Read Online Echoes of My Soul by Robert K. Tanenbaum - Free Book Online Page A

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—”
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œWell, my sister—you know Blanche, right?”
    â€œSure, sure. Met her once, some time ago. She’s in the head-analyzing business, isn’t she?”
    â€œSort 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.
    â€œSpit it out!” Justy exhorted, folding his arms at his chest. “You’re the one on the clock right now.”
    â€œYeah,” 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.”
    â€œSo?”
    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.
    â€œShe 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.”
    â€œWell, what did you mean, Counselor?”
    â€œYou 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