CHAPTER 6
Two months later—late June 1964
Manhattan ADA Melvin D. Glass sprinted along Park Avenue, dodging pedestrians and vendors through the heavy doors of Grand Central Station. He then rushed down a flight of stairs into the hot, reeking and crowded subway platform just as the downtown express coasted to a stop. Its headlights blinded the waiting straphangers as it emerged from the vast tunnel. He dabbed his sweaty brow with a cotton handkerchief from his jacket pocket while inching his way through the masses into the already packed subway train. Edged against a door that continued to swing open, making a whapping noise each time, he straightened his navy tie, studying his reflection in the glass window. If this train didn’t get moving, he’d have hell to pay, he thought. Normally, he carpooled into Manhattan from his home in the borough of Queens, but his car was in the shop—the diagnosis was slippery brake pads. So here he was, just another grunt, packed in like a sardine on his way down to the criminal courts.
At Fourteenth Street, the car emptied slightly and Glass moved from the doorway toward the center. He was thinking of something his sister, Blanche, a psychologist, had said the day before. They were discussing the Wylie-Hoffert case, which the media, in its frenzied sensationalism, referred to as the “Career Girls Murders.” It was still a popular talking piece in New York that summer; and given that his sister worked just a few blocks from where the murders had occurred, it had grown to become somewhat of a family fixation. Glass had a friend, Detective John Justy, of the Nineteenth Precinct Detective Squad, who had been assigned to the Wylie-Hoffert case as the NYPD liaison to the deceaseds’ families. Justy familiarized himself with the investigative facts of the case. Through him, Mel managed to visualize the extreme violence involved and found himself, not unlike many others, haunted by the idea of it. But what troubled him now wasn’t the crime itself but the crime scene. Just the night before, his sister had said very directly, “From what you’re telling me, the killer was compulsively clean, and that’s something right there.” That’s something, all right, Mel thought as the train pulled into the City Hall/Brooklyn Bridge Station. He exited the train and walked along the platform, pushing through the turnstile and racing up the stairs to the warm concrete of Centre Street. He jogged south, half a block, and entered the district attorney’s office and quickly headed up to court.
On his way into the courtroom, he ran into his bureau chief, Jim Yeargin, a tall, athletic, gentle, light-skinned black man, who had served in the Homicide Bureau for many years with distinction before being designated to run the Felony Trial Bureau, where Glass was now assigned.
“Mel, I expect you to lead by example. You know what they say about those early birds. We’ve got to get in court before those ‘black robers’ grab their gavels and take the helm,” he said with a mischievous grin.
“Carpool fell through—won’t happen again,” Glass answered, panting.
ADA Glass gripped the sweaty handle of his briefcase, breezed into the crowded courtroom, secured the prosecution table and was ready to represent the People, just as the judge tapped on the gavel and called for order.
“One meatball sandwich.”
Mel glanced up from his desk to find Detective John Justy, his good friend, balancing a tray of food before him, replete with sodas. He pulled out a chair across from Mel’s desk and eased into his seat, setting the food on the desk, along with an open pack of Lucky Strikes and some matches. Mel gathered his paperwork and set it aside.
“Where’d you go? Poughkeepsie?”
“Very funny. Uncle Tony’s was packed today, Mel. It’s summertime—Jesus, everybody’s down there but us.”
Mel could smell the aftershave Justy had obviously drenched himself in and arched back in his chair. Justy wore his usual white shirt, which contrasted smartly with his nifty executive-style vested suit. Justy loosened his paisley tie at his throat.
“Heard you were running a little late this morning, ADA Glass.”
Mel waved his hand dismissively and grinned. “I don’t know where you heard that rumor.”
Justy took a bite of his pastrami sandwich and through steady chews added, “How’s that wife of yours?”
“Pregnant.” Mel took a plastic knife and cut his sandwich in half.
“When’s she due?”
“End of the summer—thank God. Betty’s doing well and little Elizabeth’s excited, but unsure if she wants a baby brother or sister.”
Justy chuckled. For the next few minutes, all was silent in ADA Glass’s office, except for the sound of sandwiches being gulped down and the whir of a small fan that rested in the back corner. Eventually, while sipping their soft drinks, the two men began discussing the Wylie-Hoffert case.
Pensively and almost imperceptibly, Mel edged his chair in closer to his desk, sat up and leaned forward with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. He said, “Listen . . . I’m curious about something, and . . . well—”
“Well, what?”
Justy rubbed the palms of his hands together and quickly tossed the crumpled trash left over from his sandwich into a nearby wastebasket.
Mel continued, “Maybe you have a logical explanation?”
Justy blinked, leaning back in his chair. “Shoot.”
“Well, my sister—you know Blanche, right?”
“Sure, sure. Met her once, some time ago. She’s in the head-analyzing business, isn’t she?”
“Sort of, a psychologist. Well, not for nothing, but she works just a few blocks from East Eighty-eighth Street, and, well, she’s kind of gotten spooked by the case.”
Justy rolled his eyes and said, “Jesus, Mel, who hasn’t, for Christ’s sake?”
Mel ran his hand through his shortly cropped dark brown hair, trying to think how to phrase his next question. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
“Spit it out!” Justy exhorted, folding his arms at his chest. “You’re the one on the clock right now.”
“Yeah,” Mel answered with a touch of hesitancy, tapping his index finger on the metal top of his desk. “Well . . .” He cocked his head to the right before continuing. “Blanche was going on about how the killer apparently cleaned himself off in the bathroom after the murders.”
“So?”
Mel watched as the door across the hall swung open and a few ADAs stepped into the corridor, heading down toward the elevator bank. He heard voices approaching his office and watched as a group of suits and ties shuffled down the drab hallway. As the chatter drifted off, Mel jerked forward and managed to say, as if an afterthought, “Well, she didn’t think Whitmore fit that profile.”
Justy raised his eyebrows. He pressed his elbows onto the desktop, resting his knuckles under his chin. “Didn’t think he fit the profile?”
Mel rubbed his index finger just below his lower lip. A rise of laughter echoed through the hall as three more prosecutors came barreling through. Justy got up and gently closed the door.
“She thought the killer was compulsively clean,” Mel reported.
Justy gave Glass a sideways glance. “Oh, I see, and Whitmore, being from the ghetto, can’t be compulsively clean?”
Mel craned his neck. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, what did you mean, Counselor?”
“You yourself said that Whitmore was dirty, sleeping in a hallway and disheveled when he was initially brought in. And besides, from the description of him, what’s this kid from Brownsville doing on the Upper East Side?” Mel folded his hands. With his fingers locked together, he stretched his arms the length of his desk. He added reluctantly, “It’s nothing, I’m sure.”
Justy pulled the door back open, studying Mel carefully. A young DA brushed past, a pile of paper extended from both his hands. Justy reached for his pack of cigarettes, pulled one out and lit it. Gazing at a photo on Mel’s desk—a family portrait of Mel, his wife, Betty, and their daughter, Elizabeth—Justy squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. He frankly said, “Christ, Mel, you’re not going to stop, are ya?”
Mel gave Justy a knowing stare and simply waited.
Justy eventually groaned, folding his arms at his chest. He closed his eyes briefly and then said quietly, “Maybe you ought to talk to Max Wylie.”
Mel blinked, genuinely surprised. “Mr. Wylie?”
Justy took a drag off his cigarette, and then held it between his thumb and index finger. His expression grew somber. “Yeah, Janice Wylie’s father. Just talk to him. Let’s leave it at that.”
Mel was genuinely surprised at his friend’s unexpected stance. While Detective Justy was often earnest when discussing matters involving cases, he was rarely at a loss for words. In fact, he and Mel spent countless lunch hours discussing various details of particularly interesting homicides, or sometimes cold cases. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Justy fixed his eyes on Mel while pressing out his cigarette in the metal ashtray at the far-right corner of Mel’s desk. Gray smoke dwindled, curling vaguely to the ceiling. The two men stared at one another. Finally Mel rested the palm of his hand on his desktop and said, with as much conviction as he could muster, “Give me his number then, Detective.”
It was an understatement to say that Mel thought that he might be in a little over his head. While he had been with the DA’s office for just six years, he was still small potatoes. At that time the longevity of the ADAs in Manhattan was widespread. Most were career oriented. Only two new applicants were hired annually. The senior most competent ADAs left the DAO to become judges. The legendary DA Frank Hogan office alum permeated every level of the state’s judiciary—from the criminal courts, where misdemeanors were tried and felony hearings were conducted, to the state supreme court felony trial parts, up to and including the court of appeals, the state’s highest tribunal. When first hired and before learning the bar results, the procedure at the DAO provided that the newbies were criminal-law investigators (CLI). Once the CLI passed the bar and was deemed admitted to practice in New York State, he became a full-fledged ADA. In Mel’s case he was first assigned to the junior training rigors of the Complaint and Indictment Bureaus, where he presented about a hundred cases a month to grand juries deciding whether or not to indict the accused for the garden-variety mayhem inflicted upon the innocent denizens of Gotham. After that, he was assigned to the criminal courts to handle primarily arraignments, the setting of bail where appropriate, misdemeanor trials and dispositions, felony hearings, matters involving parole violations and evidentiary hearings ranging from defendants’ competency to stand trial to the myriad of legal motions tendered by the defense. It was a fertile minor-league training ground. By 1964, Mel had made it to the majors, and was investigating and prosecuting felonies. Still, it was a far cry from getting his feet wet in the so-called “Career Girls Murders.”
Mel leaned forward and cupped his forehead in his hands. His sister’s suggestion that George Whitmore Jr. didn’t appear to fit the profile of the killer was haunting him more now than ever. Besides, he should’ve been overly concerned—Blanche worked a mere three blocks away from where the murders took place. He needed to be able to assure her, wholeheartedly, that her neighborhood was safe again—that the murderer was behind bars, that the nightmare that plagued that peaceful stretch on the Upper East Side was finally over. And he certainly didn’t like Justy’s odd manner on things, either—that was entirely uncharacteristic even if his detective squad was told to keep quiet on things. It certainly never stopped him before. With Justy now long gone, Mel sat up and reached across his metal desk for his phone. Lifting the receiver, he began dialing the number and then waited; until after four rings, someone picked up.
A female voice chirped, “Lennen and Newell Advertisers. How can I help you?”
With as much assurance as he could muster up, he replied, “ADA Glass, with the New York County DA’s Office. I’d like to speak to Mr. Max Wylie.”
“Of course, Mr.—”
“Glass. Melvin D. Glass, of the New York District Attorney’s Office.”
“Of course, Mr. Glass. One moment please. . . .”
A few seconds passed before a male voice came on the line.
“Max Wylie here. What can I do for you, sir?”
“Mel—call me Mel . . . ,” he added nervously.
“Okay . . . Mel. Listen, I’m at the office, so I’m afraid my time is limited. . . .”
Mel hesitated, trying to sort out just how, exactly, he could get to the point. After all, it hadn’t even been a year yet. For half a second, the unspeakable horror of Janice Wylie’s murder flashed through his head. He shuddered at the thought of her last moments alive; and worse, he considered the sight Max Wylie must’ve glimpsed upon entering that bedroom. Mel stared at the ceiling, quickly ruminating over various ways to approach the subject.
Before he’d chosen his words, Mr. Wylie spoke. “I’m sorry—Mr. . . . what was your name again?”
“Mel . . . Mel Glass. I work for the district attorney’s office. You see, I’ve been chatting with Detective John Justy about the case and have some questions, just for purposes of clarification.”
“ ‘Clarification,’ ” Max Wylie continued flatly, “I thought you gentlemen made your arrest. I was under the impression my part in all of this was over.”
“Well—” Mel tried.
“Say, I like the use of the word ‘clarification’ because I think this case needs some.”
Mel tilted his head, pressing the receiver against his ear. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Exactly what I said. For starters, I’m following everything that’s written in the press. And while I understand that the police and DAs aren’t responsible for everything written in the papers, some people in law enforcement are leaking things to the media. According to news reports, the police are speculating that the killer or killers may have placed a blue blanket on the girls with the speculative notion, according to the stories, that these monsters or monster may have thought about carrying the girls down the service stairway.”
“Yes,” Mel agreed, “I’ve read that that’s a possibility.”
“Well, that’s my point, Mr. Glass, about ‘clarification.’ ”
Mel scratched the back of his head. “I’m afraid I’m just not following you, sir.”
Mel could hear Max Wylie heaving a great, angry sigh on the other end.
“What I mean to tell you, Mr. Glass, is that I, Max Wylie, placed the blue blanket on my daughter and Emily, and the reason I did this was because I didn’t know police procedure, and, Lord knows, I didn’t want my wife or Kate Olsen to see the god-awful, frightful condition they were in. You have reviewed the crime scene photos, have you not?”
Mel held the phone in his left hand with his elbow resting on the top of his desk. He leaned forward. He was stunned. In a case of this magnitude, how could any type of speculation that appeared to be legitimate go on uncorrected? It was simply beyond his comprehension, and he was sure Max Wylie was mistaken. And yet, how could he be? How could a father forget a moment as horrible as that one? Mel stood up and began pacing his office, dragging the base of the phone in his other hand.
“Mr. Wylie, forgive me, but you’re saying that you placed the blue blanket on your daughter? That’s correct, is it?”
Mr. Wylie’s voice rose. “Are you people incapable of getting anything right? Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I placed the blue blanket on my dead daughter!”
Mel ran his index finger over his lips and set the base of the phone back down on his desktop. “My apologies, sir. I just needed to confirm your statement, that’s all.”
Mel took this investigative blunder seriously, but what he was about to hear next was a complete game changer. There was no mistaking the anger percolating in Max Wylie’s voice. This was a man who was simply broken in half, Mel reasoned. Max was desperate to shut that door—in fact, he needed to shut that door in order to survive. Try as he might, Mel was incapable of understanding what Max Wylie was going through; what it might be like to lose a daughter at the hands of a homicidal psychopath, and what it also might be like to have the whole city watch you crumble. Yet Mel tried. He thought of his wife, Betty, and of his young daughter, Elizabeth, and of the unborn child his wife was carrying. He reached deep, attempting to envision some madman laying a hand on them. A jolt rushed through him.
“The second point I’d like to clear up, Mr. Glass, if you’re still listening—”
“Oh, I’m listening, Mr. Wylie, believe me. . . .”
“Good. Because when Mr. Whitmore was being questioned in the early-morning hours on Saturday, I was shown the photograph of the two girls in the car . . .”
“Yes, go on—” Mel grabbed his notepad and, cradling the receiver between his chin and ear, began frantically scribbling down notes.
“. . . and I told the police that the girl in the photo was not my daughter.”
Mel froze, his mouth agape and eyes wide in disbelief. He swallowed, feeling a dry lump in his throat.
“Are you listening to me?”
Mr. Wylie’s voice sounded hollow traveling through the phone wires. Mel flinched.
“Did you say that you told the police the girl in the photo was not your daughter?”
“Yes, you heard me right. I know my own daughter, and that sure as hell wasn’t her.”
The moment Mel Glass hung up the phone with Max Wylie, he dialed Detective Justy, who answered on the first ring.
“Talk to me.”
“I just spoke to Max Wylie. Can you arrange for me to get Whitmore’s statement to the Brooklyn detectives, his Q and A to Hosty, all the DD5s and police reports . . . the whole case file, including the autopsy protocols?”
Without a pause Detective Justy answered. “It’s done. You’ll have it all tomorrow,” he promised.
Mel hung up the phone, bolted out of his chair and headed down the hall toward the elevator banks. He had a number of cases hanging over his head that day, but he found himself suddenly fixated on one case only—that of Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert. As he waited for the elevator that led upstairs to the trial courtrooms, he glanced down at his hands, noticing they were shaking. The issue of the blue blanket was one thing, and Max Wylie confirmed that he did indeed cover his daughter upon entering the bedroom. But Mel was floored by Max Wylie’s second bit of information. The simple notion that Max Wylie confidently stated that the photograph Detective Edward Bulger found on George Whitmore’s person—the photograph of two girls sitting in the open Pontiac convertible, which had To George From Louise on the back—the very photograph that the Brooklyn cops had deemed was of Janice Wylie, and being in the possession of Whitmore led to his arrest, was not a photograph of his daughter—why, it was simply incomprehensible. Here was a case of Murphy’s Law: when things went wrong, they literally turned nightmarish.
“But, Mr. Wylie,” Mel had remarked on the phone, shaking his head in disbelief, “are you sure?”
“One hundred percent, Counselor.”