LINE UP

LINE UP

 

My name is Hernando O’Reilly. Yeh, me madre est Latino and my dad is obviously Irish. Like my old man, I became a cop. My present assignment is the 33^rdprecinct on the lower east side of NYC.

My present rank is sergeant, which I earned after nine years on the force. I am currently attached to the vice squad.

While quietly seated at my desk, I was summoned to the office of the Chief Inspector, Terrance Boshinko, a crafty old police hand who worked his way up from patrolman, same as I did.

Seems I looked very similar to an alleged murder suspect. I was, therefore, picked to participate in a line-up with the accused perpetrator of the heinous crime in which three people met a horrible death after several gun shots.

The murders were witnessed by a little old lady, sitting in her window on a very hot summer’s eve.

 

 

Like all line-ups, she was to pick the man she allegedly saw commit the murders. There were five other men in the same line-up with the accused, including myself. We all were similarly dressed as the accused.

We filed into the line-up room and took our places. I was number three on the left. The accused was next to me on my left.

“Turn right”. “Turn to the left”. “Face forward”. We all followed the instructions. There was an audible gasp as we filed out of the room.

Sure enough, without hesitation, she picked who turned out to be the killer. Ballistics and DNA evidence sealed the deal. A trial was held. The man was convicted and sentenced to life at Sing-Sing prison.

I was quite happy, having played a small part in his conviction.

Days pasted with the usual boring inefficiency as I resumed my life as a vice cop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About three weeks later, I worked late on a case and was anxious to get home to my wife, Rosalie (that’s right, she is also a Latino) and three kids Diego, Shamus and Rosalita.

As I exited the precinct, I was met by a driving, cold rain. Two shots rang out – both striking me squarely in the back of my head!

I died before I hit the wet sidewalk.

My assassination turned out to be a simple case of mistaken identity. I simply looked too much like the convicted murderer. The woman who shot me was the wife of one of the victims. She assumed from pictures in the paper that she had seen (she never attended the trial nor knew of the conviction as she could not endure a rehash of her lover’s murder) that I was the killer.

Hey, win some, lose some.

I lost…