Gibbs took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He knew what he was facing inside the rundown diner. Simmons had called not long after he and the others had gotten on the plane. Ziva was right. They were already far too late to affect the outcome. They were left dealing with the aftermath.
He saw Ziva and McGee bracing themselves. He nodded. They were good, capable and experienced agents. But no one ever found handling a crime scene involving a colleague easily---especially not when that crime scene was a murder.
Baker stood in front of the door. Loose tendrils of her blonde hair had escaped the band securing the rest of her hair into a loose ponytail. They fluttered wildly in the faint breeze and added to her lost, haggard appearance. Another cigarette butt joined the others around her feet as she took one long drag and then dropped it, crushing it out with the toe of her shoe. Gibbs wondered if she’d gone through an entire pack yet, and how long it would take her to give up the habit again, if she was even willing to try.
She looked in his general direction but did not make eye contact. Gibbs sighed silently. She and her partner had been following orders, and neither should feel guilty, but he knew she and Simmons had to be holding themselves accountable. They didn’t know about Shepard’s past or her illness, but he doubted if that information would make much difference. It was small consolation when Shepard was dead, and they weren’t at their post to protect her.
Gibbs silently cursed Shepard for her shortsightedness. Sending Simmons and Baker away had kept them out of immediate danger, but it still put them at risk. There would be fall out; how much and how bad remained to be seen.
Gibbs walked toward Baker. She swallowed hard, looking nervous and guilty in equal measure. He could see her hands shaking.
“We secured the scene and made sure the locals knew it was our jurisdiction.”
“Good.”
She cleared her throat. “The only survivor is at the hospital. He might be out of surgery by now.”
From the description Simmons had given, Gibbs knew the survivor was Franks. He hadn’t had any ID on him, so for now only Gibbs and his team had any inkling as to who he was. His identity wouldn’t remain a secret for long. Vance would be on his way before too long, and agents from the LA office might be included in the investigation since it was their home turf. Keeping Franks’ identity a secret wasn’t an option, nor did Gibbs really plan to, but he could at least claim ignorance of it for now.
Gibbs hoped to be able to ask his former boss what the hell had happened and what in God’s name had he been thinking, but it remained to be seen if Franks would make it. He’d taken two hits, one to the upper right shoulder and another in the leg. He’d lost a lot of blood and had been unconscious when Baker and Simmons made it to the scene. Given his age, the fact that he smoked, and generally drank more than was good for him, he might not survive.
“I got another agent to guard our John Doe.” Baker briefly made eye contact before looking away again. “I would have gone myself but I thought it was better if Simmons and I stay to secure the scene, collect evidence.”
Gibbs heard what she wasn’t saying---that staying to work the scene was some way to make amends. They might not have been able to safe Shepard but they might be able to at least help figure out why she died and who had killed her.
Unfortunately, Gibbs doubted they’d be granted that satisfaction. The SecNav had already made it clear that the few people who knew about what happened the better. Too many people knowing too much would make it harder to hide anything the SecNav wanted to remain hidden. And if he and Vance were already planning a cover up, Baker and Simmons would never know what really happened in this deserted diner.
Gibbs patted Baker’s shoulder as he passed, trying to offer some support. He knew it wasn’t enough, but hopefully she wouldn’t feel like he was just one more person blaming her for Shepard’s death. It wasn’t her fault, but he didn’t bother to say so knowing she wasn’t likely to believe that. In her place, he wouldn’t have.
Walking into the diner, Gibbs jaw clenched. The rusty smell of spilled blood nearly overwhelmed him before he controlled his reaction, making a conscious effort to ignore it, breathing shallowly through his mouth. He ignored the other scents of death as well---bile, urine, and feces. Death was never as clean as TV and movies made it out to be.
Gibbs thought he might be imagining the added aroma of decay, but the heat of the desert would likely have started the process. And it wasn’t as if the diner was pristine even before the bloodbath. God only knew what might have already been rotting, molding or otherwise slowly degrading.
Dust motes danced lazily in the waning daylight that peaked through dirty glass and bullet holes in the walls. For a moment Gibbs was relieved to have his vision obscured. But his eyes adjusted quickly revealing the carnage he’d been told about.
Four men were dead. Their bodies were spread out, but it was obvious they’d been converging one point, all moving toward where Shepard’s body now lay. She was half hidden behind the bar. She’d clearly hunkered down behind the one solid piece of furniture in the room, making her stand where she was most protected. It gave her a clean line of sight for all aspects of the room, but left her back vulnerable to the door behind the bar. There was no visible blood spot to indicate where Franks had fallen, but Gibbs was fairly certain it was out of sight, behind the bar. Franks had probably been at Shepard’s back either in the doorway itself to cover their escape or very close to it.
Gibbs forced himself to at least look at Shepard’s body, to acknowledge her as more than just corpse. She was lying in a dried pool of her own blood. Her eyes were open, staring sightlessly at a fixed point.
He remembered when he first met her. She’d been so young then, so beautiful. He’d been attracted to her from the start, succumbing to her charms, knowing it helped their cover, regretting it later when things went bad.
He wondered if he’d ever really known her. Had she ever been truly honest with him? Before breathing her last, did she have any regrets? Did she understand how unnecessary all this was? How pointless and futile trying to resurrect her father’s reputation was? How wrong she’d been to use Tony for her personal vendetta? How much damage she’d done to Gibbs’ team through her actions?
As much as he’d have preferred to see her brought to justice, to finally grasp the full extent of the damage her personal vendetta had caused, she was dead. There was no changing that fact. Gibbs looked away.
“What have you got, Simmons?” Gibbs asked, directing his attention to Baker’s partner. The man was taking photos, yellow number placards marking bullet holes, bodies and other important details to label his shots.
Simmons lowered his camera. Gray eyes met Gibbs’ blue ones easily. He might be blaming himself the same way his partner was but he was clearly handling the burden a bit better. Or hiding the impact more easily.
“There is a rental parked in the back. Thinking it is either our survivor’s car or one Shepard got later since we found hers earlier. Haven’t had a chance to check on it yet. But our perps,” Simmons nodded to the four dead men, “parked out front. Confirmed that car was theirs. The engine was still warm when we got here. Thinking we were only a few minutes behind them, ten to fifteen at the most.”
Simmons grimaced, a wealth of self-recrimination in his tone and expression. They hadn’t missed her by much, but it was more than enough time to have been too late to affect the outcome.
He took a breath and continued. “Looks like our dead John Does came in through the front door. Director Shepard took cover by the bar. Not sure if our surviving John Doe, who was found near the back door, was with the others or not, but I’m thinking not.”
“Why?”
“He was holding a 45 and these two,” Simmons pointed to two of the bodies, “are sporting wounds consistent with ammo of that size. Given that they were double tapped in the chest, I think it’s safe to say they aren’t victims of friendly fire. Those kinds of shots aren’t accidental. And all of the wounds on Director Shepard’s back appear to be exit wounds. Her back would have been an easy target for him and he didn’t take it. ”
Gibbs wondered if Simmons realized yet that if his suppositions were correct Shepard had the opportunity to flee and had chosen not to. All the bad guys entered from the front. She had a clear line of sight and had known where they were. All she had to do was go out the back, get in the car and make a run for it. It wouldn’t have been hard to fire a few parting shots into the bad guys’ car and disable a tire or two.
She could have even left Franks behind to hold them off while she made good on her escape. The man Gibbs worked for would have thought nothing of sacrificing himself for her. As far as Gibbs knew, Franks was still like that. He might not be a white knight but he was still enough of a chauvinist to believe woman didn’t belong in combat and should be protected.
Shepard hadn’t been trapped. She chose to stay. What he didn’t know for sure was why. Had she decided this was better than dying by inches? Or was this some last ditch attempt at yet another cover up? She had to have said something to Franks; something that would have convinced him to help her make that last stand, to risk his own life with her. Even if it was a lie, at least that would give Gibbs something more to go on---assuming Franks lived long enough to tell him.
“David, McGee, stay here and help Baker and Simmons. Gather all the evidence. Get the bodies ready for transport back to DC so Ducky can examine them.”
“Where will you be?” Ziva asked.
“Hospital.”
Both she and McGee nodded, signaling their understanding and acceptance. Gibbs would have the best chance of getting anything out of Franks. And it wasn’t as if they would be stranded at the diner. Baker and Simmons could give them a lift, or they could always take what was likely Franks’ rental if need be. The car their dead John Does had driven would go back to DC as evidence.
Gibbs made is way to the hospital with relative ease. He’d gotten McGee to map multiple routes for him after they’d landed. He knew LA traffic moved at a snails pace and having alternatives meant he could avoid most of the congestion.
By the time he found a place to park and convinced the nurse on duty to tell him where the gunshot John Doe was, Franks had been out of surgery for almost three hours. Gibbs made his way to the room Franks had been assigned. He showed his badge to the NCIS agent on duty, a young man who introduced himself as Tom Davis showing his ID to Gibbs in return.
Davis flipped his ID closed and stuffed it into his pocket. “Baker called. She said you’d be stopping by.”
Her foresight made Gibbs want to curse Shepard all over again. Baker was obviously not a bad agent, and clearly showed some ability to anticipate. But after what happened, she and Simmons might never do more than ride a desk, if they got to keep their jobs at all.
“How’s he doing?” Gibbs nodded toward the door to Franks’ room.
“Doctors are being what I’d call cautiously optimistic.”
Gibbs arched an eyebrow. “Which means what?”
“He made through surgery. So they did their part. The rest is up to him.” Davis shrugged. “He’s not a young guy. Could be too much for him.”
Gibbs kept his expression neutral. “They say when he’ll wake up?”
“No. All I was told was that it takes awhile for the anesthesia to wear off and that time varies depending on the individual.”
“You take his prints?”
“Just as soon as he was out of the OR.”
Franks was in the system. His name should pop up fairly quickly. Regardless of how long it took, once Gibbs saw Franks someone was going to ask why he didn’t offer up his name. That someone would probably be Vance.
Knowing he’d have to deal with Vance when the time came, Gibbs headed into Franks’ room. He almost knocked on the door before entering. He’d gotten used to having to announce his presence before walking into Tony’s room. Thinking about that reminded him of just how not happy LaFiamma had been when Gibbs briefed him on what he suspected was happening in California. If it weren’t for the fact that both Tony and Lundy were still confined to the hospital, Gibbs was sure LaFiamma would have been on the next plane out of Houston.
Looking at his former boss, Gibbs couldn’t help noticing how much he’d aged since he’d first met him. He wondered if Tony noticed that about him. There wasn’t as much time between them as there was between him and Franks, but it was long enough to notice some differences.
Gibbs spotted a handcuff circling one of Franks’ wrists, the other end secured to the bed frame. Give the man was fresh out of surgery is seemed more like overkill than necessity, but Gibbs couldn’t fault Davis for being thorough. As far as he knew, Franks might well be someone dangerous and could have been part of the group that killed Shepard. Making sure the man couldn’t escape, regardless of his condition, was just good sense.
Gibbs sighed and sat down in the only chair in the room. It was stiff and uncomfortable and about what he’d expected. Hospitals likely got some sort of discount buying crappy furniture no one else would want. His respect for LaFiamma being able to locate one for Tony’s room that was reasonably comfortable went up another notch.
“Damn, Mike,” Gibbs said quietly, “you got yourself into one hell of a mess.”
Gibbs wished he’d gotten himself a cup of coffee. He sighed, and resigned himself to waiting patiently. He kept his eyes on Franks hoping for some sign of his returning to awareness.
It was almost two hours later that Franks began to stir. Gibbs watched his eyelids flicker, heard him moan softly. He reached out to touch the older man’s arm.
“Franks?” Gibbs called softly. “Mike, you with me here?”
Cloudy blue eyes opened to met his. Franks blinked several times. “Probie?”
Gibbs smiled in spite of himself. He’d never be anything else to Franks. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Franks swallowed hard. His tongue flicked out to moisten cracked lips. Gibbs reached for a small cup with a straw that set next to the bed on a metal table. He offered it to Franks.
“Sip it slowly,” Gibbs cautioned. He didn’t know for sure if Franks was even supposed to have water, but he figured the medical staff wouldn’t have left it if he wasn’t.
When it seemed like Franks was more inclined to gulp the water, Gibbs pulled the cup away. It earned him a glare, but Gibbs wasn’t going to let the man get sick because he was too out of it follow basic instructions, or too damn stubborn to obey.
“Sip it,” Gibbs reiterated when he offered the straw again. He let Franks have two sips before removing the cup.
“You can have more in a bit. Okay?”
Franks nodded. “What are you…doing here, Probie?”
“What’s it look like I’m doing here?” Gibbs rolled his eyes. “I’m waiting on your sorry ass to wake up and tell me what the hell happened.”
“Jenny?”
Gibbs shook his head. Franks closed his eyes, his expression a blend of defeat and disappointment.
“What happened, Boss?”
Franks opened his eyes. “She called me.”
Gibbs nodded. He knew that already.
“Said you were in danger.”
“Me?” Gibbs frowned. He wasn’t in any danger…or at least he hadn’t been.
“She said it was an old case.” Franks took a breath. “Said you didn’t know. She…needed back up. Needed someone…outside the agency. Someone she could…trust.” Franks looked him in the eye. “Couldn’t let you down, Probie.”
Gibbs nodded, understanding the leverage Shepard had wielded. He’d have come to the rescue of any of his people too. It wasn’t stated as one of his many rules, at least not directly, but it was definitely implied…You looked out for your own, even when they weren’t yours any more. It was why he’d come back from Mexico for Ziva. It was why he’d gone to Houston.
“She should have called me.” Gibbs muttered darkly.
“Said she couldn’t. Said it was too dangerous..for you. Didn’t want…to drag you into it.”
Gibbs snorted. Like he couldn’t handle himself? Like he hadn’t handled worse? No, not calling him wasn’t about protecting him, it was about her. She was covering her own ass….again.
“Tell me.”
Gibbs listened patiently while Franks haltingly told him about his coming to LA after Shepard’s call. He’d met up with her after the funeral and they’d gone to Decker’s house. They’d met up with Decker’s girlfriend, Sasha Gordon. She’d been scared, hiding when they’d arrived.
She had good reason to be scared, Gibbs thought darkly. She was dead. He didn’t tell Franks that. It was like the man needed to know; there was nothing he could do about it and Gibbs didn’t want to interrupt him. Talking was an obvious effort and he was struggling to stay awake.
“Sasha said Decker told her if anything…happened to him…she was supposed to…give Jenny a message.”
“What sort of message?”
“Key to that diner in the desert.” Franks coughed, grimacing in pain. “Decker had some sort of insurance policy.”
“Insurance?”
“Yeah.” Franks’ eyes drifted closed. He was clearly tired, but Gibbs wasn’t prepared to let him rest yet.
He shook Franks’ arm. “What insurance, Mike?”
“Dates on photos. Jenny said it was how you’d left messages.” Franks sighed, eyes closing again. “Wrote ‘em down. Should be in my jacket pocket.”
Franks effects were bagged and sitting in a neat pile near the door. Davis likely hadn’t had time to send them for processing or he was waiting on Baker or Simmons to call and give him orders to send them to DC with the rest of what was being collected. Gibbs got up and rifled through his pockets. He found a small slip of paper with a 13 digit number written in Franks’ scrawled handwriting.
“What do they mean?”
“Dunno.” Franks swallowed. Gibbs offered him more water. He let him have another sip before pulling the cup away.
“We got company…’fore we could figure it out.” Franks’ eyelids fluttered. “She wouldn’t leave, Probie. I…tried to…get her to go.”
“I figured that,” Gibbs said softly, patting Franks’ arm.
“Wanted her to…run,” Franks muttered as his eyes closed. “Tried…Probie…I tried.”
“I know, Boss, I know,” Gibbs offered what absolution he could. “Not your fault.”
“Not yours…either,” Franks mumbled, barely coherent.
“Know that too,” Gibbs said quietly, although he wasn’t entirely convinced. If he’d asked more questions all those years ago, if he’d confirmed she’d done her job, things might have gone differently. But then, if Shepard hadn’t been so focused on La Grenouille, what happened or didn’t happen ten years ago might never have been an issue.
It was her contact with the CIA that seemed to have brought it all back into the open. Kort was dead. Decker was dead. Sasha Gordon was dead, an innocent bystander, collateral damage the same way Lundy and Tony were. And now there was this mysterious ‘insurance policy’ that Gibbs would need to decipher.
Had Decker known that case would come back to bite him in the ass or had gotten a heads up? Was the insurance policy something Gibbs could use? Or was it already too late? Was he really in any danger?
Gibbs rubbed his hand over his face. He sighed tiredly. Franks was eyeing him, barely conscious but still aware enough to be concerned.
“You okay?”
“Better than you.” Gibbs smiled. “Get some rest.”
“Where you…going?”
“To do what I can to finish this shit,” Gibbs said as he headed for the door. Enough people had already been hurt and killed. Whatever the hell was still left open from all those years ago needed to be put to bed.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Gibbs gets to California. He talks to Franks.
Chapter End Notes:
Spoilers for the episode Judgment Day.