Echoes of My Soul

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  When Mel reached the desk of Ida Delaney, the attractive young secretary who worked for District Attorney Frank S. Hogan, he nodded hello and Ida smiled in return. She wore a canary yellow minidress with a high collar, and her thick brown hair fell around her shoulders. Mel was already regarded as an up-and-comer, and he had friendly relationships with the office staff. After exchanging pleasantries, Ida picked up the office intercom and spoke softly.

  “Mr. Hogan, Mel Glass is here. Okay, I’ll show him in.”

  Ida then stood up and opened Frank Hogan’s office door. She held out her hand to wave Mel Glass in. He passed her, stepping into the legendary office of one of his greatest heroes. He heard the door close behind him and peered forward toward the impressive wooden desk in front of him and the celebrated man behind it.

  Frank Hogan was sixty-two years old in the summer of 1964, and his age was showing. His hair had receded at the forehead and was white as snow. Slight in physical stature, Mr. Hogan compensated for his lack of height with his bold and fiercely honest personality. During his early years with Dewey, he investigated and prosecuted many noteworthy cases of political corruption, organized crime and racketeering, gaining a reputation evincing unwavering honesty in the face of adversity. Nicknamed “Mr. Integrity,” Hogan’s fight to end corruption was boundless. He lived on 114th and Riverside Drive in a seven-room, river-view, rent-controlled apartment. He had no children. His true loves were—and no one ever really knew what ranked where—the district attorney’s office, his office baseball team, known as “Hogan’s Hooligans,” Columbia University, where he attended college and law school and served on the board of trustees, and his wife, Mary.

  DA Hogan glanced up from his desk as Mel Glass entered his office and motioned for him to take a seat. Mel felt his throat go dry as he edged his way over to Hogan’s desk and sat down in a worn leather chair directly across from the man himself.

  “Mel, I eagerly await your report,” Hogan said, lighting his signature pipe with a box of matches resting on the edge of his desk. The aura of being in the presence of the legendary DA Frank Hogan and making a presentation to him created in the minds of his ADAs the notion that “you better be certain of what you say” and summon the best possible words to approach the subject.

  “Come on,” Hogan continued, “out with it.”

  To his core Mel was still the street-savvy kid who grew up in the hardscrabble, striving, working-poor and middle-class neighborhood in Brooklyn. He was schooled in the tough-as-nails competition of the school yard and excelled in the classroom. He was always the consummate team player, shunning the spotlight. His competitive spirit was tempered by a gentle and compassionate soul. His no-nonsense approach to doing justice was demonstrated early on when the indiscriminate bully met a lot more of his match after Mel chastened him for his social aggressiveness. Yet, Mel was not one to revel or gloat in victory. He always was just matter-of-fact.

  Mel blinked, gathering his thoughts. He shifted in his chair and the leather squeaked slightly. He folded his hands in his lap; the Wylie-Hoffert documents were still resting neatly beneath them. Then he spoke slowly and clearly.

  “Mr. Hogan . . . I certainly don’t want to step on anyone’s toes here. As you know, I’m not assigned to the Homicide Bureau.”

  Hogan nodded his head and waved his hand in a circular motion, indicating that he should continue.

  “But I found myself intrigued by the Wylie-Hoffert case. Well, I did some research of my own, and I’m not entirely convinced that George Whitmore is the right man. In fact, I’m fairly certain he’s not.”

  Hogan raised his eyebrows; his piercing blue eyes fixated on Mel, whom he regarded as one of his bright, idealistic acolytes. Hogan was, of course, aware of Mel’s outstanding academic record, most relevantly highlighted by his University of Pennsylvania Law School achievement as managing editor of the Law Review. What most impressed Hogan, however, was Mel’s integrity and mature judgment. He sought justice, not headlines. Hogan folded his hands, resting his elbows on his desk and hands under his chin.

  “Well, then, please explain,” the older man invited.

  When Mel had finished briefing his boss, Hogan sat back in his chair, an upright leather desk chair with gold stud detailing on the sides. He imparted no sense of his mood to Mel, only his words, which came with a gentle smile and a quiet, if casual, tone to his voice.

  “If you’re right, Mel, that the Brooklyn police fed the answers to Whitmore in the questions he was asked that called for ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers, how did they know so much about the case? Particularly the details of the location and manner of the killings?”

  Mel then reminded Hogan about the five-borough, citywide NYPD task force set up a few weeks after the murders. The purpose was to gather detectives assigned throughout the city who investigated homicides and burglary/robbery cases to be briefed on the Wylie-Hoffert case in the event one of them came across a suspect who might fit the MO and, in fact, be the killer. Detective Edward Bulger, Mel explained, was not only assigned to the detective task force, but he stayed on for three months. Almost all the other detectives in the task force, Mel pointed out, stayed only about a week to ten days, just long enough to familiarize themselves with the facts. Bulger, on the other hand, appeared thoroughly engrossed—some would suggest even “obsessed” with solving the case.

  Moments later, Hogan was on the intercom to Ida, asking that she bring around two of his men, Mel’s bureau chief, Jim Yeargin, and Al Herman, who headed up Hogan’s elite Homicide Bureau. For a few moments, sunlight streamed in through the open blinds, illuminating Hogan’s desk, with all its various artifacts, case files, books and notebooks. Mel noticed a worn copy of Moby Dick resting on the very edge of the desk. There were a few pages clearly dog-eared; Mel couldn’t help but wonder which pages they were.

  Within minutes Ida escorted the two men into the office. Hogan motioned them to be seated.

  Jim Yeargin was a six-three, lean, athletic and genial individual who had maintained his grace after serving many, many years successfully prosecuting scores and scores of murderers while assigned to the Homicide Bureau. His achievements were rewarded with his present assignment as head of the Felony Trial Bureau. Al Herman was a longtime, distinguished ADA, and one of the top trial lawyers in the DAO. As chief of the Homicide Bureau, he enjoyed one of the most prestigious positions in Hogan’s office.

  After Ida closed the door to his office, Frank Hogan addressed all three at once:

  “Gentlemen—Mel came into my office this morning and told me something quite astonishing. Now I’m going to ask him to repeat what he said, and then I’ll have a few comments.”

  Hogan turned to Mel and nodded.

  Mel faced Jim Yeargin and Al Herman, both of whom had their arms folded at their chests. Yeargin smiled gently, while Herman appeared genuinely put-out, without even knowing what narrative Mel was about to convey.

  “Well—I think there’s a problem with the defendant whose been indicted in the Wylie-Hoffert case.”

  Herman furrowed his brow and held his arm out, as if cupping a baseball. In a deep, rough voice he then said, “What did you just say?”

  Mel opened his mouth to speak, but Hogan held up his hand, motioning for Herman to hear Mel out. Herman turned and gave Hogan a quizzical look, but he dared not speak while his boss gave the order to listen. As was Mel’s custom—with directness, logic and rational persuasiveness, he explained his doubts regarding the alleged guilt of George Whitmore Jr. In the course of a few minutes, Mel repeated all that he knew about the photograph found on George Whitmore. His major concern, he explained, was that in the Q&A, taken by ADA James Hosty, and in his alleged confession to the police, George Whitmore said that he found the photo in the apartment on East Eighty-eighth Street—and that it depicted Janice Wylie, the first girl he killed. But the wrinkle, or the A-bomb, was that Max Wylie remained emphatic that his daughter was not in that photo. If, indeed, that was the case, then George
Whitmore’s confession was totally untrustworthy and would not withstand the crucible of cross-examination, much less the standards of fairness that distinguished the Hogan office. Mel’s second point, which had preoccupied him all night, was that after reading all the thousand-plus DD5s, autopsy protocols and the entire case file, he concluded that everything in the defendant’s Q&A and alleged confession matched the police reports. Mel finished his presentation suggesting the real women in the photograph be found immediately.

  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.”

  CHAPTER 8

  July 1964

  It 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 proxi
mity, 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.