Disclaimer : Still own nothing. Just having fun.
Author's Note : Thanks for everyone who's faved and followed so far. Also, extra thanks for all the reviews. It's wonderful to see what you're thinking as I go.
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7:52am – Forensics Lab – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Gibbs feels the thump of Abby's music before the elevator doors even open. Thankful that she finally moved on from the tomcat chorus, he rushes down the hallway. When he ducks through the entrance, he fully expects to find her hanging from the ceiling with a bungee cord or sacrificing pipet tips to the evidence gods. Yet nothing prepares him for what he really finds.
Abby sits quietly in her office, finalizing a case report.
"Heya, Abs, whaddya got?" he grunts, wondering whether something's wrong.
"Almost done my report," she replies, voice laden with sleep. "I just can't - " she yawns violently, bracing herself against her chair " – seem to wake up. I have this feeling. It's weird, like I'm moving in slow motion and the whole world is speeding past me. It's totally not normal. I'm usually a lot faster than this. I ran a chemical profile on the reformulated Caf-Pow. You know what I found out? There's only half the amount of caffeine in it as opposed to the original formulation. Half the caffeine, Gibbs. Tell me, how am I supposed to live like this?!"
Raising his eyebrow, he glances down at the coffee cup in his hands. When she takes it, she loudly sniffs the contents, pushing the cup back at him. Just when she starts to make a face, she yawns again.
"How do you drink that stuff, Gibbs? It smells like burning tires. Not the kind of burning rubber when you peel out of an intersection while you're drag racing your pick-up. More like a pile of tires that got set on fire. You know, my uncle JimBob once tried to use our barbeque pit to get rid of his monster truck tires. Smelled like that the whole summer. I don't - " Another yawn interrupts her ramble and she blinks, trying to remember the point to her story.
"You got anything, Abs?"
"You betcha."
When she grins, the crinkle by her eye accentuates the bags underneath them that even her thick foundation can't hide. She scrambles out of her seat, grabbing his arm as she slowly leads him to the ballistics hood. With a few clicks on the computer, she displays four identical bullets, then retrieves the bagged gun from the bench.
"The two on the left are the ones Ducky pulled out of Chase, the one in the right middle is from the teenager, and the one on the right is my test shot. Even though Ducky's three are badly damaged - " Abby points to the bullets retrieved from the bodies, "- there's just enough striations present for me to match them to this gun. That plus the fact that there were three empty casings in the revolver and three unspent rounds, and it was in the teenager's hands, leads me to believe this killed her and Chase. Plus..."
Abby pauses dramatically, gaze fixated on the weapon. Gibbs stares at her, waiting impatiently for her conclusion. When he taps her shoulder, she yelps and they both jump.
"Plus what, Abs?"
"I don't know." She laughs. "Guess I fell asleep with my eyes open again. Little trick I learned in high school to get through English. My teacher always used to - "
"Abs."
"Oh yeah. The powder residue from the teenager's hand shows that she definitely fired that gun," Abby explains, tossing the weapon back into the hood. "Her fingerprints are on it, but I couldn't get a hit off them in any database. Tried 'em all, too."
"Did you think you would?"
"Nope. Duckman says that she's young, like sixteen. But it's possible she might be older or younger than that. Based on her bone density, it appears that she had a really, really bad diet which might be why she's so tiny. Like didn't know what milk was, bad. So realistically, she could be anywhere from fourteen to twenty one."
"And…?"
"I think I might know where she's from!" She drags Gibbs back to her main lab bench. "I ran those metal filings from her crown that Jimmy brought me and I found this."
When she displays a chemical profile on her screen, she nods over her shoulder as though to include her mass spectrometer in the conversation. Gibbs does a double-take between her and the monitor, pulling a sip of his coffee as he awaits the clarification.
"What'd you find, Abs?"
"Why, Gibbs, I thought you'd never ask." She grins, her dark lips accenting the whiteness of her teeth. "Though I can't take any of the credit for Major Mass Spec's work, the crown contains copper, lead, zinc, nickel and trace amounts of beryllium. All these elements are components of base metal. But why is that important, you ask? Well, beryllium is banned by the FDA for use in dental work. It's primarily seen in Western Russia and other parts of Asia."
"So she's Russian?"
"Or she had dental work in Russia or some other Asian country at some point. If you want confirmation, I need a day or two."
When Gibbs glances at her, she pulls two evidence jars off her bench. One contains a small piece of bone, submersed in a clear liquid, while the other contains a tooth. Knowing those contents are macabre even for the lab bat, he raises his eyebrows.
Hadn't known her to take trophies. Guess it was just a matter of time.
"I found a paper from a guy at UCSF about understanding human migration from thousands of years ago based off the chemical components from teeth and bone. I know it's a bit of a long-shot, but I figured that I might be able to apply it to find out where she came from. I can use the tooth to tell you where she grew up and the bone to tell you where she's been for the past ten years."
"You are what you eat."
If that's true, I sure as hell don't want to know what DiNozzo's made out of.
"You betcha," she drawls, the words barely coherent as her eyes droop.
Wrapping his arm around Abby's waist, Gibbs leads her back into the inner office. With a long night behind her and less caffeine in her veins than usual, she barely stays awake as Gibbs eases her onto the futon. While she cuddles against the skull-shaped pillow, he crouches next to her and pulls her blanket up to her chin. Her eyelids flutter and he presses his lips to her forehead.
When he starts to stand, Abby's hand grips his forearm and her heavy eyes flick to meet his.
"This case, it's not hinky."
"And?"
"Well, the fact that it's not hinky makes it hinky. The gun's in her hand, she killed him then she killed herself. The only thing that's hinky is that we don't know who she is, but it's not important to close out the murder. You sign the report and it's done. But..."
"Not signing anything yet, Abs," Gibbs assures her.
"Exactly. There's something more here. There has to be. Whenever it's not hinky, there's always something else. Do you even know what it is yet? Do you…"
The rest of her thought is unintelligible as she drifts to sleep. Nodding slowly, Gibbs kisses her forehead again and rocks to his feet. He pauses by the door to watch the even rise and fall of her chest.
"There's always something more, Abs."
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8:16am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Tim sighs quietly as he leans back in his chair, watching the screens of another reboot cycle on his monitor. Since Gibbs asked him to e-mail Fornell about last night's discover, he had to load the information back to his computer. As soon as the boot process finishes, he launches his e-mail.
He exhales slowly, reminding himself that research takes time. If the agitation that bubbles in his chest is anything like his boss feels on a case, he thinks he will be more sympathetic the next time Gibbs demands their results instantaneously.
A message pops up and his gut tightens until he realizes that it's only Abby's forensics report. Marking a face he opens the attachment and skims the document. Her findings confirm the team's original thoughts. Their only loose end is Jane Doe's identity which they seem unlikely to uncover.
Some investigators might consider it an inconsequential detail at this stage of an almost closed case, ready to send the remains to the free cemetery for unclaimed bodies and her information to the Doe Network…to let someone else take care of the difficult legwork. But Tim realizes that his boss will be remiss to banish her into cold-case oblivion right away.
Gibbs isn't the type of man to silence the dead…even if it would let me bury the account linked to Tony.
He doesn't know what he's supposed to think about the situation.
Reloading his e-mail again, Tim grimaces at the multitude of new spam that appears.
"McGee," Ziva asks, reminding him of her presence, "have you heard of the Sand Dollar Bank?"
When his eyes meet her earnest gaze, he feels the blood drain from his cheeks.
"Y-y-y-yeah, once. A l-l-l-long t-t-time ago, yeah. W-w-why?"
Realizing there's still a link on his computer, he erases the e-mail he sent to Fornell in addition to all the spam. As Ziva approaches his desk, he minimizes the window, trying to look busy with a blank Post-It by his mouse. Stopping in front of him, she watches him closely.
"It is quite interesting. I used the institution on a few deals that I brokered while on undercover assignments for Mossad. Only the most meticulous arms dealers I associated with chose this bank for its complex security systems. It is said to be pregnant."
"Impregnable," Tim corrects, pointing to the paper in Ziva's hand. "But why are you bringing this up now?"
"Well, I found it on a bank statement that I retrieved from Quinn's house last night."
"How'd you get that?"
"I found it and took it."
Tim's mouth gapes. "Ziva, you know that's an illegal search and seizure, right?"
"I did not search anything, nor did I seize. I only took this paper. His house is a hen house anyway. He will not miss his statement."
"Pig sty, but that's not the point."
Gibbs comes rushing into the bullpen. "Either of you got one?"
"Yes, Gibbs, I believe I might have something. I found.." she pauses, staring at Tim, "…a bank statement from Malcolm Quinn that shows he wires a few thousand dollars every month to the Sand Dollar Bank."
"That the one that Chase used?"
Tim snatches the paper from Ziva's hand. "Yeah, same account and everything, but boss, we can't use it. She took it - "
"Don't care how she got it, McGee. I want him in interrogation now!"
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10:36am – Interrogation – NCIS Headquarters, Washington DC –
Clasping a file with Quinn's newly printed financials to his chest, Tim waits in the corner of interrogation for a front row seat to Gibbs' interview. He inhales deliberately, catching the scent of fresh ink that mingles with the sweat cascading from their suspect. While Tony always considers the stench that rises in this room to be that of success, Tim associates it with desperation.
When people are ready to lose everything, they grasp for whatever leverage they have.
He glances at Quinn's tense face, frowning at the beads of perspiration that form a puddle on the table. Gibbs slides the picture of the dead teenager further from the sweat slick and Quinn's eyes follow it. Tim remembers the look on his face when Gibbs first dropped the picture on the table.
He knows exactly what's going on.
Shifting in his chair, Gibbs continues to stare at the suspect.
"You know guys, I'm gonna be late for work." Quinn frowns, gesturing to the hardhat in his lap.
Gibbs shrugs imperceptibly and reaches for his coffee. When Quinn's anxious gaze finds Tim's, he mimics his boss' shrug, crossing his arms tighter to his chest. The squeaking of Quinn's work boot against the chair grows louder.
G-d, I hope this guy doesn't play poker…
"Okay, okay, I get it now. They do this on all those TV shows. You're going all good cop, bad cop on me. Guess you're the good one, huh?" He grins at Gibbs.
Tim barely hides his laugh as a cough.
"Yeah." Gibbs nods. Amusement flickers over his face.
"Makes sense then." Quinn points an accusatory finger at Tim. "He just looks nasty."
'Coughing' again, the junior agent catches the reflection of Gibbs' glare in the mirror. He knows that he needs to quell his laughter before he gets banished back to the viewing room. Since this is his first chance at assisting Gibbs on an interrogation, he doesn't want to wreck his future chances. Tim sucks in a deep breath to compose himself.
"So how do you know Bailey Chase?"
"From around the neighborhood, you know barbeques and stuff. We shared the same workout routine."
Gibbs assesses Quinn's physique and nods unconvinced.
"You know the girl?"
Gibbs slides the picture back in front of Quinn. Even though he doesn't look at it again, the sweat begins to drip onto the image of the lifeless face.
"No."
"Didja know your buddy wired money to the Caymans?"
"What?! Bailey!? Really?" His voice jumps a full octave. "Do you guys know why?"
"It's the same account you send money to."
The color drains from Quinn's face. Tim steps forward and slams his copy of financial records on the table. As the thud sounds through the room, he narrows his eyes, trying to portray the bad cop that Quinn thinks he is. He leans forward, face mere inches from the suspect's.
He pales further, fingers shaking as he picks up the papers. Tim silently slides back to his corner, wiping the sweat that forms on his palms onto his khakis.
"Wh-wh-what is this?" Quinn glances wide-eyed at Tim.
"The money you wired to the Sand Dollar Bank every month for two years. Who are you sending it to?"
Gibbs swivels in his seat to look at Tim; the shock on his face is quickly replaced by pride. When the junior agent takes a step forward again, Quinn shoots out of his chair and paces the length of the room. Wringing his hands, his terrified eyes jump from Gibbs to Tim and back again.
"I-I-I don't know."
"What's it for?"
He stops in front of the mirror, placing his palms flat against the glass. When he shakes his head, his eyes close and his features tighten.
"What is it for?" Gibbs roars, slamming his fists against the table.
"Girls."
Quinn hiccups, tears streaming down his cheeks as he presses his face against the glass. Tim raises his eyebrows at Gibbs' stony expression, uncertain about where the interview just headed. When he glances back to the picture on the table, his heart plummets.
"What do you mean, girls?"
The suspect turns to meet Tim's wide eyes, hugging his arms tightly to his chest.
"Girls." He waves his hands as though it answers the question.
"How do you get them?" Gibbs asks.
"You get a phone number," Quinn says meekly, sliding back into his chair. "When you call it, you tell the guy on the other line what kind you want, when and where. Whenever, wherever, whatever you want happens. When she shows up, she gives you a new number for the next one."
"Whatever you want?"
"Yeah, you know. Anything goes and no questions asked. You pay a set amount for a certain number of hours. They come to you and leave when you're done. It's convenient," Quinn says.
Tim swallows audibly.
"And Chase?"
"Met him when one of the guys messed up a few months back and brought the wrong girl to my house. You know how all those houses look the same on our block. After we figured out the problem, I met Bailey and well, we became friends."
"Where'd they come from?"
"Don't know and didn't care."
When Quinn shrugs half-heartedly, Gibbs pushes the image of the teenager forward. "And her?"
"Showed up about six months ago. She came a few times."
"You remember anything about her?"
"She didn't speak a lick of English." Quinn stops to carefully consider his words as he anxiously glances between the agents " And she didn't cry. You always know the new ones because they cry."
Tim sees Gibbs ball his hands into fists under the table and takes a step forward, ready to stop his boss from attacking the suspect. Every part of him knows that once Gibbs starts he won't stop until Quinn's either in the hospital…or dead. While he fully supports his boss' vigilante justice, he'd like an opportunity to turn off the cameras first.
"Who brings them?"
"I can't tell you. They'll kill me."
"If you don't tell us, I'll leave you alone with him." Gibbs jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Tim.
Tim squares his shoulders, narrowing his eyes at the suspect like he's seen Gibbs do so many times before. Avoiding the angry gaze, Quinn presses his lips together. When Gibbs pushes his chair back, the suspect nearly leaps across the table. He grips the team leader's forearm and shakes his head.
"I don't know, I swear. It's always a different man, but they all have the same tattoos. A star on the neck and a buncha bones on their arm. I didn't want to know so I didn't ask, and they didn't say. Bailey used to call them the fallen angels, but I never asked. That's all I know about them, I swear to G-d."
Gibbs jumps out of his chair. Tim trails him into the hallway, uncertain as to whether he should know what just happened. Gibbs leaves him in the hallway, stalking towards the bullpen.
Tim's gut twists.
I bet it has to do with Tony…
Trying to clear his head, Tim takes the long way back to the bullpen. The circuitous route through the staff lounge to the vending machines on the opposite side of the building helps him to smother the disquiet that breeds in his stomach. When he finds the jump drive in his white-knuckled fist, he leans against the nearest wall, feeling the cool plaster freeze the sweat on his back.
Could Tony be one of them?
All these years that we've worked together. I don't even know what to think anymore.
All these years that I've been the butt of his jokes, that stupid frat-boy humor. The times that I've second guessed myself when Tony disproves
my theories with a single piece of evidence. Every time I torrented a movie so that I might actually understand what the heck he's talking about with those darn quotes that fly out of his mouth like spitballs.
All these years that I've tried to mimic the instincts that comes as natural to Tony as breathing.
All these years that I've looked up to him…
He stares blankly at the jump drive in his hand. When Tim tastes the acid that creeps onto his tongue, he shoves the drive back into his pocket.
It just can't be Tony…