Television Review: Identity Crisis (Homicide: Life on the Street, S7X19, 1999)

Identity Crisis (S07E19)

Airdate: 30 April 1999

Written by: Willie Reale
Directed by: Joe Berlinger

Running Time: 44 minutes

In the spring of 1999, Homicide: Life on the Street teetered on the precipice of cancellation. NBC executives, grappling with the show’s declining ratings and its increasingly niche appeal, were poised to pull the plug on a series that had once been a cornerstone of the network’s gritty, realist programming. While the show’s creative team likely sensed the inevitability of its demise—its cancellation was officially announced in May 1999—the looming end paradoxically liberated them. Freed from the desperate pursuit of mass appeal, the writers and producers leaned into the show’s signature strengths: moral complexity, unflinching realism, and a refusal to sanitise the chaos of urban policing. This ethos is crystallised in Identity Crisis, a late-season episode that was originally intended to be the penultimate instalment of the series. However, its airdate was moved forward by two weeks when NBC executives, still reeling from the Columbine High School massacre in April 1999, deemed the content of the scheduled episode, Lines of Fire, too similar to the real-life tragedy.

At its core, Identity Crisis exemplifies the show’s ability to interweave the grotesque with the mundane, a hallmark of its narrative style. The central storyline follows Detectives Falsone and Lewis as they investigate the murder of AJ Corbett, a Black man discovered with two gunshot wounds to the head and the unsettling detail of his nose having been bitten off prior to his death. This visceral horror is juxtaposed with the mundane catalyst for the crime: Corbett’s reputation as a nuisance among his neighbours, owing to his obnoxious barbecues and raucous parties. The detectives’ focus shifts to Selwyn Weatherby (Edoardo Ballerini), a newly arrived New Hampshire transplant running a local bar, whose suspiciously rehearsed dialogue and Italian-inflected gestures prompt Falsone to suspect Weatherby is a former mobster in the federal witness protection program. The subplot escalates into a clash between local and federal authority when FBI Agent Mike Giardello intervenes, only to be obstructed by Agent Mitch Strickley (Robert M. Kelly). Weatherby’s true identity as a Philadelphia mob witness is revealed, and the FBI’s decision to shield him from prosecution in exchange for his testimony against higher-ranking syndicate members forces the Baltimore detectives into an ethically fraught compromise.

The second narrative strand—a murder in the city morgue—leans into the series’ penchant for the absurd. When medical examiner Dr. Griscom discovers a corpse with fresh stab wounds, Detectives Munch and Bayliss are tasked with solving a crime that defies logic: a dead man killing another dead man. The dead man, identified via personal documents, is revealed to be the nephew of a recently deceased man, who had arrived at the morgue on a Saturday night to identify his uncle’s body. Overwhelmed by the volume of cases, the staff left him unattended, allowing him to stumble into a confrontation with his cousin Clayton Mack (Rodney Holland) in the refrigerated anonymity of the facility. Mack’s admission that he stabbed his cousin, coupled with his apparent unawareness of the fatal outcome, is both darkly comic and tragically mundane. The scene’s grim humour—Mack’s casual confession, the detectives’ exasperated pragmatism—serves as a counterpoint to the Weatherby subplot, reinforcing the show’s refusal to romanticise crime or its perpetrators.

The third storyline, involving the murder of a strip club cashier, is perhaps the most overtly sensational. Detectives Ballard and Gharty follow a blood trail that suggests the killer wore high heels, a detail that initially points toward a female suspect. The case takes a surreal turn when a bank robbery by a man in drag is linked to the crime via a personal cheque left at the scene. The cheque’s fingerprints match evidence from the strip club, leading to the arrest of James Wilton, a methamphetamine addict who confesses with a mix of desperation and naivety. Wilton’s dim-witted criminality—his inability to cover his tracks, his explicit admission of guilt—mirrors Mack’s bumbling in the morgue storyline, offering a satirical take on the incompetence of many real-world offenders.

The episode’s writer, Willie Reale, brings an unconventional pedigree to the procedural format. Best known for his work as a lyricist and on children’s television, Reale’s background might seem ill-suited to the grim realities of homicide detection. Yet his script for Identity Crisis demonstrates a sharp understanding of the show’s DNA. Reale resists the temptation to over-explain or moralise, instead letting the detectives’ weariness and the suspects’ contradictions speak for themselves. The three storylines are tightly intercut, each reflecting a different facet of the series’ ethos: the Weatherby case exposes systemic corruption and the moral compromises of law enforcement; the morgue murder embodies the randomness and banality of violence; and the strip club killing satirises the intersection of addiction and crime.

Reale’s handling of the Weatherby arc is particularly noteworthy. By framing the conflict between the Baltimore police and the FBI as a clash of priorities—local justice versus federal expediency—he taps into Homicide’s longstanding critique of bureaucratic indifference. The revelation that Weatherby is a protected witness in a high-stakes mob case adds a layer of irony: the detectives’ pursuit of truth is thwarted not by incompetence but by the cold calculus of a justice system that sacrifices small victories for larger ones.

The episode also grapples with lingering flaws from Season 7, particularly the ill-conceived introduction of Mike Giardello. His familial connection to Lt. Giardello had long been a source of narrative clumsiness, creating artificial tension that felt more like soap opera than documentary realism. By giving Mike Giardello a decisive exit—his resignation over the Weatherby case—the episode acknowledges this misstep while allowing the character a measure of dignity. His confrontation with Strickley and Prosecutor Gail Ingram (Rebecca Boyd) is a masterclass in bureaucratic warfare, with Strickley’s threat to transfer Mike out of Baltimore serving as a blunt reminder of the power dynamics within federal agencies. Mike’s choice to resign rather than comply is a fitting end for a character who, despite his awkward origins, becomes a symbol of integrity in a system that often punishes it.

Equally significant is the rehabilitation of Detective Gharty, who had been reduced to a self-pitying alcoholic in earlier episodes. His arc in Identity Crisis hinges on a moment of clarity: after Ballard gently rebukes him for his drinking, Gharty resolves to abstain for a month, announcing his decision at the Waterfront Bar to Billie Lou (the waitress and Munch’s fiancée, who also represents Gharty’s unrequited love). This subplot, while emotionally resonant, is undercut by its failure to explicitly link Gharty’s resolve to James Wilton’s meth-induced self-destruction. The missed opportunity to draw a parallel between Gharty’s addiction and Wilton’s—a narrative thread that could have deepened Gharty’s epiphany—leaves the storyline feeling half-formed. Instead, the episode relies on Gharty’s history with Billie Lou to justify his turnaround, which, while poignant, lacks the thematic cohesion of the other plots.

What elevates Identity Crisis beyond a mere procedural exercise is its adherence to Homicide’s foundational principles. The Weatherby case, with its Mafia ties and federal overreach, mirrors real-world tensions between local and national law enforcement, a theme the show has explored since its debut. The morgue murder, meanwhile, is a masterstroke of dark comedy: a crime so absurd it defies logic, yet so human in its origins. The cousin’s admission—delivered with the tone of a man confessing to a parking violation—captures the show’s ability to find the grotesque in the ordinary. Similarly, Wilton’s meth-fuelled crime spree, punctuated by his drag bank robbery and the high-heel blood trail, is a sly commentary on how addiction distorts judgment.

Yet the episode’s greatest strength lies in its refusal to tidy up its narratives. This lack of resolution—or the presence of incomplete ones—reflects the show’s commitment to realism. Unlike the tidy arcs of network crime dramas like Law & Order, Homicide thrives on ambiguity, forcing viewers to sit with the discomfort of a justice system that is as flawed as the people it serves.

Ultimately, Identity Crisis is a fitting, if imperfect, capstone to a series that never shied away from the messiness of life and law enforcement. Its willingness to confront ethical dilemmas head-on, to find humour in tragedy, and to resist the urge for tidy resolutions ensures its place among the show’s best episodes. For viewers attuned to Homicide’s rhythms, it is a reminder that even in its twilight, the show could still deliver the raw, unvarnished truths that made it a landmark of television realism.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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