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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.
    â€œI just don’t know what you want me to say, Officer,” Whitmore strained to answer. “I didn’t hurt that lady.”
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    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.
    â€œThe boys fight on Chester Street,” Whitmore remarked tiredly.
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œI don’t know what to say— sir .”
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    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