Echoes of My Soul by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page A

usual seats across from Whitmore, and the two other men stood to the side, against the wall. Whitmore turned and grinned awkwardly at Lieutenant Currie and Inspector Coleman; they returned his greeting with similar, awkward smiles. Cigarettes were passed around, matches struck and the room became clouded with trailing smoke. A Lucky Strike was offered to Whitmore; once again he took it, accepting a light from Bulger, who advised him not to pay any attention to their new guests. Paper shuffled, chairs squeaked as bodies adjusted in their seats and the tubular light from above continued its erratic flickering. A moment later, Detective Bulger began speaking—this time in a casual, if pleasant, tone.
    â€œLook, George—I just got off the phone with the girls and they say they’re not mad at you.”
    Whitmore stared at Bulger blankly.
    â€œYou didn’t mean to do it. Right, Georgie? Isn’t that right?” he added eagerly.
    â€œNo, I didn’t . . . ,” Whitmore responded almost inaudibly. He had reached his hands up to his eyes, and the sound of the handcuffs clinking together overpowered his voice.
    â€œWhat was that, George? Come at me again?”
    Whitmore swallowed and repeated his statement.
    â€œYou didn’t what, George?”
    DiPrima echoed Bulger’s query, leaning his elbows on the table. And in that moment, it seemed everyone in the room—from the shadowed men towering in the corners to the two detectives at the table—was bent over, mouths agape, breath paused and movement frozen.
    â€œI didn’t mean to hurt those girls,” Whitmore managed finally, his voice a broken, stumbling mumble.
    His eyes welled up. He fixed his gaze on DiPrima and then on Bulger, his voice coming through now—a faint, exhausted mess of syllables:
    â€œNow . . . eh . . . can I pleeaase . . .”
    He inhaled quickly—so quickly it sounded like a gasp. His nose was runny and he rubbed a finger along his nostrils and blinked erratically, as if his whole being had been shaken up.
    â€œ. . . go home?”
    Â 
    News of George Whitmore Jr.’s surprising and dramatic statement, “I didn’t mean to hurt those girls,” spread through the precinct like wildfire. And such startling testimony kept on coming. Shortly after 6:00 P.M . , George Whitmore Jr. had confessed, wholly, to the attack of Alma Estrada, the murder of Minnie Edmonds, and the double homicide of Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert. In the hours following his initial confession to Detective Edward Bulger, Manhattan detectives John Lynch and Andrew Dunleavy, of the Twenty-third Detective Squad, arrived at the Seventy-third, along with Assistant Chief Inspector Joseph Coyle. Both Lynch and Dunleavy, of the Twenty-third Precinct, were familiar with the facts and details of the Wylie-Hoffert case. Yet, the Brooklyn police brass and detectives denied them direct access to question George Whitmore. In fact, they were only permitted to write out a list of questions that they wanted Whitmore to answer. This growing antagonism between the Brooklyn and Manhattan detectives resulted in fetching Captain Frank Weldon, the Manhattan District detective commander who was in charge of the investigation from its inception, to act as a mediator between the opposing borough detectives.
    By eleven in the evening, James J. Hosty, a Manhattan assistant district attorney (ADA), arrived at the Seventy-third Precinct. The Homicide Bureau of the Manhattan, New York County, District Attorney’s Office (DAO) had a procedure for its ADAs to be “on call”—the twenty-four-hour night chart—should a defendant in a homicide wish to make a statement. The process entailed the homicide detective assigned to the case to notify the ADA who was on call. The homicide detective then arranged for the ADA to be taken by squad car to the precinct where the defendant was being questioned. A young ADA, only in the DAO for