Disclaimer: I don't own 'Crossing Jordan'. If I did, the series wouldn't have ended in the cliffhanger it did.

It was a clear, crisp fall night and the stars were out doing their dance in the dark blue sky. Of course, with all of the city lights in a place like Boston, one would barely be able to enjoy the nightly spectacle to its full extent, if at all. However, some people, like Nigel Townsend, tried nonetheless. He had just stepped out from one of the city's local bars when he decided on a whim to glance up and admire what he could of the celestial lights. 'Lovely night,' he thought to himself. Then, he made his way to his motorcycle, which he had to park across the street. As he grabbed his helmet and got out his keys, he heard something in a nearby alley, something that sounded like someone grunting in pain. Deciding to investigate, he peeked around the corner and saw a gang of five men beating a lone man. They were talking, but Nigel couldn't make out very much for their voices were low, as if they wanted their victim to hear them, but they didn't want their voices echoing off the walls. As much as he wanted to go in and help the guy, Nigel knew there was no way he could handle those men all by himself; that would be suicide. So, he reached his hand into his pocket to grab his cell phone to call for help. However, that idea was immediately scratched when a loud bang resonated in the alley. Nigel quietly gasped and his eyes widened when the man fell to the ground—and didn't move. That was when he noticed that one of the men had a gun. Realizing how dangerous the situation really was, and noticing that one of the men was beginning to look his way, he ran, started his motorcycle, and tore off into the street as fast as he could. He didn't go very far, however, and drove into a parking garage. Somehow, his criminologist nature kicked in and told him not to abandon the crime scene; he had to go back. And so, after breathing a few deep breaths to gather up his nerves, he exited the garage and, begrudgingly, headed towards the alley a different way.

Five minutes later, he had returned and there was already a small police squad securing the scene and talking to people. 'Boy, they work fast,' Nigel thought to himself.

"Nigel!" a voice called.

It was Woody, who was waving him down. "What is it?" Nigel asked.

"Apparently a shooting," Woody answered. "Happened a few minutes ago. From what I saw before I let the night boys take over, it looks like the victim was shot through the chest at pointblank range. Unfortunately, even though we have a lot of people, myself included, who heard the shot, nobody seems to have seen anything."

"Actually, Woody, that's not true."

"What do mean?"

Nigel suddenly felt the words get caught in his throat, the memory of what he just saw still fresh and Woody's confirmation of the man's death echoing in his mind. "Nigel?" Woody asked, a little concerned about his friend's complexion.

Nigel forced himself to speak, "Woody, I . . . I-I saw what happened."

"What?"

"I was here earlier. I'm a witness."

"Why weren't you here, then?"

"I couldn't stay, Woody. If I did, they would've killed me, too."

A short pause followed as Woody scratched his head. "Did they see you?"

"No, I don't think so," Nigel answered. "I managed to get away pretty quick. Woody, I'm sorry I didn't stay put; I would have, but -"

"It's ok Nigel, you had to get of here, but you're going to have to give your statement to one of the officers here since I'm off-duty."

"I know," Nigel nodded in response as he combed his fingers through his hair, still feeling a little shaken.

Woody called over a well-built black policeman and directed him to Nigel. "Sorry, Nige, but I have to get going," Woody said as he clapped the Brit's shoulder. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah, see you, Woody," Nigel nodded.

The officer took out a pencil and notepad, "Ok, tell me what happened, every possible detail you can remember."

"I had left the bar about 9:00 p.m. and was walking across the street to my bike. I was about to get on when I heard noises in the alley."

"What kind of noises?"

"Grunts, like the kind one makes when he's hurt. I decided to see what was going on. The man was being beaten by a group of five other men."

"Did you call out to them or anything?"

"No, but now I sure wish I did. Maybe then realizing they had a witness would've scared them off and he would still be alive."

The officer looked Nigel in the eye, "Hey, man, this isn't your fault. There was nothing you could've done without also getting yourself killed. Anyway, go on."

"Not much else after that," Nigel continued. "I started reaching for my cell phone, but before I could call for help, the next thing I know I hear the gunshot and the man falls to the ground. One of the men looked like he was beginning to look my way and that's when I bolted."

The policeman let Nigel have a little pause as he finished writing down his statement. "Is that all you remember?" he asked. "Did you by chance hear or recognize any kind of clue as to what it could've been about?"

Nigel thought about it for a minute, "Now that you mention it, I did hear them talking. I couldn't make out the whole conversation, but I think I heard something about money and a game."

The officer wrote that last note down and handed the notepad to Nigel, "Just sign at the bottom." Nigel did so and gave the paper back to him. "Mr. Townsend, would you say you got a very good look at all of these men?" asked the policeman. When Nigel confirmed the assumption, he continued, "Would you be willing to consult with a sketch artist?" Nigel agreed, and the policeman led the way.

About an hour later, Nigel was finally back in his apartment, psychologically drained and physically exhausted. As he prepared for bed, the past few hours kept flashing past his mind's eye. It wasn't just witnessing a murder, someone's death; it was the whole ordeal of having to live through it again for the police. Giving his statement and consulting with the sketch artist was bad enough, then he was asked to submit a DNA sample. They explained, and thankfully very civilly, that even if it was for a little bit, one would naturally think it very suspicious that Nigel fled the scene of a crime. Therefore, if nothing came up between the man and Nigel, he would be eliminated as a suspect. Finally, he laid down on his back on his bed, but something in the back of his mind told him that after what just happened, sleep wasn't going to come easy.

The next morning, at the Medical Examiner's Office, Jordan reported in for work. After receiving her assignments from Garret, she headed straight to the morgue. On the way she bumped into Nigel. "Hey, Nige," she greeted, but the man didn't seem to hear or notice. Trying again, she tapped his shoulder, "Good morning, Nigel."

"Oh, morning, Jordan," he replied before covering his mouth for a yawn.

"Are you ok?" Jordan asked.

"Didn't get much sleep last night, that's all," Nigel answered, which was pretty much true; after last night's events he had a hard time relaxing enough to actually fall asleep, despite how beat he was.

"Well, that's what you get for drinking into the wee hours of the night."

"For your information, love, my last drink was at 8:15. And, you should be one to talk about staying up until it's practically the next day."

The two shared a laugh, with Jordan admitting, "Touché," as they entered the morgue.

As his colleague grabbed hold of a table, one of the bodies caught Nigel's eye and he froze. It was the man from the night before, the one he saw get killed. Against his will, the man's death played itself again in his head. Suddenly, he became aware that Jordan was calling his name.

"Uh, what?" he asked stupidly.

"Nige, are you sure you're ok?" asked Jordan with a concerned frown.

"Um . . . yeah, I, uh, I just n-need to get to work," he stammered, and he nearly bolted out through the doors, leaving a rather confused Jordan in his wake.

As he quickly walked down the hall towards the lab, Nigel let out of a sigh of relief; the truth was he wasn't ready to tell Jordan, or anyone else, of the murder he witnessed and he wanted to get out of there before she started asking more questions. He just happened to pass the break room when he heard a news report on the TV, the mention of a murder the night before catching his ear. "Late last night, this alleyway was the scene of a cold-blooded murder. Police responded to the scene after receiving several 911 calls reporting the sound of a gunshot. Though the victim is described as a thirty-six year old Caucasian man, police are, at this point, not disclosing the identity of the victim." When the news moved onto something else, Nigel continued on his way to the lab, hoping, praying, that work would keep his mind off of the man and what happened. Reaching his destination, he was about to start when there was a knock on the door. It was Garret.

"Are you doing alright, Nigel?" he asked.

"Fine, I'm fine," Nigel fibbed. "Why do you ask?"

Garret stepped in, closing the door behind him, a sign that whatever was going on he wanted to discuss in private. "Woody told me what happened last night," Garret answered. "About you witnessing that murder." For a moment, Nigel blanched and his smile faded.

"Who else knows?"

"Just me. I asked Woody not to tell anyone else."

The Chief Medical Examiner placed a gentle hold on the Brit's shoulder. He could feel the tenseness in the muscles. "Nigel, if you want, you can take the next few days off if you need too."

"Thanks, Dr. Macey, but I think I can handle it," said Nigel. "I'm hoping that work will help distract me enough to get through the day."

"Alright, but if you need a break, don't be afraid to ask," Garret said, and he turned to leave. Just as he grabbed the doorknob, he suddenly said, "Flint Kingswell."

"Excuse me," Nigel asked, perplexed.

"The man's name was Flint Kingswell, in case you were wondering. His family's already been notified and they are on their way."

Once Garret walked out the door, Nigel did his best to get his seething under control and get busy.

An hour later, Lily stood beside a young woman who earlier identified herself as the man's sister. When she gave the ok, Jordan opened the drawer to reveal him. The visiting woman nodded with a deflated expression.

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Kingswell," Jordan said sympathetically.

"He's the man that was on the morning news, isn't he? The one that was killed in an alley last night," Ms. Kingswell asked the two women. Lily nodded. "You want to know what's kind of funny? When I heard that news report, he was the first person that came to my mind as to who it was."

Just then, Woody popped his head in. "Ms. Kingswell, I'm Detective Hoyt. I just wanted to let you know, when you're ready, I need to ask you some questions about your brother, Flint."

"Ok," the woman nodded.

"Do you want some time alone?" Lily asked.

After giving it some thought, Ms. Kingswell nodded and Lily and Jordan left the room. Lily stole a peek through the window to see Ms. Kingswell seemingly start to sob a little as she grasped her late brother's hand.

Later in the day, Woody was on his way out when he noticed something in his peripheral vision. Nigel was waving him down. Letting himself in, he asked, "How are you holding up?"

"Fine, spectacular. Though I would've really appreciated it if you hadn't told someone else about last night without consulting me first," Nigel answered testily.

Woody didn't need three guesses to know what he was speaking of.

"Just what exactly was the idea, Woodrow?"

"I'm sorry, Nige. I guess I figured you were going to tell Garret anyway."

"Then why didn't you let me?"

Woody sighed; Nigel did have a point. "Nigel, I really am sorry." Nigel, though, just changed the subject without ever taking his eyes off his computer screen.

"I heard you questioned the man's sister."

"Yeah, she wasn't able to tell me as much as I would've liked, but, after a little more digging, she may have pointed us closer to a motive. Turns out Kingswell had a bit of a gambling problem; didn't know when to stop due to believing that his next shot could be the jackpot he'd been waiting for. She tried to get him to quit while he was ahead, but when he wouldn't listen she gave up and they hadn't been in contact very much for the last three years."

"He never even begged her for money?"

"Nope."

"Well, guess either the poor bloke was too optimistic for his own good, or he still had some dignity after all."

"Well, I'm going to head back to the station, see if anybody's found anything on those guys you saw. I'll catch you later."

Woody clapped Nigel on the back and left, but frowned at how his friend didn't seem to even register his departure.

At the station, Woody flipped through a file the officer that Nigel talked to handed to him. Turned out they were able to identify the suspects, and it wasn't good. All of the men were wanted on illegal gambling and murder charges; they were bad news. Unfortunately, they were no closer to finding them than when they started; there were no finger or shoeprints, the tire tracks that were found were too smudged up from other tracks, and no one, not even Nigel got a look at the getaway vehicle, let alone its license plate. For the time being, they had come to a dead end. 'At least we have their faces,' he thought to himself. 'With the media and all, there's no way they'll be able to go anywhere without exposing themselves.'

Everyone figured with their faces all over the place, at least one of the suspects would be in custody within a matter of hours. But, those hours turned into days, which soon turned into weeks. Two and in a half weeks had passed, and there hadn't been hair or sign of them anywhere. Everyone guessed that they must've skipped town, letting Nigel breathe easier. Even though there was no way they could've known who he was, he still felt himself going on alert whenever he went outside the first few days out of fear that the men would pounce.

The police finally got a hot tip about the men's whereabouts—an apartment building in downtown Boston. Woody could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he grabbed hold of his firearm and prepared himself to rush in as soon as the landlord unlocked the door. One second they were flattened against the wall, the next they were rushing in through the door and searching the place. Unfortunately, it appeared that they were too late; the place was empty. Woody released a sigh of disgust when his colleagues confirmed that the place was clear. However, as he searched for clues, he found a used paper pad that showed in the light of the sun that there were etchings on it, as if whatever was written on the previous sheet the indentations got imprinted onto the next one. 'Hopefully this can tell something useful,' he thought, bagging the evidence. Once all possible evidence was bagged and prints and photos were taken, the apartment was cleared out and it was taken to the local crime lab. Unfortunately, all Woody could do was wait for the results, and he asked them to call him once they were available.

The hours went by and Woody still hadn't received the expected call. 'How long can it possibly take to figure out what the etchings say?' he said to himself. He waited fifteen more minutes and had decided to try and call them when his cell phone rang. "Hoyt," he answered. It was the crime lab. They had the results of what was on the writing pad sheet. "Great, what did it say?" he asked. His smile drooped to a concerned frown when they told him as he wrote it down. After thanking them and hanging up, he quickly got out his address book and looked up an address he recognized to compare it to the one the crime lab gave him. It was a match, and one of those 'oh, crap' moments. Like a shot, Woody grabbed his coat and rushed into his car. As he drove, he dialed on his cell phone, hoping it wasn't too late.

Meanwhile, Nigel was at his apartment, trying to decide what sounded good for dinner when his cell started ringing. "Townsend," he answered.

"Nigel, it's Woody," a familiar voice said on the other end. "Where are you?"

"At home. Why?"

"Get out of there. Find somewhere else to stay for a while."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Turns out we were wrong about Kingswell's killers. Earlier today, I was at an apartment they lived in for a while and found a writing pad. The crime lab just called me and said that the etchings found on it were a license number and an address—your license number and address! They must've got your bike's number as you drove away and, through that, somehow managed to find your address. Nigel, they know who you are; they know where you live."

As Woody said that last line, Nigel just had enough time to feel like his heart stopped before he was suddenly tackled to the floor.

"Nigel? Nigel, are you there?" Woody inquired into his phone after hearing something that sounded like a thud. But, there was no response, only some scuffling sounds. "Nigel? Nigel, can you hear me?" he tried again. He thought he heard Nigel's voice shout his name, but he lost connection with the phone. 'Oh, no. Please no,' he thought to himself as he hung up and tried to call Nigel's home phone. Unfortunately, a recorded operator's voice said that the line was disconnected. Stomach tightening uncomfortably, Woody got on his radio and called for back-up at Nigel's residence. Dispatch confirmed Woody's request and spread the word through the radio while he put on his siren and zoomed through traffic.

At his apartment, Nigel wrestled against one of his assailants. After one of them brought him down, causing him to lose his grip on his cell, he struggled to get a hold of it and called out to his friend on the other end. But a foot crushed it before he could reach it. Now he was on his back, his hands pinned to the floor, with not one but two men above—men he recognized from that night. He shouted for help, but didn't get more than one yell out before the other man covered his mouth and nose with a cloth. The Brit fought to get it off for a few seconds before realizing the gag had a sweet aroma to it. 'Chloroform!' his forensic investigator instincts screamed; they were trying to drug him. The realization made him desperately thrash about even harder while trying not to breathe in any more of the chemical. Unfortunately, it was all ready too late; Nigel could feel the chloroform taking effect. He tried to fight off the drowsiness that was starting to blur his vision, tried to hold on until the police arrived, but it was a losing battle. His limbs, his body started to feel like it was made of lead. His movements were quickly becoming sluggish and non-responsive. Try as he might, his eyes got droopier and droopier until he just couldn't keep them open any longer.

"I think he's finally under, man," said the man on top of Nigel when his eyes closed and he stopped struggling.

His partner removed the gag and softly slapped Nigel's face. Nigel didn't respond as his head lobbed from side to side. Then, the man pressed an index and middle finger to his neck. "It worked," he reported, feeling a pulse. "Let's get out of here." The two men hoisted Nigel up by his shoulders and legs and carried him to the window. Carefully, they executed the tricky business of transporting the tall man out the window and down the fire escape. Finally, they made it to the last level of railing before reaching the ground, where a white van and the rest of their number were waiting. They lowered Nigel down to two of their compatriots, who loaded him into the van. Once they were all inside, the second tapped the driver's seat, "Go, now!" And with that, the van disappeared into the night.

Minutes later, sirens wailed as police cruisers drove up and parked in front of the apartment complex. Woody led them up to Nigel's door, praying real hard that they got there in time. Adrenaline pumping, he kicked the door so hard it nearly flew off of its hinges. He and the officers filed in and instantly began going through the residence, guns drawn. He noticed what appeared to be pieces of a cell phone and that the home line was unplugged, explaining why he couldn't reach Nigel through it. Seeing that the living room was empty, Woody felt the tightening in his stomach get worse. 'Calm down, Woody,' he said to himself. 'Maybe someone will find something in the other rooms.' However, that hope slowly began to fade with each announcement that there was nothing in any of them. When the last room was cleared, Woody could've sworn he just received the nastiest sucker punch to the gut; they were already too late. After giving the order, he and the officers began collecting any evidence they could find or anything that looked out of place.