A Vendetta Interrupted: How NCIS Took McGee’s LaRoche Storyline to Its Most Frustrating Conclusion
For seasons, NCIS has relied on its long-form storytelling to build suspense and develop its characters. From the hunt for The Chameleon to the persistent threat of Ari Haswari, the show has a history of giving its core agents a long-term adversary to define them. In recent seasons, that mantle was given to Timothy McGee. His personal vendetta against Deputy Director Gabriel LaRoche, a man he believed to be a mole, was a central narrative, defining his character arc and giving him a purpose beyond his role as the team’s tech expert.
Then, in a stunning and controversial move, the show resolved that vendetta in a way that left fans scratching their heads: by making it worse.
The build-up to this confrontation was a masterclass in slow-burn tension. McGee’s initial suspicion of LaRoche wasn’t just professional jealousy. It was a gut feeling, an instinct honed over two decades of working with the best in the business, Gibbs. LaRoche’s appointment as Deputy Director, a role McGee had also been in the running for, fueled the narrative, but it was McGee’s relentless pursuit of the truth that drove the story forward. He put his career, his relationships, and even his own sanity on the line. He worked tirelessly, ignoring his wife’s concerns and his teammates’ warnings, all because he was convinced LaRoche was a traitor.
This was a significant moment for McGee’s character development. Once the “probie” and the “McGeek,” he had grown into the senior agent, a husband, a father, and a man who had earned his place at the table. His unwavering belief in his instincts was a direct callback to Gibbs’s famous trust in his own gut. McGee’s vendetta wasn’t just a plot point; it was a testament to how far he had come. It was the moment he stepped out of Gibbs’ shadow and became a leader in his own right.
The penultimate episode of the season brought this conflict to a fever pitch. McGee, on the verge of suspension and with his professional reputation in tatters, finally confronted LaRoche. The scene was set for a dramatic, high-stakes showdown. Was LaRoche a mole, a villain, a master manipulator? The audience was on the edge of its seat, ready for McGee to be vindicated.
And that’s where the rug was pulled out.
The resolution, as revealed in the season finale, was that Gabriel LaRoche was not a mole. He was a double agent, working for the Department of Justice to infiltrate the very same cartel the team was investigating. He wasn’t a traitor; he was an ally. He wasn’t a villain; he was a misunderstood hero, a man willing to sacrifice his reputation for the greater good.
On the surface, this twist might seem like a clever subversion of expectations. It’s an unexpected turn that complicates the narrative and adds layers of intrigue. But in practice, it was a profound disservice to McGee’s character and a frustrating cop-out for the audience.
For starters, it completely undermined McGee’s journey. The entire season was built on the premise that his instincts, his stubborn, Gibbs-like conviction, were correct. The audience was meant to be rooting for him, to see his faith in himself pay off. Instead, the show told us that he was wrong. Not just wrong, but professionally jealous and obsessive to a fault. The very traits that were meant to show his growth as an agent were instead framed as a personal and professional failing. He wasn’t a vindicated hero; he was a man who had needlessly put his career on the line for a phantom.
Furthermore, the resolution felt cheap. The show spent months building LaRoche up as an enigmatic, vaguely sinister figure. His smarmy smiles, his suspicious behavior, his convenient presence at key moments—all of it pointed to him being the mole. For the show to suddenly reveal that this was all an elaborate ruse, a necessary facade for his “undercover” work, felt like a cheat. The tension and stakes that had been so carefully cultivated were deflated in an instant. It was a classic case of an anticlimax, a big reveal that left the audience with more questions than answers and less satisfaction than frustration.
The show’s attempt to salvage the storyline, by having LaRoche leave his post due to the “unstable dynamic” with the team, felt like a weak attempt to explain away his departure and leave the Deputy Director position open once again. While this does open the door for McGee to reapply for the promotion, it doesn’t erase the damage done to his character’s integrity. It’s a professional opportunity born from a deeply personal humiliation.
The LaRoche storyline had the potential to be a defining moment for the new era of NCIS. It could have been the first major post-Gibbs arc to showcase McGee’s evolution, solidifying his role as the team’s anchor. It could have been a powerful statement about trust, intuition, and the enduring legacy of Gibbs’s teachings. Instead, it became a cautionary tale about writing yourself into a corner.
The fact that LaRoche’s secret work was for the Department of Justice, a separate agency, further distances the twist from the core of the show. It’s a problem that didn’t truly belong to NCIS, making McGee’s obsession feel even more futile. The resolution was an external fix, a deus ex machina that sidestepped the deep-seated tension the show had so expertly created.
In a procedural drama like NCIS, where the audience invests in the characters as much as the cases, such a narrative misstep is a big deal. It’s not just about a single plotline; it’s about the trust between the storyteller and the audience. And for many fans, the LaRoche twist broke that trust. It took a story with immense potential and resolved it in the most unsatisfying way possible, leaving McGee’s hard-won vindication to a plot twist that, in the end, served no one. The vendetta wasn’t resolved; it was simply rendered meaningless, and that’s a fate far worse than any villain could have inflicted.
