Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan.

Note: I know I'm repeating myself, but I am sorry it took me so long to update. I hope to have the next chapter up in seven to ten days. (All information concerning updates will be on my profile, where you currently can find a very cute Jill Hennessy quote, which - I think - will at least make you giggle. :))

Thanks to everybody who's reading, but special thanks to 2merryann, BugFan4Ever, KJ22, lbcjfan and Mexwojo.

"Sweet Nancy!" Nigel stopped dead in his tracks. "What's happened here?"

"Nothing," Woody answered, his reverie broken. "Jordan dropped some test-tubes."

The criminologist went past him, careful not to step into blood. "Well, she knows we keep cloths and stuff here," he said, bending and opening a cupboard. "No need to call Brian because of a couple of drops. That boy already has too much on his plate."

"I don't think she went to find Brian, Nige," Woody clarified quietly.

"Why?" Nigel straightened up, dropping a magic cloth. Suspicion filled his eyes. "What did you do to her? What now?"

Woody snapped, irritated by the resurfacing anger in the other man's voice. "Nigel, I don't think that's your-"

"Oh, just shut the bloody hell up!" Nigel had had it enough too, and this time he was going to give Woody a piece of his mind. "I've watched this for long enough! We all have! We thought it was just a transitory phase, that you'd stop being a jerk eventually. But no! You're just getting worse every day! And I'm fed up! You're not gonna hurt her any more; not if I have anything to-"

"Well, you don't!" Woody interrupted him, grinding his teeth together as he spoke. "What's up with all you people here? Why do you think you have the right to mind everyone's business? What gives you the right to know everything?" He waved his hands around.

"I have the right!" Nigel insisted. "We have the right. Because Jordan is our friend." He jabbed a finger at Woody. "And we're going to protect her. She's our friend." He was already at the door when he turned around to add, "Just like you used to be."

"So, what is it?" inquired Dr. Howard Stiles when his patient ended his rant.

Woody's eyes widened slightly. The doctor's bluntness never ceased to amaze him. Wasn't this weird guy supposed to… you know, help him? Making him feel stupid wasn't very helpful. "What do you mean?"

"You've been avoiding talking about your brother," Stiles said as if that explained everything, and the look in Woody's eyes changed. He should have known it by now – he was busted; again. The strange little man wasn't nearly as benign as he pretended to be. He was shrewder than people would give him credit for before they got to know him. In a way, he reminded Woody of himself. "Today you show up and start talking all about him, out of the blue," the doctor finally continued, seeing that the other man wasn't going to speak up.

"And? I thought it was a good thing. You know, I'm opening up, trying to work through my difficulties," retorted the detective, struggling to sound nonchalant while his mind was frantically searching for something to sidetrack the psychiatrist with. Although he knew he shouldn't be doing that, that he should tell everything to this man, he simply couldn't help himself. After keeping so much inside for so long, opening up was excruciating.

"It would be a good thing. But there are two things which concern me." The degree of indifference in Stiles's voice matched that in Woody's, but his eyes were serious.

"Yeah?" Woody blurted out. "And what could those be?"

"For starters, you don't have difficulties. You have problems. Serious problems with controlling your temper, to begin with." The doctor gave him one of his playful little smiles. A somewhat more careful observer, however, wouldn't miss a hint of sadness in it.

"Oh, okay, I get it." The other man shrugged, returning the smile. He was stalling, weighing his options, plotting how to exit that office as soon as possible, but without throwing a tantrum. "I'm a lost cause."

"You know, you are turning into my most difficult nut." Stiles nodded. "And here I thought I'd never see the day," he added under his breath, mentally counting how long it was until the next yearly evaluation of the feisty, sarcastic and not-in-the-least-bit-cooperative brunette "nut" also known as Jordan Cavanaugh, M.E.

"Great." Woody's voice came out a little harsher than he wanted. "Since we've established that, I think I can go." He stood up. "Thanks so much for your help."

Disregarding the detective's sarcasm followed by a toothy grin, the psychiatrist asked, "Don't you want to know what the other thing is?"

"Do I have to?"

"Oh, I just thought you wanted to." He smiled again. "Oh, well, never mind." He waved his hand dismissively.

Woody snorted. This was so stupid. He wasn't a five-year-old. Nevertheless, to his horror, the words escaped him before he knew it. "Okay, what is it?" He reoccupied his seat, as to admit defeat. What the hell, he could talk to Dr. Stiles a bit longer.

Stiles showed no sign of triumph. He intertwined his fingers and leaned forward in his chair. "You're talking about Calvin because you want to keep something else from me. Something that has happened recently."

"So, what are you now? A psychic?" Woody mentally kicked himself. What was wrong with him? It seemed that his tongue was way faster than his brain these days.

It was the doctor's turn to a full-fledged toothy grin. "No, I'm better." After a moment, he went on, keeping his tone light. "I'm afraid you have to realize that hiding things is a no-no. And not just because I'm insanely nosy, which I am, but because it won't bring you any good."

Woody sighed, surrendering. "Okay, so maybe something has happened." The surrender wasn't unconditional, though. "And maybe I'm not ready to talk about it." He sighed again. "Can't you just focus on why I take six sugars in my coffee or why I like caramel lattes or something like that? And how it all relates to my frustrations over the way I raised Cal, or something."

"Ah, now we're going somewhere!" the doctor practically exclaimed, and Woody tensed. "'Raised,' you see," Stiles smiled at him widely, "that's the key word. You are his brother; you weren't supposed to raise him."

"And who was? With Mom and Dad at the local cemetery?"

"You told me you went to live with your aunt Marge after your father died," the doctor pointed out.

"He didn't die!" Woody was surprised by the volume of his own voice, though he wasn't quite sure why – he was yelling a lot these days. He exhaled through clenched teeth before he spat out, "He was killed. Shot like a dog by a nothing."

"And you're still angry at him?" It was almost more of a statement than question.

"Angry? Why would I-" The detective started shouting yet again, but stopped mid-sentence and took a deep breath. Then he continued, considerably less loudly. "Yes! Yes, I am! I mean… Geez! That was such a stupid way to die. He was so stupid… To think the kid wasn't dangerous…" His voice trailed off.

"Like you thought?" the doctor asked in a quiet voice.

Woody took another deep breath before answering that. "Yes, just like I thought," he conceded.

"Is that why you're so angry? Because you were stupid?" Stiles prodded. "Or because you were just like your dad?"

The answer was almost inaudible. "Both." Then he lifted his eyes to the other man and spoke up. Maybe it was time to tell it aloud, to voice the thought he had smothered innumerous times in the last two and a half months. "I thought I was a good cop. Things were going pretty well after I'd moved to Boston. And then… bam! I was no better than some yokel cop from Kewaunee."

"So, you think your dad was just some yokel cop?" Stiles leaned in another inch, his eyes unreadable.

Woody shook his head. "No." That was truth. 'Dad may have been a lousy father, but he was good at his job.' "He was good. He was a good cop."

"But you wanted to be better than him," the doctor said matter-of-factly, nodding slightly.

Silence ensued. Woody felt as though the other man's eyes were boring holes through him. Finally, he stifled another sigh and began, "I wanted to be a good cop. I wanted to make a man out of Calvin. My Dad… he… well, he didn't really pay much attention to us. Aunt Marge used to babble around that he was like that ever since Mom died. And I didn't want Cal to feel his absence the way I already had. I wanted him to have someone to talk to. I wanted to be a better brother… a better father, maybe, to Cal than Dad had been to me. My babying Cal had started even before Dad died." The corners of his lips twitched, and then a bitter smile flashed across his face before he proceeded. "Anyhow, I guess I wasn't exactly babying him. I was just like Dad, if not worse. Hell, I was worse. Look what Cal has become – drug and alcohol abuse combined with a gambling problem, unreliable, lying-" He shook his head, and a little, mirthless laugh escaped him. "You can just see that whoever raised him did a great job."

"Maybe you were babying him?" Stiles countered. "Co-dependency is-"

"I know what the hell co-dependency is!" Woody cut him off, his face reddening and his hands rolling into fists. "And don't you try to tell me I was enabling him! Because I wasn't! Dragging him to rehab wasn't enabling. Leaving him to lead his own life afterwards wasn't enabling. Yes, I gave him some money a couple of times, but I couldn't let them kill him, could I? Even if I was enabling him, which I wasn't, I'm not doing it any more," he finished, almost breathless. After a moment, he added, "I haven't heard from him in months."

"Maybe you should call him."

"Maybe I shouldn't."

"It's up to you," Stiles admitted. "I see you've given co-dependency quite a thought. No, as a matter of fact, I don't think you were Calvin's enabler."

"That doesn't change what he has become, does it?" He was concentrating hard on the doctor's nameplate.

"No, it doesn't. But that's not your fault. You were just a child yourself." Stiles was talking slowly, as though Woody still was that child and he was afraid he wouldn't understand him.

"Still… I should have helped him."

"You can't help somebody who doesn't want help," said the doctor. His voice was firm, almost authoritative. "That's one of life's most difficult lessons, the one that takes a lot of time to learn." When his patient finally looked up to him, his voice softened a bit. "You know which one is even more difficult? The one that teaches us that we can't really help even the people who want our help. We can only support them while they're fighting their fights. We can't fight instead of them, no matter how much we want to."

"Hey," Woody greeted the people in Trace Evidence sheepishly. He hadn't forgotten the morning's events, and he was sure they hadn't either.

"Hey," Bug replied in a level voice before he headed for the door. As much as he didn't want to leave Nigel and Woody alone, his shift was over and Lily was expecting him. His priorities were clear.

Nigel remained silent. He didn't even look up from his keyboard; he just kept on typing, hitting keys with a little more force than necessary.

After squirming for a minute or two, Woody came to the conclusion that the criminologist wasn't going to make things easier. Not that he could blame him. He approached his friend.

"Look, Nigel, I'm sorry. You're right. I've been acting like an idiot lately." He hesitated, struggling to find words and hoping for any kind of reaction from Nigel. As Nigel's stance didn't change the least bit, he went on, "But, Nige, you can't think I'm doing that to her on purpose… I don't want to hurt her."

By the time he finished, Nigel had left the keyboard alone and turned to face him. "You have to work it out, mate," he told him quietly, his dark eyes radiating compassion. He felt bad for Woody, but even more for Jordan. She looked like a living dead these days, and he couldn't do anything to help her…

"I know," Woody retorted grimly, discontinuing his friend's train of thought.

At that very moment, a computer beeped, and Nigel wheeled himself to it in his office chair.

"That's it. The last database. Our mysterious man remains a mystery," he announced.

"Swell." Woody ran his hands across his face. "Can anything else possibly go wrong these days?" he muttered.

"Despair not, my dear Woodrow," Nigel, completely in his element now, wheeled himself back to the computer he had been working on, "I may have a little something for you." He turned to the monitor, and Woody did the same, trying to make something out of the burgundy mess spread across the screen.

"This, my friend," Nigel continued, "is the rug from Reilly's living room. It's been a little slow here, so I allowed myself to analyze the blood stains I photographed. You see," he magnified a portion of the carpet, "there are quite a number of these – from their shape and position, it's clear that they are the result of the spatter from when Reilly was stabbed."

He zoomed in another spot before proceeding. "But, see these little beauties, Woodrow? They go all the way from the spot where we found Reilly's body to the French doors. From their shape, I assessed the angle from which the blood must have fallen. Somewhere around ninety degrees, Woodrow, somewhere around ninety degrees." He grinned smugly.

"Which tells us what?" Math never was Woody's cup of tea. Not that any other science was.

"It tells us he walked to the French door," Nigel explained, a bit impatient, turning to face him. "And back, I guess."

"It's not like we haven't already known that, right?" Woody started pacing around. "I mean, we did find his bloody fingerprint on the handle," he finished, unmoved by Nige's pouting.

"Yes," admitted Nigel, "but it's kind of confirmed now, don't you think?" He turned to the computer again, wondering why he was always casting pearls before swine.

Woody didn't have time to reply, as his cell phone rang at that instant.

"This is Hoyt," he answered it in his usual manner. After a few minutes, the conversation was finished with his "Thank you very much."

He flipped the phone shut and turned to Nigel, whose eyes were open wide with curiosity. The fact that Woody had been silent during the entire "conversation," and that – consequently – he hadn't been able to find out anything about the call was eating him inside.

"Well, Nige," Woody smiled at him, "I think we can now be pretty sure why Reilly closed the door after 'Mr. Jackson.'" Not having Nigel's innate feel for drama, he continued without making a theatrical pause, "It took some time to have Reilly's finances checked, but I finally got some answers. It appears that playing at the stock market isn't for everyone. It was a matter of time – weeks, actually – when he would go bankrupt. He did have a life insurance policy worth some million and a half bucks, though."

"But his family wouldn't get the money if he killed himself," Nigel cut in, the realization dawning on him.

Woody nodded.

"So, you think he hired a hitman?" Nigel speculated.

"That's a possibility."

"Do you think the wife knew about that?" Nige went on with his speculations.

"That's another one," the detective answered. "I'm going to pay her a visit and find out."

Nigel was already standing, zipping his jacket up. "I'm coming with you."

"Nigel," Macy's growl entered Trace even before his frame, "where's the ballistic report on the Jones case? You said it was going to be finished by noon, and it's six o'clock now."

Nigel sat down immediately. "I'm on it, Dr. M. Just a minute."

"That's exactly how much time you have," Garret informed him. "I'll be in my office."

When Chief M.E. left, Woody tapped Nigel's shoulder sympathetically. "I'm sorry, mate," he added before heading to the door. The criminologist just nodded absent-mindedly, scribbling at almost unbelievable speed.

As he walked towards the elevators, Woody had to glance towards her office. The light was on, and the door was ajar. It meant she was still there, and he found himself a step from her threshold before he even knew it. He was being torn apart yet again – the more rational part of him was telling him that he should leave, that he should let some time pass, especially after the fiasco from this morning; still, his whole being needed to see her, to hear her. Most of all, he needed to make sure she was okay. She had scared him in the morning – he clearly remembered his impression that something important, more important than his childish tantrums, was affecting her.

"Jordan…" He started, standing beside the office door. "Jordan, before you freak out," he mentally kicked himself for his choice of words, "I'm not going to enter; please, just hear me out. I know I don't deserve it, but please…" Everything was so quiet that he was beginning to wonder whether she really was there. Maybe he was talking to an empty office. He still didn't dare peak his head inside, however, so he continued, "I need to apologize. I really need to. I know it's not enough, but I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, Jordan. The other day, I shouldn't…" He shook his head, the seriousness of what he had done that day hitting him again. 'Childish tantrums, my ass. I was… Oh God.' "It was like I lost my mind. I didn't want to force you into anything. I know it doesn't look that way, but I really… I would never… If I could turn the time back, I would, Jordan, please believe me. I know it doesn't mean anything, but I've been feeling awful about it… I-"

She didn't feel like having that conversation, especially not now. After that little scene in Trace that morning, she had coaxed Peter into letting her do his autopsies too, which meant that she had done four of them that day. She was exhausted, but not enough to fall into dreamless sleep, not enough to not think, so she decided to go back to her office and do paperwork until she was blue in the face. She really didn't want to talk to him. For God's sake, she was trying to escape from the very thought of him... 'Why does he have to be so pig-headed?' she kept asking herself.

Out loud, she offered: "I already told you it was okay."

"Jordan, are you okay?" he asked, alarmed. Her voice was gruff; she sounded like she had been crying. "You've been… strange lately."

"Look who's talking," she muttered under her breath, but he heard her and his lips curled into a smile. 'It can't be too bad if she's making such remarks, right?'

"I'm okay," she said more loudly. "You didn't force me into anything. This has nothing to do with you, trust me," she told him, involuntarily putting a slight emphasis on the you's. He didn't seem to notice it, though.

"Jordan-"

"Please, just go," she cut him off. "I don't feel like talking. I already forgot what happened. I've got other problems, so just go."

"What problems? Jordan, you can-" he insisted.

"No, I can't," she cut him off again. She hated the concern in his voice. He had told her he didn't love her. What did he want now? She didn't want to be his friend. She wanted him to… 'Idiot!' she chastised herself. 'As if anybody could love you. You're just everyone's favorite fuck buddy, that's what you are.' Feeling fresh tears rolling down her face, she kept quiet, praying for him to go away. She was too afraid to speak up, as she had a feeling that she would be squeaking more than talking.

Just as he was about to open his mouth again, a shrill sound filled the air. She literally jumped a little, but then almost smiled – his phone was helping her cause. However, he only swore under his breath, and ignored the ringing.

"Jordan… Why don't you… You can tell me. I-" Irritated, he finally pulled the phone, which was ringing incessantly, out of his pocket. He sighed at the caller's ID. Cutting Jordan some slack, he answered his captain's call.

Just as he was about to say yes, Sir one last time, the door was slammed in his face. He winced; he'd never heard her approach. Jamming the phone back into his pocket, he cursed silently – mostly himself and the captain, but he didn't forget Slocum, whom he had to thank for automatic locks in the morgue.

"Jordan?" he called softly.

But there was no answer. He rested his forehead against the door and stayed like that for good twenty minutes – Jordan, curled up into a ball next to her desk, was counting – before turning away.

As soon as he reached the precinct, Woody strode to his desk and dove into paperwork. It had turned out that Nigel wasn't the only one who was late with a report. Not wanting to risk another angry call – or a visit, which would be even worse – from the captain, he got down to work. But although he was doing his best, it was difficult to focus. His was a thousand miles away from the last week's homicide-turned-out-suicide. Glancing at his watch, he groaned inwardly – almost half an hour had passed, and he had written two and a half sentences. He ran his hands through his hair and stood up, deciding he might as well go fetch a coffee.

On his way to the coffee machine, he spotted Matt Seely talking to a tall blonde. He overheard her asking about Detective Peters and shuddered. He was hoping that the young woman wasn't looking for the precinct Special Victims detective because of a case.

He heard Seely explain to her that she'd have to wait. "Detective Peters is not here at the moment." The red-haired detective motioned towards a row of chairs lined up against the wall. "If you would just-"

At that moment, a uniform was passing by them, having a difficult time restraining a three-hundred-pound heavy and six-foot tall biker wearing a greasy "Motorhead" T-shirt. Trying to wriggle out of the officer's grasp, the giant collided with Seely's back. The detective, in return, bumped into the woman he was talking to.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed so loudly that all the buzz in the corridor stopped. "Don't you touch me!"

Woody didn't see Matt's face become redder than his hair or hear his voice turn uncharacteristically apologetic. His mind was in a whirl. 'No, that's not possible… That's not possible.' He gasped loudly, attracting a few looks which he failed to notice. 'That's not possible,' he repeated to himself. Yet, Jordan's voice came loud and clear to him. You didn't force me into anything. This time he caught the hint of an emphasis. 'But someone else did?' he wondered in horror.