The Mad Bomber of New York (32 page)

Again my heartfelt congratulation to all members of the
Journal-American
staff who contributed toward ending this menace to the community.

By unanimous vote of the New York City Council, a resolution of appreciation for the
Journal-American
's “outstanding public service” in bringing about the Bomber's arrest was read into the public record, praising the paper's “exceptional vision and dedication to the safety of the city by devoting unlimited space to stories and appeals aimed at discovering the identity of this elusive terrorist.”

And from Washington, D.C., came a telegram from the FBI addressed to Seymour Berkson that read:

I know you and your staff can take great satisfaction in your most recent cooperative efforts which have led to the identification and apprehension of the quote Mad Bomber unquote. This is another graphic illustration of how the press on a day to day basis cooperates with law enforcement agencies. Law enforcement can very well look upon the press as an ally and the developments in the quote Mad Bomber unquote case conclusively prove the point.

Congratulations on a job well done.

John Edgar Hoover.

Perhaps the most meaningful tribute of all to the
Journal-American
, however, came directly from the desk of Commissioner Stephen Kennedy.

In a congratulatory letter of thanks, Kennedy wrote:

The capture of the Mad Bomber was the direct result of information furnished by the
N.Y. Journal-American
and developed by the police. The close cooperation in turning over to us promptly all letters received from the Mad Bomber made this outstanding arrest possible. I wish to congratulate the publisher and all those staff members of the
Journal-American
who spent many tireless hours aiding us in ending this menace. The
Journal-American
deserves the gratitude of all citizens of New York for outstanding public service.

In the coming days and weeks, the
Journal-American
and its “Four Fishermen” would receive awards from the Newspaper Reporters Association of New York City, the local chapter of Sigma Delta Chi (a national journalism fraternity), the Women's Press Club of New York, and the National Broadcasting Company. And in a bath of self-adulation William Randolph Hearst Jr. wrote in his syndicated “Editor's Report” that his
Journal-American
's work on the Mad Bomber case was “one of the great journalistic coups of the past generation”—a “Milestone in Press-Civic Understanding.”

With the flood of praise and honors pouring into the
Journal-American
, it appeared obvious to some that the paper would, in fact, lay claim to the offered reward. In a January 25 editorial, however, the
Journal-American
removed itself from the conversation. Noting that the paper's name had been raised as a possible recipient, the editorial made their position clear. “Under no circumstances,” the
Journal-American
declared, “would this newspaper claim or accept any monetary reward for performing a public service . . . [W]e feel the
Journal-American
has been richly rewarded by the expressions of praise from high public officials and the many warm-hearted letters of congratulations from our readers.”

Though the
Journal-American
excluded itself from consideration of the reward, by no means had it modestly accepted the accolades of the city without thought of profit. During its dialogue with the Mad Bomber, the paper experienced what Berkson called a “modest rise” in readership. Upon the arrest, however, daily circulation skyrocketed by 100,000 readers and profits correspondingly rose. Berkson himself appeared on radio and television news programs and was interviewed by the likes of Mike Wallace on the WABD-TV news program
Night Beat.
A dramatization of Berkson's role in the Mad Bomber case even became the focus of an episode of the television program
The Big Story
that aired in April 1957
.

As the public tributes flowed into the paper, Berkson and his staff of editors made certain that every word was visibly printed, and at times the self-exultation became insufferable. On January 24, a cartoon rendering appeared in the paper depicting a proud-looking member of the New York Police Department standing side by side with an animated copy of the
Journal-American
that bore the headline “Mad Bomber Captured.” An arm from the human-like newspaper was raised in unity with that of the police officer, and both held high a torch labeled “Public Safety.” The drawing was named “Partners in Public Service.”

For the most part, commentary among rival newspapers regarding the
Journal-American
's good fortune remained cordial if not outright congratulatory. Recognizing that they had simply been beaten at their own game, the
New York World-Telegram and Sun
extended through their editorial pages congratulations to their “esteemed compeers at the
New York Journal-American
for some first-class newspaper work.” The
Journal-American
reprinted every word of the editorial in its next day's edition. Other papers from across the country recognized the
Journal-American
's work with an editorial tip of the hat, and most recognized the paper's efforts as innovative and groundbreaking. The January 21 issue of
Time
magazine, however, carried a haughtily composed piece titled “Bombs Away,” in which the
Journal-American
was accused of withholding from the police vital information contained in one the Bomber's letters in an effort to hold out, in essence, for the “jackpot”—the surrender of the Mad Bomber. An outraged Seymour Berkson promptly sued Time Incorporated for libel.

The suit against
Time
meandered its way through the court system of New York, and, though the statement made in the article was patently untrue, it did not rise to the level of the legal standard for libel. On June 25, 1959, a decision was rendered by the appellate court in favor of the magazine.

Seymour Berkson, who had died earlier that year of a heart attack at the age of fifty-three, did not outlive the case, but, as always, he had made his point.

XIX
A QUESTION OF COMPETENCY

T
HE NINE-STORY BRICK AND LIMESTONE STRUCTURE THAT HOUSED THE
cheerless if not gruesome psychiatric division of the Bellevue Hospital stood against the gray winter skies of Manhattan like a dismal shadow—a harbinger of stormy weather. The fetid East River quietly flowed at the rear of the building while its decaying piers clung tenuously to wooden retention walls along its banks. Though Bellevue Hospital Center—said to be the oldest general public hospital in the United States—was a cluster of hospital pavilions extending four city blocks along First Avenue and interconnected by a labyrinth of foreboding underground tunnels, the epithet “Bellevue” was often used to denote only its infamous and gloomy psychiatric division.

The red brick and wrought iron gates of the Bellevue asylum had, by the 1950s, been firmly ensconced in the public imagination. A temporary (and often longer) home to the wretched and the poor, the facility also hosted notables such as Charlie Parker, Norman Mailer, and Eugene O'Neill for observation following crimes or activities that defied sanity. None other than Kris Kringle himself found himself behind the spiked fences of Bellevue, in the 1947 classic
Miracle on 34th Street
, enduring the probes of psychiatric analysis as he awaited his day in court. In stark contrast to the tortured souls that vacantly roamed the halls of the First Avenue asylum, George Metesky freely traded his neatly buttoned double-breasted suit for the institutional garb of gray wool pajamas, a faded bathrobe tied at the waist, and cotton slippers. He appeared like a man beginning the first day of a holiday retreat.

The city guards who deposited Metesky on the second floor prison ward at Bellevue, occupied by murderers, rapists, and other violent offenders, described their prisoner as a “most happy fellow.” “He mingles freely with the other 25 male patients in Ward No. 2 talking ‘small talk' about the weather, breakfast and radio and TV shows,” wrote one newspaper in the early days of his confinement. “He smiles almost constantly.” He was crowned the checkers champion of the ward and became popular with the staff and inmates alike. He cheerfully reminded the nurses and guards when it was time for another patient's medication, and he dutifully informed them when anyone was sick or in need of assistance. “He's always smiling and willing to help,” said one attendant.

Metesky's ward consisted of two rooms that formed the corner of the building: one long and narrow and lined on either side with rows of white steel-framed cots, and the other a common area “day room” containing several wooden tables and benches, a television, and a radio. The windows were barred with steel, and three separate iron-gated doors at various exit points of the ward with guards stationed on either side made thoughts of escape a futile endeavor. Within the rooms themselves, many of which smelled of a potent disinfectant-urine combination, four white-coated male attendants joined three corrections officers and a charge nurse to attend to patients' needs and prevent hostilities. Though he had spent the last sixteen years in a most violent endeavor, Metesky showed not the slightest inclination toward violence and spoke not a word to inmate nor staff of why he found himself imprisoned in the dreary confines of Bellevue Hospital.

The notorious and oft quoted phrase “remanded to Bellevue for observation” was decreed by New York judges more than 1,500 times each year by the late 1950s. Criminal defendants whose mental capacity was in question would be dispatched to the prison ward of the psychiatric division as a way station between the courts and freedom, prison, or final commitment in other institutions. The innocuous “observation” was, in reality, a detailed inquiry required by statute to determine whether the accused was “in such a state of idiocy, imbecility, lunacy or insanity as to be incapable of understanding the charge, indictment, or proceedings or of making his defense.”

In earlier years the process of such determination had been left in the hands of a so-called lunacy commission comprising political henchmen haphazardly appointed by the courts through graft and nepotism. With New York's enactment of the Desmond Act in 1939, however, judicial assessments as to the mental capacity of criminal offenders shifted to the examination of capable and licensed psychiatrists within the state or municipal hospital systems. Since the settled law in New York and across most of the country was that one could not be tried, convicted, or sentenced for a crime if his mental condition prevented him from understanding the proceedings or assisting in his defense, the considered judgments of qualified experts expressed through full and detailed reports would often become the deciding factor in a judicial determination of competence or incompetence to stand trial. As George Metesky blissfully adjusted to his new surroundings in the prison ward of Bellevue Hospital, the eyes of multiple psychiatric professionals followed his every move.

Prior to the adjournment of Metesky's January 22 arraignment, Assistant District Attorney Grebow pointed out that, while Metesky may have been supported by his two sisters, he did, in fact, have $500 on his person and approximately $11,000 in the bank. Though the judge refused to engage the issue of Metesky's finances at that time, his court appointed attorney, Benjamin Schmier, did make inquiry and quickly determined that his client's finances went well beyond the level of destitution required for assistance from the Legal Aid Society. As Schmier prepared to withdraw from Metesky's representation, Anna and Mae were hard at work to secure the best lawyer that they could afford for their brother.