Free The Savage City by T. J. English

in the street.
    â€œHow low can some people get?” said George.
    The cop asked George a few questions about what he’d seen. George explained that the guy being chased had disappeared into a building on Amboy Street. George even volunteered to show Officer Isola the building, which he did. Isola didn’t bother to write down the building’s address, but he did find it noteworthy that George had witnessed the assailant running away. From a street call box the patrolman called his sergeant, who minutes later pulled up in a squad car. Isola gave the sergeant a report. Without even getting out of the car, the sergeant stuck his head out of the window and said to Whitmore, “Between you and me, it’s against the law not to tell us where a guy went to when we’re looking for him.”
    George was startled; that’s exactly what he had done. “I did tell you,” he said.
    The sergeant shrugged and then said to Isola, “You got this kid’s name and place of employment?” Isola nodded; the sergeant drove off. Not long after that George’s brother showed up and they headed off for a day of employment at the Schoenberg Salt Company.
    Now, here it was the following morning and Officer Isola was back. This time he was accompanied by another guy. The guy was built like a football player, with a barrel chest and biceps that stretched the fabric of his suit jacket. They both approached Whitmore. “Mornin’, Officer,” said George.
    The big guy spoke first: “Why did you lie to us?”
    George stuttered.
    Isola explained that the man with him was Detective Richard Aidala. “Your name is George Whitman, correct?”
    â€œNo,” said George. “Not Whitman. Whitmore. George Whitmore Junior.”
    The cops looked at each other, then at George. They told him that yesterday they had gone to his place of business, the Schoenberg Salt Company. The manager told them there was no George Whitman working there. “Were you there yesterday?”
    George explained that he’d gone with his brother to the factory, but when he got there he realized he’d neglected to bring along his social security number, and without that number the company was unable to employ him for the day, so they’d sent George packing.
    Whitmore had answers for Isola and Aidala’s questions, but the two policemen didn’t seem satisfied. Aidala asked, “Would you be willing to come with us to the station house and answer a few questions?”
    â€œWhy, sure,” said George. He wasn’t the least bit hesitant; indeed, Whitmore had seen enough TV cop shows that he was actually excited by the prospect of helping with the investigation.
    The Seventy-third Precinct station house was located near the intersection of East New York Avenue and Rockaway Avenue. It had the look of a Second World War bunker, an imposing redbrick and slate building constructed at the turn of the century in a style known as French Fortress. Like most public buildings in this part of Brooklyn, it had seen better days; there was chicken wire over the windows, a crumbling facade, and weeds sprouting from cracks in the front steps and surrounding sidewalk.
    Whitmore was brought into the station house by Isola and Aidala. It was his first experience inside a New York police station. The harsh overhead fluorescent lighting seemed designed to make a person sweat. There was a sickly yellowish hue to the lighting: it had been years since the light fixtures had been cleaned or the walls painted, decades since the floor tiles had been replaced. The building’s few windows allowed little natural light to intrude on the institutional surroundings. George had the same feeling many civilians did when they entered this and other precincts in black Brooklyn: that it was the kind of place a person could enter and never be heard from again.
    Right away George got the sense that, despite what he’d been