-This was just written for fun. Some grammar may be incorrect, some spelling, too. All characters belong to Don Bellisario, CBS, the writers on NCIS, etc, etc.
-I wrote this because we never really see Tim struggling with cases. He's emotionally...not there, and I think that's because he needs to be so that he doesn't get hurt. He loves his job, he's passionate, but I wanted to dive down into the hurt that Tim might experience when he stumbles upon a case that he finds particularly frustrating, mainly because they couldn't solve it! (Which rarely happens on NCIS.) So, using his Thom E. Gemcity skills, he creates a different ending, one that will satisfy his need for revenge... for now.
Special Agent McGee closed his eyes and he saw her—blood covered, naked, hair matted with her own blood, lying on her bed with her eyes and mouth wide open, as if she was screaming before she died. He put his head in his hands and cussed to himself, knowing that Tony would’ve made some stupid joke at him if he said it out loud. It was 2 in the afternoon but still not nearly close enough to the end of the day. This damn case was bugging the crap out of him.
Each agent was at their desk, Gibbs working silently on his report, Tony listening to his iPod and playing on the computer, Ziva reading a book in her lap. McGee took a deep breath and turned to his computer screen. His report was blank except for the name of the victim, the name that haunted him every time he closed his eyes.
Ducky had had a case that he was personally connected to—a Jane Doe with a trident carved in her neck. NCIS had found her killer, and Ducky was satisfied. Tim needed to find this girl’s killer, or at least her real name or it would kill him.
Against his will, he began typing, giving his report plenty of detail. Toxicology and Evidence reports from Abby were in his email and the Autopsy report from Ducky was on his desk in case he needed them. Within three hours he had spell-checked it three times, gone over it five times to make sure he didn’t forget something, and was handing it into Gibbs, and saying goodnight to the rest of the team.
Tony glared at him enviously. “You finish your report, McPerfect?”
“Goodnight, Tony,” McGee mumbled again, not willing to justify the question with a response.
“Goodnight, Magee,” Ziva said, smiling.
He smiled slightly, just because of the effect Ziva’s smile had on him, and nodded, leaving the squad room. When he made it to the elevator, he breathed easier, and the feeling in his stomach that made him want to hurl started to settle. Maybe he should go see Ducky—wait, no. Dead bodies. The feeling came back. Abby? Blood evidence. His head spun.
“I just need to go home,” he whispered to himself.
When he arrived in his apartment he dropped his backpack and began shedding clothes and items. First his keys went on his kitchen counter, right by the door like they always did; then his jacket on the chair by his typewriter and his backpack on the floor by his writing desk; his gun and his badge went on his bedroom side table; and he began unbuttoning his shirt, slipping off his undershirt, removing his belt, kicking off his shoes and collapsing in bed, just in his socks and boxers. His breath was long and shaky.
Jane Doe with the gorgeous brown hair and the piercing blue eyes.
Jane Doe with the pretty glossy lips.
Jane Doe with the bright red painted toenails.
Jane Doe with the knife wound running from her breasts to her naval, showing her guts, showing the innards that only Ducky was supposed to see.
Tim took a shuddering breath, fighting the feeling of nausea building in his stomach. He sat up, breathing slowly, swallowing convulsively. Director Vance had declared the case cold much too soon. It was stupid, it was…ridiculous. Why was this girl haunting him?
His phone roused him from his thoughts and he reached for the edge of his bed, reaching into his pants for his iPhone. “Special Agent McGee.”
“Timmy, you sound sick.”
He sighed. “What’s up, Abby?”
“Well, I’m alone in my coffin…”
“Don’t start, Abs.”
She giggled. “I’m just teasing. You okay?”
He mulled it over for a second, shrugging before he realized she was on the other end of the phone. “I’m okay, Abs. Don’t worry about me.”
“Okay-dokey, Timmy. Call me if you want.”
She hung up when he promised he would call if he needed something and he set down his phone. Drowsiness settled over him and he fluttered his eyes closed.
Piercing blue eyes, wide open in surprise, shallow in the lifelessness.
He sat straight up. He wouldn’t sleep that night.
His alarm blared and he looked into his bedroom from his typewriter, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes tired. Groaning, he stood, entering his room, shutting off his alarm and shuffling to his shower. Around midnight he had fallen asleep for four hours, only to awaken from a nightmare.
It was vivid. Tim could feel the blood running down his forehead, feel the knife in his gut, and feel the humiliation of nudity in death. He’d sat up startled in shock, realized that he wasn’t being murdered, and beat off the nausea that felt all too common now.
His report was done, he had no reason to go into work—Gibbs had even given him the day off when he’d called in last night and so he was very willing to just lay in bed, try to catch up on sleep he’d missed, but the third LJ Tibbs book deadline was four weeks and he had ten more chapters to write.
When he got out of the shower he sat at his writing desk and began to type.
Tibbs leaned over the body, gazing into the smoky, empty eyes of the victim. Her hair was matted and tangled with blood, and it was her own. Eyeing the gruesome scene, Tibbs called over McGregor, gesturing towards the wound in her stomach, which was a deep, long knife wound stretching from the valley of her breasts to her naval.
The junior agent squatted at her head and felt himself growing sick. She was gorgeous with her long brown hair, piercing blue eyes, pretty glossed lips which were spread as if she had been screaming in pain when she died. McGregor closed his eyes.
“Notice the lacerations on her neck, McGregor. She was strangled. No blood dripping from her torso, so the slice was made post-mortem.”
He did not want to open his eyes, but McGregor did.
McGee stopped typing. This wasn’t his best work—simply a rough draft—but it made him feel slightly better. In the novel this girl was the second victim, a Jane Doe who McGregor would later discover was the sister of the original victim, and he—the original victim—was mentally disturbed… McGee swallowed tightly. This was killing him.
He removed the paper, hole-punching it and sliding it into his binder. He would work on it later, now he had another idea.
He had to keep running. He had to keep going, no matter how much it felt like his lungs would explode, no matter how much his legs hurt. McGregor sprinted down the side walk, crossed the street, passing in front of a speeding cab, his gun drawn. The suspect was a man with bright red hair, a square jaw, deep set eyes the color of charcoal, and thin lips. He was a good ten yards ahead of McGregor, but Tommy was there, running hardly a yard behind him, yelling, “NCIS, stop running! This is your last warning!”
What are you gonna do, Tommy? Shoot him?
There was a gunshot and McGregor took the safety off his gun and put his finger on the trigger. “Stop! NCIS!” he yelled.
The redhead was running again and Tommy was crouched on the sidewalk, blood spilling from his shoulder. McGregor ran past him, yelling, “Federal Agent! Drop your weapon!”
But it was no use. He was running, and running, and running, while his partner was bleeding, while his team was running behind him, no better off than he. The redhead threw people out of his way, shoving them back towards McGregor. McGregor prayed for an untied shoelace, a break in the sidewalk that caused him to trip, anything that would help him catch the murdering bastard.
But the pavement stayed clear.
Maybe, just maybe, he hoped, there was a man who happened to spill hot coffee, or maybe there was a car that would stop—
There was a loud screech and a black Mercury Milan pulled up on the side walk, forcing the running redhead to run smack into it, knocking him out cold. He fell onto the side walk hard and McGregor rushed up, keeping his gun ready, just in case.
The passenger’s side door opened and a beautiful mocha skinned girl in a bullet proof vest reading, NCIS, stepped out, a smile on her face. McGregor smiled back. “Tibbs driving?” he muttered.
Lisa nodded, before asking the question McGregor cursed himself for not asking earlier. “Where is Tommy?”
McGee found the words coming easily. He could imagine taking down the girl’s killer. He wanted to take down the girl’s killer, more than anything he’d wanted in a long time. Passion like this would be fueling his next best-seller (he hoped) and his career. Jane Doe, he hoped, wouldn’t stay Jane Doe for long.