Chapter 3: Questions About Lisbon
The dock office door groaned on its hinges as Gibbs shoved it open. The smell inside hit him first — stale coffee, damp wool, and the underlying funk of old fish. The single bulb buzzed like an angry insect, throwing a jaundiced light over a scarred wooden desk and a wall of smudged maritime charts.
Tony stood near the desk, his notebook open, facing a lanky man in coveralls who was picking at a grease-stained thumbnail. A Cobalt Creek deputy, young and wide-eyed, hovered by a filing cabinet.
“He preps the charter boats, Boss,” Tony said without turning, his focus on the worker. “Says he didn’t see or hear anything unusual after he clocked in at six. His buddy, in the other room, says the same. Their stories are boring and match.” Tony finally glanced over, a flicker of frustration in his eyes. “Almost too perfect.”
Gibbs’s gaze swept the room, bypassing Tony and the dockworker, and settled on the deputy. “You. Have a seat.” He pointed to a rickety chair in the corner.
The deputy, a nameplate reading ‘Miller’ pinned crookedly to his jacket, blinked. “Me, sir? But I’m supposed to—”
“Now,” Gibbs said, the word soft and final.
Miller sat, his back rigid.
Tony caught on instantly, his posture shifting from interrogator to observer. He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms, his eyes now keen on the deputy. The dockworker looked between them, confused.
“You can go,” Gibbs told the worker. “Wait outside with Officer David. Don’t talk to anyone.”
The man scurried out, relief in his hurry. The door clicked shut, leaving the three of them in the buzzing silence.
Gibbs pulled a folding chair around and sat facing Miller, their knees almost touching. He didn’t speak. He just looked at him, his blue eyes unblinking, absorbing the nervous twitch in the deputy’s jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Deputy Miller,” Gibbs began, his voice a low, conversational rumble. “You’ve worked for Chief Lisbon since she arrived.”
“Y-yes, sir. About twenty months.”
“What’d you do before she got here?”
“I was with the County Sheriff’s auxiliary. Then the chief… she hired me full-time.”
“Why you?”
Miller shrugged, his shoulders tense. “She said she wanted local. Someone who knew the people. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“What do you know about her?” Tony chimed in, his tone lighter, almost friendly. It was a good cop routine decades in the making. “Where’s she from? What’s her story?”
Miller’s eyes darted between them. “I don’t… I mean, she doesn’t really talk about herself. She’s private.”
“Everyone talks about something, Deputy,” Tony pressed, smiling. “Favorite coffee spot? Terrible old boyfriend? Debilitating fear of clowns? Nothing?”
“She drinks her coffee black. From the diner. She’s always first in, last out.” Miller recited it like a memorized fact. “She’s a good chief. Fair. Strict on procedure.”
Gibbs leaned forward an inch. “Where’d she learn procedure?”
The deputy’s confusion was genuine. “I don’t know. She just knows it. Better than anyone I’ve ever worked for. She’s… precise.”
“Precise,” Gibbs repeated, letting the word hang. “What about her past? Previous job? Applications have that.”
“The mayor handled her hiring. I just clean my gun and do what she says.” Miller was sweating now, a fine sheen on his upper lip. “Her file’s in the mayor’s office, I think. All I know is she came here almost two years ago. She lives alone in that little rental cabin out on Pine Ridge. Keeps to herself.”
Tony’s playful edge vanished. “So, in twenty months, you’ve learned she drinks black coffee and is precise. That’s the depth of your insight into your direct supervisor?”
“I know she’s good at the job!” Miller insisted, a defensive flush rising on his neck. “The town was a mess before her. Sheriff’s department handled half our calls. Now we handle our own. Break-ins are down. She straightened everything out.”
“Focus, Miller,” Gibbs said, his voice dropping, demanding total attention. “Personal life. Family. Friends. Visitors.”
The deputy swallowed hard. He looked trapped. “I… I think she might have a brother. Maybe. She got a call once, last winter. I only heard her side. She said, ‘I told you not to call me here.’ Then, ‘Fine. Be safe, Tommy.’ That was it.” He shrugged helplessly. “Could be a brother. A friend. Tommy.”
“Tommy,” Tony noted in his book. “Anyone else? Someone who visits?”
A flicker of memory passed over Miller’s face, followed by caution. “There was a guy. Used to show up at the station maybe… every couple months. For the first year or so.”
“Describe him.”
“Tall. Well-dressed. Suit, but not a business suit. Like… a nice suit. Bald, glasses. He’d go right into her office and close the door. Stay five minutes. The chief was always irritated when he left.”
“Name?”
“She never introduced him.” Miller lowered his voice. “The rumor was he was FBI. Had that vibe, you know? Calm. Saw everything.”
Gibbs and Tony exchanged a glance. The pieces were too vague, the shape all wrong for a standard FBI liaison.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Gibbs asked.
Miller calculated. “Six months ago. Maybe a little more. He hasn’t been back since.”
“And the chief?” Tony asked. “Did she seem different after he stopped coming?”
“She’s always the same,” Miller said, and it sounded like both a compliment and a lament. “Precise.”
Tony snapped his notebook shut with a sharp sound that made Miller jump. “So, to summarize: your boss is a procedural ghost who materialized two years ago, possibly has a brother named Tommy, and was periodically visited by a mysterious ‘FBI’ agent who vanished six months ago. And you know nothing else.”
Miller’s shoulders slumped, defeated. “She’s a good chief,” he repeated weakly, as if it were a shield.
Before Gibbs could press further, his phone vibrated. He pulled it out, looked at the screen, and stood up abruptly. The chair legs scraped the worn floor.
“Ducky’s here,” he said to Tony. Then he looked down at Deputy Miller. “Stay available.”
Outside, the mist had burned off, leaving a cold, clear morning. The medical examiner’s van was now parked next to theirs, and Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard, impeccably dressed in a wool overcoat and scarf, was peering at the body with a clinical fascination. Ziva and McGee flanked him as Palmer was unloading the stretcher.
“Ah, Jethro!” Ducky said, not looking up. “A most inelegant greeting. The incision is… deliberate. Not an act of rage. A statement. See the upward trajectory here, through the sternocleidomastoid?" Ducky pointed with a gloved finger, his voice carrying a professorial note. "The blade entered here, below the jawline, and was drawn cleanly across and upward with significant force. It severed the carotid, the jugular, and the trachea in one efficient motion. This was not a struggle. This was a presentation."
He straightened up, his knees emitting a soft pop, and gestured for Jimmy Palmer to bring the body bag. "Death was rapid, but not instantaneous. He would have been conscious for several seconds, aware of the effusion. The lack of expansive arterial spray here confirms your theory, Jethro. He was killed elsewhere, cleaned up, and positioned."
"Time of death?" Gibbs asked, his eyes on the pale, water-blued face of the Lieutenant.
"Given the core temperature and the degree of rigor in these damp conditions, I'd place it between ten last night and two this morning. The tidal soak complicates it, but I'll narrow it at the lab." Ducky made a final note on his clipboard, then peeled off his latex gloves with a snap. "Palmer, let's get him transported. Carefully, now. Mind his hands."
As Palmer and the assistants began the careful process, Ducky turned, his sharp eyes scanning the perimeter of official vehicles and milling deputies. He wiped his hands on a sanitary cloth.
"I must note, the first response preservation was quite admirable," Ducky remarked, stuffing the cloth into his coat pocket. "The scene is remarkably uncontaminated for a rural dock. Did you manage to intercept the local authorities before they trampled through?"
Gibbs followed his gaze. "We didn't need to."
"Oh? A competent sheriff, then."
"There's no sheriff," Gibbs said, his voice low. "Just a police chief. And she's not here."
Ducky's eyebrows raised. He glanced around again, more deliberately. "I did notice a distinct lack of commanding local presence. Is the position vacant?"
"It's filled." Gibbs crossed his arms, the dock wind tugging at his jacket. "She secured the scene. Separated the witnesses. Logged the contamination. Gave a flawless incident report without a single extra word. Then she left."
"She left?" Ducky's tone held mild, professional disbelief.
"Handed over jurisdiction and walked to her car. Said her presence would just attract questions from the town."
"Well, that is... pragmatically humble of her. Or strategically withdrawn. How long has she been in the position? I assume she’s new, still finding her footing. It takes time to become known."
"Two years, Ducky."
The medical examiner’s head tilted. "Two years? In a town this size? And she remains such a... phantom?" He absorbed the information. "What do her people say about her?"
"Precise." Gibbs repeated Deputy Miller's hollow praise. "They know she drinks black coffee and might have a brother named Tommy. One deputy mentioned a man who visited her every few months. Well-dressed, bald. Stayed five minutes in her office. Rumor was FBI."
"FBI? For five-minute visits? That is irregular. What does she say about him?"
"No one asked. He hasn't been seen in six months." Gibbs watched Palmer zip the bag closed, the sound loud in the suddenly still air. "She's hiding something."
Ducky studied his friend's profile. "It is undoubtedly strange, Jethro. But we have a deceased naval officer on a slab. Why the acute interest in a reclusive small-town police chief?"
Gibbs turned his piercing blue eyes on Ducky. "We have a dead Lieutenant in a town he didn't live in, dumped where a chief no one seems to know anything about was the first to examine him." He paused, letting the slap of water against the pilings fill the silence. "I don't know if she's involved. But that level of control? That clean of an exit? She's hiding something big. And on my crime scene, I need to know what it is."
He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. "Tony! McGee! Wrap it up and head back to NCIS with Ziva and Palmer. We're going to the station." He ended the call before a reply came, already moving toward the van. The mystery of the body was now paralleled by the mystery of the woman who found it, and Gibbs knew the latter held the key to the former. He watched Palmer load the black zipped bag into the van, its wheels grating on the gravel, then turned to Ducky.
“Ride with me,” Gibbs said, his voice low enough that only the older man could hear. “We’ll stop at the station. I want a look at her in her own space. You find a moment to speak to her before we head back.”
Ducky adjusted his scarf, his eyes bright with understanding. “A casual assessment? Of course, Jethro. A doctor’s concern for a colleague’s long night, perhaps. I am rather good at casual.”
Five minutes later, Gibbs pulled the sedan into a slot marked ‘Chief’ outside the small brick station. The building was quiet, its front window offering a view of a unmanned reception desk and a wilting potted plant. The bell above the door jingled as they entered, a sound both cheerful and cheap.
A heavyset, older sergeant with a florid face looked up from a crossword puzzle. Chief Lisbon was no where to be found.