Read Echoes of My Soul Online

Authors: Robert K. Tanenbaum

Echoes of My Soul (6 page)

Mel tilted his head, pressing the receiver against his ear. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Exactly what I said. For starters, I'm following everything that's written in the press. And while I understand that the police and DAs aren't responsible for everything written in the papers, some people in law enforcement are leaking things to the media. According to news reports, the police are speculating that the killer or killers may have placed a blue blanket on the girls with the speculative notion, according to the stories, that these monsters or monster may have thought about carrying the girls down the service stairway.”
“Yes,” Mel agreed, “I've read that that's a possibility.”
“Well, that's my point, Mr. Glass, about ‘clarification.' ”
Mel scratched the back of his head. “I'm afraid I'm just not following you, sir.”
Mel could hear Max Wylie heaving a great, angry sigh on the other end.
“What I
mean
to tell you, Mr. Glass, is that
I,
Max Wylie, placed the blue blanket on my daughter and Emily, and the reason I did this was because I didn't know police procedure, and, Lord knows, I didn't want my wife or Kate Olsen to see the god-awful, frightful condition they were in. You have reviewed the crime scene photos, have you not?”
Mel held the phone in his left hand with his elbow resting on the top of his desk. He leaned forward. He was stunned. In a case of this magnitude, how could any type of speculation that appeared to be legitimate go on uncorrected? It was simply beyond his comprehension, and he was sure Max Wylie was mistaken. And yet, how could he be? How could a father forget a moment as horrible as that one? Mel stood up and began pacing his office, dragging the base of the phone in his other hand.
“Mr. Wylie, forgive me, but you're saying that you placed the blue blanket on your daughter? That's correct, is it?”
Mr. Wylie's voice rose. “Are you people incapable of getting anything right?
Yes,
that's exactly what I'm saying.
I
placed the blue blanket on my dead daughter!”
Mel ran his index finger over his lips and set the base of the phone back down on his desktop. “My apologies, sir. I just needed to confirm your statement, that's all.”
Mel took this investigative blunder seriously, but what he was about to hear next was a complete game changer. There was no mistaking the anger percolating in Max Wylie's voice. This was a man who was simply broken in half, Mel reasoned. Max was desperate to shut that door—in fact, he needed to shut that door in order to survive. Try as he might, Mel was incapable of understanding what Max Wylie was going through; what it might be like to lose a daughter at the hands of a homicidal psychopath, and what it also might be like to have the whole city watch you crumble. Yet Mel tried. He thought of his wife, Betty, and of his young daughter, Elizabeth, and of the unborn child his wife was carrying. He reached deep, attempting to envision some madman laying a hand on them. A jolt rushed through him.
“The second point I'd like to clear up, Mr. Glass, if you're still listening—”
“Oh, I'm listening, Mr. Wylie, believe me. . . .”
“Good. Because when Mr. Whitmore was being questioned in the early-morning hours on Saturday, I was shown the photograph of the two girls in the car . . .”
“Yes, go on—” Mel grabbed his notepad and, cradling the receiver between his chin and ear, began frantically scribbling down notes.
“. . . and I told the police that the girl in the photo was not my daughter.”
Mel froze, his mouth agape and eyes wide in disbelief. He swallowed, feeling a dry lump in his throat.
“Are you listening to me?”
Mr. Wylie's voice sounded hollow traveling through the phone wires. Mel flinched.
“Did you say that you told the police the girl in the photo was
not
your daughter?”
“Yes, you heard me right. I know my own daughter, and that sure as hell wasn't her.”
 
The moment Mel Glass hung up the phone with Max Wylie, he dialed Detective Justy, who answered on the first ring.
“Talk to me.”
“I just spoke to Max Wylie. Can you arrange for me to get Whitmore's statement to the Brooklyn detectives, his Q and A to Hosty, all the DD5s and police reports . . . the whole case file, including the autopsy protocols?”
Without a pause Detective Justy answered. “It's done. You'll have it all tomorrow,” he promised.
Mel hung up the phone, bolted out of his chair and headed down the hall toward the elevator banks. He had a number of cases hanging over his head that day, but he found himself suddenly fixated on one case only—that of Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert. As he waited for the elevator that led upstairs to the trial courtrooms, he glanced down at his hands, noticing they were shaking. The issue of the blue blanket was one thing, and Max Wylie confirmed that he did indeed cover his daughter upon entering the bedroom. But Mel was floored by Max Wylie's second bit of information. The simple notion that Max Wylie confidently stated that the photograph Detective Edward Bulger found on George Whitmore's person—the photograph of two girls sitting in the open Pontiac convertible, which had
To George From Louise
on the back—the very photograph that the Brooklyn cops had deemed was of Janice Wylie, and being in the possession of Whitmore led to his arrest, was
not
a photograph of his daughter—why, it was simply incomprehensible. Here was a case of Murphy's Law: when things went wrong, they literally turned nightmarish.
“But, Mr. Wylie,” Mel had remarked on the phone, shaking his head in disbelief, “are you sure?”
“One hundred percent, Counselor.”
CHAPTER 7
M
el Glass remained at work late, poring over all of the case file police reports given to him by Detective Justy. Although it was a Herculean task to digest the voluminous nature of these reports in a case of this magnitude and duration, Mel set out to read every police report, DD5s (supplemental detective investigative reports), and police laboratory reports, including the autopsy protocol of the deceased girls. To get a sense of what this entailed, an average case at that time would have a single UF61 (complaint report) and one or two DD5s. In contrast, the Wylie-Hoffert case had over one thousand DD5s, which reflected the thousands of man-hours put in by various detectives working on the case. Mel had a good picture in his mind of what the scene looked like on the night of August 28. In fact, he had made it his business to reexamine the official police department photographs, including pictures of the bodies and the “death room.” Like so many others before him, he was haunted by the Wylie-Hoffert case, and he just couldn't seem to wrap his head around the killer's profile. While he read and re-read the Whitmore Q&A/alleged confession, it just didn't click. What troubled Mel the most was that everything in the Whitmore Q&A was already recorded in the police reports. There had to be something more—something more tangible than just documents—that could connect the dots. Then . . . he had an idea.
Mel picked up the phone and dialed a number he had scribbled down on a scrap of paper, which rested on the corner of his desk. Balancing the receiver between his ear and shoulder, he snatched up his pen and notepad with his other hand.
The other line picked up.
“Hello? Dr. Morris?” Mel asked.
There was a slight pause, and then—
“That couldn't be ADA Mel Glass, could it? At this hour?”
Mel chuckled.
“I should pose the same question to you, Doctor.”
“Mel, how are you?” Dr. Morris asked earnestly. “You still hold the record for volunteering to conduct more competency hearings at Bellevue than anyone else.”
Mel grinned. He stood up from his chair and began pacing back and forth in his office, holding the base of the phone in one hand and cradling the receiver against his opposite shoulder and chin.
“Well, in truth, I learned a heck of a lot from you. And in a very real sense, I'm still involved in checking out competency, although somewhat, Doctor, in a different venue.”
“I'm intrigued, Mel. What patient can help your investigation today?”
Mel fell back into his chair, setting the phone base on the desktop. He took in a gulp of air and then, crossing his fingers, said, “Whitmore, Dr. Morris. I believe you have a patient there named George Whitmore Jr.”
 
Around 9:15
P.M
.
, Mel looked up from the stacks of police reports and walked out into the desolate, gloomy hallway on the sixth floor of the Criminal Courts Building. At the south end of the hall, toward the elevator banks, he gazed through a grimy window to the desolate side streets abutting the building. An occasional siren blast interrupted the evening's isolation.
Mel rolled his neck back, closed his eyes and sighed heavily. Among other details, Morris had revealed that Whitmore had an IQ south of 70, borderline mentally retarded—and that, Mel reasoned, very well may have been the underlying indicator that enabled law enforcement to extract the alleged confessions. In his heart of hearts, he knew that this was a crucial moment. He could easily go back to his office, close the files and return them, fully intact, to Detective Justy without another word on the matter. And he considered that option. He thought of his wife, Betty, and his daughter, Liz, and the anticipation of his new child. He reasoned that it would be easier to step aside, particularly while he and Betty finished putting down roots. Mel thought about calling Betty and asking what he should do. At the last second, however, he decided against it. Maybe he did so because he already knew the answer to that question; maybe he knew, too, how great the consequences might be if he was wrong. By 9:30
P.M
., he still hadn't eaten, and yet his next move was inexorable. Mel picked up the phone and dialed a number he had memorized from his first day on the job. He waited; and when the other line picked up, he took a deep breath before speaking.
“Mr. Hogan,” he began, “I hate to call you so late at home. . . .”
 
It was humid and overcast, with thick cumulous clouds rising above the skyscrapers. Mel Glass drove over the Brooklyn Bridge into downtown Manhattan. He parked in a lot designated for ADAs, which was two blocks from the DAO. Then he walked over to the Criminal Courts Building, which housed the district attorney's office, the grand jury rooms, the criminal courts, the judges' chambers and the Manhattan House of Detention for Men, more commonly known as “the Tombs.” Mel entered the DAO on the Leonard Street side and took the elevator straight up to the eighth floor. He walked purposefully down the narrow hallway with its forlorn, putrid green walls, directly to the DA's office.
DA Frank S. Hogan was a legendary public official. He was the chief law enforcement officer in New York City and was regarded—among law enforcement, the judiciary, lawyers generally and the public—as the finest prosecutor in the country. While New Yorkers had a tendency to question the integrity of government officials, most people, counterintuitively, who followed New York's crime stories knew that Hogan ran an apolitical meritocracy since becoming DA in 1941, succeeding his mentor, Thomas E. Dewey. In 1935, it was Dewey who was appointed special prosecutor by Governor Lehman to root out corruption in the New York City justice system. Hogan left his Wall Street law office to become one of Dewey's top aides. Hogan was a lifelong registered Democrat, but he always had Republican, Conservative and Liberal party endorsement for his entire tenure.
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.

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