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Sunday morning. It was supposed to be spent somewhere other than a crime scene—home, at church, in bed, at a picnic, whatever—but there they were. Make the best of it, or so they were told.
“Got an ID?”
NCIS Special Agent Jethro Gibbs ducked under the crime scene tape, directing his question at the agent following him.
“On it, boss.”
Tony DiNozzo moved ahead and knelt next to the body, coming up with a wallet. Flipping it open, he glanced at the driver’s license, opened his mouth to give a name, and promptly did a double take.
“He got a name or not, DiNozzo?”
“Uh, yeah, boss—we’ve got a Lieutenant John Doe.”
Tim McGee’s stylus froze over his PDA, but Gibbs spoke before he could. “You’re holding the ID; is there no name on it or something?”
“No, seriously. The guy’s name is ‘John Doe’.”
“Are you sure the ID isn’t fake?”
“Damn good fake if it is, Ziva,” he answered, drawling out her name. “Looks real to me.”
Standing, Tony walked over and handed the license to his boss, who just looked at him for a moment, took it between gloved fingers, stared at it a moment, and shook his head.
“Okay. We got a John Doe.”
(Commonplace)
Not an hour later, the team was back at headquarters.
“I want everything you can find on this guy,” Gibbs ordered, tossing his jacket on his chair and grabbing his coffee cup on his way up to MTAC, “down to what he had for breakfast last Monday.”
“Only last Monday?” Ziva muttered under her breath.
“Say something, Officer David?”
“Last Monday; got it.” Gibbs vanished, and she and McGee both turned to Tony. “We’re researching a John Doe.”
It wasn’t a question; it was barely even a statement, and the only response it got was a dry “Yep.” Ten minutes later, Tony pushed his chair back, staring at his computer screen in disbelief. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me.”
McGee came around to look over his shoulder, and the two agents exchanged glances. “Oh, Gibbs is not going to like this.”
“Like what, McGee?” the man himself answered, walking up behind them.
“Uh, found his wife, boss,” Tony answered.
“And? I’m assuming she’s got a name.”
“Uh-huh.”
With an exasperated look that boded a headslap, Gibbs braced his hands against his agent’s desk. “Now would be a good time, DiNozzo.”
“Um, yeah. His wife’s name is—and I am so not kidding here, boss—is Jane. Jane Doe.”
Finis.
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