Echoes of My Soul by Robert K. Tanenbaum

on his cigarette, “come on, kid—what are you playing at? Let me ask you—couldn’t you have gotten that photo off of Eighty-eighth Street?”
    Whitmore lifted his head and began gazing at the ceiling. He appeared to be averting his eyes from the flickering light that dangled from a rectangular metal shade, held up by a loose wire.
    Bulger continued his questioning. “Didn’t you go into the building on East Eighty-eighth Street and inside apartment 3C, grab the picture?”
    Without shifting his gaze, Whitmore mumbled, “When can I leave here?”
    â€œWhen you answer all our questions, George,” DiPrima replied quickly.
    â€œI don’t believe you.”
    DiPrima leaned back in his chair and it squeaked as his weight shifted. He folded his arms.
    â€œGeorge,” he tried, “come on now. I know this has been a tough day, but it’s almost over. This is the last line of questioning.” He paused. “I promise.”
    â€œYou really promise?” George asked desperately, finally meeting DiPrima’s eyes. DiPrima held his gaze and, without blinking, answered, “George, you have my word.”
    â€œGeorge,” Bulger echoed, “George, let me ask you that question again.”
    Whitmore turned to Bulger and asked for a cigarette. Bulger pulled one from his pack, lit it, and passed it across the table. Whitmore brought it to his lips and inhaled deeply.
    â€œGeorge—did you get this photo inside the apartment at Eighty-eighth Street in Manhattan?”
    Whitmore pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew the smoke directly at Bulger. The room grew eerily silent for a few seconds, the light above flickering erratically. The air was cloudy with smoke and the three men—Joe DiPrima, Edward Bulger and George Whitmore Jr.—sat motionless, hearing only the sound of their own breath. Then, after some time, he spoke.
    â€œYes, sir, I did.”

CHAPTER 5
    B y four-thirty in the afternoon, George Whitmore Jr. had confessed to having taken the subway to the Port Authority Bus Terminal and then transferred to an uptown train. Having taken some time to get this confession on paper, Bulger pushed forward, anxious to begin his line of questioning into the murders of Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert. He asked George if maybe he had hit one of the girls on the head with a soda bottle, when entering the apartment. As an accident, Bulger reassured George, because the girl had startled him when he thought no one was home. Wasn’t that the case?
    Whitmore waved his hands in the air and nodded his head back and forth.
    â€œâ€”Not because you wanted to hurt them George . . . ,” Bulger suggested promptly.
    â€œI didn’t hit nobody with nothin’,” Whitmore answered defiantly, slinking back in his seat, his eyes shifting back up to the ceiling. Whitmore remained in this state for quite some time as DiPrima and Bulger revisited the line of questioning in a variety of different ways.
    â€œYou didn’t mean to hit anybody,” DiPrima tried; and then maybe “You forgot you hit her,” Bulger attempted weakly. Realizing that they’d backed George Whitmore Jr. into a corner, the two detectives decided to give him a break and left the room for a few minutes to regroup.
    Whitmore, who by then seemed to understand why he was there, also appeared conflicted as to what to do. He looked down at his hands, wrists scratched from the handcuffs. He studied the dirt in his nails and spread his fingers out wide.
    Whitmore saw the round doorknob turn, and his heart skipped a beat. Then he gazed up tiredly as DiPrima and Bulger reentered, along with two other gentlemen dressed in plainclothes. One man was introduced as Lieutenant Currie, commander of the Brooklyn North Homicide Squad, while the other was presented as Inspector William E. Coleman, the commander of the Thirteenth Detective District. DiPrima and Bulger took their