Echoes of My Soul Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    â€œ ‘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.
    â€œ ‘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.
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    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.
    â€œSir—” he began.
    â€œSo let’s say you threatened to rape her,” Ayala declared calmly, speaking in a thick, rough voice.
    â€œNo,” 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.
    â€œGeorge,” 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