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

girl here? You found a photo of this girl here at the dump? Are you sure?”
    Whitmore, so intimidated that he could hardly speak, continued to stutter until finally he managed to say, over the top of Bulger’s repetitive questioning, “I wanted to—”
    â€œYou what?”
    Whitmore raised his voice. “—impress my friends,” he finished.
    Bulger flicked the photo across the table to Whitmore, causing him to flinch.
    â€œI don’t know, Georgie. It don’t add up. Come on, seriously. Where’d you get the photograph? Why would you carry a picture like this in your wallet?”
    Whitmore blinked repeatedly.
    â€œI told you, Officers. I got it at the dump. Louise Orr is a girl that I’m friends with, and that there’s her phone number,” he said, pointing at some scribble written on the back side of the image. He paused before adding, “Just call it and she’ll tell you herself.”
    Detective Bulger ignored this remark and changed his line of questioning: “You didn’t steal it, did you?” Bulger reached across and grabbed the image back, glancing at the writing. He tapped on the image again. “Because if you did, you could tell me, you know?”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œSo you’re really sayin’, you don’t know this girl.”
    Bulger reminded Whitmore of how he was already in a hell of a lot of trouble. One more lie and it’d be over.
    Whitmore sighed, throwing his arms up in the air. “But I’m telling you the truth, Officer—that there is my handwriting, and I don’t know the girl in that photograph. And I didn’t steal it. I just took it from the junkyard. Nobody wants anything in a junkyard.”
    â€œBut it wasn’t yours,” Bulger reasoned, “so, in effect, you sorta stole it.”
    â€œI—”
    Bulger lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on the table, one shoe crossed over the other. He flicked his match out, tossing it on the floor, and took a long, deep drag.
    â€œOkay, kid, I’ll play your game,” he said coolly, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “So, for argument’s sake, let’s just say you did get this photo from a junkyard in . . . Where’d you say you’re from? Wildwood. Wildwood, New Jersey. Fine. And then you tried to pretend it was given to you by this girl here.”
    Bulger pointed to the blonde in the photograph again. “So you wrote, ‘To George From Louise’ on the back.” He fixed his eyes on Whitmore. “And maybe you carried this thing around in your wallet, like some sort of souvenir.”
    Whitmore tried to interrupt, and tried to defend himself, but Bulger had the floor and he wasn’t about to open it up. The detective swung his legs off the table and stood up. He began slowly pacing around the squad table, until he reached Whitmore. Without turning to address him, he flicked the ash of his cigarette in Whitmore’s direction. Whitmore rubbed the gray particles from his pants and peered upward. He was exhausted now. The clock on the wall indicated that it was now a quarter past three in the afternoon, almost eight hours since he’d first been brought in. He began to wonder how much longer this questioning would take, and if he’d ever see the light of day again.
    â€œYou stole it. Right, kid?”
    Whitmore closed his eyes, attempting to hold back tears, which were welling up. He didn’t care anymore. Nothing he said seemed to make a difference. He hung his head and rested his right hand on his forehead.
    â€œJust tell the truth now. That’s all I’m asking.”
    Bulger continued pacing the brief perimeter of the room, while DiPrima folded his hands and gazed across the table at Whitmore. When George opened his eyes, he turned to DiPrima, resigned.
    â€œI’ll just tell you what you want to hear,” he said, half asking, half