Better Think Twice

“What did you say?” Police detective Terry Hirschberg leaned forward in an attempt to better heed the man in front of him at the memorial service.
“I called you,” said the man, stinking of vodka and refuse. “I seen him. Him and that wife of his coming out of that cheap motel with my friend Remy, they were hooting and hollering, having a good ole time.”
“This was exactly when?”
“Saturday night about eleven.”
“So this was about the same time of the murder, the same night of the murder? What else can you tell me?“ The officer was cut short by the irrepressible weeping of the widow.
Mr. and Mrs. Joe Lamsley had wedded about a year ago when he was murdered in their uptown, luxurious apartment. It had been China Lamsley who found her husband on the living room floor with a hunting knife thrust into his back. No finger prints, outside of the Lamsley’s had been discovered, there was no sign of forced entry or of a brawl.
“So, people aren’t allowed to go out?  Where they doing anything wrong?” asked the detective.
“How should I know? They shook hands, hugged, then they got in the car and Remy walked down the street.
“Why didn‘t Remy report this to me?”
“Well you have to know Remy. I haven’t seen him since that night. I don’t want to get my friend in any trouble or nothin' but I thought that the police would want to know.”
“Mighty fine of you, thanks. Here’s something for your trouble.” The detective pressed a folded bill into the man’s hand and walked back to his car.
“Know where Remy may be hiding out?”
“Nope.”
The detective drove to the Lamsley’s apartment and parked across the street. That’s when he observed him. Standing in the alleyway of the apartment building, apprehensively looking up the street then looking down at his watch, was a man dressed in rags, covered in dirt. The detective got out of the car and crossed the street. Coming up beside the man, he said “Have you got a minute, Joe?”
Without missing a beat, the man lifted his wrist, revealing an expensive watch and relied, “Sure, it’s a quarter past two.” It was then on that same wrist that Detective Hirschberg fastened his handcuff.
“You have the right to remain silent...anything you say may or may not be used…”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?”
“I’m arresting you for the murder of Joe Lamsley.”
“For the murder of Joe Lamsley? What the hell is this?”
“That’s his watch on your wrist, isn’t it?”
"No, no, no. Look, there’s been some kind of mistake. I’m Joe Lamsley.”
“Oh, really? I was just at your funeral,” the detective replied with a chuckle. “Give it up, dude. A minute ago you didn’t know who Joe Lamsley was. Let’s go, I’ll finish the rest of my speech in the car.”
“You don’t get it. I am Joe Lamsley!” the man shouted.
“Sure, and I‘m Abe Lincoln,” the detective said with a glint as he helped the man into the car and closed the door.
Three hours later, China Hirschberg entered her apartment. “Baby, the lawyer has agreed to send the entire estate to me in Jamaica. You have the tickets, right?” she asked.
“Right here, honey,” said the detective. “Did anyone at the funeral notice the replacement?”
“Not a one. Joe and that homeless guy looked exactly alike. How is he doing? Any trouble in locating the bum‘s friend?”
“Right now he’s a bit confused and no I found the wino passed out in one of his usual hangouts. Don’t feel sorry for him, sweetie, that’s what happens when you trade places with a nameless face to fake your own death. Guess he never counted on his own wife turning the tables.”
“Guess he had it coming to him, trying to cheat the IRS and his wife out of his money. He’ll think twice next time, won’t he?”
“There isn’t going to be a next time, honey.”
The couple shared a laugh as they left the apartment, headed for the airport.