Kitty Genovese: A True Account of a Public Murder and Its Private Consequences (25 page)

“What about that double confession out in Queens? What’s that all about?” he asked over coffee.

Abe Rosenthal had spotted an article the day before in the pages of the
New York Daily News
, a startling account of Winston Moseley’s confession to the Barbara Kralik murder and the fact that Alvin Mitchell was still under indictment for the crime, awaiting trial. Rosenthal admitted later that his prime concern had not been that a miscarriage of justice might be taking place, but that his own newspaper had not had the story first.

According to Rosenthal, Commissioner Murphy told him he did not know anything about the double confession. Murphy may well have said this, though it seems doubtful he was unaware of the dueling Moseley-Mitchell confessions. It seems more likely that the commissioner did not want to discuss, especially with someone from the press, the sensitive details of a reinvestigation that was at the moment still in progress. The District Attorney’s Office had been much chagrined over the leaks to the newspapers and the resulting dramatic articles. Frank O’Connor had wanted matters resolved to his satisfaction before making statements to the media, but this was not to be. He was on that day already fielding continued questions not only from the
Daily News
but also from the
New York Post
and
Long Island Star-Journal
.

What Commissioner Murphy probably knew at this point was that both Frederick Lussen, chief of detectives, and Captain Timothy Dowd, the commanding officer presiding over the Kralik homicide investigation, had wasted no time in reexamining the case against Alvin Mitchell built by the detectives assigned to it. Lussen, Dowd, and their men were standing behind their work: they had sufficient evidence of Mitchell’s guilt in regard to Kralik, and they had no doubt they had the right man in that case. Alvin Mitchell’s confession was supported by another young man, an accessory to Mitchell who had admitted driving the getaway car that night. Captain Dowd and the detectives were also cooperating with the District Attorney’s Office in their ongoing independent investigation.

Rosenthal’s mention of the double confession brought to Murphy’s mind a related matter.

“That Queens story is something else. Remember we talked about apathy, public apathy toward law enforcement?”

Rosenthal remembered. The indifference of citizens toward crime was hardly a new problem in New York. Police often complained that too many New Yorkers were callous toward their fellow citizens. Murphy now had a fresh, stark reminder of this problem in the guise of another recently murdered woman.

“Brother, that Queens story is one for the books,” Murphy said. He told Rosenthal about the murder in Kew Gardens—a really nice neighborhood no less—in which multiple people had watched a woman stalked by a killer, yet not one had called the police while it was happening.

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 no 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.”