Disclaimer : Still own nothing. Just having fun.
Author's Note : Thanks to all the alerts, favs and follows, as well as the reviews. Love to see what you guys are thinking.
To Laurie (guest) - you're welcome for the quick updates.
Enjoy the newest chapter.
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Monday, October 11, 2006 – 12:06am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
The hollow clicks of Tim's keyboard echo through the bullpen while Gibbs waits in front of the plasma for the results. Arms crossed and back rigid, he stares at the photos of the lieutenant in his dress whites and their female victim on the slab. When Tim leaps out of his chair and rushes to Tony's computer, Gibbs doesn't even bother to turn around.
He learned very quickly not to ask Tim for clarification about his hacking activities. If he ever has a lapse in judgment, Gibbs is usually treated to a long-winded diatribe that he doesn't understand. Sometimes he thinks English might be the younger man's second language.
No clue what the mother tongue is.
All he needs to know is that Tim commandeered Tony's computer to do something against that bank in the Caymans while he did something else on his own. Even though it's probably illegal, Gibbs doesn't really care, as long as he gets the information they need.
Rushing to his desk, Tim says, "Boss, you know, this will probably take a w - "
Gibbs swivels to glare at the young man's flushed face. Nodding silent, Tim drops back into desk chair. His fingers barely touch the keyboard while he works. There's a momentary break in the tapping and he mutters something unintelligible.
Gibbs swigs his coffee, determined to connect the lieutenant and the girl.
What the hell does a Navy scientist want with a teenager?
And what happened that made her kill him before herself?
There are so many questions for which Gibbs has no answers. He rubs the back of his head; he always dislikes this part of the investigation the most. After his orders send his team scattering, all he can do is sip his coffee and try to connect the dots. He realizes that it takes time for his agents to rundown leads, his autopsy team to deal with the remains, and his forensic scientist to sift through their mountain of evidence. Even though it's the natural progress of a search, he still can barely stand to wait for results.
He glances at his watch, acutely aware of the seconds that tick towards morning. If they don't have sufficient progress on the circumstantial evidence, he knows the director will ask him to close out the murder and transfer their Jane Doe to the appropriate agency for identification. He exhales, listening to the incessant clack of Tim's typing.
There's something here, I can feel it.
Tim slams his mouse against the desk, grumbling to himself.
Seems like I'm not the only one who's frustrated.
The elevator's ding diverts Gibbs' attention from the plasma. Moments later, Tony heads into the bullpen with Ziva in tow.
"We talked to Malcolm Quinn," she reports, taking her seat. "He did not appear to know Chase particularly well. Acquaintances, you would say, yes? We also obtained surveillance video from the store that sold the phone."
Frozen by the entrance to the bullpen, Tony stares back at the elevator. Despite his physical presence, he seems a world away. Gibbs approaches him to land a smack on the back of his senior agent's head.
Tony blinks.
"Got the tape, boss." After handing it to Gibbs, he heads towards to his desk.
"Tony! Don't touch that!" Tim yelps.
Tony does a double-take between the junior agent and his computer.
"Uh, boss?"
"Your computer is in the process of running a vulnerability scanner for me against the Sand Dollar Bank. Once I sort out the right code to exploit, I can spoof my IP address to gain access. They're using a modern TCP, so I need your system to finish the program that'll let me figure out which IP to use. Otherwise, I'm just guessing and I don't think I can get in if I need to… " Tim's breathless ramblings morph into an incoherent mess of technical jargon as the other agents stare at him wide-eyed.
Swallowing hard, Tony turns his attention to Gibbs. "Uh, boss?"
"Tony, I'm using it!"
Gibbs raises his eyebrows at Tim, waiting for the sarcastic response that doesn't come. When he looks at Tony, he notices the slouch in his senior agent's shoulders.
"DiNozzo?"
"Boss, please," Tim moans plaintively, features tightening when all eyes return to him. "I just can't think with all the noise. If I screw up this intrusion attempt, they'll permanently lock out my IP address and possibly the network. I might only get one chance to do this."
Gibbs presses his lips together, nodding solemnly. "DiNozzo, drop that tape off with Abby and go home. You and Ziva be back here by 0800. McGee…finish whatever you're doing."
Tim hunches towards his monitor, fingers thudding against his keyboard. While DiNozzo and Ziva slip to the elevator, Gibbs studies his sullen senior agent. When his gut bubbles, Gibbs tries to swallow the feeling. He decides to give Tony time to sort himself out before he digs for the problem.
Mallard's results seem like the perfect distraction.
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12:23am – Morgue – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Leaning against the wall just inside the autopsy office, Gibbs watches the medical examiner pour a cup of tea from an opulent, flowered pot. As he begins to fill another, Gibbs shakes his head.
"Already got one, Duck."
Mallard nods distractedly, pulling a swig of the beverage. Based on the pile of Chase's personal effects littered across the desk, the autopsy must've ended early.
"Whaddya got?"
Dropping his gaze to the disorder, the doctor blows on his tea to cool it before he takes another sip. Gibbs can tell the drink has its intended result when the tense shoulders relax. With a sigh, Mallard passes him a leather-bound journal.
"Our lieutenant was quite a depraved individual, Jethro. On the surface, he was a brilliant man of distinguished taste with a proclivity for antiques, fine wines, classical music and Romantic poetry. A true renaissance man, if you will. However, that journal reveals the thoughts of a sociopath."
He continues on his drink while Gibbs flips through the thick, cream pages. The beauty of the sloping script is betrayed by the repugnance in the words. Unable to finish an entry, he slams the book closed.
"What is this?"
"It's a collection of Chase's fantasies. Based on his writings, he appeared unable to find the type of woman he believed that he deserved. His frequent advances towards women were met with refusals. He documented their words as well as the copious amounts of violence he wished to enact on them."
Gibbs flicks through the tome again, feeling his stomach turn when he finds only a few empty pages.
"Whole lotta rejection."
"Quite frequently, in fact. It wouldn't be so troubling if his musings stayed as so. However several months ago, his recordings became actual accounts of his actions against women. With every attack, he became more sadistic and cruel. That - " Mallard points at the book "- is the recounting of a man's descent into madness."
"You really think he hurt these women? Didn't find any reports through Metro."
"Our lieutenant is far too intelligent to act out such fantasies on a woman who would report him to the local authorities. Likely, he chose his victims amongst those well removed from society."
"Prostitutes?"
"That is most probable. While he brutalized these women both physically and psychologically, I doubt he ever graduated to murder. Actions like that are incompatible with his personality. He seemed to wish pain on them, but never death. I would deduce that he simply let the woman go when he finished. Whoever they are, he probably knew they would never pursue any recourse."
"How many?"
The medical examiner replenishes his drink. Pausing to swill the tea, he's momentarily hypnotized by the amber liquid. He sighs, adding a splash of milk that blossoms in the center.
"There are dozens of separate incidents."
Mallard frowns at his teacup, placing it onto his desk as he stands. He leads the way to the body on the autopsy slab. With the light spilling from the office barely touching his generic features, the lieutenant still appears more man than monster.
Mallard flicks on the surgical lamps, illuminating the hollows of the body's face.
"Cause of death was the two bullets that I removed from the thoracic cavity," he reports, voice abnormally callous. "One of them nicked the stomach, leading to exsanguination. Time of death would be around 8:30 on Saturday night. For our dear girl over there, her life ended shortly after 9. I believe she waited for him to die."
"Making sure the job was done."
Mallard exhales slowly, the deepening creases on his face capturing the light. When he hunches on the autopsy slab, Gibbs rests his hand on the older man's shoulder.
"Jethro, I don't understand." He frowns. "There are times when I realize that no matter how long I study the human psyche, I will never truly understand any of it. How are we to find any solace in this?"
"He suffer?"
"A great deal."
"Sometimes that's enough."
Under the harsh brightness, there's something in Mallard's eyes that Gibbs is unaccustomed to seeing : confusion. Shaking his head, he sighs quietly, watching the color leaves his friend's cheeks.
"But not this time, Duck. We'll find out how she got here."
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3:18am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Tim reads the lines of code that scroll across the screen, stopping to blink himself awake. Even though his attack granted him access to the bank's server, their security still provides him with numerous layers upon layers of encryption to comb through before he can even find the right account. Determining the identity of the holder seems as though it will be the simple part.
Why do the computer leads always pop up after midnight?
When his port scanner bounces back as filtered, he sighs loudly, knowing that it's still better than tipping off the security team to his attack. The last thing he needs to be booted from the system…again. He doesn't even want to try to explain to Gibbs what happens when a server blocks access to an individual IP address.
He double-checks his network enumeration program to see the list of vulnerabilities he already tried to exploit. When he first received the list of security holes in the system that he could use to access the bank's grid, he figured that he wouldn't be home much later than the rest of the team. But as the hours passed, he ran into more levels of superfluous code, blocked ports and dummy usernames than he's ever seen before. Now he wonders whether there actually is a way to gain entry at all.
Tim knows he is running out of time.
He sighs quietly, continuing to nix the unusable codes that he recognizes. When he finds a highly infectious computer worm close to the bottom of the list, he decides to go for the long-shot. After a quick check into the program's specifics, he finds that it's close to the worm that his college roommate unwittingly unleashed on MIT as a senior prank. Hopefully, the month he spent before graduation scrubbing the network will finally pay off.
Cloaking his IP address, Tim picks his way into the network again. With only a few keystrokes, he activates the worm and takes over the infected computer. When he finds out his proxy is a high-level manager's machine, he grins broadly.
It's about time I catch a break.
Fingers flying over his keyboard, he accesses the account in question and downloads the data to his hard drive. It takes him a few more minutes to erase evidence of his presence on the server.
Once finished, he slumps back in his chair, wiping the sweat from his brow.
There's no chance to celebrate his victory when Gibbs rushes back into the bullpen, coffee cup in hand.
"Got something, McGee?"
"Yeah, but I haven't had a chance to get through the information yet."
Gibbs slides in front of the plasma, obviously waiting for him.
"There's a lot of money in the account…registered to an Anthony Masterson." While Gibbs pulls a sip of his coffee, Tim runs a search on the name. "Lives in Washington, DC. He, uh -"
When he finds a picture of Masterson, he stares slack-jawed at his monitor.
The high forehead, wide eyes and strong jaw are familiar enough to make his blood run cold.
"McGee?"
He blinks, as though the face is merely a hallucination brought about by the late night.
"McGee!"
With one click, the image transfers to the plasma and Gibbs' face pales.
"Go home. Be back here at 0800."
Tim's eyes jump to his boss for explanation, but Gibbs is already on the move.
"Boss…"
"Home now, McGee! Only answer my calls!"
Tim rises from his chair, still enthralled by the image on the plasma.
"But boss, that's Tony."