The Mad Bomber of New York

by Michael M. Greenburg

  Later that evening, in what would be considered troubling news to all but Frederick Eberhardt, a small explosion ripped through several coin-operated parcel lockers on the southbound mezzanine of the IRT subway station located at Union Square on Fourth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. Among the people passing near the lockers at the time of the blast was a lieutenant of the New York Fire Department, who told newspaper reporters that the explosion “sounded like a stick of dynamite.” Remarkably, no one was injured, but George Metesky had placed his exclamation point upon the earlier events of the day.

  At the start of the 1951 Christmas season, the New York Herald Tribune received another letter:

  TO HERALD TRIBUNE EDITOR—HAVE YOU NOTICE THE BOMBS IN YOUR CITY—IF YOU ARE WORRIED, I AM SORRY—AND ALSO IF ANYONE IS INJURED. BUT IT CANNOT BE HELPED—FOR JUSTICE WILL BE SERVED. I AM NOT WELL, AND FOR THIS I WILL MAKE THE CON EDISON SORRY—YES, THEY WILL REGRET THEIR DASTARDLY DEEDS—I WILL BRING THEM BEFORE THE BAR OF JUSTICE—PUBLIC OPINION WILL CONDEMN THEM—FOR BEWARE, I WILL PLACE MORE UNITS UNDER THEATER SEATS IN THE NEAR FUTURE. F.P.

  On May 15, 1952, the case against Frederick Eberhardt was dismissed by a felony court magistrate for lack of evidence. A disheartened New York City Police Department was forced to hesitatingly admit what they had known for months: their serial bomber was still on the streets of Manhattan.

  In 1952, Metesky struck three more times: once at a telephone booth in the Forty-first Street Port Authority Bus Terminal, and twice at the Lexington Theatre on Fiftieth Street and Lexington Avenue. Bomb squad detectives, now working from their new home on the top floor of the 84th precinct station on Poplar Street in Brooklyn, immediately recognized the familiar components and construction of each device and the pocketknife left within the torn recesses of the theater seats, and ominously noted that the Bomber’s handiwork seemed to be improving.

  The Lexington was one of the first of many movie theaters to be struck by Metesky, and in its bombing the Bomber established a method that he would repeatedly follow—a method that the New York Police would soon identify as uniquely his:

  He buys an admission ticket shortly after the theater opens in the morning, about 10:00 a.m., possibly the fiftieth patron. He has nothing in his hands, for his bomb is in one pocket of his coat and an ordinary cheap jackknife in another.

  This shadowy figure sits in an empty section of the orchestra, away from other persons. In the darkness of the show, he reaches to the seat next to him, slits the bottom with his knife, and slides in both the bomb and the knife (presumably so if anything goes wrong and he is searched before he leaves the theater, the knife will not be found on him).

  Then he moves to another section of the theater and watches the show. As the theater fills up, and the early customers begin to leave—and the time for the explosion draws near—the machinist gets up, tags along behind someone who is leaving, and vanishes.

  On December 8, 1952, Metesky’s second bomb at the Lexington Theatre exploded and, for the first time, a patron was injured. A woman, innocently watching MGM’s song and dance film production of Everything I Have Is Yours, was struck with shards of metal and debris that caused several deep lacerations on her feet and legs.

  As a result of the official policy of secrecy and a police request that the particulars of the bombings be kept from the public, few, if any, details of the injuries at the Lexington Theatre, or any of the other 1952 incidents, found their way into the newspapers. Metesky wouldn’t even learn if his devices had exploded—let alone injure anyone—for months to come.

  There were no duds in 1952, and the bombs seemed to be growing in power and causing more and more damage. By the start of 1953, Metesky began to experiment again with flashlight bulbs and batteries (as opposed to .25-caliber bullets), as he had done in the 1940s, to mechanize his bombs. His decision to continue use of the infamous throat lozenge disc as a timer device, however, would be one that he would soon come to regret.

  The “sweeping arches” and “choral staircases” that punctuated the largest indoor theater in the world adorned an architectural and entertainment icon. “Everything about Radio City Music Hall is outsized—from its sixty-foot-high foyer to its two-ton chandeliers . . . to its Wurlitzer organ (the mightiest on earth, with fifty-six separate sets of pipes),” wrote one observer. Dubbed the “American People’s Palace,” Radio City combined stunning Art Deco design with an affordable price of admission. The hall initially opened in 1932 with the intention of featuring splendid stage shows, but when the gala debut met with failure, Radio City immediately shifted to movie presentations. Since then, hundreds of film classics, such as Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, An American in Paris, and Singin’ in the Rain, would premier at the hall, “virtually [guaranteeing] a successful run in theatres around the country.” As George Metesky stole into the nearly 6,000-seat auditorium on the afternoon of March 10, 1953, however, his mind was far from the elegant surroundings of the house or the movie themes that filled it.

  With his latest creation safely wrapped in a signature red wool sock and stowed in the pocket of his overcoat, Metesky casually took a seat in row L of the orchestra section of the hall. He had previously armed his four-and-a-half-inch galvanized pipe bomb with a quantity of black powder and a throat lozenge timing mechanism carefully calibrated by a measure of water to create a defined rate of dissolution. At a voluble moment of the movie presentation, The Story of Three Loves, when he was certain that all eyes would be fixed on the screen, Metesky removed a pocketknife from his overcoat and ripped a hole into the undercushion of the seat next to him. At an awkward slant, he reached underneath and, with a dexterous backhanded scoop, thrust the bomb and the knife into the gap, where he left both. A few moments later he was headed out of the auditorium and toward the lobby.

  Though an ingenious fusing apparatus, Metesky’s use of the throat lozenge wafer was fraught with danger—and he knew it. For the most part he could predict fairly well when the disc would dissolve, thereby triggering the detonation, but the variables, such as degrees of thickness and measures of water, could also prove imprecise. The result was often a somewhat unstable and unpredictable timing mechanism. In short, though he had performed experiment after experiment and perfected the system as best he could, there was really no sure way to predict the exact moment of detonation.

  As Metesky reached the exit doors of the Radio City auditorium, his bomb exploded much earlier than planned. The blast—a “funny” sound—echoed off the eighty-four-foot ceilings and through the hall. “[It] sounded like a rocket. It went zzzzzz—BANG!” recalled Metesky. Realizing what had happened and beginning to hear the harried sounds of confusion, if not panic, behind him, he rushed from the theater. As he passed through the lobby, Metesky was detained by the sudden grasp of an usher who had caught hold of his arm. He froze in near panic.

  “We’re sorry about this sir. We regret the inconvenience.”

  Eyes squinting with quizzical amazement, Metesky freed himself from the usher’s grip and nervously informed him that he was fine but that he still wished to leave. Foisting a free movie pass into his hand, the man urged him to please come back at a later date and promised that it would never happen again. As Metesky exited Radio City Music Hall, the wailing sound of police cars converging on the building had already begun. He smiled and whispered to himself, If I come back, it’ ll happen again all right.

  The morning newspapers played down the Radio City incident, calling it a “mild ‘pop’” and noting that the device caused little damage and no injuries. The Herald Tribune attributed the bomb to the work of a “psychopath,” and weeks later, when Metesky struck at Penn Station and yet again at Grand Central Terminal, blowing apart a locker on the lower commuter level of the latter, the New York Times, quoting the police, described him as a “publicity-seeking jerk” and a “mental case.”

  Metesky was outraged by the statements of the press and by their lack of detailed reporting on his bombings. Unceasingly self-consumed and
utterly narcissistic, he vowed to show the world that he meant business. He would now sharpen and advance his campaign of terror—and, once again, focus the world’s attention on the malevolence of the evil Con Ed.

  EDITOR + STAFF OF N.Y. HERALD TRIBUNE: UNLESS SLOPPY OR NO REPORTING IS CORRECTED ABOUT BOMBINGS—PUBLIC WILL GET INFORMATION BY WAY OF MOSCOW.

  GET THIS INTO YOUR HEADS—THE CONSOLIDATED EDISON CO. WILL BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE. ALL OF MY PHYSICAL, MENTAL AND FINANCIAL SUFFERINGS WILL BE PAID FOR IN FULL.

  YOU KNOW THAT BOMBS ARE GETTING BIGGER. SO FAR— THE HAND OF GOD—HAS SPARED EVERYONE FROM DEATH OR SERIOUS INJURY. BELIEVE ME—I KNOW.

  IN THE PRESS, NOW AND THEN I AM CALLED A “BAD NAME.” JUST WHAT NAME FITS YOU PEOPLE WHO DENIED ME THE PURCHASE OF “SPACE” TO TELL MY STORY—YOU WHO ARE TO [SIC] “YELLOW” TO PRINT THE FACTS WHICH CONCERN THE SAFETY OF SO MANY?

  I AM BEWILDERED BY YOUR ATTITUDE. I CAN ONLY RESPOND WITH MORE AND LARGER BOMBS. EVERY DAY THAT PASSES—MEANS A DAY CLOSER TO ANOTHER BOMB

  The return address on the envelope of Metesky’s letter of May 24, 1953, read simply:

  CONSOLIDATED EDISON CO.

  4 IRVING PLACE

  NEW YORK CITY

  With the narrow escape of the Radio City bombing and the antagonism of the New York press harping at his mind, Metesky resolved to draw attention to his crusade through increasingly more powerful and effective bombs, albeit with safeguards in place to avoid risk of detection. His next bombing, that of the Capitol Theatre, his last of 1953, would represent the final installment of his earlier small-scale and unpredictable design.

  At home in his garage Metesky developed a safer, more reliable timing mechanism based on inexpensive and untraceable wristwatches, to replace the erratic throat lozenge method that had failed him at Radio City. Removing the second hand, he was able to accurately set his devices for up to twelve hours by simply dialing the hour hand to the desired interval from the contact point. Once the designated time had passed and the terminal connection was made, the charge from the battery would surge through a circuit and into the powder contained in the flashlight bulb, thereby exploding the larger cache within the bomb itself. It was a design the New York City Police Crime Laboratory and bomb squad detectives would become all too familiar with in the coming years.

  Though undeterred in his overall mission, the incident at Radio City had raised Metesky’s threat awareness, prompting him to take other extraordinary measures to avoid detection, some divorced from logical reality. He was compulsively “careful and wary as a cat,” later observed one newspaper, and, therefore, arrogantly sure of himself.

  On one occasion, he spotted an advertisement in a New York newspaper offering wristwatches from a discount store at bargain prices. The hyper-suspicious Metesky haughtily laughed at the ad and tore it to shreds, certain that it was a police trap set specifically for him. The component parts of his bombs were commonplace items that could be purchased almost anywhere, and he took pains to avoid buying from the same store more than once or twice. He would not be unnecessarily drawn to any particular outlet to make his purchases, let alone one that he was sure had conspired with Con Ed and the police to snare him.

  On another occasion, he was traveling on a New York subway when he spied a woman sitting opposite him holding a handbag connected to a shoulder strap. Convinced that this was the trademark of a New York policewoman, Metesky got off at the next stop—and when the woman did as well, he knew that she was following him. Before he could panic and begin running, however, she turned a corner and was gone.

  Paranoiac idiosyncrasies aside, Metesky’s endeavors obviously entailed the balancing of actual and grave dangers. The Radio City incident had proven this. He never risked apprehension by driving erratically or above the speed limit when he carried a bomb in his car, and he frequently parked far from his targets, opting to take the subway to the targeted areas to avoid the linking of his car in any way to the crime scenes. In each of his missions through 1952 and a portion of 1953, he had carried a container of explosive powder with him and armed the fully constructed bombs in his car prior to boarding the subway. This method ensured that he wasn’t transporting an armed explosive device any longer than was absolutely necessary—but it also presented a risk that would, on one afternoon, materialize into near disaster.

  Sitting in his car on Ninety-sixth Street, Metesky readied an iron coupling for use against his chosen Manhattan target of that day. He quickly eyed the rearview mirror and reached for the vial of black powder that was safely stowed beneath his bench seat. As he began pouring the powder into the pipe casing to arm the bomb, a New York police officer pulled alongside the car and eyed its occupant. Nervously, Metesky had settled the bomb between his feet and readied himself to turn the ignition and hit the gas when the officer informed him that he was parked in a restricted zone. With a gasp of euphoric relief, Metesky apologized for the infraction and, exercising due care, left the parking spot and headed for home. “I thought my number was up,” Metesky would later say. “I was so frightened I could hardly speak.”

  In the moment of his near-apprehension, Metesky was not content to declare victory and cease operations, happy to escape with his freedom. Empowered by the feeling that he had once again outsmarted the authorities, he simply decided to arm his future units within the safe confines of his private garage and out of broad daylight, prior to his trips to New York. Satisfied that he had taken effective measures to decrease his risk of capture, Metesky’s brush with danger had an evolutionary side effect. He was now free to increase the size and intensity of his devices.

  Though Metesky would strike only three times in 1954, each of his bombs would prove dangerously effective, and the injuries began to mount.

  A blast in the lower-level men’s washroom of Grand Central Terminal on March 16, timed precisely for the start of the heavily traveled rush hour, slammed fragments of iron and debris into several porcelain fixtures, causing extensive damage and sending three commuters to the hospital for treatment of shock and bruises. The explosion echoed through the depot, causing hundreds to rush toward the sound in a “fervor of excitement” and prompting the washroom attendant to complain, “My ears are still deaf.”

  And true to his vow, Metesky did return to Radio City Music Hall—this time with injurious results. During a 1954 pre-holiday viewing of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas, a “crude, home-made time bomb” ripped through a seat cushion in row 14 of the orchestra level, sending a concussive sound through the auditorium, “as if a big electric bulb had been broken.” The capacity audience of 6,200 that had crammed into the orchestra level as well as three balconies of the theater were confused and panicked by the commotion, and four patrons received an array of puncture wounds and contusions that required a trip to the hospital for treatment.

  As was the usual case with Metesky’s bombings, the actual damage to the facility was fairly limited but the disruption was immense. He was aware of the popularity of the musical and had purposefully chosen the busy Sunday evening showing as his target to maximize the effect. “All seats were taken and there were a number of standees in the auditorium, while a line numbering about a thousand stretched through the lobby and into the street,” wrote the Herald Tribune.

  Within moments of the blast, police cars from the 16th squad on West Fifty-fourth Street, ambulances from Roosevelt Hospital, bomb squad vehicles, the mobile laboratory unit, and four fire engines together with two hook-and-ladder companies from Engine 3 converged on Rockefeller Center. As the injured were removed from the theater and the immediate area surrounding the blast was roped off pending a detailed search and examination, firefighters and police detectives, including Deputy Chief Inspector Edward Byrnes, a veteran New York cop in charge of the Manhattan West detectives known for his calm and efficient demeanor, quieted fears and quelled what could have grown into full-blown chaos. Among the jagged bomb fragments recovered from the scene under the direction of Inspector Byrnes was a small generic
wristwatch and the remains of a cylindrical battery casing that surely formed the familiar firing mechanism of this latest device.

  Mere weeks after the second Radio City bombing, thirty New York police officers and bomb squad detectives again rushed to the Eighth Avenue Port Authority Bus Terminal, where a bomb had detonated in a telephone booth, driving metal fragments and debris through a pedestrian corridor and startling throngs of weekend bus travelers. A Port Authority attendant and Navy veteran, in the process of checking the lights in the “suburban concourse” telephone booths, threw himself facedown on the ground upon hearing the blast, then, regaining his composure, rose and contacted the authorities.

  Investigators easily identified the shattered bus terminal bomb components as similar in style and design to those used at Radio City and in prior bombing incidents throughout Manhattan. With each new episode, detectives were learning more and more about the infernal machinist that plagued their city.

  As Metesky’s bombings grew more brash and potent, local as well as national newspapers would find it very difficult to ignore what was occurring around New York City. By the start of 1955, the requested and hitherto honored police policy of secrecy would ultimately be sacrificed in the name of circulation. Front page stories with inflammatory headlines began appearing in tabloid papers and broadsheets alike, chronicling the bombings—and, in the process, unnerving everyday New Yorkers. Soon, feeding on this air of anxiety, the New York scandal sheets would designate a moniker for the disgruntled miscreant who imposed his resentment and rage upon the citizens of Manhattan. They began calling him the “Mad Bomber.”