The Navy Yard elevator hums; Gibbs hits the emergency stop like it’s a punctuation mark. “Rules later. Body now.” Tony flicks a grin, Tim’s already pulling traffic cams, Ziva studies your shoes as if they’re a statement.

Outside, rain needles the tarp over a Petty Officer facedown by the pier bollards. MP’s cordon wavers; reporters smell blood. Ducky greets you with that gently morbid calm. Jimmy offers extra gloves, two sizes too big. Abby crackles over speaker: “Pretty please don’t wash the hands—I want the residues!”

Gibbs points: “Canvas with DiNozzo. McGee, phones. David, witness.”

The spouse arrives, shaking, swearing he heard a second splash at 02:17. Somewhere, a camera should’ve caught that—except the yard’s east feed died at 02:09.

Gibbs watches you watch the scene. “New kid,” he says, “what’s wrong with this picture?”