There’s not much that I remember from those basic college classes outside of my English major – sociology, history, etc. But, one thing that I do remember very clearly is the case of Kitty Genovese. Supposedly dozens of people (thirty eight to be exact) witnessed her murder, but not one person intervened. Later on, that report was debunked. A more accurate account of the night stated that a dozen people heard some sort of disturbance, but that the majority did not realize that a woman was being attacked. Most thought it was a group of drunk friends or perhaps a bar brawl. The two that did hear the screams more clearly, called the police. Despite the discrepancy between later accounts and the initial account, in college we were taught about the case to illustrate the “Bystander Effect” or the “Genovese Syndrome” – the tendency of people, when witnessing a grisly crime, to simply do nothing, for fear of getting involved (or simply because of apathy to the human condition).
That case always chilled me to the bone, especially after a friend of mine was murdered at the mall close to our university and her body sat in her car for two days, before anyone even thought to call the police. A man confessed to the crime - said that he was sitting in his car about to kill himself when he saw her and decided in a deadly instant to kill her instead. The case of Kitty Genovese fresh in my mind, I often wondered if anyone saw anything or heard anything and just ignored her. She wasn't a close friend, but we did have plans to go for a drink together the week that she was murdered. And her death hit me hard (especially since I had had my own brush with violence, but that is a story for another blog post) - I was afraid to walk around campus and town at night that winter, only going out with my very imposing boyfriend and our equally imposing friend. By Spring, I was brave again, but I never forgot my friend or the case of Kitty Genovese. And to be honest, I still don't like being in parking lots alone at night.
Both of those tragic young women haunted me again recently as I stood on my porch watching my middle school aged son walk from his corner bus stop to our house. A woman’s scream of, “Oh my god!” was quickly followed by more blood curdling, pulse quickening screams. I saw my son jump a bit and then turn around, searching for the source of the screams, a frightened look crossing his face. I had thought at first that I had imagined the severity of the screams – that perhaps it was just children playing, but his reaction told me otherwise. I motioned him to hurry up to the house and as the screams echoed down the street, he rushed in.
“Mom,” he sputtered, “It sounds like someone is being ripped apart with a knife out there.”
“Where did it sound like it was coming from?” I asked him quickly, hoping to figure out where to send the police, if I called.
“The next block, I think,” he answered.
I wasn’t sure – it sounded like it was coming from our block, three or four houses down. But, that was exactly where he was walking and he would have known if it was coming from a house that he was passing. “Are you sure?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure.” Then a stricken look passed his face, “Do you think the girls are ok?” He was worried about two sisters at his stop who live on the next block.
“It sounded like it was coming from inside of a house. I’m sure they’re fine.” I answered. “Maybe we should call the police, though. But, I don’t know where to send them. You sure it was the next block?”
“I don’t know,” he shook his head sadly. I didn’t want to make him feel worse – he was already shaken up, as was I.
Our exchange took merely a few minutes, but we both realized that the screams had stopped. “I guess she’s dead,” my son said with a sigh.
There was nothing I could do. I felt completely helpless. I couldn’t call the police and tell them to knock on each door on my street checking for a possible crime scene. For the next hour or so, I listened for sirens or any further evidence of unrest in our suburban neighborhood. There was nothing – silence, except for the occasional passing car or barking dog. No sirens, no police. Nothing. I didn’t stop thinking about those screams though and sent a message to the mom of the other girls at the bus stop. I asked her if her girls were all right and if they heard any screams. They were fine and didn’t hear a thing, convincing me that the screams must have come from one of my neighbors’ homes. I only know a few of my neighbors well, because many old timers have passed away, with new young families moving in. Could one of those young mothers be the victim of abuse? I wondered. What was going on behind closed doors – hidden from neighborhood eyes, but not ears?
It’s been two weeks, and I still don’t have any answers as to what transpired that afternoon. I checked the online community police log. I asked the neighbors that I am close with if they heard anything. No one else heard anything, but I know that the fear, desperation and horror I heard in those screams was not a product of my imagination – it was real – my son heard it too. Was my not calling the police right away an act of complacency – an example of the “Bystander Effect?” Was someone seriously harmed or even killed, but no one, other than the perpetrator, even knows? Would the police have even come in time – before the screams died down – so, they could locate the source? The only question I can even attempt to answer is the last - probably not. Whatever happened – perhaps just a mother finding that her child had spilled grape juice all over a white couch or more likely something far more nefarious – I’ll never have an answer, but that won’t stop me from remembering the chilling sound, which still, even weeks later, haunts my dreams.
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