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Brussel’s role models at the time were fictional investigators, most notably C.

Whatever the term, it was still a virtually untested concept in the 1950s.

And, most important, the inner conflicts that led him to his violent pastime.īrussel called his approach reverse psychology. In other words, Brussel would work backward by letting F.P.’s conduct define his identity-his sexuality, race, appearance, work history and personality type. Brussel began to wonder whether, instead of starting with a known personality and anticipating behavior, perhaps he could start with the bomber’s behavior and deduce what sort of a person he might be. Psychiatrists normally evaluate patients and consider how they might react to difficulties-conflict with a boss, sexual frustrations, the loss of a parent. In the end Brussel couldn’t resist the chance to participate in the biggest manhunt in New York history.

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“If experts haven’t cracked this case in more than ten years of trying, what could I hope to contribute?” What if his analysis failed to break the case or, worse, sent the police in the wrong direction? “I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Brussel observed skeptically. He hesitated to test his theories in such a high-profile case. “I had real people to deal with,” he said, “not ghosts.”īrussel had other reservations.

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In addition he shouldered a full schedule of lectures and meetings and the demands of private practice. Patient files were stacked high on his desk. The New York Department of Mental Hygiene had 120,000 patients, and the caseload grew by 3,000 a year. It was a radical notion for 1956.īrussel had at first demurred, citing his workload. A physical description of the bomber was unobtainable, Captain Finney reasoned, but maybe Brussel could use the evidence to draw a profile of the bomber’s inner self-an emotional portrait-that would illuminate his background and disorder. Nobody could recall an instance when the police had consulted a psychiatrist. If physical evidence could not lead the police to F.P., maybe emotional insights could. Brussel, a psychiatrist with expertise in the workings of the criminal mind. On that late fall afternoon Captain Finney and his two bomb squad sidekicks left headquarters to call on James A. Each rambling, raging letter was cryptically signed “F.P.”ĭesperation drove the police to pursue a course they had never before considered in the department’s 111-year history.

He declared his deadly intent in letters sent to newspaper editors. But by 1956 his handiwork showed a lethal new proficiency. Its failings were forgivable as long as the bomber crafted crude and ineffective ordnance. In all those years, a period stretching back to 1940, the largest, most formidable police force in the nation had failed to hustle up any worthy leads. The New York Journal-American, an afternoon newspaper of scrappy disposition, called him “the greatest individual menace New York City ever faced.” had yet to kill, but it was only a matter of time. He had planted 32 homemade explosives in the city’s most crowded public spaces-theaters, terminals, subway stations, a bus depot and a library-injuring 15.į.P.

#Misshapen warped crossword clue serial

Any New Yorker who read newspapers knew that for 16 years the police had searched for a serial bomber who identified himself only as F.P. The Paramount blast was not an isolated event. Then screams filled the theater-as moviegoers glimpsed faces and scalps scythed open by shrapnel. Petersburg drawing room rendered in Technicolor reds and blues, a thundering detonation flashed from orchestra row GG, followed by billows of ashen smoke. At 7:50 p.m., as an audience of 1,500 gazed up at a St.

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Led by a veteran captain, Howard Finney, they walked briskly to an unmarked police cruiser, a big green-and-white Plymouth idling at the curb, and drove south through the winding downtown streets on an urgent errand.įour days earlier a bomb had exploded during a showing of War and Peace at the Paramount movie palace on Flatbush Avenue, in Brooklyn. Today the three detectives had no time for such distractions. Under its carved mahogany ceiling, at a long oak bar, the top brass took their off-duty rye and beer. Down the block, on the corner of Grand Street, was a German restaurant called Headquarters. Across the street, half-shrouded in winter shadow, a revolver-shaped sign hung outside John Jovino’s, the oldest gun store in the city, if not the country, where patrolmen bought the. Shortly after lunch on a cold December morning in 1956, a trio of New York City detectives stepped out the back door of the copper-domed police headquarters looming like a dirty gray temple above the tenements and trattorias of Little Italy.