Gary Abernathy had never been much a fan of big cities, nor of all the noise and pollution and headaches that went right along with them, so Washington, D.C., ranked high up there on the list with all those he truly despised: Boston, Miami, Dallas...the list went on and on and, if the population was anywhere near over a few thousand, Abernathy tried, at all costs, to steer clear and avoid it. It wasn't as if he didn't take vacations or visit the Nation's greatest tourist attractions...he did, whenever the mood struck...it was just he preferred to stay close to home where he knew each of his neighbors, was familiar with all his surroundings, and could just be on his own, laid-back, uncomplicated schedule. And if he merely wanted to sit around after supper each night in his underwear, watching the evening news and openly griping at the commentators and reporters who yammered away on the small screen, he never had to be concerned with offending anyone, not even his old, half-deaf, quickly graying, black Labrador retriever, Horace. He could belch or fart or cuss all he wanted and Horace would never be any the wiser...until the smell wafted its way...then the big dog would turn his huge, mournful eyes in Abernathy's direction and let out a tired, disappointed sigh. Sometimes Horace acted too much like a human...and that's what made him so special to Abernathy.
But old Horace was back home in Clinton, Montana, right now, probably lazing the day away in the shade of the wide front porch, licking his nuts and watching the birds fly overhead, while Abernathy was stuck in DC, working his ass off with the rest of the team sent to prepare a special meal for the Washington bigwigs and muckety-mucks. And if any thoughts of stripping down to his shorts or letting a big one rip passed through his tired mind, Abernathy fought them back and refocused on the job at hand. After all, he'd be back home quick enough. All he had to do was get through the next twenty-four hours and he'd be breathing pure, clean Montana air and relaxing back in his recliner, with a cold brewskie in one hand and Horace laying somewhere near his feet...turning those huge, mournful eyes his way again.
Hauling the two heavy, white, plastic, five-gallon buckets from the area just outside the huge walk-in freezer and shifting them closer to the end of the long stainless steel countertop just to one side of the main food preparation area, Abernathy hefted one of the cumbersome containers up onto the clean, metal surface and turned to offer an open, honest smile to his closest companion. He got an amicable, understanding grin back in return, along with a huff of real fatigue, and knew he wasn't the only one feeling the strain right about now. It was getting close to crunch time and their deadline was rapidly approaching.
Abernathy and his companions had been hard at it for several hours, since arriving in the upscale hotel's kitchen in the wee hours of the morning, traveling back and forth from the freezer unit to the food preparation area, happy to be able to contribute in their own way toward this year's annual charity event. It wasn't often the fine citizens of Clinton were invited to present a bit of their unusual regional cuisine to the Washington upper crust but every individual involved was hoping and planning to make sure this year's charity event would be one to remember.
And after the DC politicos and wealthy businessmen had their uncommon meal, they'd whip out their fat checkbooks and sign over some of their nice, pretty greenbacks for the Ronald McDonald House back in Clinton. Oh, yeah...major cha-ching to be had here. That alone would make the long trek back home to Montana well worth any minor discomfort Abernathy or his companions might be feeling at the present time. Plus, it was going to be a real hoot to see how these slick, city people reacted to consuming a delicacy usually reserved for a more common man...or woman.
"How many more we got in there, Gary?"
Abernathy sighed and tipped his head to one side, an eyebrow arching in amusement. "Just two more after these, Keith, and then that'll be it. Looks like we've got our part completed in almost record time this year."
From his position by one of the deep, stainless sinks, Keith Perdue nodded vigorously and let his smile widen a bit further, unconsciously clenching and flexing his cold, stiff fingers, preparing to continue his part in readying the evening's main course. He kept his knife razor-sharp and was an old hand at peeling the thick, skin-like muscle that surrounded each of the tasty organs to be served but, after going through the same, repetitive motions for the last several hours, his aching, reddened digits were just about ready to call it a day...and maybe even a night.
"Whoa! This isn't right..."
Both Abernathy and Perdue immediately turned at the surprised-sounding tone in Vivian Reynold's voice, the stark, shocked expression on her usually kind, weathered face instantly alerting the two men that something was wrong. The eldest of the three assigned to the prep team, and in her seventh year as part of the Clinton delegation, Reynolds was now holding one of the partially frozen organs in a petite hand and peering suspiciously at it through her bifocals, her fingers carefully rolling the firm globe from side to side. She chanced a glance at her companions and quickly asked for their opinion.
"Come here and take a look at this, boys," she beckoned with the tilt of her chin. "Something's not quite right."
*Boys*.
Both Abernathy and Perdue exchanged indulgent smiles at her motherly term for them but left their spots and were instantly at her side, gazing down into the woman's small but capable hand, offering their own opinions about the object. Reynolds was correct: something was not right.
"Calf?" Perdue offered gamely, watching as the woman continued to prod cautiously at the organ. It certainly wasn't as big as those they were using for tonight's feast, not by a long shot.
"Maybe lamb," Abernathy chimed in, even though he was fairly certain that wasn't right either. From the corner of his eye he could see Vivian already shaking her head.
"No...I don't think so," she said slowly, letting the partially frozen organ slide gently from her palm to the clean work space of the counter before her. Reynolds just couldn't place the origin but, for some unexpected reason, the sight of it made her feel anxious and uncomfortable...very uncomfortable. "Gary, why don't you take a minute and go see if Raymond can come take a look. If anyone can identify this, it'll be him."
"Sure, Viv."
And he was gone, leaving the other two staring down at the lump of mystery meat as he hustled to locate the main organizer of this year's charity benefit...and the man who'd supplied all of the carefully harvested organs from his Montana cattle ranch. As Abernathy's footsteps faded down the hallway, Perdue finally had to speak.
"Viv, tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking," his voice was pitched low and held a slight note of anxiety. "Please..."
"I just don't know what to think right now, Keith," she whispered solemnly, eyes still on the unidentified organ. "I just know this doesn't belong here."
"But you don't think it's from an animal, do you?" His soft voice quavered and he had to swallow thickly before he could utter his next question. "Do you...do you think it's from a human?"
Finally able to tear her gaze away to look bleakly up into the younger man's anguished eyes, Vivian Reynolds pressed her calloused hands together into two tight fists against her chest. What she saw in Abernathy's face must have been reflected in her own terrified expression.
"Yes."
__________________________
"Ziva!" Jethro Gibbs barked gruffly over a shoulder as he easily made his way down a slight embankment, feet displacing twigs and pebbles and small bits of vegetation in his wake. "Start taking pictures..."
"Yes, Gibbs."
"DiNozzo..."
"Yo, Boss."
"...sketch and measure."
"Already on it."
"McGee," Gibbs was finally approaching the shallow ravine protected by a handful of LEOs, his keen eyes sweeping the immediate surroundings as he stepped carefully toward the waiting body, "I want you to talk to those who found our sailor."
There was no response and, as Gibbs paused, he did a quick, preliminary sweep, taking in the sprawled, face-down position of the deceased, the crushed shrubs that'd been broken and placed haphazardly over the form in a poor attempt to camouflage, and the telltale signs of a classic body dump. When he spotted a cooling puddle of fresh vomit near the booted feet of the downed sailor, he just couldn't contain the sigh of frustration.
"Who the hell puked on my crime scene?" He snapped toward the closest LEO, watching the man's dark eyes narrow angrily and then shift quickly over to settle on a pale, shocky-looking, young officer leaning heavily against a nearby tree. Ah. So, *there* was the culprit...but he still wanted an answer. "Well?"
"Look," the dark-eyed LEO was stepping forward, arms slightly outstretched and hands open, "Officer O'Brien is new to the job and this is his first DB find. Cut him some slack."
Gibbs puffed up, ready to voice his opinion concerning training and preparedness, but cut his eyes back to the kid again. Hell, he looked to be even younger than McGee did when he first came to NCIS and that had been almost infantile in appearance. And speaking of McGee...
"McGee!" He barked again and saw the kid by the tree jerk in reflex to the sound. Gibbs held his smirk in check and dismissed the youngster for now.
"Ah, I think he's still up at the truck, Boss," DiNozzo chimed in a bit hesitantly, clever eyes darting back and forth over the crime scene as he drew the appropriate lines and shapes in his book, using a laser gauge to quickly sight the distance between the body and the surrounding landmarks. "Said something about needing to take a call."
Gibbs grunted his understanding, squatting next to the body, carefully removing a few of the branches, and eyeing the slim, leather ID wallet resting in the middle of the dead sailor's back. "He taking lessons from you now, DiNozzo?"
"No, Boss," DiNozzo's tone was slightly appalled but he shot a cheeky grin Gibbs' way without even looking up from his work, "you know I'd never do anything unprofessional like that."
"Uh huh," the noncommital response slipped out easily and then he looked back at the LEO, pointing to the wallet. "Who placed his identification like this?"
The dark-eyed man stepped closer but maintained his distance from the area right around the body, careful not to get in the NCIS team's way. "O'Brien did but that's exactly where he found it to begin with."
Gibbs held the man's eyes for a moment and then swept his gaze toward the trembling figure by the tree once more. "That right, Officer O'Brien? This is exactly where you found the ID?"
The young officer took a deep breath, pulled away from the tree, and managed a brave step closer. Gibbs could see him trying his level best to get his act together, putting on a professional face before running a trembling hand through his short hair but the kid still looked fairly shaky and pretty much on the verge of failing miserably...maybe even of puking again. Gibbs eyed him warily.
"Y..yes, sir," the young man stuttered, his soft tenor barely reaching across the distance. "I...I could tell he was dead...didn't even need to touch him. The smell..."
"The ID, O'Brien," Gibbs gritted, redirecting the focus, not in the mood for some greenie to go off on a tangent concerning the odor the human body produces when life is gone. That was Ducky's arena. He pointed at the thin, brown wallet again and sharpened his voice. "Is *this* where you found the ID?"
O'Brien's pale eyes widened at the cutting tone but gamely stood his ground. "Yes, sir."
"You touch it without gloves?"
The washed-out complexion went even impossibly paler and the young officer looked quickly to the other LEO for guidance. He saw the older man nod. Now was not the time to be reserved or to try to hide any mistakes, no matter how rookie or stupid they were.
"Yes, sir," he admitted, squaring his shoulders and willing to take whatever punishment was doled out by the federal agent.
"But you didn't touch anything else, correct?"
"Ah...no, sir. Just...just the ID wallet," he assured with a bit more certainty. "Once I saw he was military..."
"We'll need to clear your prints from any others we may find," he dismissed the young officer again and turned to watch as Ducky traversed the last few yards of the incline, one hand holding tight to the handle of his small, black examination bag and the other gripped to one of DiNozzo's strong forearms. They'd all been a mite overprotective of their medical examiner since he'd badly bruised a hip getting out of their truck earlier in the week and, now, he suffered through all their unnecessary worry and solicitousness with mild annoyance...and a healthy dose of affectionate fondness. Gibbs checked his grin and waited until the older man was a few steps away. "Glad you could make it, Duck. Why didn't you just hop up on DiNozzo's back and let him give you a ride down here instead...it'd been faster."
"Yes, well, perhaps on the return trip," he agreed amicably and a bit breathless, smiling at the gentle tease.
DiNozzo grinned sassily at the suggestion and made a soft, short whinnying sound, one foot pawing at the ground like a big, solid horse. Both Gibbs and Ducky paused, turned their joint gaze his way, and gave the agent an indulgent, incredulous look, waiting only until the happy grin slowly faded and the younger man turned disappointedly away before smirking knowingly at each other. Sometimes DiNozzo was just so easy.
"You finished shooting yet, Ziva?" Gibbs asked without looking in her direction, instinctively knowing the Mossad Officer was positioned a few yards over to his left.
"Yes," she affirmed, blotting her forehead with the back of one wrist and juggling the camera with the other, "though I thought I would widen the field a bit more and take a look near those bushes by the edge of the road. If this is just a body dump and not the initial kill scene, there may be some evidence closer to the tarmac, especially if the body was dragged down the incline."
Gibbs grunted his agreement, not needing to verbalize his assent, knowing the woman was already moving to do suggested. As Ducky eased to one knee by the body to begin his preliminary examination, McGee finally made his appearance, looking slightly out of breath and a bit ruffled, his wide eyes sweeping the scene before settling on those of his supervisor. He caught Gibbs' annoyed glare and swallowed nervously.
Gibbs slowly got to his feet and approached his youngest agent, almost like a predator stalking prey, his eyes hard and cold and alert. To his credit, McGee didn't look or shy away but remained still, waiting to see what Gibbs would say to him...this time.
He'd been warned about making and receiving personal calls while on the job, especially since the publication of his book, but this last one really hadn't been his fault...not entirely. Sure, he'd cut a deal with Peter Remaley down at DC Metro to let him know when anything out of the 'ordinary' came across in dispatch but they'd pretty much worked it out so they never communicated during work hours...or as close to work hours as they could get. That Remaley had thought it necessary to call McGee at this time of the day and break their agreement just proved how unusual the news had been. And how.
"McGee," Gibbs was speaking, almost through clenched teeth, his voice low and tight and...
"Oh, my!"
Gibbs instantly turned at the sound of Ducky's quiet exclamation and had to consciously force himself not to step back as he gazed down at the sight of the dead sailor's body. Immediately forgetting all about his beef with McGee, Gibbs was quickly back beside the ME, arms braced on his knees as he leaned forward to get a better view of the now-exposed wounds. Resting on his back after Ducky had rolled him gently over, the deceased stared at the cloudless sky with open, unseeing eyes.
"Damn..." he breathed in quiet sympathy, eyes skimming the open, torn clothing and the ugly, ruined flesh beneath them. Gibbs had seen a lot of terrible things in his life but this...this was fairly horrendous. It was mutilation, plain and simple...and sickening beyond belief.
Somewhere to his right, Officer O'Brien was vomiting again, choking and sputtering as he reacted to the sight of the sailor's gaping wounds. Gibbs could hear the soft mutterings of the LEOs gathered together to one side, their quiet, muted voices tinged with repulsion and regret. When a long shadow fell across the body of the sailor, he chanced a glance up and looked straight into DiNozzo's shuttered, expressionless face. The younger man's usually mobile mouth was a hard, grim line, lips compressed almost to white slashes across his jaw. Their eyes finally met and he could plainly see the anger and determination housed in the green depths. There was no doubt the image of former NCIS Agent Chris Pacci had momentarily flashed in the younger man's mind.
Before Gibbs or Ducky could comment about his position over the dead sailor's body, DiNozzo was turning away and moving toward Officer O'Brien and the others, his notebook poised open and ready to receive the answers to the standard questions always asked at crime scenes. That DiNozzo could shift directions and refocus so easily always impressed Gibbs...and, in many ways, made the younger man a remarkable asset to the team. Like now. When just about every other male here was averting their eyes and cringing in fearful sympathy, some even openly covering their genitals with cupped hands, DiNozzo was doing his job.
"We'll, if this wasn't the primary cause of this poor, unfortunate, young man's death," Ducky was muttering, "I'll be extremely surprised. The removal of these organs would cause massive blood loss..."
"But there's not much blood around here," Gibbs looked around again, eyes shifting and evaluating the scene carefully again. "Just minimal splattering and drops, as far as I can see."
"Yes, well, wherever it was done," Ducky sighed as he skillfully took a liver temp reading, "it happened around twenty to twenty-four hours ago. Joints are fixed and set in rigor, and, by the looks of the multitude of ants and maggots crawling around in all this soft tissue, I'd say he's been right here for the better part of that time."
"Boss..."
Gibbs glanced up into McGee's pale face, a surge of anger resurfacing. "McGee, you're on my shit list right now and you standing around gaping like some green probie is *not* doing a thing to endear yourself to me. Since DiNozzo is doing your job, I suggest you get your ass in gear and help Ziva."
"But, Boss..."
Gibbs surged up from his crouch and got in McGee's face, standing toe to toe with the younger man. "Just what part of my instructions don't you understand?"
McGee almost stepped away but, at the last moment, held his place, keeping his eyes locked with Gibbs' and openly defying his superior. " I...I don't know if it's the kill scene but, Boss, I...I think I know where the sailor's genitals may be."
Gibbs eased back and looked at McGee with a disbelieving eye. "Where?"
McGee huffed quickly in relief and shook his head. "You're just not going to believe it."
______________________________________
"Bull fries, Rocky Mountain oysters, cowboy caviar..."
"Enough, DiNozzo!" Gibbs snapped as he passed his agent's desk on the way to his own, blue eyes quickly raking over the younger man's sprawled, relaxed position. "Don't you have anything better to do?"
"I'm just educating Ziva and the probie here, Boss," he offered an easy grin and rose smoothly from his seat, moving to match Gibbs' pace, step for step...and pulling up short when the former Marine suddenly stopped and whirled to face him. "Ah, you know, since I have some experience on the subject."
McGee snorted in disbelief. "I don't care what you say, Tony, there's no way I'm ever going to believe you actually ate those...those..." he shivered in his seat, "things."
DiNozzo stepped cautiously away from Gibbs, eyeing him warily before turning to face his colleague. "You forget where I went to school, McGee. Ohio is full of farm communities, as are the surrounding states, and sometimes I went home with frat brothers on weekends or vacations." He looked pensive for a moment, cast a quick glance at Gibbs, but got right back on track. "One year, I got to spend Thanksgiving Break with Teddy Amburgey on his family farm in Indiana and his folks took us to this Turkey Testicle Festival..."
"No," McGee was averting his face as he interrupted, one hand raised in an attempt to ward off the words and expected visual images. "Stop...just stop. Okay?"
"Turkey testicles? And you actually ate them?" Ziva asked from across the room, drawing DiNozzo's attention, her dark, brown eyes looking for any indication of falsehood or exaggeration.
"Well, yeah," he shrugged and shifted his gaze around the bullpen, looking from person to person, trying to understand why they all seemed so...squeamish...about the whole idea. "They're pretty good actually, if they're fried right, and if there's plenty of beer to wash them down. Which there usually is. At testicle festivals, that is. Lots and *lots* of beer."
Ziva held his gaze for a few moments and then looked back to her computer screen, a pensive look crossing her face. DiNozzo frowned and looked back to McGee, hoping to recapture part of his audience.
"Anyway..." he began anew...and then abruptly stopped when Gibbs smacked him on the back of the head. "Ow!"
"Get back to work," the older man ordered over a shoulder as he rounded his desk and pulled out the rolling chair, his posture all but demanding an end to the conversation.
DiNozzo meekly rubbed at his head, looking at Gibbs' now-seated form from under lowered lashes, before slowly slinking back toward his own work station, stopping before reaching his own chair. He flicked his gaze toward McGee and then toward Ziva before resettling on Gibbs once again.
"You know, Boss, in order to murder Southworth, haul his body to the dump site, remove his genitalia, and get that testicle into one of those buckets of bull nads at the Carlton, a person would really have to know several different things to make this twisted plan work," he offered quietly and waited patiently until the older man finally looked his way again.
The two men steadily held their gazes. Gibbs knew DiNozzo would have some reasonable ideas and could probably get them closer to some answers but he felt compelled to wait a bit, stretching out the tension. He didn't always do this but, sometimes, he just had to act like it was a real hardship before giving his senior field agent the go-ahead. It was like a well-choreographed dance between them now, each assessing the other, and waiting for just the right move, but, as far as Gibbs was concerned, it was all okay. He *liked* dancing with DiNozzo. He could see the tension in the younger man's shoulders easing right before he gave his permission.
"Okay, DiNozzo," he leaned back in his seat, "enlighten us."
DiNozzo was immediately changing directions and moving quickly back to the front of Gibbs' desk in three, long strides, his small, compact notebook suddenly open in one hand and his eyes focused on something scribbled on a page. "Okay, when we interviewed those three people at the Carlton Hotel earlier...
"Abernathy, Perdue, and Reynolds," McGee swiftly supplied from his desk.
DiNozzo shot the younger man a brief frown before continuing. "Yeah...ah, Abernathy, Perdue, and Reynolds. Anyway, they all agreed those buckets of nuts..."
"DiNozzo," Gibbs sighed tiredly, "try and be a bit more PC, whatta say?"
The agent heaved a dramatic sigh of his own and shook his head. "How am I supposed to tell you what I think if everyone keeps interrupting me?"
"I haven't interrupted you, Tony," Ziva smirked as she left her desk and moved until she, too, was standing in front of Gibbs' desk, crossing her arms as she stopped directly beside DiNozzo. "Yet."
DiNozzo stared silently down at the woman for a brief moment before clearing his throat and beginning again. "So the three who were handling the prep of the beef...*testicles*," he stressed the word as his eyes flicked quickly toward Gibbs, "said the buckets were all packaged and sealed before leaving Clinton, Montana, three days ago and were kept frozen until just before eight o'clock this morning, when they were moved to a position just outside the freezer unit's door. They said none of the lids appeared as though they'd been tampered with but, honestly, they really hadn't been looking for anything like that. They were just trying to do their job."
"But, obviously, someone had tampered with them," McGee piped in and joined the others in front of Gibbs. "We know Southworth was mutilated..."
DiNozzo made a small sound, one hand covertly easing around to shield his lower abdomen.
"...and murdered just over twenty-four hours ago," McGee continued without missing a beat, "his body dumped along Wheeler Road, almost out of the city, where it was found by Officer O'Brien. Southworth's ah...his...um..."
"Testicle," David supplied swiftly for the younger man, without a hint of hesitation.
McGee nodded, eyes shifting quickly to her face, but continued on with his thought, "... was taken to the Carlton Hotel's kitchen where it was placed in a sealed bucket with all the...uh, other...things."
"So, the killer expected it to be lost in the shuffle, just another one of the boys in a barrel: cleaned, sliced, breaded, and fried with all the others," DiNozzo picked up the thread, eyes tracking back to Gibbs, "and served to some unsuspecting Senator or lobbyist or wife of a multimillionaire." He offered a quick, cheeky grin. "Probably wouldn't have been the worse thing she'd ever had in her mouth."
Ziva elbowed him hard in the side and he curled slightly over with a 'oof!' of expelled breath, partially for show and partially not. Gibbs grunted at their foolishness and continued to scowl.
"Abby's tox screen shows high levels of Flunitrazepam in his system," DiNozzo wheezed, straightening slightly, and shifting a bit away from David. "That has to be why there were no defensive marks on Southworth's body."
"Rohypnol?" Gibbs asked, the scowl deepening. "Damn. He didn't even have a chance."
"The footprints at the dump site indicate only one person," David spoke solemnly, acutely aware of Gibbs' anger, "and they are most likely those of the killer. The body had to have been carried in, since there was no drag marks, and the impressions were much deeper than those left by the LEOs. Southworth was close to two hundred pounds..."
"Minus the weight of his..." DiNozzo saw the flash of warning light again in Gibbs' eyes and decided on a wiser course. "Er, nevermind."
"...so we're talking of an extremely strong individual, someone who, most probably, hefted him from the trunk of a vehicle and transported him to the side of that road," David finished smartly.
Gibbs was silent for a few moments, allowing the information to process. This murder had enough markers to have been caused because of one of several potential scenarios: a hit, a ritualistic slaying, a grudge kill...hell, the possibilities, at this point, were just too many.
"What else do we know?" He barked, watching covertly as DiNozzo rubbed at his side, eyes shifting subtly between the standing trio. "Abby find any prints on those containers yet?"
"Not any besides those of the workers from Montana and a couple of the kitchen staff," McGee answered swiftly, "but she's still processing the buckets. Vivian Reynolds couldn't be sure which one actually contained the...uh... the, ah..."
"Testicle!" Gibbs finally snapped in frustration as he frowned at his youngest agent, ignoring the strange look he got from a pair of passing coworkers on their way to the elevator. "It's called a 'testicle', McGee. Just why in the hell are you having such a hard time saying it?"
"Yeah, Probie," DiNozzo chimed in unnecessarily, "what's with that?"
"Shaddup, DiNozzo."
"Shutting up, Boss."
"What about his family and friends?" Gibbs threw out to all of them, rubbing a hand across his brow in irritation. "Or better yet, what about his enemies? You people are going to have to give me more than this."
"Southworth's mother and father are deceased," Ziva got the words out before either McGee or DiNozzo could react, blithely choosing to ignore their slightly sour expressions. "He was an only child, enlisted right out of high school, and has been a part of the Navy's special bomb disposal unit since..."
"He was EOD?" Gibbs interrupted quickly, eyes focusing on her immediately.
"IED, actually," DiNozzo clarified, eyes serious and tone low. "A dirty bomb specialist. Been in Iraq for almost two years...just came back to the States three days ago to do some retraining and get his Master Badge. Was scheduled to head back at the end of next week."
Gibbs' phone rang and he snatched it from it's cradle. "Gibbs."
The three agents stood warily in front of the desk, watching and waiting for their superior, listening to his soft grunts of assent and studying the stoic face for some indication of the caller's identity. DiNozzo slanted his eyes swiftly toward David and whispered from the corner of his mouth.
"You know how to do that bomb diffusing crap," he hissed with a healthy bit of admiration. "I've seen you in action...up close. Too up close actually."
"Some," she nodded and shrugged, "but not like Southworth, I expect. I never got enough training to receive a Yaalom badge or pin."
"Yaalom?"
"The Israeli EOD. It's the equivalent to your military's units."
"Damn," he had a new respect for the foreign woman, even though he'd never let her know how much, "just how old were you when you started learning all this stuff anyway? Two?"
David chuckled and crossed her arms. "Our education may have been a bit different, yes, but we both learned what was needed."
DiNozzo shifted and shook his head. "I went through the police academy, sure, but..."
"Okay, if you two can stop your little trip down memory lane, we've got more work to do," Gibbs sniped at David and DiNozzo, replacing the phone and rising, cutting off their hushed discussion. "Ducky's got something he wants to show me. McGee, you go see if you can hustle Abby along. And get an address of where Southworth was staying while here and who was retraining him." He was rounding the desk as McGee was turning away. "Ziva, set me up a link with Southworth's CO in Iraq. I need to find out what was happening there and who he was in contact with here." The Mossad Officer nodded and was gone. "DiNozzo, you're with me."
The two men moved quickly to the elevator and stepped in as the doors opened, Gibbs remaining near the front and DiNozzo in his usual position just behind, where he could lean back against the hand rail if he wanted. Instead, when the doors closed, he leaned a bit forward and sighed, his breath ghosting across the older man's shoulder.
"I'm sorry."
Gibbs didn't turn around at the soft apology but tilted his head slightly to one side. "You know how much I hate to hear about your college days."
"I know," DiNozzo sighed contritely again. "I didn't mean to get so mouthy about it but McGee's attitude about this whole thing just gets my goat."
Gibbs finally turned as the doors opened on the Autopsy/Morgue level and he gave DiNozzo a strange, hard look. "Did you really eat *turkey* testicles, DiNozzo?"
"Well, sure, Boss," he smiled with a one-shouldered shrug, making sure there was now an acceptable amount of space between them, even as his gaze dropped to somewhere around Gibbs' belt buckle. "When you get hungry, you eat just about anything. Besides," his voice lowered seductively as his eyes rose, "I like testicles...in my mouth."
Gibbs grunted at the sly innuendo and shook his head, turning around and moving into Ducky's domain. The diminutive Medical Examiner was poised over the cold, nude body of Dwayne Southworth, his elbows resting on the stainless table near the head, one gloved hand gently smoothing back the sailor's thick, brown hair. His lively, blue eyes darted upward at the duo's entrance but he remained in his bent position, seemingly content to be in such close proximity with the dead man.
"Ah, Jethro...Anthony...glad you could come down so soon," he waved them closer to the table and indicated toward the dead sailor's face. "He looks so peaceful now, doesn't he?"
DiNozzo grimaced and shook his head, eyes immediately zeroing in on the mutilated groin area. "Er, *no*. Christ, Ducky, his nuts and dick are gone..."
"Ah, yes...they may be gone from their original position," Ducky straightened and placed both hands on Southworth's face, "but they aren't missing."
Carefully, he pried at the dead sailor's mouth, fingers hooked under the rows of upper and lower teeth, and pulled against the pressure in opposite directions, until Southworth was wide open. Gibbs was shaking his head, not willing to look, already pretty sure he knew what was housed within but he couldn't stop DiNozzo fast enough and the younger man was leaning forward, peering inside the gaping mouth.
"Jesus!" He hissed and quickly jerked back, eyes round with disbelief and hands curling into tight fists. "Do I even want to know what *that* is?"
Ducky grimaced at DiNozzo's expected response "Probably not. I knew there was something in there but I wanted to wait until you got here." He looked directly at Gibbs and his expression got even more somber.
"That's not his other testicle, is it?" DiNozzo's voice was pinched sounding.
"No, not the other testicle. That was recovered from one of the last two buckets retrieved from outside the freezer area of the Carlton Hotel."
Gibbs scowled. "Why the hell am I just hearing about this now?"
"Because Mr. Palmer found it only moments before I called you to come down. I believe what we have here is the poor fellow's penis," Ducky explained calmly, reaching for a pair of forceps among the sterilized tools spread out upon the tray nearby. He maneuvered the ends into the open mouth and tried to grasp the organ. "It seems to be in fairly deep, though that may have been caused by the reflexive swallowing action before he died."
"He was *alive*?" If possible, DiNozzo's voice was even more strained, his eyes round with stunned disbelief.
"Oh, yes," Ducky continued without looking up, taking his time, wanting to remove the decaying flesh intact. "He was very much alive when his genitalia were removed. I dare say this," the penis suddenly slid out in an obscene, bloated blob and Ducky quickly transferred it to the tray, "was forced into his mouth while he was still conscious, unable to resist. Although, he most likely didn't even realize what was being inserted. Shock, blood loss...both would hamper any defensive moves he might have attempted but doubly so with the Flunitrazepam in his system."
"He was awake," DiNozzo's astonished whisper was almost unheard as he shook his head. "Son of a bitch..."
Gibbs forced his eyes away, focusing back on Ducky. "This is a message."
"Yes, that was exactly my thinking," Ducky agreed unhappily. "Now, in olden times, if it had been a finger or two, we might have assumed this was in retaliation for some thievery. Even a tongue could be cut right out," he made a sharp, quick slashing motion with one hand, "and force-fed to a liar..."
"A liar?" DiNozzo frowned, intrigued despite the situation, jamming his hands inside his pockets. "So, this is personal? If a thief gets his fingers chopped off and a liar gets his tongue cut out, what does that make this guy? Besides dickless, that is."
"Sounds like we may have ourselves a crime of passion," Ducky murmured quietly.
"Passion?" DiNozzo shuddered, a slightly worried expression settling in. "You mean, like a jilted lover or something?"
"Didn't you just break up with a girlfriend, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked blandly.
The younger agent looked at his superior and blinked slowly, pausing a beat before responding. "That's not funny, Gibbs."
"If you say so. Ducky," Gibbs was already shifting gears, "I need to know what kind of weapon we're looking for here."
"As soon as I can be certain."
"I got it," DiNozzo removed one hand from the confines of a pocket and he snapped his fingers, eyes lighting up. "Maybe this is like that movie, 'Seven', you know, with Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt...the actor, not the doctor...and this unsub is killing people because they're committing the seven deadly sins and this Kevin Spacey character is..."
"DiNozzo," Gibbs huffed in exasperation and watched as the younger man flinched, obviously expecting another smack to the head.
"Shutting up now, Boss," he offered weakly.
"*Now*?" Gibbs growled and then turned his attention back to the ME. "Anything else?"
"Ah, not at the moment," Ducky shrugged apologetically.
Nodding once, Gibbs turned. "Come on, DiNozzo. I think we need to interview a few more people."
Watching the two agents leave, Ducky could only hope for the best. Whoever was responsible for this murder was a wicked, twisted individual and not to be taken lightly, especially with drugs and knives...and mutilation...involved.
"Stay safe, my young friends," he whispered quietly. "Stay very, very safe."
TBC
Story Notes:
To BC, for offering support and advice...and to KSL, who I know has been nudging.
Author's Chapter Notes:
A murder, a mutilation, and a strange turn of events.
Chapter End Notes:
To BC, for offering support and advice...and to KSL, who I know has been nudging.