim's autopsy. Leaning over the corpse, the doctor removes one of the internal organs out of the thoracic cavity and drops it onto the scale with a disquieting splat. Palmer makes a notation on his pad, nodding as he slides the organ into a bucket.
"You know, Jethro, I cannot hurry through my findings simply because you wait there," Mallard says, glancing over his glasses at the team leader.
"I know, Duck."
Gibbs just wants to be present for the moment when Mallard discovers something that will help the team determine the identity. When he heard she was barely a teenager, his heart clenched at the thought of what could drive a young woman to shoot someone before herself. He just can never bear the cases where a girl will never grow to adulthood. No matter how hard he tries, they almost always remind him of his daughter.
He still spends every day wondering who she could have become.
Returning to NCIS, he accompanied the body down to the morgue, waiting impatiently for Mallard and Palmer to painstakingly complete their initial report and compile their preliminary findings. He floated between the bullpen, the morgue and the forensics lab to see who could provide him with any scrap of information first.
At his last visit to autopsy, he couldn't leave. While his muscles clenched in anticipation for another trek to the bullpen, he just couldn't bring himself to walk through the sliding doors. Staring at the full cheeks and round face that Palmer uncovered under the layers of thick makeup, Gibbs saw her for what she truly was.
A girl, pretending to be a woman.
He closes his eyes, a broken sigh escaping his lips.
"Mr. Palmer, perhaps you should wait to close the incision until after you deliver the evidence to Abby?" Mallard suggests, a stern order under the guise of a request.
"But doctor, I always close first," Palmer protests.
"The evidence to Abby, Mr. Palmer. You can close before we start the autopsy on Lieutenant Chase," Mallard says, voice surprisingly harsh. The assistant shrugs off his gown and mask, depositing them into the biohazard bin before vanishing through the door with several jars.
Gibbs slides next to Mallard by the autopsy slab.
"Jethro, is there something about this particular case that bothers you?" He pulls down his mask.
"Why makes you say that, Duck?"
"You never wait through my autopsy and you never ask me to deviate from routine. You know that I always start with the first victim and move onto the second. Why request that I change on this one?"
"Just need to know who she is." Gibbs gestures to the teenager's tranquil face, ignoring the cavernous hole in her chest.
"I'm afraid that I won't help you much." Mallard shakes his head as he points to a series of radiographs adhered to the light boxes on the wall. From Gibbs' vantage point, they look like they might be teeth. "Dental analysis shows that she had impacted, unerupted third molars with immature apices. Her erupting maxillary and mandibular canines are also partially formed. That combined with a carpal radiograph showing an epiphyseal plate as opposed to an epiphyseal line indicate that she is likely between fourteen and eighteen years of age. There is always a chance she may be older, pending a blood test to check for any thyroid deficiencies."
"Dental records ID her?"
Mallard solemnly shakes his head again, pointing to few shadows on the images. "I'm afraid dental care throughout her life was sorely lacking. You can see the numerous active carious lesions. Though I find the root canal treatment on her mandibular first molars most curious. It is partially completed. Do you see the signs of residual infection?"
Staring blankly at the radiographs, Gibbs simply shrugs.
"Well, it's a form of endodontic therapy known as the Sargenti method. The tooth is accessed, the nerve removed and a paste is placed inside. It was common in the United States and England in the 1950s. With all the revolutions in dental medicine, virtually no dental practitioners in the United States still employ this method. However, it is still quite common in the former Soviet states. Therefore based on her age and dental treatment, she's - "
"Not from around here."
"Likely not." Mallard waves for Gibbs to follow him back to the corpse.
As they settle by the slab, he studies the teenager's features. Under the harsh autopsy lights and muscles relaxed in death, she appears far younger than estimated.
"Based primarily on dental work, I assume her to be from Eastern Europe." Mallard pulls open her mouth and points to a shapeless metal crown on one of her molars. "I've sent a sample of the metal to Abby. Its composition should narrow down the country of origin."
"Got anything else?"
"Gunshot to the right temporal lobe is cause of death. I sent the bullet I removed up to Abby for confirmation," Mallard says, pointing to a hole in the side of the teenager's head. "Swabs of gunshot residue on her hand were also sent to Abby. This poor girl has partially healed ligature marks on her wrists. I did pull a few fibers out of the freshest wounds. She also has numerous contusions and ecchymoses in multiple stages of healing. There are poorly healed fractures of numerous fingers."
"She was beaten?"
"Repeatedly and routinely. Every body tells a story and I cannot fathom the tragedy that hers does."
"Thanks, Duck. Let me know when you finish Chase," Gibbs says, heading towards the elevator.
"I'm not done, Jethro," Mallard calls.
The graveness in his voice pulls him back.
"That's not it?"
"I wish it were. There is also severe damage to the pelvic muscles and numerous tears in the tissue in that area. It's the most severe scarring I've ever seen."
"She was raped?"
"Many, many times..."
Mallard places a protective hand on her shoulder. The comfort that she never received in life, she could at least find in death. Gibbs leans forward, hanging his head, unwilling to imagine the horrors that the girl must have witnessed before she ever hit adulthood.
He must bring her a dignity in death that she never had in life.
Gibbs presses his hand against the gauzy flesh; a silent promise communed only by his fingertips.
I'll make sure you get home.