Echoes of My Soul by Robert K. Tanenbaum Read Free Book Online

the entire city. He would then notify his superior officers that he’d solved the case and outperformed his fellow detectives assigned to the Twenty-third Detective Squad in Manhattan. And like most of Brooklyn law enforcement, Bulger was tired of being seen as second rate compared to Manhattan detectives, and the Wylie-Hoffert case cemented that kind of thinking more than ever before.
    But I have to be sure, he thought. He looked back at the photograph. His weary eyes were fixed on the snapshot held inches from his face. That’s her, he repeated in his head, over and over. It has to be .
    When the door finally did open, fifteen minutes later, Edward Bulger managed to replace Louie Ayala and began an altogether new line of questioning that jostled everyone at the precinct—but not nearly as much as the already deeply troubled George Whitmore Jr.
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    If Detective Bulger was surprised by or interested in the small stature of George Whitmore, or his seemingly gentle demeanor, he failed to show it. In fact, he began his line of questioning without any introductions. He entered the room swiftly, sat down in the chair directly across from Whitmore, rolled up his white shirtsleeves, placed the photo of the two women in front of Whitmore and said emphatically, “George, where did you get this photograph?”
    George sat up, craning his neck to see the tiny black-and-white photograph resting in the center of the table. By now, he was hesitant to say anything, so he studied Bulger warily before sitting back in his seat.
    â€œNow don’t do that, George,” Bulger said, amused. “What’s with the blank look?”
    Whitmore’s eyelids batted nervously.
    Bulger shifted his tone. He smiled and his lips widened, revealing smoker’s yellowed teeth. He began questioning again. This time he sweetened his voice. His words were delivered slowly, as if he were a hypnotist advising the patient to stare at a swinging pocket watch.
    â€œNow I asked you a question here, George. Where I come from, we address the person who’s speaking to us with a proper answer. So I’m going to ask you again. Where’d you get the photo, kid?” Bulger pointed his index finger on the center of the image. His fingerprint embedded itself on the blond woman’s face. “Don’t lie to me now.”
    George opened his mouth and looked over at DiPrima expectantly, but the detective remained unresponsive. Whitmore turned his attention back to Bulger, whose eyes were serious, unfriendly and heated. Whitmore shrugged his shoulders, fully aware that this reaction would further add fuel to the fire. Instead, Bulger maintained his toothy grin, leaning back in his chair, which creaked as he shifted his body. With his right hand, Bulger tapped a corner of the photograph on the table in front of him. It made a steady ticking noise, which began to unnerve Whitmore.
    â€œWhere’d you get the photo, Georgie? Come on now.”
    George began panting for air as the term “where” seemed to be repeated endlessly—now by both detectives, their voices eerily calm and steady.
    â€œI got it at the dump—”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI got the picture in a garbage dump in Wildwood, New Jersey . . . where I was living.”
    â€œWhat dump? What are you talking about, Georgie?” Bulger answered mockingly. “I ask you a direct question, and you tell me you got it at the dump?”
    â€œI got it at the dump, where my dad lives, and I wrote on the back.”
    â€œYou wrote on the back?”
    â€œYes, I did.”
    Without missing a beat, Bulger then said, “Didn’t Detective DiPrima warn you about lying to me?”
    â€œI’m not lying,” Whitmore pleaded. “I got it at the dump. I—”
    â€œYou what?”
    â€œI—”
    Bulger was holding the image in front of Whitmore. His index finger was pointed at the blonde in the photograph.
    â€œThis