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

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.
    â€œHello? Dr. Morris?” Mel asked.
    There was a slight pause, and then—
    â€œThat couldn’t be ADA Mel Glass, could it? At this hour?”
    Mel chuckled.
    â€œI should pose the same question to you, Doctor.”
    â€œMel, 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.
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œI’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.”
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    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.
    â€œMr. Hogan,” he began, “I hate to call you so late at home. . . .”
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    It was humid