The site of Major Morgan's death provided a little more information than that of Major Thomas's death, Jethro noted, if only because the blood hadn't been cleaned away yet.
"Goes against every instinct I have to leave it like that," O'Neill said from where he lounged against the opposite wall. "But Director Morrow said you needed as much information as you can get."
Jethro felt an unwilling grin tug at his mouth. "He's right."
"Let me know when we can clean it up."
"Roger that." Jethro studied the scene. He knew from the reports he'd already read that Morgan's throat had been cut, but the scene itself suggested she hadn't fought back. Obviously, he'd wait for confirmation from the autopsy report, but a dozen years as an investigator had taught him a lot about reading a crime scene, and he was confident the report would confirm his observation.
"She was investigating Major Thomas's death," Jethro said. "Did she have any other active cases?"
"If she did, there wasn't anything major."
Jethro turned a glare on O'Neill. "Because you know everything she was working on?"
O'Neill returned his glare with a bland expression. "No. But I know the people here, on this project, and we're all dedicated to its success. Maybe she had a case or two upstairs, but she wasn't investigating anything here. You can ask General Hammond to confirm that if you want."
"I will." Jethro took a last look around. "You can clean this up. How about her office and her quarters?"
"This way."
Half an hour later, Jethro concluded his search of Major Morgan's office. Everything seemed in order, though he'd have McGee go through her files more closely to be sure.
"She have an office upstairs, too?" Jethro asked.
"Just this one. Simpler to keep her office in the more restricted part of the base - anything that goes on upstairs is less sensitive than what goes on here."
"Efficient."
"We try."
"Her quarters?"
"This way."
Jethro fell into step beside O'Neill. "Was she seeing anyone?"
O'Neill chuckled. "I'd be the last person to know if she was."
"Fraternization regs?"
"Lack of interest in gossip," O'Neill corrected. "Hard to keep secrets in a place this size, though, so if she was, someone will know."
"What do you know about her?" Jethro challenged.
"Aside from her name and job?" O'Neill shrugged. "I could pick her out of a lineup, but she wasn't in my command."
"What bits of gossip have you heard - everyone hears some." Jethro grinned to himself. Questioning O'Neill was a challenge. He couldn't deny the voice in his head saying, Like questioning yourself, you mean.
"She was popular," O'Neill said. "Or at least friendly - said hi, seemed to know everyone and remember things she heard about them."
"Sounds like she was a good agent."
"Maybe. Like I said, not in my command."
It was interesting how quickly a challenge could turn from interesting to frustrating. "Workaholic, Colonel?"
"Jack," O'Neill corrected absently. "More that I was enjoying my retirement until I got called back up to active duty for this. I get home as much as I can."
"Where's home?"
"Cabin in the middle of nowhere." Which wasn't really an answer, Jethro thought, but it would have to do for now.
Jethro recognized Major Morgan's quarters immediately - an airman stood guard outside it. The man straightened to attention at their approach, and O'Neill gestured him to stand aside before taking a key from his pocket and unlocking the door.
"It locks?" Jethro questioned.
"Officer and OSI," O'Neill replied. "It locks."
"Anyone been in here since she died?"
"We've had a guard stationed outside since her body was found. It's possible someone got in and out before that."
Jethro nodded an acknowledgment and pulled on a pair of gloves as he began his search of the room.
NCIS - SG1 - NCIS
Tony was reviewing the statements of Major Thomas's team for the third time when the sergeant stationed outside the conference room said, "Doctor Brown, sir."
Tony didn't bother to look up, or to hide his chuckle. "First name Emmett?"
"Emily, actually."
Now Tony looked up, hoping he concealed his surprise - he hadn't looked over all the personnel records yet - at the middle-aged woman standing in the doorway.
Despite his surprise, he smirked. "You have a dog named Copernicus?"
Her mouth twitched. "No."
"Einstein?"
"No." She tried to sound severe, but her smile gave it away. Tony just quirked an eyebrow at her. "I named the dog …"
"…Indiana," Tony finished with her, grinning widely. "Finally! Someone who appreciates movie references."
Doctor Emily Brown laughed. "Considering Indiana Jones got me interested in archaeology, it seemed only fitting."
Tony waved her to a seat. "He got a lot of people interested in archaeology. Not everyone followed through on it… as I assume you did?"
She sat in the same seat Calloway had taken, and now that she was closer, Tony could see the fine lines starting to appear at the corners of her blue eyes and the gray starting to show in her brown hair.
"A doctorate in archaeology and a second bachelor's in anthropology," she replied. "But unlike the esteemed Professor Jones, I try to avoid grave-robbing and ancient deadly traps."
Tony concealed his surprise - he hadn't expected her to have those particular degrees. But he could ask, "What's a friendly archaeologist like you doing in a military installation like this?"
"Consulting," she replied easily enough, and Tony grinned again - this time to himself.
Unlike Calloway, Dr. Emily Brown would be a challenge - cagey, aware of her responsibilities and surroundings, and not inclined to say anything outside the required responses to his questions.
Still, he had to try to get her chatting. "So that we don't inadvertently destroy something of historical or cultural significance?"
"Something like that," she replied.
Tony waited, but she said nothing more, and his respect for her inched up a notch.
"Did you notice anything unusual about your last couple of missions with Major Thomas?"
She laughed. "Oh, honey - around here, unusual is a way of life."
"Anything more unusual than usual, then?" Tony suggested.
She appeared to consider the question, her lips pursed and her gaze focused somewhere past Tony's shoulder.
"No," she said finally. "Nothing I can recall."
"Not even a fancy inscription or pottery sherd to break up the monotony?"
Her eyes widened. "You said sherd."
Tony blinked. "Uh - yes. Why?"
"Most people say shard." She grinned at him, and the years and care etched in her face melted away.
Tony couldn't help grinning back. "What can I say? I took archaeology as one of my required humanities courses in college."
"Inspired by Indiana Jones?"
"What do you think?"
It was rare that he got to laugh during an investigation, and he certainly hadn't expected to laugh during this one, so Tony let the moment linger. Then he leaned forward.
"He was right, you know - artifacts belong in museums," Tony said. When she nodded, he added, "And criminals belong in jail. If there's anything you can think of that might help us put this one in jail, I need to know."
"I want to help, Agent DiNozzo," she said. "But really, it's been routine. Go out, come back, go through quarantine, write reports, and do it all again."
"Quarantine?" Tony repeated.
"To be sure we don't bring anything back with us, that's all."
"What, like Zika virus?"
"That or parasites," she answered. "We all came back clean, though - you don't have to worry."
"That's a relief," Tony murmured, even as he made another note on his pad. Quarantine?
He asked a few other questions - mostly variations on ones he'd already asked, just to try to shake something else, anything else, loose - but after a few more minutes, he thanked her for her time and cooperation.
"I just wish I could've been more help," she said.
"We do what we can, Doc," Tony said, and then grinned. "I can call you Doc Brown, can't I?"
She studied him for a moment. "Only because you said sherd correctly."
NCIS - SG1 - NCIS
"Telephone call for you, Agent McGee," Lieutenant Stovall said.
"Thank God," Tim muttered, and then check to be sure Stovall hadn't heard it. If he had, the other man gave no sign, and Tim breathed a silent sigh of relief.
He knew that every aspect of an investigation was important, even the ones that weren't glamorous or that didn't lead directly to a suspect. He knew that, but he still felt halfway to useless being stuck in this windowless cubicle with a computer than ran on a decades-old system and as slowly as its age would suggest.
Thankfully, he could focus on something else for now. "Call?"
"A Doctor Mallard," Stovall said. "Putting him through to line two."
Tim grabbed the phone and stabbed the button for the proper line. "Ducky?"
"Ah, yes, Timothy, it is good to hear your voice. Are they treating you well at your undisclosed location?"
Tim couldn't help chuckling at Ducky's unflappable cheer. "So far, anyway. What's up?"
"I've reviewed the autopsy reports per Jethro's request," Ducky said, "and I agree with the conclusions. Major Thomas died of natural causes, and Major Morgan of exsanguination thanks to having her throat cut."
"That's it?" Tim knew he sounded forlorn and summoned some of his usual cheer to add, "You're usually the one to set us on the right track, after all."
"Thank you, Timothy. That's very kind, however untrue it may be. But as it happens, I do have one other tidbit to pass along."
"What?" Tim scrambled for the pen and notepad he'd been given. Tony and Gibbs had ones just like it - they could make all the notes about the case they wanted or needed to, and when they left, the notepads would be handed over to Colonel O'Neill.
"I'm not certain it has any significance, but I did note something unusual about Major Thomas's brain."
"What?" Tim tucked the handset under his chin and turned to a fresh page on his notepad.
"I thought I saw some dust on the photographs of the brain, so I sent them to Abby. She enlarged and enhanced them, and what I thought were specks of dust were in fact a pair of tiny holes in the base of the cerebellum," Ducky said. "And by tiny, I mean less than a millimeter in diameter."
"What does that mean in layman's terms, Ducky?" His biomedical engineering degree was of no help here, so he held his pen poised to record whatever Ducky said next.
"I have no idea," Ducky replied. "The brain is a single organ, and without knowing where the holes terminate, I can't begin to determine their meaning. Except…"
"Except?" Tim prompted.
"According to the latest research in neuroscience," Ducky said, "it would conceivably be possible - just possible, you understand - that a single fiberoptic thread that touched every area of the brain could - again I stress could - influence every aspect of a person's brain and, by extension, body."
"I see," Tim said, though he didn't. The whole scenario sounded like something out of a horror movie, or a grade-B science fiction film, not the basis of a serious investigation.
"Oh, and do tell Jethro that Abigail concurs with whoever performed the toxicology analyses. Neither Major Thomas nor Major Morgan had any of the most common drugs in their systems."
"I'll do that, Ducky, thanks," Tim said. Not for the first time since he'd arrived, he wished he were back in Washington, back at the Navy Yard. At least there, he knew his purpose and place in the pecking order.
Here, he was little more than a glorified desk jockey, searching through records that were, as one would expect at such a classified installation, clean, even pristine.
Tim ended the call and, with another silent sigh, went back to his search.