three years, James Hosty happened to be the attorney on the chart and on call. After arriving at the precinct in Brooklyn, Kings County, he was advised by the Brooklyn Homicide Bureau detectives about all that had transpired, with particular detail regarding George Whitmore Jr.âs confession to the Wylie-Hoffert murders. Following this, and stretching deep into the early-morning hours of Saturday, April 25, Hosty took a Q&A statement from George Whitmore Jr., in the presence of Detectives Bulger and DiPrima and the New York County DAO stenographer Dennis Sheehan. Once again, and to everyoneâs satisfaction, Whitmore described the bloody details of the night in question. George had now been under interrogation for well over seventeen hours, and it showed in his statements. At one point, when asked if he had any weapon on him during the night in question, he answered by saying, âYes, I have it right there.â
Here and there, detectives would leave Whitmore in the interrogation room and revisit his statements. Finally, at approximately four in the morning, ADA James Hosty called his boss, Al Herman, the head of the Manhattan DAOâs Homicide Bureau, and reported the confession. He advised Herman that the consensus seemed clear that the blonde who appeared in the photo taken from Whitmoreâs wallet was indeed Janice Wylie. Upon hearing this, Herman ordered that George Whitmore Jr., who had already been arrested by the Brooklyn detectives in the Minnie Edmonds and Alma Estrada cases, be booked for the murders of Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert.
Early that morning of April 25, 1964, the street out front of the Seventy-third Precinct was packed with various officers and detectives, reporters, photographers and curious neighbors. Chief of Detectives Lawrence J. McKearney stood amid the mass of law enforcement and media and spoke confidently and proudly. As flashbulbs went off and a hum of whispers spread over the precinct steps, voices called out questions, each one drowning out the otherâreferring to the Wylie-Hoffert confession. McKearney said deliberately and clearly, âWhitmore told us details that only the killer could know.â
Â
Later that morning, Whitmore was arraigned in Brooklynâs criminal division courthouse for the Minnie Edmonds murder and the Alma Estrada attempted rape. Whitmore pleaded not guilty and was denied bail. The presiding magistrate effusively praised the outstanding work done by Brooklyn detectives. As Whitmore was led away to the Brooklyn lock-up detention area adjacent to the courtroom, he turned to his court-appointed lawyer, Harold Lasky, and said, with a puzzled expression, âGee, I hope that the Brooklyn cops arenât angry at me for lying to them about committing those crimes.â
CHAPTER 6
Two months laterâlate June 1964
Â
M anhattan ADA Melvin D. Glass sprinted along Park Avenue, dodging pedestrians and vendors through the heavy doors of Grand Central Station. He then rushed down a flight of stairs into the hot, reeking and crowded subway platform just as the downtown express coasted to a stop. Its headlights blinded the waiting straphangers as it emerged from the vast tunnel. He dabbed his sweaty brow with a cotton handkerchief from his jacket pocket while inching his way through the masses into the already packed subway train. Edged against a door that continued to swing open, making a whapping noise each time, he straightened his navy tie, studying his reflection in the glass window. If this train didnât get moving, heâd have hell to pay, he thought. Normally, he carpooled into Manhattan from his home in the borough of Queens, but his car was in the shopâthe diagnosis was slippery brake pads. So here he was, just another grunt, packed in like a sardine on his way down to the criminal courts.
At Fourteenth Street, the car emptied slightly and Glass moved from the doorway toward the center. He was thinking of
Here and there, detectives would leave Whitmore in the interrogation room and revisit his statements. Finally, at approximately four in the morning, ADA James Hosty called his boss, Al Herman, the head of the Manhattan DAOâs Homicide Bureau, and reported the confession. He advised Herman that the consensus seemed clear that the blonde who appeared in the photo taken from Whitmoreâs wallet was indeed Janice Wylie. Upon hearing this, Herman ordered that George Whitmore Jr., who had already been arrested by the Brooklyn detectives in the Minnie Edmonds and Alma Estrada cases, be booked for the murders of Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert.
Early that morning of April 25, 1964, the street out front of the Seventy-third Precinct was packed with various officers and detectives, reporters, photographers and curious neighbors. Chief of Detectives Lawrence J. McKearney stood amid the mass of law enforcement and media and spoke confidently and proudly. As flashbulbs went off and a hum of whispers spread over the precinct steps, voices called out questions, each one drowning out the otherâreferring to the Wylie-Hoffert confession. McKearney said deliberately and clearly, âWhitmore told us details that only the killer could know.â
Â
Later that morning, Whitmore was arraigned in Brooklynâs criminal division courthouse for the Minnie Edmonds murder and the Alma Estrada attempted rape. Whitmore pleaded not guilty and was denied bail. The presiding magistrate effusively praised the outstanding work done by Brooklyn detectives. As Whitmore was led away to the Brooklyn lock-up detention area adjacent to the courtroom, he turned to his court-appointed lawyer, Harold Lasky, and said, with a puzzled expression, âGee, I hope that the Brooklyn cops arenât angry at me for lying to them about committing those crimes.â
CHAPTER 6
Two months laterâlate June 1964
Â
M anhattan ADA Melvin D. Glass sprinted along Park Avenue, dodging pedestrians and vendors through the heavy doors of Grand Central Station. He then rushed down a flight of stairs into the hot, reeking and crowded subway platform just as the downtown express coasted to a stop. Its headlights blinded the waiting straphangers as it emerged from the vast tunnel. He dabbed his sweaty brow with a cotton handkerchief from his jacket pocket while inching his way through the masses into the already packed subway train. Edged against a door that continued to swing open, making a whapping noise each time, he straightened his navy tie, studying his reflection in the glass window. If this train didnât get moving, heâd have hell to pay, he thought. Normally, he carpooled into Manhattan from his home in the borough of Queens, but his car was in the shopâthe diagnosis was slippery brake pads. So here he was, just another grunt, packed in like a sardine on his way down to the criminal courts.
At Fourteenth Street, the car emptied slightly and Glass moved from the doorway toward the center. He was thinking of
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