He felt the familiar soft tingle of electricity course through his body. The scenery around him slowly began to fade and he was gone. Once again, he was nothing more than a thought, a memory, a soul, or whatever he thought of himself at the moment of the Leap. He went to a place where hours and days meant nothing, where he was left with nothing more than the repeated reminiscences to keep him company until Time, or Space, or Whoever decided which life he was to Leap into next. He wondered if it was just a matter of milliseconds, the duration between his Leaps, or if it lasted for days, months, years even. He would have to remember to ask Al.

Al Calavicci. Retired United States Naval Officer. What Al retired as, he couldn't remember. He heaved a sigh and squeezed his eyes closed. Or, he would have, if he was flesh and blood. But he wasn't. Right now, he was just a memory. That's what he decided he would be this time around. Nothing more than a memory.

The memory of Sam…Sam what? He had received the Nobel Prize and could recall that article in Time magazine where the author proclaimed him as "the next Einstein". He could explain the structural mechanics of nuclear engineering. But he couldn't recall something as simple as his last name.

He stopped and started over once again. After all, he had nothing but time. His name was Sam. He was born August 8, 1954. No, 1953. He had an older brother, Tom, and a younger sister, Katie. He was born in Elk Ridge, Indiana and his last name was…Christ, what was his last name?

Beckett. Samuel John Beckett. He felt a sense of satisfaction rush through him, although it was quickly replaced by a feeling of despair. He wondered if this was all that was left for him. An aura condemned to replay memories of a past that existed long ago as he Leaped from life to life to fix others mistakes when he wasn't even allowed to fix his own.

The familiar feeling returned. He was Leaping into a new body, a new life, and a new problem.

It always took a few moments before he was semi-aware of what was happening around him. But, for some reason, it was his sense of smell that returned to him first. Every time.

The stench was almost nauseating. The heavy smell of decay mixed with wisps of cigarette smoke. He brought a hand to his mouth automatically; covering his nose with the cloth he just realized was gripped tightly in his grasp. Someone was speaking, if it was to him, he hadn't a clue. He still wasn't completely there.

The scenery in front of him began to come into focus. The room was brightly lit, filled with a few men dressed in suits, a couple of them with lit cigarettes dangling from their lips. If the stench inside the room was bothering them, they didn't let on.

The air was thick and heavy, his own clothes sticking to his body as trickles of sweat rolled down his back. A sound of a flash bulb behind him spun him on his heels, receiving a wary glance from the lanky man as he focused the camera once more. Sam's eyes followed the aim of the lens. His stomach lurched when he noticed the scene in front of him. Another flash, another whirl from the camera. Its lens capturing the image of the man's body sprawled on the thick carpet, the light fibers stained to a dark crimson as it soaked up the blood that had seeped from the slash along the young man's throat. It was obvious the oppressive heat had taken a toll on the body at Sam's feet, its skin was a sickeningly yellow, the exposed skin showing signs of bloat. Hence the smell, Sam thought to himself.

Sam forced himself to breath through his mouth and took a few more seconds to take in what was happening around him. Another quick, but slightly better, glance at the half a dozen men sharing the room with him. He noticed brief glints of metal on their waists, the indoor lights reflecting off the polished gold. Behind him stood a uniformed police officer, dutifully logging who entered and exited what Sam believed was the front door. A brief glace at his own waistline and he found a gold badge pinned to his belt. The extra weight on his right hip told him he was armed as well.

"Christ, Joe, you coulda at least warned me." Sam turned toward the doorway, not really sure if he was 'Joe' or not, but the unexpected baritone voice forced his attention in that direction. "I hate the smell of dead bodies in the summer. And this one's been only dead for maybe two days tops." The owner of the baritone voice stood just under Sam's, or rather his host body's, height, with a rather large pot belly that stood out in severe contrast with the man's thin arms and legs. His graying black hair was slicked back against his scalp. He took a deep drag from the cigarette that he had precariously perched between his lips, blowing the smoke clear from his lungs through his nostrils before giving Sam a slight nudge. He motioned with his head that he wanted Sam to follow as he headed into one of the adjoining rooms, away from the other men who were wrapped up in each of their own individual jobs to give the departing men a second glance. The pot-bellied man led Sam into a kitchen, the sharp smell of bleach assaulting his nostrils, nearly covering the stench of the dead man that may or may not have been lying in his living room for two days, decaying.

"So, that's, uh, that's him, huh?" Sam studied the man next to him for a few seconds, noticing the mischievous glint in his coal black eyes.

"Uh, uh, what?"

"Sidney. Now I know why you got here so damned quick." The mischievous glint disappeared when he recognized the lost look Sam couldn't hide. Obviously, Leaping in at some of the most inopportune moments was a huge cosmic joke on whatever decided where and when he ended up. "Someone's going to have to break it to Vera. And I'm sure you'll want to be her knight in shining armor, so to speak, eh, Joe?"

"Vera?" Sam was utterly confused and he was just too tired to even try and pretend he knew what the hell was going on.

"Vera Thomas. The dead guy's wife. Or have you forgotten? You're pretty smitten with Miss Hollywood herself and I know how much you despised the 'dearly departed' so maybe you forgot she was married?" His tone was mocking, as if he and 'Joe' had been sharing a private joke, and now he had to carefully explain it to 'Joe', who for no reason at all, seemed to be in his own little world. "Hey, Joe, it's alright." the pot-bellied man gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. "It's our investigation. It's alright." Another pat and the pot-bellied man headed back into the living room. Sam stood in place, staring at the empty space the pot-bellied man vacated. He felt his stomach tighten again. He ran a hand through his hair, noticing it was cropped close to his head. So far, all he knew was his name was Joe, he was a police officer, and he knew the dead man. Or rather Joe knew the dead man. And the glint in the pot-bellied man's eye told him Joe and the dead man, what did he say his name was? Sidney?, were not on the friendliest of terms. And obviously Joe should be ecstatic Sidney was laying dead in his living room. And maybe Joe had something to do with Sidney lying dead in his living room.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath of air before slowly letting it escape from his lungs.

"Oh, boy."