A Letter to My Daughter
Life Experiences of a World War II P. O. W.
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The rain was pouring down; it was a cold dreary spring afternoon as April, in the big apple can be. My self, and the press pool, were standing out side the Court House, on the covered landing. We were waiting for the verdict to come in. The jury had been out, sequestered in a small room for six days; and were on the ragged edge! The case involved the brutal murders of six known prostitutes, savagely beaten in there beds; with a baseball bat while they slept!
The man charged with the crime, was an ex-Marine. A "Gulf War" veteran, with a history of street violence, mental instability at times; and an alcoholic! He saw a lot of action; and had medals of valor to prove it! To bad, he ended up this way. I didn't think he fit the profile as a murderer!
I was dropped off and left; at St. Jude's Orphanage, as an infant. My friends call me D.J. My name is "Damian Jude"- (Named, after the patron saint) By Sister Anne, the mother superior at the home. I never got adopted! I was a drug addicted baby! --- I'm a private investigator!
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