Kitty Genovese: A True Account of a Public Murder and Its Private Consequences

by Pelonero, Catherine

  In writing about this conversation a few months after it occurred, Rosenthal claimed that the police commissioner had given him a specific number of witnesses who had done nothing: thirty-eight. Rosenthal also claimed that he had questioned that number, thinking it surprisingly high. Rosenthal said that Murphy reiterated: Thirty-eight. The commissioner then added, “I’ve been in this business a long time, but this beats everything.”

  Rosenthal also recalled that, despite his feeling the commissioner might be exaggerating, he was intrigued. He asked Murphy, did he mind if a reporter from the Times looked into it?

  Commissioner Murphy did not mind at all.

  EVEN WITH THE police commissioner’s assent, Rosenthal did not jump immediately into the story. Not only did he feel that Murphy might have been exaggerating, but also it was, after all, a murder in notoriously dull, decidedly unglamorous Queens. Still, it seemed worth looking into, especially if probing it could provide any insight into the seemingly much juicer matter of the double confession in the Kralik case. Now that story, of a second man claiming to have murdered Barbara Kralik when the first was set for trial, held sway as a story of particular interest, despite the uninteresting detail that it had happened in the borough of Queens. Having apprised himself of all the movers and shakers in New York City, Rosenthal was well aware of the exalted reputation of District Attorney Frank D. O’Connor, as he was equally aware that O’Connor planned to run against Nelson Rockefeller in 1966 for the governorship of New York. A scandal—if that’s what it turned out to be, and who knew at this point—involving former State Senator Frank D. O’Connor and/or the New York City Police Department would indeed merit serious attention, even—or especially—from the lofty New York Times.

  So Abe Rosenthal took note of what Commissioner Murphy had said about the “Queens story,” but he hardly ranked it as a top priority. Returning to the newsroom after lunch, Rosenthal became preoccupied with the rest of the day’s business. It was not until the very end of the day, sometime around 5:00 p.m., that he recalled the interesting tidbit Commissioner Murphy had passed on.

  With this and the Kralik double confession story in mind, he summoned Martin Gansberg to his office.

  Writing his account of this meeting three months afterward and the events that unfolded because of it, Abe Rosenthal described Martin Gansberg erroneously, inexplicably (or maybe not so inexplicably) as a “copy editor” and “new at reporting.”

  In truth, Gansberg was hardly the neophyte Rosenthal implied. Though Martin Gansberg was technically a subordinate of the metropolitan editor at this time, in actuality the two men were colleagues. Competitors.

  ABE ROSENTHAL AND Martin Gansberg each joined the news staff of the New York Times in the early 1940s as young college graduates. Both men had risen steadily through the ranks of the newspaper’s hierarchy, awarded with roles of increasing responsibility. Both were now in their early 40s, married with children. Both had worked abroad for a number of years on behalf of the Times and had returned to the United States within the past year.

  For the most part, the similarities ended there. Where Rosenthal had come from a hardscrabble youth in the Bronx, Martin Gansberg had grown up in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn in a family that, while not excessively wealthy, was nonetheless both established and erudite. His maternal grandfather was an early developer of commercial real estate in New York. Gansberg’s father was a graduate of New York University who owned a jewelry import/export business.

  Martin Gansberg had graduated from St. John’s University in 1941 with a bachelor’s degree in philosophy. In a family where the pursuit of higher education was practically as much a part of their being as the air they breathed, the joke was that he held only one degree.

  After graduating St. John’s, Gansberg worked briefly writing ad copy for a shoe store in Manhattan. One day in 1942, wanting to orient himself on a different career path, he went to the offices of the New York Times to fill out an application. By chance, he happened to show up on a day when the paper was holding a spelling bee. He came in second place (chuckling forever after that he would have won first place if only he had been able to spell “bookkeeper”). Impressed not only with his spelling but also by his education and command of language, he was offered an entry-level position, which he accepted.

  Gansberg proved himself as a man of consistently high standards, both as an editor and in what he viewed as the sanctity of being a newspaper reporter. A master of grammar and syntax, his writing was precise and clear; he respected language as an almost hallowed means of communication and expected the same from reporters who worked under him.

  He steadfastly refused to join organizations of any kind, be it Rotary Club or a political party, as he feared that belonging to any such group might compromise his objectivity, a trait he viewed as sacred and essential for a newsman.

  He did not believe in journalism school, at least not for those whose aim was reporting; he viewed journalism and reporting as entirely different pursuits. (He strongly disliked being called a journalist, referring to himself always as a reporter.) As an editor—a profession he loved—he leaned heavily toward hiring reporters who were English majors.

  In 1960, the New York Times sent him to Paris, France, appointing him as managing editor of the Times International Edition, the first person ever to hold the position.

  Though his role in the Times’ Paris news bureau was one of distinction, by 1963 Martin Gansberg was ready to return to his home country with his wife and three young children. Upon reassignment to the Times’ Manhattan headquarters, he made an unusual request; he wanted to step down from management and editing and go back to basics: news reporting.

  He liked—revered even—the business of news reporting. He disliked the politics of corporate climbing. As with any large institution, the New York Times had its share of competitive clawing. To Gansberg, that type of jockeying for position was both unseemly and wrongheaded, as it undermined the collective efforts needed to keep the newspaper at the top of its respectable game.

  Never a self-promoter nor a man who sought power—preferring the company of his wife and friends over swanky parties or other “schmoozing” affairs—Gansberg believed in the quality of his work as its own reward. And it was, in his view, the work that mattered. Not awards or accolades or how high one could ascend into the ranks of the ruling junta (and thus into the bosom of New York “society”), but the work. It was the reporting, the fruits of this important labor, and about maintaining the quality and stature of the newspaper as an entity itself, not the advancement or adulation of the individuals behind it, that was most important to Gansberg.

  In this outlook too, then, there seemed a notable difference in the personas of Rosenthal and Gansberg. Not that Abe Rosenthal had any less devotion to the New York Times, took his obligations any less seriously, or had lower standards for the paper; on the contrary, Rosenthal had great plans to not only maintain the status and high standards of The Gray Lady but also to expand its readership and appeal, particularly to readers within the New York area. Rosenthal believed there were consumers of serious news who could be pried away from other respectable publications like the Herald-Tribune. As metropolitan editor he had his sights set on expanding the scope of the New York Times to make it more accessible to more readers while at the same time maintaining quality. The survival, growth, and reputation of the Times were of paramount importance to Rosenthal; he just didn’t mind taking credit personally here and there.

  Rosenthal did not shy away from the limelight. Nor did he hesitate over seeing his own name in print, or hobnobbing with celebrities, or launching into a screaming tirade on the newsroom floor when he felt it was necessary to achieve some aim. Gansberg, on the other hand, saw the New York Times as the star, himself as an honored player in its cast. Though a great raconteur and not the least bit shy, and certainly one to stand up for his principles, he was nonetheless poised and gentlemanly.

  The backgrounds of the two men n
o doubt had a bearing on the way they perceived the business and their places within it. Rosenthal had not only been the son of impoverished immigrant parents, but also a child reared in a perpetual wake of tragedy and uncertainty: his father and four of his five siblings, all sisters, had died unexpectedly before he was twenty years old. Stricken himself with a painful, debilitating bone marrow disease as a teenager, he had to drop out of high school for a year, during which he underwent a botched operation and spent time in a neck to feet cast, told he might never walk again. Thanks to the efforts of his mother, he had eventually been accepted as a charity patient at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. A series of operations there helped him regain his ability to walk, though he would suffer chronic pain in his legs for the rest of his life.

  Compared to Abe Rosenthal, Martin Gansberg came from a childhood of privilege and security, which may account for why the latter had a settled self-assurance, a quiet confidence and refinement about him. “Imperious,” “bully,” “vainglorious”: these were not words used to describe Martin Gansberg. Not that anybody used these words about Abe Rosenthal either, at least not to his face. That would have been rather like whacking a polar bear on the nose to see if it would bite.

  It should be noted, however, that during his very long tenure at the Times (it would ultimately last another thirty-five years), Abe Rosenthal had as many admirers as he had detractors. As far as the criticism then he was little different than most other people in positions of significant power and influence—highly scrutinized and loved and hated in almost equal measure. Many of his critics praised his journalistic integrity if not his blustering, combative methods.

  Rosenthal may have viewed Gansberg as an enigma: a man who had willingly given up power; had chosen to step down to rank-and-file reporter. Backward steps were not something Rosenthal aspired to himself. But if that’s what this man wanted, the metropolitan editor was willing to oblige.

  Late on that Monday afternoon when Abe Rosenthal called Martin Gansberg—formerly his colleague, now one of his reporters—into his office to discuss the matter of the incidents in Queens, the double confession and the little he knew of silent witnesses to another homicide, Gansberg listened, agreed to look into it.

  In truth, it was a crap assignment for a New York Times reporter, much less one like Martin Gansberg, who had been with the paper for more than twenty years, many of those spent in high-level news and editorial positions. A couple of murders in Queens, one of which—Kralik—was already old news (unless, of course, it resulted in a scandal for city officials). Explaining at a later date his choice of Gansberg for the assignment, Rosenthal stated that he did not think Gansberg would mind doing “dogged difficult work that might turn to nothing, as this story might have turned out.”

  Rosenthal was correct about that. Gansberg did not mind. He was a reporter. He took the assignment.

  He left Rosenthal’s office and started at the beginning: with a call to District Attorney Frank D. O’Connor.

  O’Connor told Gansberg that police and his office were thoroughly investigating Moseley’s confession to Barbara Kralik’s murder but that in the meantime he opposed bail or parole for Alvin Mitchell. He stressed, however, that he wanted to be sure “we have the right man.”

  As for the silent witnesses, O’Connor told him that sounded like the Kitty Genovese murder and suggested he give Inspector Fred Lussen a call.

  IT WAS WEDNESDAY, March 25, when Gansberg got to meet with Frederick Lussen. The DA had already held a press conference regarding the double confession in the Kralik case (Inspector Lussen had spoken at this press conference along with Frank O’Connor). Gansberg had reported on the Barbara Kralik matter in an article that had appeared in the Times the day before. Now he wished to speak with Inspector Lussen about the matter of the silent witnesses.

  Lussen was a man who was neither talkative nor expressive. He was often described by the press and others in the NYPD alike as stern-faced, stoic, and silent, a commanding figure who never spoke a word he didn’t have to. As such, Martin Gansberg found himself struck by how much Inspector Lussen was talking now, how angry he seemed at the witnesses to the Kitty Genovese killing.

  Gansberg’s curiosity was piqued. As a longtime newsman, however, he did not automatically take the word of the police as gospel. As a longtime law enforcement officer, Lussen knew this. He suggested that Gansberg speak with some of the detectives, and take a ride over to Kew Gardens with them. See for yourself.

  GANSBERG IMMEDIATELY AGREED with his detective escorts about one thing: Kew Gardens looked like a beautiful neighborhood, adorned with tall, graceful trees lining the streets; a quaint, old-fashioned train depot between the Tudor building and the West Virginia; tidy little shops; and clean apartment buildings. There was not a skyscraper or heap of garbage in sight.

  Martin Gansberg—who lived with his family in Passaic, New Jersey—later said that he found Kew Gardens so attractive, so suburban in its look and atmosphere, that he kept thinking how he wouldn’t mind living there.

  Though raised in New York City, Gansberg was not well acquainted with Queens. Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn were the city he knew. This neighborhood then was new territory for him. Initially he was struck by its beauty. This impression no doubt added to the jarring effect he felt when struck by the next thing: how easy it was to find people who had heard this murder that had happened twelve days before.

  Gansberg was not a man prone to histrionics, particularly not when he was on the job. He kept his cool, of course. But he later told family and friends how stunned and disturbed he felt that first day.

  The detectives pointed out locations, told him what had happened, and led him to a few people they had spoken to in the neighborhood. Even without their help, however, Gansberg’s own inquiries, made at the little shops on Austin Street and Lefferts Boulevard, yielded results. More than he would have imagined. Yeah, he heard it . . . yeah, she saw the guy . . . we saw the girl . . . He heard it and so did he, and he, and she . . .

  Like Inspector Lussen, the detectives Gansberg spoke to were angry. Gansberg was not there yet. At this point he was more startled.

  The detectives, of course, were no longer shocked. They had been through it with these people already. The arrest of Winston Moseley had brought their mission in Kew Gardens to an end. They had neither a need to further question any of the witnesses nor any interest in finding new ones. Their investigation had concluded.

  But Martin Gansberg’s had just begun.

  “THERE’S MORE TO this story. Much more,” Gansberg told his editors back at the newsroom that day. He described what he had seen, what he had heard from some of the neighbors.

  The victim lived in the neighborhood. The murder had been drawn out and gruesome. The killer had retreated and returned—twice—to finish the job. There was no shortage of people aware of something violent going on, but a complete dearth of people who had done anything about it.

  The editors agreed it was a newsworthy story. They wanted him to go ahead and write it.

  No, Gansberg told them. Not yet. He wanted to go back there tomorrow, Thursday. Without the police. He wanted to speak with more people and he wanted to do so without the influence or intimidating presence of detectives. He wanted to know—as much for himself really as for a news article—just how many people who saw this thing happen would come out of the woodwork. No police guiding him, just him hoofing it up and down Austin Street, ringing doorbells, hearing for himself what people had to say.

  He would, however, take a news photographer with him.

  MARTIN GANSBERG RETURNED to Kew Gardens the following day. He spent a good deal of time there. Some people did not want to talk, much as they had not wanted to speak with the police either. But others would. He spoke with a lot of people.

  The detectives who had worked this case had done so with the sole purpose of catching the murderer. Though some had asked the witnesses why they had not called the police, they were not there to investiga
te bad Samaritanism. Nor was there time for any such thing in a homicide probe. As a reporter, however, their lack of action became the prime question of Martin Gansberg. He asked why. They answered.

  “We thought it was a lovers’ quarrel.”

  “Frankly, we were afraid.”

  “I didn’t want my husband to get involved.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I was tired. I went back to bed.”

  Just as the detectives had before him, Gansberg felt strongly that some people who claimed to have neither seen nor heard anything were lying to him. For instance, a woman who lived in a first-floor apartment of the Mowbray (and who had given a different account to the police) told him she could not see what was going on because the leaves on the trees blocked her vision. Gansberg could see for himself that the trees were winter barren.

  Recalling these interviews at a later date, Gansberg would say, “I found myself dealing with intelligent, educated people who gave me sheepish, evasive answers or lied outright.”

  Though some people expressed regret over their failure to act, Gansberg encountered others who relayed no such sentiment. Even more disturbing was the affect of some of these people. Here they were discussing the murder of a woman on their own street—and more pointedly, how they had done nothing to help—yet some of these people spoke of it, in Gansberg’s view, in a casual tone. Unconcerned. Uninvolved.

  He began to understand why the police had used a certain word: “apathy.”

  The photographer he brought with him was confused. Since when did the New York Times cover murders like this in Queens, with photos no less? Gansberg said little about it. He just asked him to take some pictures—the storefronts on Austin Street; the police call box on the corner; the side of the Tudor building; a long shot of the rear of the Tudor building; and most oddly, a photo of the corner of the Tudor building by the railroad parking lot, looking down from above, taken from a high floor in the ten-story Mowbray Apartments.