He couldn't be more wrong.
She welcomed his presence.
If by some miracle the medical examiner the Pentagon had sent found mitigating evidence during the autopsy, she wanted the spook there—heinous, inaccurate suspicions regarding John's loyalties intact. What better way for any potential mitigating evidence to stand up in court?
Regan caught the crew chief's wave. The Marine sergeant lowered his forearms and briefly crossed them. The Super Stallion was about to land.
She allowed Riyad's thumbs up to serve as joint acknowledgment.
She let the spook take the lead as the helicopter finally touched down on the carrier's deck too. Removing her hearing protection, she even passively followed Riyad out of the bird and allowed him to introduce the two of them to the waiting chief who'd been assigned to escort them. They headed across the flight deck, through a watertight door in the ship's superstructure and down a metal ladder and passageway until they'd reached the ship's medical department and the entrance to the operating room where the postmortem had evidently already begun.
But that was all the lead she was willing to allow.
Regan stepped up to retrieve her own paper booties, surgical mask and clear face shield from the black, twenty-something hospital corpsman within. "Thank you, Petty Officer. How far has the ME gotten?"
The woman handed over a pair of gloves as Regan finished donning her assigned booties and facial gear. "The body's already been weighed, photographed with and without clothes, washed and x-rayed. Also, blood and vitreous fluid have been drawn. Colonel Tarrington's about to make the first cut."
Tarrington was here?
Despite the circumstances, Regan smiled.
"You know the ME?" Riyad stared at her—and given the frown he'd covered with his mask, he wasn't nearly as thrilled by the turn of events as she was.
"I do." If the spook had spent any time at all adding to his paltry investigative experience, he'd have undoubtedly worked with the colonel too.
Niall Tarrington was one of the Joint Pathology Center's top coroners. Not only was the British-born, US Army colonel tasked with the government and military's diciest cases, he carried the latest portable versions of his profession's top gear wherever he was sent.
If there were answers to be had tonight, there was an excellent chance that Tarrington would be able to offer them, quite possibly on the spot.
Which could be good…or bad. For John.
Regan donned her mask and nodded her thanks as the corpsman opened the door to the OR for them.
As for Riyad, "The colonel and I met—"
"—in Iraq a few years back. Hip-deep in a heinous pit of local, long-dead bodies." The cool glare Tarrington shot over his wire-framed bifocals let them both know he'd been briefed on the spook's rather vocal feelings as to her position as lead investigator on this case. "So, Agent Riyad, does that mean you plan on crying conflict of interest and complaining about my attendance at this equally shitty shindig, too?"
The spook's dark stare flared, momentarily surpassing the ire in the colonel's. But he backed down. Shook his head. "No, sir."
"Good. And, for the record, that agent standing next to you is all about the truth, and always has been. So, relax." He tipped his crop of closely clipped gray toward the opposite side of the gurney. "Well, get up here. Let's get this finished. I would've waited to start, but I'm under the gun. I need to get to Bahrain before morning. I was on my way there to confirm a VIP suicide when I got diverted to this giant, bobbing boat. Though, I admit, it's not bobbing as badly as others I've been on."
Amen to that.
Her stomach was in full agreement as well. But for the constant thrum of vibrating machinery in her ears and beneath her boots, she might've been able to pretend she was back on dry land.
Regan headed up the translator's naked legs and torso as ordered. Riyad followed. She came to a halt beside Hachemi's battered face as Tarrington offered up his full name and official title, then the NCIS agent's, into the voice recorder tucked up against the array of postmortem equipment filling the sterile tray table beside him.
That formality out of the way, he turned to the two of them, but focused on her. "There's a lot going on here. And some of it doesn't quite seem to match up—yet."
"How so?" Riyad, again.
Regan suppressed a wince as Tarrington's attention shifted to her right, then narrowed to let her fellow agent know he was less than impressed with the timing of his inquisitiveness.
"Let's get one thing clear right now, Agent Riyad. This is my postmortem. Unless I ask you a direct question, I talk—you listen. You save your comment and questions 'til the end. No exceptions. Understood?"
Riyad's nod was stiff.
"Excellent. Now, as I was saying, we've got lot going on here with Mr. Hachemi. I understand the man was knocked into a bulkhead by one of our very own, pissed-off snake eaters, correct?"
Another nod. This one was just as stiff…and hers.
She hadn't worked with Tarrington since she'd met John in Hohenfels, so she had no idea if the colonel had heard the gossip regarding her personal and professional past regarding the "snake eater" in question. Though the slight tinge of compassion in that light green stare suggested yes.
The tinge cleared as Tarrington shifted once more, this time toward a light box hanging from the bulkhead to his right. "The x-rays over there support that, along with the obvious bruising." He reached out to trace a gloved finger down the right side of the translator's chin. "Mr. Hachemi sustained a fracture here, in the mandible,
