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

pleading.
    DiPrima gestured for Bulger to sit down. He held Whitmore’s gaze and replied plainly, “You just tell us the truth, George. You tell us the truth, and everything will be okay.”
    â€œCan I go then?”
    Whitmore turned to Bulger, who was now seated across from him. He watched him stub out his cigarette in a half-full ashtray on the table. Bulger grabbed another cigarette from his pack of Lucky Strikes and offered one to Whitmore. George took it and leaned in for a light. Bulger struck a match and Whitmore watched the tiny flame as it crossed the length of the table. He inhaled, lighting the cherry, and sat back in his chair. Whitmore let out a cough. He hadn’t had a cigarette in months; and even then, he wasn’t really a smoker. But he thought this might calm the detective down, so he inhaled again. He was also grateful that Bulger wasn’t pacing anymore, and that for the moment, anyhow, the room was silent.
    â€œYes,” Whitmore said finally, “I guess you could say I stole it from the junkyard.”
    Bulger slid his hand along the metal table. He leaned back in his chair and whispered something in DiPrima’s ear.
    â€œThat’s good, kid. That’s good,” he said finally before stepping out of the room.
    Â 
    Detective Louie Ayala then entered the room and cuffed George Whitmore Jr. He then led him down the hall for formal booking on the Estrada and Edmonds cases. Whitmore could hear the steady click of a typewriter, the even chime sounding off at the end of a line. From behind him, he heard the tap of footsteps, along with dull voices mingling and the sound of rustling paper. He heard his name spoken, over and over in hushed tones. George wasn’t sure if he was being beckoned or if it was all in his mind.
    â€œAll right, kid,” a familiar voice said, tugging him down the hall, “we’ve got more work to do.”
    It was Detective DiPrima. Whitmore had just been fingerprinted and was now being taken somewhere new. He uttered, “Yes, Officer” serenely, hauling his legs up a long staircase and into a new, smaller, “more private” room, as DiPrima put it.
    He settled into a metal chair beside a small metal table and studied the graffiti etched into the vinyl tabletop. Some of it included elaborate renderings of a person’s name, like Reggie, carved in a sort of spiked font with a star carved where the dot in the i was intended to appear. Judging from these tags, Whitmore began to wonder how many more hours he would be seated in this chair. The room smelled of stale cigarettes and bologna sandwiches. The walls were barren and painted a dull white. There were two fluorescent tube lights overhead, one of which flickered every few minutes. Whitmore breathed in easy; his handcuffed wrists drooped in his lap.
    Detective Bulger entered the room, and the two men assumed their positions from before. Bulger lit a cigarette and blew it at Whitmore, while DiPrima offered George a congenial expression, as if to say, You’ll be out of here in no time. Just cooperate. Bulger’s sleeves were still turned up, and he cupped his hand around his jaw. His right thumb poked into his unshaven cheek. He flicked his cigarette toward Whitmore, an ash dropping on the center of the table. Whitmore didn’t look up and didn’t make eye contact. Instead, he sat, head bent, waiting anxiously for the next round of questioning to begin.
    â€œThis nonsense about Louise Orr isn’t playing out, George,” DiPrima began in a calm, steady tone. “So what’s the real story, kid?” He paused for effect. “What are you hiding?”
    Whitmore closed his eyes.
    â€œGeorge,” DiPrima added gently, “we called that number on the back of the photo and we reached a courthouse in Cape May. In fact, the person answered saying she was in Cape May Courthouse.”
    â€œGeorgie,” Bulger inserted, taking another drag