The handsome young junkie looked up in surprise. “Hey, Downsey, you son of a bitch, how are you?”
“I’m good, Ricky. How ya doin’?”
“Well, I’m gettin’ out tomorrow,” Robles replied; then he looked suspiciously at the detective. “What are you doin’ here?”
Downes shrugged. “I’ve been assigned to Manhattan on an investigation,” he replied. He didn’t elaborate; but because of Downes’s personal knowledge of Richard Robles, Mel Glass had asked that he be assigned to the DAO to work on the Wylie-Hoffert case.
“I thought you were in Queens.”
Nonplussed, the detective replied, “How’d you know?”
“I read about the big case where you went over to Paris and came back with the doctor,” Robles said with a smile.
Downes nodded. An uncomfortable silence followed, until Robles cleared his throat and said, “You know, they’re trying to frame me over here.” His eyes were pleading to be believed.
When Downes looked at him, however, the detective saw past the boyish good looks. He knew there was something dark beneath the self-righteous veneer—a demon. “They’re looking for the truth, Ricky,” he replied, and left the room.
On the same day, George Whitmore Jr. went on trial in Brooklyn Criminal Court, charged with trying to rape and assault Alma Estrada. He and his defense team—experienced attorneys who’d volunteered to take up his cause—were up against a stacked deck from the beginning. Few people in Brooklyn didn’t know that Whitmore was the media-dubbed “Brooklyn Psycho,” who’d been charged with the most infamous murders in anyone’s memory. A fair trial with an unbiased jury was highly unlikely.
During the prosecution case, Estrada took the stand and talked about the night in April that a man had come up from behind and grabbed her as she was walking home in the dark. She recounted the struggle, including how she’d pulled a button from her assailant’s coat. And as she fought him off in the alley, she’d turned and got a good look at him. “I saw his complete face,” she told the jury.
Asked if that man was in the courtroom—and if so, could she identify him—Estrada turned and pointed at George Whitmore. “That’s him,” she testified. “I’m sure of it.”
The prosecution had also called Officer Tommy Micelli, Detective Louie Ayala and Detective Joseph DiPrima to the stand. The officer and the detectives described what led to Whitmore’s apprehension and his confession, as well as identifying a raincoat, which he’d been wearing when brought in for questioning, that was missing a button.
Although unusual and risky as it left their client open to cross-examination, the defense attorneys knew that the only way to combat the impact of the confession was to put George Whitmore Jr. on the stand. The shy, inarticulate teenager, with the acne-covered face and weak eyes, made a poor witness. He mumbled his answers and had difficulty looking the jurors in their eyes, or even his own attorney’s eyes, as he was questioned. That made him seem evasive.
Whitmore haltingly denied attacking Estrada and said he’d merely seen a man running, with a police officer chasing him and shooting his gun. “I was trying to help,” he said of his conversation with Patrolman Micelli in the Laundromat.
The things he admitted to in his confession weren’t true, he said, but he’d been afraid of the detectives. Every time he’d denied one of their accusations, he’d been shoved or hit, and then called a liar. “I continuously got beat until I couldn’t take it no more,” he complained, “so I just broke down and shook my head.”
However, the jurors weren’t going to take his word over that of NYPD’s finest. It took them nine hours of deliberation, but they found him guilty of attempted rape and assault. The jubilant Brooklyn DAO viewed it as a trial run; next up was Whitmore’s trial for the murder of Minnie Edmonds, for which he might face the death penalty.
When Mel Glass heard about the verdict, he shook his head. It had not mattered to the Brooklyn DAO that Whitmore’s confession in Wylie-Hoffert was demonstrably false. All the prosecution had cared about was a conviction. He thought about his conversation with Dr. Morris at Bellevue back in July and how Whitmore reacted when confronted by angry authority figures: “By saying whatever it takes to remove the cause of the stress.”
Glass didn’t believe that George Whitmore Jr. was any guiltier of the Estrada and Edmonds crimes than he was culpable for the Wylie-Hoffert murders. But there was nothing Glass could do for him now—except help gather the incriminating evidence that would lead inexorably to convict the individual who had slaughtered Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert: Richard Robles.
Efforts to tape the Delaneys’ discussion of the murders with suspect Ricky Robles had met with limited success throughout November and December. Not only had Robles been cagey, but the recordings themselves were barely audible.
There had been one moment that was both amusing and alarming. Shortly before Christmas, Margie Delaney had discovered the bug in her closet while hunting for holiday decorations to put up. The Delaneys had demanded to know why they’d been bugged.
Mel Glass assured them it was for their protection—in case Robles decided he didn’t like their line of questioning and got violent. The couple had looked at each other, shrugged and decided it might be a good idea.
Now with their consent, the recording strategy continued into early January ’65. One day DAO investigator Phil Robinson happened to be passing Glass’s office as the latter was trying to decipher a nearly unintelligible conversation among Jimmy and Margie Delaney and Ricky Robles. Robinson suggested that Glass let him install a new, technologically advanced microphone, which had much better capabilities. The new listening device was soon installed, and the apartment next door to the Delaneys’ abode—occupied at the time by a police officer’s mother, who was moved to a new location—became the new listening center.
The new system resulted in better-quality recordings. However, for the most part, Robles remained elusive when answering questions about the murders. Yet, here and there, he let some things slip that corroborated the Delaneys’ account and locked Robles into the murders.
Piece by piece, the case against Robles was building. Still, two events at the end of January 1965 forced the New York DAO to move. The first was a story that appeared on Sunday, January 24, in the Daily News. The paper reported that the DAO and NYPD were looking at a “strong new suspect” in the Wylie-Hoffert murders. The story claimed that the suspect was a “22-year-old junkie ex-convict” named “Ricky.” And if that wasn’t enough to alarm the public, the story claimed that the alleged killer was now armed with a gun.
The reporter didn’t name his main source for the story, but it was clear that whoever gave him the details was a ranking police officer with intimate knowledge of the case. Manhattan NYPD brass was getting impatient and had been pressing for the arrest of Richard Robles. Officially, the only response to the story from the DAO and NYPD was that the murder investigation was continuing, but that George Whitmore Jr. was still under indictment.
The second event took place on the morning of January 26. Mel Glass was in his office when the telephone rang. It was Jimmy Delaney, who said that Robles was planning to commit an armed robbery that night. The young killer had wanted Delaney to participate, but he’d made an excuse and then called Glass.
Telling Delaney to hang tight at his apartment, Glass then called Frank Hogan. If someone got hurt during the robbery—and the DAO had known it was going to happen and had done nothing to prevent it—there’d be hell to pay.
Reaching his boss, Mel quickly explained what was going on and was told to come to the DA’s office. He arrived in the reception room about noon. Ida Delaney, Hogan’s secretary, was already standing at the door of Hogan’s inner office. “They’re expecting you,” she said, and opened the door.
Wondering who “they” were, Mel walked in. Along with Frank Hogan, Homicide Bureau chief Al Herman and Hogan’s executive assistant, ADA Dave Worgan, were seated in the room. Pointing to the chair directly
in front of his desk, Hogan said, “Have a seat, Mel, and tell us what you’ve learned.”
Glass got right to the point. He went over Delaney’s telephone call and voiced his concern that the newspaper story might have made Richard Robles more desperate. “He’s under a lot of stress, and he could go off on somebody tonight,” he said.
As the young ADA spoke, Hogan had filled his pipe and now lit it before speaking. “I agree,” he said at last. “The question is, what, then?”
Glass started to speak, but then he hesitated. What he was going to suggest next was a big step—the culmination of everything he’d worked for since reading the entire case file back in late June ’64. But it also had far-reaching implications.
“I think it’s time to indict him for the murders of Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert,” Glass proposed.
Silence enveloped the room. Every man there knew that indicting Robles for the same crimes they’d indicted Whitmore—but not as a co-conspirator or accomplice—was going to invite a firestorm of criticism for the DAO and the NYPD. However, the ramifications went beyond that.
In January 1965, while authorities including the police were being challenged and accused of corruption and malfeasance in other American cities, the honest law-abiding citizens of the five boroughs still admired and respected the New York Police Department. As Whitmore’s trial in Brooklyn had recently proved, if the guilt or innocence of a defendant was a contest between the testimony of the police and that of the accused, jurors almost always gave the NYPD the benefit of the doubt.
Now, if it was shown that police detectives were less than truthful and coerced false confessions, it meant the entire justice system would be seriously eroded. And that meant that the New York DAO would also suffer an enormous blow to its hard-earned reputation and the public trust.
Dave Worgan and Al Herman both suggested that it might not be wise to dismiss the indictment against Whitmore. “It could adversely affect the Brooklyn cases,” Worgan said. “It shows that we don’t believe the Whitmore confession, which could taint the Brooklyn confessions as well.”
Resting his elbows on his armchair, Hogan leaned forward. “So we keep an indictment pending against Whitmore, whom we believe to be an innocent man, to help law enforcement in Brooklyn?” He bowed his head and shook it. Then he stood and walked around his desk, which he leaned against, facing his two senior advisers. “I’m having a lot of trouble understanding your point of view. It was one thing strategically not to dismiss against Whitmore, while trying to corroborate the Delaneys and, hopefully, do it with admissions from Robles. Fortunately, now we have some corroboration from those conversations. But we didn’t dismiss initially against Whitmore as he was being held without bail on the Brooklyn cases. Also a dismissal may have alarmed Robles and he might have fled. Now we’re going to lock Robles up, and I can’t imagine not exonerating Whitmore at the same time. Not to do so would compromise who we are and what we do.”
Hogan paused; then he resumed his seat. “As chief law enforcement officer, I believe there is a major moral dimension to our job.” Suddenly he pounded his fist on the desk. “Let’s face it. We blundered by indicting Whitmore. We’re not going to compound the initial mistake by playing questionable games with the system to help convict someone in Brooklyn who may very well be innocent. In court we rightfully have the burden of proof—that’s as it should be. The system is tilted in favor of the prosecution. We should win our cases after trial. Why not? We’re like the ’27 Yankees, so we don’t gloat in victory. Remember, we sum up last. We can explain to the court and jury why our case is honest and rebut with the facts and evidence the insincere defense. Well, here again, we are the last voice. As long as I sit here as DA, we’ll do justice, even if we have to admit we were wrong at the outset.... Mel, what do you think?” The D.A. turned to his young protégé, placing his pipe in his mouth as he settled back in his chair.
Mel hesitated. Collectively, the men sitting with him had one hundred years’ more experience than he did. But he was no shrinking violet when he felt he was right. “There’s not much I can add to what you just said,” he began, addressing Hogan. “You, with the senior members of this office, have worked extremely hard to establish your reputation. If we don’t dismiss Whitmore now, I think your credibility will be severely damaged.”
Hogan smiled as he removed the pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem at Glass. “That’s what I thought you’d say. So go forth and do justice, Mel. Do justice.”
CHAPTER 15
When Mel Glass announced that it was time to move on Robles, the team of detectives sprang into action. They’d kept the suspect under surveillance, including using a fake yellow taxicab from which to follow his movements on the streets. Therefore, Detective Marty Zinkand knew where to find Robles as he stood on the corner of East Eighty-ninth Street and Third Avenue. The big detective pounced on Robles before the suspect realized he was a cop.
“What’s this about?” Robles demanded as the detective placed the handcuffs over his thin wrists.
“You’re under arrest,” Zinkand snarled, “for the murders of Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert.”
As Robles pleaded his innocence, the fake cab drove up. Zinkand hauled his “collar” over to the curb and pushed him down into the backseat. Like a regular cop car, the taxi had no handles allowing escape. The car proceeded to the northeast corner of Ninety-third Street and Third Avenue, where Lieutenant Cavanaugh and Sergeant William Brent entered the vehicle.
Instead of taking Robles straight to the Twenty-third Precinct, they removed the handcuffs and drove around for about an hour questioning the suspect, who denied being involved in the Wylie-Hoffert murders. At one point Cavanaugh told Robles, “This is D-day.”
Robles then reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card for attorney Mack Dollinger. “I want to speak to my lawyer,” he said.
The investigators ignored his request and instead drove him over to the Delaneys’ second-floor apartment on 330 East Eighty-fourth Street. The couple was home and met the detectives and Robles at the door. Suddenly realizing why he’d been brought to the apartment, Robles again demanded to see a lawyer.
Jimmy Delaney rushed up to Robles. Before the police could move, Delaney jabbed his index finger into the suspect’s chest. “Fuck a lawyer, Ricky! Everything you’ve said here has been recorded! We’ve been working with the DA’s office and the cops. They know everything! They’ve heard your voice! Your only chance not to fry in Sing Sing is to tell the truth and cooperate.”
Blinking in shock, Robles stared at Jimmy Delaney—his supplier, fellow addict and friend. But there was no pity there.
“He’s right, girl killer,” Margie sneered. “We’ve been cooperating. The apartment is bugged and taped. So much for us being the liars.”
If Robles needed any more convincing, Cavanaugh led him over to the closet and showed him the microphone. “We’ve recorded everything you’ve said in here for the past three months,” the lieutenant informed him. “Now, why don’t you make this easier on yourself and talk to us about killing those girls.”
Robles’s face turned white and he burst into tears. “I’m sorry I’m not dead,” he cried. “I tried to kill myself. Jail is a horrible place, where you just rot. I need a shot, Jimmy, and then I’ll talk. . . .” But then his voice trailed off, and he refused to say anything more without his lawyer.
For three hours the detectives questioned Robles at the Delaney apartment. But although he would bend—while alternating between asking to see a lawyer and pleading for a shot of heroin—he wouldn’t break and confess outright. Finally Lieutenant Cavanaugh decided it was time to take him to the Twenty-third Precinct headquarters to be booked.
About the same time as the suspect and his captors left the Delaney apartment, Glass drove away from the Criminal Courts Building and headed uptown to the Twenty-third Precinct, too. When he arrived, he moved past the press, who’d heard rumors of an arrest in Wylie-Hoffert. He made hi
s way to the detective squad room on the second floor, where Robles was being held in a detention cage.
Detective Zinkand walked over to brief him on what had happened at the Delaney apartment. The detective had just finished, when another officer approached. Looking at Glass, he hooked a thumb behind his back at Robles. “He wants to see you alone.”
Glass excused himself from Zinkand and walked over to the detention cage. “I understand you asked to talk to me?”
“Yeah,” Robles replied. He hesitated a moment, licking his thin blue lips, and scratching incessantly at his arms. When he looked up at Glass, the suspect’s eyes were frightened, pleading. “What can you do for me?” he asked.
Glass didn’t answer right away. He stood for a moment reminding himself that this scared, drug-addicted young man was also a vicious murderer. Then Glass spoke: “It’s not what I can do for you, Ricky. It’s what you can do for yourself. You have obviously been living with this for a long time, so you might as well get it off your chest. Make a clean breast of things.”
“What about psychiatric help?”
Glass shrugged. “Right now, it is a black-and-white situation. The cops say you did it, and you say you didn’t do it. We have nothing to base psychiatric help on. Maybe if you give a full statement for the court, it can be presented to a judge and a psychiatrist to analyze and determine if you need psychiatric help.”
Robles sat still, except for his rapidly blinking eyes. So Glass pushed a little harder. “It appears you panicked in the apartment.”
“It wasn’t panic. Something went wrong.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Glass, much more nonchalantly than he felt.
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