CHAPTER 3
Two days later
Before he was picked up by Detective Louie Ayala and Officer Tommy Micelli, George Whitmore Jr. had a bounce to his step. He had woken at dawn and wandered into the chilly April air, heading north along Amboy Street to Sutter Avenue. He turned west along Sutter Avenue, toward the Laundromat. And, as unaccustomed to the law as he was, particularly in Brownsville, George Whitmore Jr. was just naïve enough to believe that when Detective Ayala and Officer Micelli asked him to accompany them to the station house, he was simply being taken in to identify a real assailant.
The Seventy-third Precinct station house was a nondescript brick building on the corner of Bristol Street and New York Avenue. Whitmore climbed the cement steps with Detective Ayala, on one side, and Officer Tommy Micelli, on the other. He was excited to be privy to an unsolved case and eagerly climbed to reach the top of the stairs, where he entered the precinct. He was dropped off in a room down the hall.
George began imagining wild stories of himself as a detective, scouring the streets of Brownsville in search of crooks and killers, revealing his badge to wide-eyed shop owners and tenants. George remained easily distracted for half an hour, until finally, at approximately 8:00 A.M., the door opened to the squad room, where he had been left. Detective Louie Ayala walked in.
The detective had taken his jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his heavily starched, clean white shirt. Detective Ayala had the arms of a prizefighter, and he often rolled his sleeves up to intimidate his suspects. That morning he was clean-shaven and smelled of soap and cigarettes. He glanced in Whitmore’s direction, but failed to make eye contact. Then he motioned for him to get up.
“Sir—” Whitmore started, pushing his chair back in and following Ayala out of the room. In the doorway Ayala stopped so abruptly that Whitmore, who stood a few inches away, barely missed bumping into him. Then, with a long, hard stare, Ayala pointed his finger at George and said, slowly and steadily, “You don’t talk, unless you’re told to talk. Got that, kid?”
Whitmore nodded. Ayala repeated this remark a second time, more loudly and firmly, while George nodded readily. Finally Ayala turned and the two walked out of the room.
Meanwhile, Alma Estrada was contacted at home, and Officer Micelli was sent to bring her to the Seventy-third Detective Squad room, situated inside the Seventy-third Precinct. Officer Micelli was taller than Mrs. Estrada, and her neck extended back as she strained to meet his eyes. It was now approximately eight-thirty in the morning.
“You see this peephole, here?” he asked, pointing to the small hole in the office door. “Well, on the other side of it, we’ve got a possible suspect—I mean, this might not be the guy at all, but, if I may, would you mind taking a look through this peephole to see if we might’ve caught our man?”
Alma Estrada widened her eyes and lifted her hands in the air, as if to say something imperative. She wasn’t sure she could emotionally handle seeing her attacker, let alone being so close in proximity to him. She told this to Micelli in rushed, frantic syllables. She knew her hands were shaking visibly and was relieved when the officer suggested she sit down for a moment. As they talked, he placed some telephone books in front of the door for her so that she could stand on top of them and see through the peephole when she was ready. Alma sat down momentarily, adding that, in thinking things through, she simply wanted to get it over with. She rested on the edge of the chair, waiting, wringing her hands impatiently, until finally Officer Micelli helped her up onto the telephone books. Alma leaned in slowly, her hands resting on either side of the peephole, fingers splayed evenly against the wood of the door.
“Bring him in,” Micelli hollered.
Alma leaned in more, her left eye peering in through the hole into the empty squad room next door. The squad room door opened and she watched as George Whitmore Jr. entered. He remained where he was and looked to the office door, in exactly the direction of where Alma stood, pressed against the other side. She immediately pulled back; in her trembling, the door, which was already unhinged, began to open a few inches. Alma turned around to Officer Micelli, who had reached his hand out to steady her. “I think that’s him,” she said quickly and repeatedly. “I think that’s him.”
Micelli asked her if she was sure Mr. Whitmore was, indeed, the man who had attacked her just the other night on Sutter Avenue, and that it was very important that she be sure.
Alma pressed her eyes closed for a moment before saying, “Well . . . could I hear him speak?”
Micelli called out the request to Ayala, who then directed Whitmore to say the threatening words uttered by the assailant. A moment later, George Whitmore Jr. spoke slowly and clearly.
Standing there, Alma Estrada truly felt as if she were experiencing the entire night all over again. That voice—that soft, uncannily similar voice.
“ ‘Lady, I’m going to rape you,’ ” he said, as instructed. After a short pause and some whispering from Detective Ayala, Whitmore spoke again, gently, but clearly.
“ ‘Lady, I’m going to kill you.’ ”
Alma stepped back, almost falling off the telephone books. Micelli grabbed her and pulled her over to the table, sitting her down in a chair. He called to Ayala and they both sat with her while she confirmed, wholeheartedly, that George Whitmore Jr. was her assailant.
Next door, locked in the squad room, George listened intently. He could hear her say, over and over again, “That’s the man. That’s the man.” He swallowed hard. Perspiration dotted his brow and his gaze fell toward the door, where his accuser sat, on the other side, utterly convinced of his guilt.
George Whitmore Jr. knew immediately as Detective Ayala and Officer Micelli reentered the squad room that things had gone from bad to worse. Ayala, who was puffing on a cigarette, jerked a chair out from under the table and sat down across from him. George’s eyelids fluttered, adjusting to the smoke. He sat up, like a student in a classroom on the first day of school.
“Sir—” he began.
“So let’s say you threatened to rape her,” Ayala declared calmly, speaking in a thick, rough voice.
“No,” George answered excitedly. “No, sir. I did not. I swear. You’re making a big mistake here. I’ve never seen that lady before.”
Ayala looked up at Micelli, who was towering over George, and said calmly, “Well, it’s not like we don’t hear that a lot around here, Mr. Whitmore. Right, Patrolman?”
Micelli nodded, resting his hands on the back of George’s chair. Whitmore turned around, peering nervously up at Micelli. He smiled at Micelli, the only officer he was vaguely familiar with, but Micelli barely creased his jaw in return. Instead, he walked around to face Whitmore, leaned in ever so slightly, placed his long, narrow hand on the table in front of him and said slowly and softly, “George—you’ve got to tell the truth now.”
Micelli paused a moment, making certain he had Whitmore’s full attention. George, whose hands began to tremble slightly, nodded his head and, clearing his throat, replied, “But I am. I promise I am, sir.”
Micelli’s eyes remained fixed on George’s. He placed his hand on George’s shoulder and squeezed it, as he did two days before when the sergeant drove up on Sutter Avenue.
“George,” he repeated, “it’s going to be a whole lot easier for you if you just tell us the truth. Right here, right now.”
Whitmore was confused by Micelli’s stance. Just the day before, the officer had been asking him about the assailant, not treating him like one. He felt his eyes water as he stared at Micelli. George swore that he could see a note of sadness and remorse in the officer’s face.
“I just don’t know what you want me to say, Officer,” Whitmore strained to answer. “I didn’t hurt that lady.”
At about eight forty-five that morning, Detective Joe DiPrima arrived at the precinct and was quickly escorted into the squad room where Whitmore was still being pressed by Micelli and Ayala. Upon entering, DiPrima sent Micelli out for coffee and Italian rolls. During the next hour, behind closed doors, the two detectives managed to get a confession out of George Whitmore Jr. Out in the waiting area, rumors circulated that voices were raised and furniture was thrown. It was very possible that Mr. Whitmore was beaten.
When Micelli was permitted back into the room, he found George seemingly unhurt. Instead, he was hunched over in his seat, eyes damp and hands resting on his forehead. The detectives were now asking him about Chester Street, which was the street where Minnie Edmonds had been found dead only a week before. Chester Street was only a few blocks away from where Alma Estrada had been attacked. Micelli knew Detectives DiPrima and Ayala had been placed in charge of the Edmonds case. Suffice it to say, they were under a great amount of pressure to secure and close out the case.
“The boys fight on Chester Street,” Whitmore remarked tiredly.
“Do you have anything on your mind about Chester Street, other than the boys fighting?” Louie Ayala pressed, lighting another cigarette.
Micelli watched as Whitmore swung his neck back. He looked drained, and the officer wondered if the two detectives had somehow worked him over while he’d been away. Not that Ayala and DiPrima were known for that kind of thing, but he had heard stories about the Seventy-third Precinct.
“What do you want to know about Chester Street?” Whitmore paused. “Does this have anything to do with the woman that was murdered there?”
DiPrima started writing on a sheet of paper.
“You tell us, Georgie. What do you know about the woman on Chester Street?”
George pleaded. “I don’t know anything, sir—please. I didn’t touch that lady, either.”
Detective Ayala grinned and loosened his shoulder muscles by doing a few neck rolls. Then he began again, slowly and steadily.
“Come on, George, tell me about the woman on Chester Street. We know you know something. So why don’t you just tell us?”
George covered his hands over his eyes; Ayala let out a deep, long breath. Then, as if choosing his words carefully, Ayala said slowly and deliberately, “We know you did it, Georgie.”
Whitmore opened his mouth and drew in a breath. Micelli saw him hesitate, peering at the two detectives. Ayala was rubbing the top of his sandy brown buzz-cut hair, and DiPrima, with his sleeves rolled up and five o’clock shadow, was absorbed in the notes he was taking. Whitmore could hear the faint scratch of DiPrima’s pen as it moved along the page. He asked if he could talk to Beverly Payne, but the detectives ignored him. Whitmore then glanced at Officer Micelli, pleadingly, and Micelli’s face hardened. He shifted his gaze and focused on Ayala’s cigarette, hanging over the ashtray.
Whitmore was losing hope; his behavior began to indicate that he was moments from giving up. Yet, as innocuous as he might’ve been, Whitmore was no dummy. Ayala jerked his head up and Whitmore looked intently at him—almost through him, it would seem. His voice was clear and slow, and to his credit, it was defiant.
“I don’t know what to say—sir.”
A little after ten in the morning, John E. Currie, DiPrima’s commander at Brooklyn North Homicide, was notified that there was a suspect being questioned in the Minnie Edmonds homicide. Currie arrived at the Seventy-third Precinct at half past the hour, accompanied by Detectives Vic Arena and Edward J. Bulger. Upon arriving, Currie was notified that George Whitmore Jr. had, “in so many words,” confessed to the Minnie Edmonds case. Upon notification he left, leaving Arena and Bulger in charge. As it turned out, while Ayala and DiPrima had managed to get a roundabout confession of murder out of George Whitmore Jr., they seemed unable to get him to locate the murder weapon. At first, Whitmore denied having a weapon and began retracting his confession.
“Georgie,” Ayala said smoothly, “the only chance you got of getting out of this room today is if you tell me what the hell kind of knife you used, and where the damn thing is.”
“I don’t believe you,” George mumbled, gazing downward.
“You don’t believe me?” Ayala leaned back in his chair, throwing his hands in the air. He looked to his fellow officers, grinning broadly.
“He doesn’t believe me,” Ayala remarked to DiPrima, who looked up from his notes and shrugged his shoulders.
“Do you believe me, DiPrima?”
“You’re an officer of the law. Of course, I believe you,” DiPrima answered, gazing at Whitmore.
Ayala then asked Micelli if he believed him; to which, he nodded pleasantly. Ayala then turned back to George, hardening his expression.
“So, George, come on. Quit the games. Where’s the knife?”
Whitmore began sputtering responses, but he was cut off by Ayala.
“Come on Georgie, you can tell me. Tell me where the knife is.”
The room grew silent again, but for the scribbling of DiPrima. Whitmore folded his hands over his eyes for a minute. He sniffled; his nose was runny from crying.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?” Ayala answered softly.
“Okay, I’ll tell you whatever you want me to.”
“You tell us the truth, George.”
“And you’ll let me go, right?”
“And we’ll let you go.”
George Whitmore Jr. went on to describe the weapon as a black-handled, all-metal knife with a picture of a panther on each side of the handle. Officer Micelli had such a knife in his locker, so he produced one and Whitmore said his knife was similar. But when pressed as to where it was, he repeatedly denied knowing. Instead, he told them he lost it.
While they actually all got in a squad car and drove to the stairs of a tenement building on 178 Amboy Street, where George had slept that night, as well as to his girlfriend Beverly Payne’s house, no knife was ever discovered. The police were eventually convinced that Whitmore had left the knife in the Amboy Street stairway and someone had since taken it. While the argument over the knife continued to escalate, and accusations persisted in bombarding Whitmore, by afternoon the officers had decided that—knife or no knife—they would book George Whitmore Jr. in both the Alma Estrada attack and the Minnie Edmonds homicide.
When Whitmore again inquired as to whether he could leave, the room grew eerily silent. Finally Detective Joe DiPrima glanced up from his notes and halfheartedly managed to say, “Not yet, kid. But maybe soon.”