Robert Bloch's Psycho (5 page)

“But a hospital for the criminally insane—wasn't that a little scary?”

“Oh yeah,” Marie said with a little laugh. “It still is. But as frightening as it is, it's also fulfilling. These people are sick in a different way, but they're still sick.”

“And mean and violent—some of them anyway. Like Ronald Miller. I wouldn't turn my back on that guy. Mean as a snake.”

Marie nodded. “Multiple rape. Horrible man. He's one of the few that I think belongs in a regular prison. He may be sick, but I don't know if it's the kind of sick that can be cured.”

“Well, I've overheard some scuttlebutt that he may not be here much longer. The docs are starting to believe that he's faking the whole mentally ill thing, and I think they're right. He manipulates people. Just don't ever get yourself alone with him.”

“Believe me, I don't want to find myself alone with
any
of them, not even Norman.”

Their steaks came at last, and they both dug in. Talk was minimal as they ate, only an occasional muttered
terrific
or
delicious
passing across the table.

When steaks, baked potatoes, and salads were nothing but a satisfying memory, they both sat back and smiled in appreciation of each other's appetite. “Dessert?” Ben asked.

“Not for a month, at least,” Marie replied, and Ben laughed.

“Okay, coffee then,” he said, and ordered two when the waiter took away the plates. “So … you looking for another job, or are you planning to stay among our particular crazies for a while?”

“I like the work,” Marie said. “It's not ideal, but…”

“How do you like working under Santa?”

“Santa?” She looked confused.

“Our Head Nurse Lindstrom.”

“I've never heard her called Santa before.”

“The patients call her that. Because she's knows if you've been sleeping, and she knows if you're awake. You can't pull the wool over Santa's eyes. Many have tried, to their peril.”

“Peril is right.”

“What, you've seen an example?”

“A lot of them,” Marie said. “She's more Torquemada than Florence Nightingale.”

“The Spanish Inquisition guy?”

“That's the one. She has these little … punishments she doles out, regardless of treatment protocols. For example, you know Warren Russell?”

“The fat klepto, yeah. Steals anything that isn't nailed down.”

“He's on behavioral modification and meds, nothing else. So one day last week the patients were lined up for their pills, and Warren gets his from Nurse Lindstrom, swallows them, and grabs a sweater that she's put over the back of a chair and stuffs it under his shirt. He's so big that nobody notices another few inches around his middle, and he goes back to the social hall.”

Marie paused as the waiter brought the coffee, then continued.

“Lindstrom finishes giving out the meds and notices her sweater is missing and figures it out fast. She and Myron Gunn find Warren, make him pull up his shirt, and there's her sweater … predictably loaded with Warren Russell
sweat.
”

“Ouch,” Ben said.

“Ouch is right. So I've been helping hand out meds, and I've seen all this play out. I figure they'll take away his social hall privileges or something, but instead of taking him back to his cell, they go the other way, toward the old hydrotherapy room. I follow them, staying far behind, and they go in and close the door. I can't see what's happening, but I can hear just fine. Warren's squealing, and I hear Myron telling him to strip, and Nurse Lindstrom is saying something I can't make out, and laughing.”

“Jeez.”

“A little later I hear a big splash, and I know they've put Warren in one of the old hydro tubs, and then he stops squealing for a little while, and then I hear him gasping, a big intake of breath, and he starts crying, and then he's quiet again.”

Ben nodded. “Myron's holding him underwater.”

“That's what I figured too,” Marie said. “This happens a few times, until Warren is crying when he's not gasping for air. Then I hear water splashing, and I know they're taking him out of the tub, so I leave before they come out.”

“Unbelievable. That's ‘behavior modification' with a vengeance. Did you say anything to anyone?”

“You,” she said, and laughed. “I don't know what good it would do. Both of them are wedged in there for good, I think. Maybe if they
killed
a patient, but even then I suspect they'd only get a reprimand.”

“I can't help but think Dr. Reed would do something about it,” Ben said.

“What could he do? It's Dr. Goldberg's decision, and he's a results guy. Myron Gunn and Nurse Lindstrom get the job done. Would Dr. Steiner have more of an impact than Reed? You've been here much longer than I have.”

Ben frowned. “I think Steiner has more influence, but he's pretty much a yes man. Doesn't want to rock the boat. After all, he's next in line when Goldberg retires. The state board decides, but Goldberg's recommendation would carry a lot of weight.”

“So Myron and Lindstrom can pretty much dunk patients at will,” Marie said.

“That's the extent of it. Unless somebody dunks
them.
”

Marie took a sip of coffee and looked at Ben over the rim of her cup. “Sometimes I think that psychiatry hasn't advanced all that much in the past fifty years…”

 

3

August 17, 1909

It is with great delight that I put pen to paper to chronicle that the funds have been fully raised to proceed with my life's dream. I have nothing but the deepest gratitude for those gentlemen of means who have come together into a consortium that will, by this time next year (should all go as planned), permit the doors of the Adolph Ollinger Sanitarium to open to patients near and far.

The praise that I have for these selfless donors is tempered only by what I detect is their own familial self-interest. It seems to be a sad reality that the children of the wealthy are not always blessed with the original diligence, morality, and work habits that have allowed their parents to achieve such success. On the contrary, oftentimes these descendants are corrupted by the easy flow of riches to which they have become all too easily accustomed.

This corruption can lead, unfortunately, to vices such as alcoholism, addiction to certain baleful drugs, venereal diseases that can affect both body and mind, and states of distemper which reveal themselves through such external behavior as sadism, cruelty, and even extreme violence toward those not on the same social level. Idle hands are the Devil's playground all too often, and I predict that in time these same gentlemen who have proven so generous with their donations and investments may call upon me to succor their own offspring from the hands of legal authorities who have found their actions objectionable, if not also criminal. Indeed, I have had some inform me privately that they wish to house their own relatives here, removing them from the cold and uncomfortable clinics in which they now reside. To that purpose, it has been suggested that the furnishings and appurtenances of my sanitarium should be of a standard far higher than those in institutions already in existence. It shall be so.

When the time comes, I will have no hesitation in admitting these unfortunates. I truly believe that nearly all criminal acts, be they destructive to others or to oneself, are the result of illnesses of the mind, and can in time be cured. The children of these wealthy families will not go to prison, but will come here. They will come and be cured.

Though I have not as yet revealed to my erstwhile investors the techniques I hope to utilize to bring about these cures, in my own mind, and in this most private journal, I shall refer to it as Spiritual Repulsion Therapy. It stems from the concept that if malefactors and perpetrators are exposed to the spiritual results of their transgressions, the core morality that lies within the heart and mind of every man and woman will be touched and transformed. It is a psychological exploration of Christ's Golden Rule and the more homespun notion of walking a mile in the other fellow's shoes.

The technique is dependent upon the structural plant of the building as well as the dedication and skills of those who work within it, and now that funding for the construction is completed, it is time to discuss with the builders—and with them alone—the final physical plans that will allow me to bring Spiritual Repulsion Therapy to vibrant and healing life at the Ollinger Sanitarium.

*   *   *

In psychotherapy, the dramatic breakthrough moments are few and far between. In most cases, progress is achieved an inch at a time, with a slow and constant breaking down of a patient's defenses. For every instance of a patient suddenly shouting out,
I remember everything now!
there are a thousand cases like that of Norman Bates, in which steady attrition wears away the psychological guards the patient has erected, like rain wearing away a mountain.

At times the process felt that slow to Felix Reed, but he persisted, spending as much time out of every day as he could with Norman, speaking slowly and softly, reasoning with the patience of Socrates, though there were no questions from Norman for him to answer.

And ever so slowly and softly there were responses, slight and physical. There were twitches of a hand, the tiny jerk of a head, an occasional shift in the gaze, things that told Reed that Norman was performing the mental task of listening as well as the merely physiological response of hearing.

And when these responses occurred, Reed persisted, trying to widen the mental crack that Norman had allowed in his otherwise impregnable psyche. He tried subtly to disabuse Norman of the notion that his late mother had any control over him, to command or to punish.

In this strategy, Reed used Nurse Marie Radcliffe as his chief ally. Every time she fed Norman, she spoke continually to him, but softly and slowly, as slowly as Norman ate. In a woman's voice, the yin to Reed's yang, she reinforced Reed's comforting, nonjudgmental words with her own, nurtured further by food and drink.

And they watched, and they waited.

*   *   *

Norman.

 … Yes, Mother.

He's lying to you. And so is she.

All right, Mother.

Don't you “All right, Mother” me. They don't care about you, boy. They don't love you, not the way a mother does. Oh, that bitch feeds you and wipes your little mouth, and I'm sure you'd like her to touch more than that. And she talks to you so pretty, just the way she's talking now, but
—

Mother?

What, Norman?

Be quiet, please. Nurse Marie is talking to me. I want to listen.

Be … quiet?

Yes, Mother. I'm eating. And Nurse Marie is talking.

Norman, I—

Thank you, Mother.

*   *   *

Norman would look at Reed for a moment, then look away again. His head wouldn't turn, but his eyes moved, and when Reed saw Norman's glance fall on him then flick away, he was encouraged, and his next words were more intent, though never invasive. This had to be a treaty between their two countries, not an attack of one upon the other.

Eventually the gaze held longer, lowered thoughtfully as if in contemplation of Reed's words, then returned again. Reed smiled. It seemed to him that he was always smiling, but it was important. Norman had to feel as though Reed and everyone who worked at the hospital truly cared about him and wanted to see him come back into the world, into reality.

The gaze began to hold on Reed now, and then on Marie. Marie was making further progress with Norman's eating, getting him to feed himself, guiding his hands with a light touch of her own on his wrist, his forearm, placing the single utensil between his fingers that at first seemed to have trouble retaining it, then held it in a death grip, and finally, after a period of weeks, grasped it lightly but firmly. Marie smiled just as much as Reed did, confident in the presence of attendants Ben Blake and Dick O'Brien just behind her.

And then audible responses began to be heard. At first they were no more than whispered exhalations of breath, but soon they acquired resonance, became an
mmm,
an actual humming in the throat of Norman Bates, as though he were considering what Reed and Marie told him, as though it made sense to him and he was speaking inside himself.

*   *   *

You're not here, are you, Mother? You're really not here at all.

I'm here, boy.

No. No, you're not. You were just part of me. I wanted you to be here, and I made you stay. And you made me do terrible things. Things I wouldn't have done on my own.

You did them yourself, Norman. You were a naughty boy. A dirty boy.

No. I don't believe that. You made me sick, Mother. But I want to get better.

You need me, Norman. A boy needs his mother.

I want to get
better,
Mother. And I know now there's only one way that can happen.

A boy needs his mother to take care of him.

I need you to leave, Mother. I need you to go away and leave me alone.

Norman, I'm your
Mother 
…

Go away, Mother.

Norman …

Go away. I don't need you anymore. I don't want you anymore. Go away.

*   *   *

And then those sounds became words, spoken so softly that Reed couldn't understand them. It took several days for Norman's words to grow loud enough for Reed to comprehend the sibilants and fricatives, consonants and vowels that made up the syllables that built the words.