We now swoop down through poplar trees into Gibbs’s ’57 mustang, the wind only leaving ripples in his hair as he keeps it at a cool 35. Ziva’s got Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard on a video call back at headquarters, which she holds by the dash on her tablet phone. Dinozzo’s propping himself up between them, his Goofy ears flapping in the wind.

“The strychnine was local,” says Mallard. “A very common strain found in most industrial complexes. Standard rat poison, nothing fancy.”

“And the benzodiazepines?” asks Ziva.

“Look at you, Agent David,” says Duck. “The benzo’s were most likely street. At this dosage the effects would have been similar to ingesting a handful of Valium with a sledgehammer. We’re talking two to three minutes of consciousness, tops.”

“It’d be awful hard to make it up to the sun-deck in that amount of time,” says Dinozzo.

“Gibbs,” says Dr. Mallard, “You’re surrounded by gifted thinkers. You could probably sit this one out.”

“I just like watching them work,” says Gibbs, making a wide turn into the town hall.

“So where to next?” asks Ducky.

“We’re gonna go ask Mickey how he feels about mouse-traps.”

Dr. Donald Mallard laughs. “Good luck,” he says, then ends the call. Ziva puts the phone back in her pocket.