Kitty Genovese: A True Account of a Public Murder and Its Private Consequences (40 page)

On this point there seemed to be ample proof. In the weeks and months following the infamous story of Kitty’s murder—so widely read and discussed that even President Lyndon Johnson had publicly commented upon it—New York newspapers had been filled with “apathy” stories: reports of other crimes in which witnesses had averted their eyes or failed to answer cries for help. There seemed to be no shortage. The Kitty Genovese story, then, had not marked a new phenomenon, but rather a new awareness and acknowledgment of the pandemic existence of “apathy,” as it was generically labeled.

The story of Kitty’s murder—and the public reactions to Gansberg’s account—clearly struck deep and lasting chords within Abe Rosenthal, as it did in many others. “The story seemed to stick in the minds of people,” he wrote, “to irritate them more, I think, than any in which I
ever have had a part. ‘What kind of animals live on that street?’ a friend asked me, and when I seemed startled at his vehemence he got even angrier. ‘Do you think this kind of behavior is normal?’ ”

Rosenthal did not believe it was normal behavior; at least not initially. But the hunt for a
target
bothered him—those “animals,” those thirty-eight witnesses—as gradually, through his own reflections, he succumbed to “the queasy belief that the target was in our own mirrors.”

The entire affair had inspired in him a good deal of candid introspection. In what was arguably the book’s most poignant statement, he wrote, “I find it difficult to make a clean and totally honest distinction between my interest in the story as a newspaperman and a peculiar, paradoxical feeling that there is in the tale of Catherine Genovese a revelation about the human condition so appalling to contemplate that only good can come from forcing oneself to confront the truth.”

Whatever the value of Rosenthal’s ruminations, Martin Gansberg was not pleased that Abe Rosenthal had glommed onto a story that Gansberg had found. The article, after all, had come to fruition as the result of Gansberg’s investigative work and reporting. Though Martin Gansberg did not seek the spotlight himself, he did not appreciate Abe Rosenthal turning the product of his labor into a quick book in which Rosenthal had not only overly insinuated himself, but had essentially cast the reporter who had actually produced the story in a diminished role, referring to Gansberg in the book as a “copy editor” and “new at reporting.”

Resentments notwithstanding, and true to his character, Martin Gansberg chose not to take issue. Gansberg had not researched and written the article as a means of promoting himself; it was by and for the
New York Times
. In later years he took pride in what he felt was the article’s greatest legacy: the emergence of the 911 emergency call system.

His article about Kitty’s murder had spurred numerous discussions, including one on the value of having a simple, uniform method by which citizens could contact the police directly (the options in New York City prior to 911 were to dial 0 for the operator and ask to be connected to the police; call an individual police precinct; or
call the number for the police communications bureau. Each of the five boroughs had their own communications bureau phone number). Gansberg had written an article about the value of implementing a single, streamlined system within days of his now-famous account of the murder of Kitty Genovese. The idea had been considered before. Kitty’s plight had the public talking about street crime; the inevitable what-can-we-be-doing-better debates in officialdom followed. New York City implemented the 911 system for police on July 1, 1968 (later expanded to include all emergency services). Martin Gansberg did not credit himself for this, of course, but privately he expressed satisfaction that his famous story had played a part in helping launch such a crucial public resource.

IN JULY OF
1964,
Time
magazine published a letter it had received in response to an article, “A SAVAGE STALKS AT MIDNIGHT,” that had appeared in the magazine after the jury recommended the death penalty for Winston Moseley.

Sir: It was a great disappointment to me and those who knew my husband that the returned verdict was guilty of murder in the first degree instead of not guilty by reason of insanity. As members of his family, we did not expect the law to excuse his crimes, but to treat the condition that made him commit them. Winston Moseley for his 28 years has been quiet, shy and alone. He has been a devoted husband and father; then, it seemed, something snapped psychologically and made him commit antisocial acts. His behavior was called an “irresistible impulse” by psychiatrists, who explained that such people are unable to control themselves. This condition constitutes “medical insanity,” but because of an obsolete rule, he was not found legally insane. He is intelligent, but of course we know that sane persons do not behave in such a manner.

ELIZABETH MOSELEY, South Ozone Park, N.Y.

FOR SEVEN MONTHS
after Kitty’s death, Mary Ann Zielonko took refuge in the apartment she and Kitty had shared in Kew Gardens. She
remained largely isolated, using alcohol to numb her pain. One day in October of 1964, Mary Ann decided to rescue herself. She took her clothes and she took Andrew, her dog, but little else, and she left Kew Gardens. She moved to Brooklyn. Working again as a teletype operator, she enrolled in night classes at Brooklyn College.

At Thanksgiving, Andrew ran away. He got out and never returned home. Mary Ann always wondered if he had gone to search for Kitty.

ON MARCH 3, 1965,
Winston Moseley took the witness stand at the second trial of Alvin Mitchell. Subpoenaed by Herbert Lyon, Mitchell’s defense attorney, Moseley had been brought to the Queens courtroom from Sing Sing prison under heavy guard. His testimony at this trial was markedly different, however.

On the witness stand, Moseley placidly but insistently refused to answer. To the first question put to him by Herbert Lyon, Moseley responded: “I didn’t do it and I don’t intend to go into any explanation why.” The startled defense attorney continued questioning him, but Moseley stuck to the stubborn reply, “I refuse to answer.” Judge Edward Thompson cited him five times for contempt, but since Moseley was under a sentence of death, this hardly proved a threat.

The judge allowed Herbert Lyon to read aloud to the jury Moseley’s entire testimony from Mitchell’s first trial the previous June. As Richard J. H. Johnston reported it in the
New York Times
, “Mr. Lyon read the testimony into the record while Moseley, with his three attorneys arrayed behind him, lolled in the witness chair, smirking from time to time.”

Nine days later, the jury found Alvin Mitchell guilty of first-degree manslaughter in the death of Barbara Kralik.

ON MARCH 11, 1965,
the
New York Journal-American
ran a full page, one year anniversary article with the headline, “KITTY GENOVESE—ONE YEAR LATER.” A subheading asked, “Would It Be Different Today With The Same Cast?” In a journalistic stunt of questionable taste,
staff writer Helen Sutton had “re-enacted” the murder. With photographers in tow, Sutton had shown up in Kew Gardens at 2:45 a.m. and flung herself down on the Austin Street sidewalk where Kitty had first been attacked. The article included two large photos, one showing the reporter sprawled in front of the Austin Book Shop, the other showing her in a similar pose in back of the Tudor building. “The scene is lighted brighter than day by the photographer’s flash,” Sutton wrote. “I fall to the sidewalk feigning the death throes of the stricken Kitty Genovese.

“Two women watch from nearby windows, but no one gives an alarm. No one comes to help me. For the better part of half an hour, while more flash bulbs popped, I lay on the ground depicting the way Kitty died.”

Skipping the question of why anyone would come to help a person so obviously besieged by nothing more than her own tasteless behavior, Sutton quoted several Kew Gardens residents whom she interviewed (presumably at a different hour than the one in which she conducted her re-enactment spectacle).

“I did not call the police then, and I would not call the police now,” said Paula Rubenstein. “The people in this neighborhood are just not attuned to calling police.” The article recounted how Rubenstein had watched Kitty stagger to her feet and make her way around the corner, thinking she was drunk. “I’m the type of person who has never called the police in my life. Let me give you an example. About two months ago, I was home alone. It was a cold, windy night, and I heard someone on the stairs of the private street entrance that opens into our living room. For two hours all I could hear was the heavy breathing of someone lying outside. I barricaded the door with a clothes tree and a chair. Finally, I went into the lobby through another door and got the elevator man. With another tenant he went outside and found a drunk sleeping by the street door. They chased him away.

“Why didn’t I report it to the police? Why should I? It probably would never happen again.”

Edward Bieniewicz, the Mowbray superintendent, said he often thought about what had happened to Kitty that night. He repeated that his wife had told him to stay out of it, thinking it was a lovers’ quarrel. “It’s something you’d like to forget, but you can’t. I guess
everybody tried to forget it. But for those who think, well, it doesn’t leave the mind that easy.”

Samuel Koshkin’s wife said her husband had not spoken of the incident since the previous June when he had testified at the trial. He had since refused to discuss it and forbade anyone from mentioning it to him. “Mrs. Koshkin described the 35 minutes a year ago in which she and her husband watched the scene below, from Kitty’s first scream until the ambulance came. ‘My husband saw the girl stagger past the drugstore and heard her say: ‘Help me, I’ve been stabbed.’ He wanted to call the police . . . He wanted to go down to get the license number of the man’s car . . .’ ”

Mrs. Koshkin said that if a similar situation were to occur in the future, she would still stop her husband from intervening, but she would call the police herself and not assume someone else had done so.

The article did credit Sophie Farrar and Greta Schwartz for their bravery in going to Kitty’s aid. It quoted Sophie Farrar: “Now I have seen violence. There’s a terrible fear in me . . .” Sophie spoke of her fear that night in the hallway, wondering if the killer was still there. “Truthfully, if it were today, I really don’t know what I would do. It’s one thing for people to say you should help. But they never know what they would do until it happens. I don’t think I’d ever run the other way when trouble came. But now it’s a hard thing to say.”

Andree Picq spoke of how she had tried to call the police that night but had been too frightened and excited to complete the call. Of her neighbors she said: “I still don’t think people want to get involved. They don’t want police standing outside their door asking questions.”

Another resident commented: “You find such a lack of community spirit in a city the size of New York. Upstate, if someone is in trouble, everyone comes up and helps. Walk up the road with your wife, and people will say ‘Hello.’ Not here. And Kew Gardens is supposed to be a small community. I’ve been living here almost 20 years and I hardly know a soul. No one wants to know his neighbor.”

The man finished by saying, “It’s in the nature of the human being not to give a damn about his fellow man.”

Another resident told Sutton, “Nobody goes out here alone at night anymore. I wouldn’t walk in this neighborhood by myself.”

MARTIN GANSBERG WROTE
an anniversary follow-up article for the
New York Times
headlined, “MURDER STREET A YEAR LATER: WOULD RESIDENTS AID KITTY GENOVESE?”

Gansberg briefly recounted the crime and interviewed several Kew Gardens residents. This time, he gave names. He wrote of how Kitty had called for Karl Ross by name and, briefly, of the rooftop drama that followed. “The people did not act a year ago, and they are not certain what they would do now. The witnesses say if it happened again, they would call the police. Their neighbors are doubtful.”

He wrote of the resentment most of the community felt at the negative publicity. He noted the discrepancy between the number of attacks the killer had testified to in court and the three Gansberg had given in his first article, but wrote that Mrs. Koshkin still said she thought the killer had attacked three times.

It made little difference, however, certainly no difference in the fate of Kitty Genovese, and whether a news account of two attacks instead of three would have cast the witnesses in a more positive light seems doubtful. Gansberg wrote of how some of the witnesses now insisted that they had not seen or heard anything. While he said that some residents credited him for having opened their eyes, others treated Gansberg with hostility or complained that their community had been singled out unjustly. Frank Facciola, a neighbor of Kitty’s in the Tudor building who said he had slept through the attacks, said: “These things happen every day all over the world. The stories were only giving us a black eye.” Facciola felt certain that if a similar incident were to happen, people would definitely call the police. “We all miss Kitty,” he added.

Andree Picq reiterated that she would call the police if it happened again, but she did not think that her neighbors would. Robert Mozer, another trial witness, said that he and his neighbors would never let such a thing happen again. “I just couldn’t realize he was killing her,” Mozer said. “I thought they were some kids having fun.”

Mrs. Koshkin insisted that people would now call the police, but Cleo Hagopian, a neighbor of hers in the West Virginia, said: “Things don’t change. If I looked out the window and saw that happening today, I’d get panicky. I don’t know if I’d call the police.”

Gansberg also spoke with Max Heilbrunn, owner of the Interlude Coffee House that was located next door to the hallway where Kitty had fallen for the last time. “The articles, the publicity woke up the people,” Heilbrunn said, “but now it’s the same as it was. “Why, there was even talk a few weeks after the story was published about putting up a plaque at the spot where Kitty died, but nothing came of that.” Heilbrunn said that some of the people in the Tudor building who were closely involved had moved. “We don’t know where they’ve gone, but they left soon after the publicity.”