The Mad Bomber of New York (29 page)
A cache of bomb-making materials found in Metesky's home following his arrest.
Courtesy Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division,
New York World Telegram & Sun
Newspaper Photograph Collection.
The Mad Bomber behind bars at the Waterbury Police Station. One of his lawyers would later say that Metesky could “easily pass as a person who could be your next-door neighbor.”
Courtesy Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division,
New York World Telegram & Sun
Newspaper Photograph Collection.
T
HE POLICE HAD PRIVATELY FEARED THAT THE
B
OMBER HAD BEEN PLAN-
ning a “last laugh” of sorts by placing a booby trap or a time bomb in the garage set to detonate upon the prowling of unwelcome guests. Word that the authorities had been conducting an investigation in the neighborhood early on the day of his arrest could surely have reached Metesky, and the possibility that he may have prepared a violent surprise loomed in their minds. There was no avoiding, however, a more detailed search of the dreary garage at the back of 17 Fourth Street. Shortly before Metesky's revelation to Detective Schmitt about the supply of bomb-making materials hidden in his basement, investigators from Waterbury and New York once again descended upon the Bomber's clandestine workshop.
Clearing away the scores of newsmen and photographers that had gathered on and around the property, the detectives warily entered the garage and began the process of accumulating and cataloguing evidence. The metalworking lathe that Metesky had used to fashion each of his creations was once again examined and, when deemed safe to do so, disconnected from the conduit wire which led from the cellar of the home. Fine metal shavings on the bench surrounding the machine were brushed into manila envelopes, and a variety of drills and other tools were inspected for relevance and incrimination. Boxes of evidence and the lathe itself were carried to waiting police cars for transport to the New York City police lab. A Remington typewriter used by Metesky to compose many of his earlier communications, as well as his most recent, had already been removed from the home, and initial tests matched it to the Bomber's typed letters. The case against George Metesky was growing by the minute.
Later that morning an army of police officials led the accused from Waterbury headquarters to a city court special session for arraignment. “This is the man,” said Deputy Commissioner Walter Arm to a reporter as he climbed into the lead car. “We know him by his admissions. Secondly, we know him by a check of his handwriting.” Metesky waved to the crowd of reporters as the procession of vehicles sped from the department to the downtown courthouse.
A surprisingly spry-looking George Metesky stood at attention before Judge Hugh McGill, surrounded by a slew of brawny patrolmen and court officers. His eyes glimmered with amiable cheer despite the stressful events of the previous night and the attendant lack of sleep. The usually tranquil and dignified courthouse had been transformed with a rush of nearly two hundred spectators and journalists who had come to witness and record the occasion. The crackle of news camera bulbs echoing through the courtroom and strategically mounted television film tripods throughout the hall imparted a theatrical feel to the event. For the first time in the history of the Waterbury city court, a sitting judge had permitted news photographers and cameramen into the courtroom to memorialize the proceedings, to the surprise of many veteran observers. “It is a bit unusual,” admitted Judge McGill after the hearing, “but I believe that much more time was saved, and much confusion avoided by allowing photographers to get their pictures, than to order the courtroom cleared and limited to seating capacity and reasonable standing room . . . I believe that, in all fairness no harm was done to anyone concerned.”
As the courtroom was called to order, the prosecutor, James Shea, informed the judge that a warrant had been issued against Metesky, and he briefly outlined the local charges against him. He explained that additional warrants were in transport from New York City and that, based upon a conversation he had with Metesky prior to the hearing, the accused intended to waive extradition and face those warrants directly in New York City.
“Do you understand these proceedings?” asked Judge McGill, turning to the handcuffed Metesky. A burst of camera light flashed against the white pillars that extended floor to ceiling behind the elongated bench.
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“And do you understand your rights?”
Metesky smiled and softly responded that he did.
McGill then explained the ramifications of a waiver of extradition and asked Metesky if he consented to a return to the jurisdiction of New York City, to which Metesky nodded affirmatively. He was directed to execute the formal waiver dispensing with the lengthy extradition proceedings that would otherwise have been required, and bail was set at $100,000, pending arrival of the New York warrants.
Anna and Mae, who had somberly watched the proceedings from the gallery, asked one of the court officers for permission to visit their brother before he was taken to New York. The request had been granted and the two women were brought downstairs to the holding cell at the basement level of the courthouse where their brother had been taken after the hearing. As they approached the steel bars Metesky rose silently and the sisters, each dabbing tissues at their dampened eyes, plaintively asked if the charges against him were true. He hesitatingly admitted that they were, and, though devastated by the confession, Anna and Mae gathered their fortitude and promised to secure competent legal counsel to fight the case as best they could. Earlier that day, the women had begged a crowd of news reporters who had gathered at their home not to believe the allegations that had been levied against their brother. “George couldn't possibly be the âMad Bomber,'” they urged. “He just isn't the type.” They explained in detail that an accident in 1931 had resulted in their brother's prolonged illness and that his former employer, Con Ed, had ignored his pleas for assistance. “Sometimes,” Anna said, “George remains in bed 17 hours a day. He can't breathe on damp days, and sometimes he can't eat.” And in later statements to the press, John Metesky, George's older brother said, “His arrest is ridiculous and outrageous. We'll get the best lawyers in the country to defend him.” Describing his brother as a devout and religious man, John continued, “He is a gentleman in every way.” Now, as George Metesky's unabashed admission that he was in fact the Mad Bomber echoed through the news media, his siblings grappled with the sobering prospect that it was true.
Prior to Metesky's departure from the Waterbury City Court, the self-proclaimed “on-the-street-reporter” John Tillman, working for television station WPIX, was granted a five-minute filmed interview with the Mad Bomber. Asked how he felt, Metesky replied, “Well it's a little confusing. Much too confusing.” He expressed sympathy for his two sisters who, he insisted, knew nothing of his activities, and he professed a dislike of all the hoopla surrounding his apprehension, claiming, “I try to live quietly. I get on with as little confusion as possible.” When asked why he resorted to bombs, Metesky explained matter-of-factly that he “had no other choice.” He related years of frustration in attempting to have his compensation claim heard, and he explained that all of his letter writing had gotten him nowhere, thus forcing him to engage in the bomb-planting campaign. In a coincidental quirk of fate, the interview would appear later that evening on a news program sponsored by the Consolidated Edison Company. The name of the show was the “Con-Ed 3-Star News.”
By noon, “The story of the century,” as the local papers were calling it, was drawing to a close for the city of Waterbury, Connecticut. A New York City magistrate had signed a hastily prepared warrant for Metesky's arrest that was limited to the February 21, 1956, bombing of the Penn Station washroom that injured porter Lloyd Hill, and Assistant District Attorney Karl Grebow sped north to deliver the document to the Waterbury authorities. Though some in the Naugatuck Valley took a curious pride in their newfound notoriety, city officials and the police department in particular were jubilant to see George Metesky hurried into the center car of a police motorcade, whisked out of the Brass City, and bound for New York.
Many of the same media crews that covered Metesky's arrest, booking, and arraignment in Waterbury followed the entourage to Manhattan and joined scores of others to greet the jovial Mad Bomber. In distinct contrast to the malicious image conjured up during his sixteen-year reign of terror, the descriptions of George Metesky at various points in the criminal process evoked thoughts of a docile, almost sympathetic, figure. One newspaper noted:
The man police arrested today as the “Mad Bomber” looks like a man who has never been mad at anything in his life. His little blue eyes stare aimlessly from his gold-rimmed glasses. His face is almost unlined despite his 53 years, and his receding chin and inoffensive manner belie the fact that he was the object of one of the biggest manhunts in New York police history.
He “could well have passed for a school teacher,” wrote another reporter, while the
New York Times
suggested that “[t]he prisoner resembled a beaming church deacon . . . His somber blue suit with pencil stripe, his neat shirt and tie, his shoes, all bespoke the neat, careful citizen.”
As word spread that the Bomber was in transport to the Fifth Precinct headquarters, a mob of curious onlookers flocked to the narrow ways surrounding Centre Street for a closer look at the notorious suspect. The copper-domed, Baroque-style police building stood on its full triangular city block like a grand European watchtower meant, as local folklore would have it, to “impress both the officer and the prisoner with the majesty of the law.” With dusk falling upon the raucous taverns and old-world shops that lined the area surrounding the building, the motorcade weaved its way through the congested streets of Little Italy and stopped at police headquarters, and the handcuffed Metesky was ushered from the car. Flanked on either side by the displeased Detectives Lynch and Martin, Metesky smiled widely and raised his arms to the bloated crowd that now jostled against the barriers erected by police on both sides of the cluttered street. Like a conquering warrior returning home from battle, Metesky hailed his greetings to the swarm and happily acquiesced as clamoring news photographers, some precariously perched on nearby rooftops, shouted, “This way, George. This way.”
With camera bulbs flashing like lightning, a reporter shouted, “You glad it's over, George?”
“Yes,” came the answer in a burst of laughter.
“Are you sorry you hurt the people?” barked another journalist.
“Yes, I'm sorry I hurt the people.” Reflecting for a moment, he added, “but I'm not sorry I did it.”