Echoes of My Soul (7 page)

Yeargin grinned approvingly, like a dad witnessing his son coming of age. He was always impressed with Mel's thoroughness and pure honesty, but this was a crowning achievement. If Mel's instincts and investigation were correct, and George Whitmore Jr. was innocent, then Mel would validate everything the Hogan office was all about—a true ministry of justice.

“Hold on just a minute,” Hogan interrupted. “Mel, as I said to you before, you're suggesting that the Brooklyn cops unwittingly—in the most favorable light—fed George Whitmore all the answers during the interrogation because of the leading nature of the questions they propounded. Okay—assuming that to be the case—why does Whitmore go along with the program and confess?”

“Yes,” Mel answered, nodding at Hogan. “I believe that's a real possibility, especially because they asked generally for ‘yes' or ‘no' answers. But there's another reason for my concern, which directly answers your question.”

Mel paused, scanning both Yeargin and Herman, who appeared fully engaged in what he was saying. He was prepared to offer a rational explanation for Whitmore's irrational cooperation.

“Given the length of time Whitmore was interrogated,” Mel continued, gesticulating with his right hand outstretched, “from about eight
A.M.
or so to four in the morning the next day, and the leading nature of the questions hammered at him, I decided to check with a doctor I happen to know at Bellevue, where George Whitmore's been under scrutiny for the past couple of months. Turns out—”

Mel glanced over at Hogan, who appeared unaffected, but for a resolute expression on his face. He nodded again at Mel.

“George Whitmore has an IQ south of seventy, and the docs believe that he evinces a suggestive passivity when confronted with aggressive, intimidating authority figures. His father's abusive, violent and his older brother's got a sheet for violent crime. From what Bellevue tells me, cutting through all the psychoanalysis, is simply, given Whitmore's state of mind and violent home environment, he has a personality that wants to please, particularly when he perceives intense coercive circumstances.”

Al Herman sat silent. He was visibly disturbed. As a seasoned veteran of the office, he understood the seriousness of the implications that arresting and indicting the wrong man would have on the office. It would undermine the credibility of law enforcement to a significant degree. He would have to take responsibility as head of the Homicide Bureau, if indeed George Whitmore Jr. was innocent. While listening to Mel's presentation, Herman was livid that he didn't have the Wylie-Hoffert case presented to the ADAs assigned to his bureau before presentation to the grand jury for indictment. After all, it was standard procedure. All homicide cases were routinely presented to the entire Homicide Bureau membership of ADAs, with, most notably, the senior members questioning every detail of the case to ensure that not only the defendant was guilty, but that all the evidence was obtained and the potential defenses were addressed and defeated. It was a special training lesson for the ADA who presented the case because he knew that if he wasn't thoroughly prepared, he would be chewed up by the bureau's senior trial lawyers. Amongst the most senior members were Vince Dermody, Bill Loguen and John Keenan. All three were regarded as not only the best prosecutors at the DAO, but also the finest trial lawyers in the city. And yet, because of the enormous caseload and the “so-called” confessions George Whitmore Jr. had made regarding the attempted rape of Alma Estrada and the Minnie Edmonds homicide, ADA Herman figured why waste the time on the Wylie-Hoffert case as well. That deviation in bureau policy, which was a staple of office procedure, would rankle Herman and cause grievous harm and damage to the credibility of law enforcement and potentially to the DAO's reputation.

Mel finished up by describing, in a bit more depth, Whitmore's passivity as described to him by Dr. Morris at Bellevue Hospital. Hogan, meanwhile, studied the demeanor of his two most trusted colleagues. Both were easy to read. For Frank Hogan the eventuality that Mel Glass was right was both a blessing and a curse. He waited for Mel to wrap up and then addressed all three.

“Gentlemen, as I see it, we've got three serious problems now. First, we don't go around indicting the wrong person. That's not what we do here.” He paused for effect, adding, “Are you with me?”

Mel nodded swiftly, noticing Yeargin and Herman both answered “yes” in a kind of unified stupor. Hogan leaned forward in his seat, placing his elbows on his desk and folding his hands. He turned from Yeargin to Herman, looking each squarely in the eyes.

“Now, if we did arrest the wrong person, well, that means the killer is out there doing God knows what. And third—”

Hogan fixed his gaze, expressing displeasure, on Al Herman.

“Al—you're in charge of the office's elite core of trial lawyers, the best prosecutors in the business, and I'm wondering if and when the next shoe will drop!”

Herman stared at the floor and shook his head in self-disgust. Both Herman and Yeargin were Hogan's knights of the Round Table. These were men who had proven their mettle in the courtroom prosecuting vicious and depraved killers. They were not inclined to whine or blame others for their mistakes. Instead, they handled their responsibility with honor.

“Mel,” Hogan said, simply concluding the meeting, “stay on the case, work out your existing caseload with Jim and report to Al and me what you learn.”

Then he raised his finger in the air and added firmly and with gusto, “I'm particularly interested in that photograph, as I'm sure you can understand. I want to know everything,
everything,
there is to know about it.”

 

I
t was another hot and muggy day in the city, even at nine in the morning. The air was thick and wet, and perspiration dripped from the skin of every New Yorker. In Battery Park, city dwellers found little respite in the slight breeze coming off the Hudson River, while in midtown pedestrians moved slowly, fanning themselves with folded copies of the
Post
or the
Daily News.
Downtown on Centre Street, Mel Glass was too distracted to notice the stifling heat. He took a sip from his coffee cup and studied a pile of paperwork on his desk as he leaned back in his chair.

Detective John Justy stood in the doorway of Glass's office. He was beaming. “I hear you picked up a new case, Counselor.”

Mel nodded. “Yeah, yeah,” he answered as casually as he could. “Come on in—sit down.”

He tried to hold back the wide grin, which was forming along the corners of his face. He waved Justy in; then he folded his hands neatly on the metal lip of his desk. Justy pulled back the desk chair from the corner of Mel's office and sat down.

“I have some thoughts on how we should proceed.”

Justy crossed his legs and tapped the end of a cigarette on Mel's desk. “I'm listening—”

“Well,” Mel began, “the Brooklyn detectives believe the girl in the photo is Janice Wylie.”

“I got that much, Mel,” Justy inserted with a sigh.

“Hold on, John—now let's take a look at Detective Bulger.”

“Okay, let's. . . .”

Mel looked intently at Justy. “Bulger comes in because it's payday on Friday, right?”

“Right,” Justy answered, trying to evaluate where Mel's line of thinking was going.

“So he hears about Whitmore confessing. He's standing there in the station house with the checks. And then you've got these two Brooklyn cases a week apart—the Minnie Edmonds murder and the Alma Estrada attempted rape—in close proximity, and the Edmonds case is a stabbing. So there are already two cases that need to be solved, and solved fast.”

Justy shifted in his chair. “Honestly, Mel, do you really think Detective Bulger just made it up for an arrest? That's one hell of an accusation.”

“No, not exactly,” Mel answered, treading carefully, “but I am saying that Bulger bet a lot on that image. I mean, he studies a photo that's found on the suspect and becomes utterly convinced it's that of Janice Wylie—
the
Janice Wylie, of East Eighty-eighth Street.”

“Crazier things have happened,” Justy reminded Mel, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Mel stood up and walked over to the door of his office. He scanned the dingy hallway and then loosened his brown-striped tie. “Right, but we also now know that Janice Wylie's mother, Janice Wylie's father”—Mel stepped back over to his desk, hovered behind it and leaned over, his palms pressed on various court documents, which were splayed on top—“and Janice Wylie's friends all say that the girl in the photo
isn't
Janice Wylie.” His eyes were wide and focused.

Justy stood and walked over for a better look at the court documents, then nodded perceptively. “So Bulger's wrong,” he stated, closing his eyes momentarily.

Mel waved his left index finger in the air. “Not necessarily,” he disclosed, with a mischievous grin, “but it seems the best way to confirm who is actually in that photo is to find out
where
it was taken, and at the very least, find
one
of the girls in the photograph.”

Justy parted his lips and was about to counter Mel, when he noticed that Mel was gazing past him at something else.

“What? What is it?” he asked, swinging his arms out.

“ADA Glass?” a steady voice called out from the doorway.

Justy twisted his neck and glanced behind him. A black woman in a white dress and hat stood in the doorway, staring at Mel with a look of mild irritation. Mel knew immediately it had to be her—she looked like Whitmore. Brown skin, gentle but tired eyes, black hair with bangs curled down and a sleeveless white dress with ruffles at the nape of her neck. In fact, on closer inspection, he couldn't get over how much she and her son resembled one another—only she seemed weary from years of hard living. She was a thin woman, with a small frame. She looked like she was in her late thirties. Her eyes were puffy, as if she hadn't slept in years. She appeared cross to Mel, as if she'd been provoked her whole life and was just waiting for the next insult. He offered his most reassuring grin.

“You must be Mrs. Whitmore.”

“Bernadine, please,” she answered, stepping through the archway. She gave Justy a malign glance and then added, “You asked to speak with me here in your office.”

“Yes, Mrs. Whitmore, thank you. Please have a seat.”

She sat at the far end of the rectangular table protruding from Mel's desk. Her back was to the wall, with Justy and Mel seated beside her on either side of the table.

“Mrs. Whitmore, I am Assistant District Attorney Mel Glass and seated across from me is Detective John Justy. I asked you to come here today because I need to find the truth about your son's case. I want to tell you right now that anything you say here will not be used against him in any way. Also I want to advise you that you do not have to answer any of my questions—you can leave at any time.”

Bernadine tilted her head, fixing her hard, tired brown eyes on him. “You say, Mr. Glass, that you're searching for truth, but I haven't seen a whole lot of truth come out of these here courts, so excuse me if I don't exactly believe that you're looking for the same
truth
I am.”

Mel blinked and fixed his eyes on Mrs. Whitmore. “Mrs. Whitmore, I know this is a horrible situation for you, and I know this is probably the last place you'd like to be right now, but you could be very helpful if you answered a few questions for me.”

He paused for a moment and then added, “But it's entirely up to you. You can walk out right now and not tell me anything.”

 

Bernadine Whitmore could feel her hands trembling and wondered if ADA Glass and Detective Justy could sense her weakness. She swore she wouldn't let them see her cry—she swore she wouldn't let them break her. And yet, as she gazed at Mel Glass, she couldn't help but think he might be on her side. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something in his eyes told her he was a God-fearing person who, just maybe, meant what he said. There was something about his expression—something in the way he sat, perched tall and thoughtful in his chair—that seemed to embody integrity.

“He didn't hurt no white girls.”

Her voice began to crumble as she reached into her pocketbook for a handkerchief. Mel grabbed one from inside his jacket and quickly offered it to her. She extended her hand, looked intensely into his eyes and nodded approvingly when she accepted his offer.

“Mrs. Whitmore, please,” he tried, “I just need to ask you a simple question.”

She immediately stiffened and pulled herself together. She shifted in her chair and glanced over at Detective Justy and then back at Mel. Then she opened her mouth and her voice came steadily.

“My son may be slow, but he's
not
stupid. He has an excellent memory when he puts his mind to it, and he's quite a capable artist.” She straightened her spine against the back of the chair and swallowed. “If I put my faith in you, Mr. Glass, what's to stop you from thinking me a naïve woman, who will be abused by the law just like my son?”

Mel nodded, but he said nothing.

“My George ain't ever been in Manhattan before, so why anybody thinking he done all these terrible things? Why?”

Her eyes welled up with tears, but she willed herself to hold them back.

“Mrs. Whitmore, I understand you're upset, I really do, and for good cause. If you put your trust in me, I promise that I will never deceive you. More than anything I'm only interested in finding the truth.”

She watched Mel's eyes soften. He reached for the file that was situated in front of him on his desk. He opened it and pulled out the photograph of the blonde sitting atop the Pontiac convertible. Mel flipped it over and scanned the handwriting on the back:
To George From Louise
. Then he handed it to Mrs. Whitmore.

“Please tell me, Mrs. Whitmore, do you know where your son found this photo?”

Mrs. Whitmore glanced up warily. After a moment she accepted the photograph. First she held the side with the handwriting on it up close to her eyes and then she flipped it over, studying the girl in the image. She handed it back to Mel after a few moments and again looked directly into his eyes.

They stared at each other a few seconds more and then Mrs. Whitmore nodded her head. She sniffled, blew her nose with a handkerchief from her purse and then managed to say wearily, “When I first visited my son in jail, I asked him where he found the photograph because the newspapers were making a big deal of it. The police in Brooklyn keep saying he stole it from the girls' apartment, the ones they say he killed. So I kept saying to him, ‘Just tell me the truth. Where did you find the photograph? ' My son is a good boy. He would never hurt anyone. He said, ‘Mama, don't be mad at me. I know you told me so many times not to go to that garbage dump at home and pick through all that trash. But that's just what I did, and I found the picture there.'

“Oh, Mr. Glass”—she looked at him sorrowfully—“I did tell him plenty of times not to go to that garbage dump in Wildwood. I figured if he found something valuable, it probably belonged to some white folks and they would claim he probably stole it. But George just loved going there—I imagine for the adventure of what he might find. But he wouldn't lie to me—that's where he found it.”

Mrs. Whitmore took a deep breath and then continued.

“This girl Louise, whose name appears on the back side of the photo, is a girl from Wildwood, and my George dated her a summer ago. She's a sweet girl, Mr. Glass, so don't go stirrin' up any trouble with her. Lord knows, she ain't done nothin'.”

Mel nodded his head in earnest appreciation. “Thank you, Mrs. Whitmore. Thank you very much. You have helped me a great deal, and hold me to my promise to you.”

He leaned forward and added with resolution, “I will find the truth.”

Mel stood and extended his hand, which Mrs. Whitmore greeted with hers. Mrs. Whitmore stood up then and slipped her dress gloves back on her delicate fingers. Mel pushed his chair back; it let out a loud screech. Detective Justy walked over to escort her out the door. She gripped her pocketbook with both hands, as if her whole life were stuffed in its contents. She turned and glanced out into the busy hallway, where various members of law enforcement rushed back and forth. Then she jerked her head back around and gazed at Mel. She smiled, a trace of satisfaction; and then, taking a step back toward the archway of his door, she said, “Well, Mr. Glass, you sure got your work cut out for you, 'cause a whole lot of folks mistakenly think my son killed those two girls.”

She paused in his doorway for a second and then added, nodding at him perceptively, “You know what I mean, don't you?”

He held her steely gaze and gave a gentle nod. “Mrs. Whitmore, I assure you that this office will find the truth, regardless of what others may believe about your son.” Mel watched her as she walked back down the corridor at a steady clip toward the sixth-floor elevator.

Mel shook his head and, not missing a beat, walked back over to his desk. Justy followed. Mel grabbed his magnifier and scanned the image of the two girls and the convertible.

“You know,” he said, pulling the lens forward and backward over the photograph, “I think I ought to speak to an arborist.”

“What?”

Mel waved Justy over and pointed to a blurred area at the right top of the image. “Those look like tall trees.”

Justy scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, so?” Mel looked at Justy and set the photo and the magnifying glass down. “Well, maybe it's like Occam's razor.”

Justy fell back into the chair across from Mel's desk. “In English, please?”

“If I show this to an arborist, we might be able to save everybody some time and narrow the search for these girls. After all, Mrs. Whitmore corroborates her son's insistence that he got the photo from the garbage dump in Wildwood.”

“Wow, you're serious,” he said, trying to keep Mel's pace, “but just because the photo was in Wildwood doesn't mean the girls in it are from there.”

In a flash Mel packed up his files, grabbed his jacket and started to head down the hall. One of the elevator doors was already open as Mel and Justy neared the end of the hall. He quickened to a slight jog and Justy followed suit. Reaching his arm out, Mel caught the closing elevator door on the far right-hand side. He smiled apologetically to the already rushed crowd of law enforcement and citizens in the car and stepped in with Detective Justy. The doors closed and they descended downward to the street.

At ground level Mel searched his pockets for a subway token. Justy held the main door open for Glass and then asked, “Hey, where are you gonna get this arborist?”

Mel stepped out into the noisy downtown street. He glanced back at Justy and grinned. “You know the maxim Occam's razor,” he stated once more.

“Mel, what the hell is an Occam's razor?”

Mel folded his jacket on his sleeve and held his briefcase tightly in the other hand.

“My, my . . . famed detective Justy, the maxim is attributed to William of Occam, an English scholastic philosopher who believed that assumptions introduced to explain something must not be multiplied beyond necessity. Simply, John, the simplest explanation in a complicated scenario is usually correct.”