A/N:

garretelliot - Wow, really? Thanks! That made my day! You're not the only one bouncing:p.

GoddessOfSnark: Thanks for reading! Sorry about the typos I'll try to get rid of them in future chapters!

Ok well heres the next'un...not sure about the suspense, its not exactly a cliffy at the end but I thought I'd delve into some of their minds - namely Garret and Woody of course...oh and I'm not sure Renee would be coming down personally to stop the autopsy, I just thought I'd throw her in coz I like her! Hehe. Oh and is it Renee or Rene? Ok well usual disclaimer...and as before I added some lines that were actually in the ep 'Ockhams Razor' and 'Don't Look Back' because I like flashbacks and premade flashbacks are even better! But I'm sure the writers wont begrudge me a line or two... Ok well read on!

Garret had sent the other two away, despite much protestation from them. This was something he had to do himself, he couldn't explain it. If pain must be distributed among them, he would make sure he shouldered it for his colleagues. It was his way.Plus, he felt he owed it to Jordan, and owed it to Max.

He held the scalpel, poised under the left clavicle and hesitated. Never before had he hesitated before performing the y-incision, of indeed any of the other requirements of a post-mortem. But hesitate he did, and the body before him was suddenly alive, Garret's memory spewed forth many memories…memories of the times he and Max had spent together, discussing Jordan, fatherhood and the football, sharing beers and stories, and of course, the annual tradition of solving old cases. He took a deep breath, and tried to psyche himself up. He had to do this.

The door flew open and Garret turned, opening his mouth, expecting Bug or Nigel to come in demanding to be a part of it, demanding to help. He was not prepared for the DA, Renee Walcott, to storm in. Her eyes flew to the body, and she asked, "Max Cavanaugh?"

Garret nodded. Her eyes narrowed.

"I can't permit this," she said simply, preparing for an argument.

"I can't permit you to not permit it," Garret said simply. "Its something I have to do."

"This is way beyond a conflict of interest, Garret," she said, looking at the body, unfazed. "How about I call someone in?"

"No," he said, and she could see he would not be moved.

"The evidence will be torn apart, analysed, for any hint of bias."

Something inside Garret exploded. "Bias?" he just short of shouted, before taking in a sharp breath and looking away. "Bias?" he repeated. "How can I possibly be bias? I have absolutely no idea who could have shot him."

She looked at him blandly.

"Nor does Jordan," he added, for good measure.

"Where is she?" Renee asked, voice softening. He remembered that she too was human and would appreciate his predicament.

"Taking personal leave," he told her brusquely, not wanting to reveal he had no idea where she was.

"You must understand why I cannot permit this," she said.

He looked at her. "And you must understand why I must do this."

She looked away. He stepped forward. "No one has to know of the connection!"

"A damn strong one," she reminded him, and he let out a frustrated breath.

"All the more reason for me to do this!" he said loudly, losing control momentarily. Only Renee could make him this agitated, only she…he shook the thought out of his head. It was over. "What more motivation could someone have?" he implored, voice nearly breaking.

Renee looked at him, weighing him up. "You know I can keep my cool," he said quietly. She broke.

"There is no question of that, I know. Fine. Do the damn autopsy! But don't come crying to me when your evidence is inadmissible!" she snapped, irritation borne of being defeated, of not making him see what mistake he was making. She knew she had the power to completely divert the case, but could see it would be practically futile. He would worm his way into the case anyhow. She gave him one last, exasperated look, before turning on her heel and leaving the room. He sighed, and turned back to his charge, hands steady, head cool. He was Garret Macy, after all. He had an example to set, and a murder to solve, and he'd be damned if he'd let some trumped up DA overrule him. Scalpel poised again, he didn't stop to procrastinate, and began the autopsy.

-------

"Alright!" Woody barked into the phone, rubbing his forehead absently with his hand. "I'll wait. But make it quick!"

He had just relayed Jordan's number plate to the last state police force in the US. It had taken him all night, but he had finally finished. She could be literally anywhere, he reasoned, and he was determined to be thorough. He put the phone back onto the receiver, and stared out of the small but adequate window in his office. He watched people scurry by, in a hurry to get home to their families, and thought of the home he would go to. A small apartment, well-furnished, sensible, plain, boring. On a normal night, he would open a beer or a bottle of scotch and plonk down in front of the TV, reviewing case files for the day before finally turning on the black box, and watching whatever the hell was on. Thus was his life. He lamented for a second that he had no one to share it with, no lover or family, but reasoned he was well-suited to his solitude. He was sure some day it would all pan out.

He was weary, and could not think of a single thing more to do to help Jordan. He had placed tabs on her and her car, but it was likely she had just dumped it somewhere on the side of a long lonely road in the middle of nowhere. A memory came to him, unbidden, of the night he and Jordan where marooned in the desert with nothing but a bombed out '59 cadillac and the makings of a fire. They had talked, about what he couldn't remember. Then the talk had gotten more personal. He had told her about when he first came to Boston he had wanted to portray a 'certain image' and so skimped on his living space to buy a new suit. They were sitting close, too close for normal comfort. The tension had been thick in the air, and both of them were growing more and more excited.

"I'm sorry, Woody," she had said, staring into his eyes. "What for?" he had asked, surprised. "For not knowing you better." "A little hard when your life's philosophy is 'don't ask, don't tell'." She had grinned wryly. "I could try a little harder," she said hoarsely, eyes straying to his lips. "Ask more questions…or just…"

He recalled his head swimming as she leant forward and kissed him full on the lips. Surprised, he had responded in kind, but before they could fully enjoy the experience it had been rudely interrupted. Woody wasn't fazed. It had been enough. He sighed, emerging from the memory, her scent coming back to him with clarity, and he remembered the night before…was it really only a few hours ago? He had stood in her apartment and sensed her loss; it had been a blow to him, almost physical. He would have probably have stood there much longer had not Garret, good, sensible Garret, come in to direct the investigation. Who are the detectives here? Woody asked of himself dryly, recalling all the investigations he had conducted with Jordan and Garret, so infuriatingly alike in their morals and actions. He wondered why they did not clash, and then remembered the obvious love between them. He winced at the word, but there was no other way to describe it. Jordan would go to any length for her boss, and Garret, he knew, would do exactly the same, if not more for his tear-away employee.

------

Jordan stared, not comprehending. "But she…they said that you found Doris' diary!"

James shook his head. "I didn't even know she kept one," he admitted. "She tracked me down."

"How?" Jordan said, numb.

"I don't know," he said. "Truly I don't. I suspect Max kept my whereabouts from me. She was intelligent, though. Probably put 2 and 2 together…she knew all about the case he was working on of course. About the real James. The one who died."

His throat constricted and he was once again hit with the realisation that he was a phoney, a fake, an impostor. The real James, he said over and over in his mind. The one who died. I am not James! Staring back at Jordan, seeing her watching him, he cleared his throat.

"She put a letter in my locker at school. At least I'm pretty sure it was her."

"A letter?" Jordan repeated stupidly. He nodded. "Do you have it?" she asked in a hushed voice, and he stared for a minute before nodding slowly. He watched her reaction, watched her sit up straighter, watched her eyes light up with anticipation.

"It didn't say much," he said uncertainly, but she urged him to go get it. He did, and came back with a piece of paper clutched in his hand. Her eyes locked onto it, and he held it to him, somewhat reluctant to part with it. Jordan's hand twitched, he could tell she was bursting to snatch it from him. He held it out to her and she grabbed onto it. Her eyes narrowed as she opened it, then they widened, and she let out a choked sob. He could tell she hadn't read a word of it, because it contained nothing that would spur an emotional reaction. She knew the writing, he realised with a jolt. And he was true. That loopy, cursive handwriting that was so unique to her mother, the writing she thought was gone forever. She passed her hand over the paper, feeling the indentations the writing had left, knowing her mother had made the marks on this paper. A tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek, to land on her brother's clean linoleum floor. She cleared her mind and began to read.

James, it read. They are not your parents. Come to me, come to 1947 Broad Street, tomorrow night, the 17th of September. I'll show you who your real parents are.

The note was not signed. She looked up from the paper at James, who continued as if there was never a break.

"Obviously my curiosity was aroused. It had never occurred to me before that my parents were not my parents, and I was suspicious. I confronted them about it, perhaps me aggressively than I should have done." He sunk deep into the memory, remembering the night his world had turned upside-down. "They confessed to the whole thing. They wouldn't tell me where he was though. But I had the address."

"You left."

"I left. I went straight to her house…your house. You were…" he paused. "You were asleep."

"Did you see me?" she whispered, eyes prickling as he nodded.

"She showed me. You were so small," he commented, and she refrained from making the sarcastic comment that would make life so much easier for her. The dry wit she tapped into every time life got just that little bit too hard.

"Then we talked," he continued. "She told me she was my mother, right at the start. That I was the fruit of a forbidden relationship…" he stopped suddenly and laughed, a sharp, barking laugh that caused chills to run down his sister's back. "I'm making it sound so romantic," he said bitterly. "It was two people fulfilling their lust, their damned lust!" He was breathing hard, and making an effort to calm down, but he needn't have bothered. Jordan was totally on his side.

"She forgot to mention the whole 'trying to kill me' incident though." He looked at Jordan uncertainly. "Did he mean it?"

Jordan was, for the umpteenth time that night, taken back to their first meeting.

"She was holding you under the water," Max had confessed, voice breaking with the memory. "I pulled you out of her hands myself."

Shocked at the revelation, James had grown angry again.

"That is not why!" he shouted as a means of distracting them all from the terrible accusation.

Jordan had been disgusted. She knew her mother had been sick…but to go that far? It wasn't fair. On any of them, James, Max, herself. Damn, life was a bitch.

"He meant it," she assured him. "Rarely does he lose his cool. He was clearly in distress at the memory. He meant it," she repeated, and James nodded.

"I thought as much," he said unnecessarily.

"What else did she tell you?" Jordan asked, tired and weary now, her lack of sleep and grief trying valiantly to catch up with her, and she was running furiously from them both.

"Nothing that really relates to this. To you. Except that she was being followed."

"Ah," she said, not bothering to pursue the matter. Jordan looked out of the window, suddenly uncomfortable. She wouldn't be safe here for long. She, like her mother, was being pursued. Luckily for her, not by someone who wanted to kill her. She was pretty sure Garret and Woody would be doing everything in their power to hunt her down…but she didn't want to be found. And when Jordan didn't want to be found, Jordan would not be found.

"We're not fugitives, you know," James said.

"You may not be," she replied wryly. "I have to get my car out of here."

"Right," he said matter-of-factly, standing up. "Time to dump your old vehicle then."

"Well not exactly dump," she said uncomfortably. "I'm probably going to need it."

"Nonsense," James said practically. "I'm guessing the people after you are friendly?"

She nodded. "Then just dump it, set them on the wrong trail, and I'm sure they'll keep it for you. I'll follow and give you a lift back."

Jordan stood reluctantly. "Alright."