by Jon Bassoff
THE INCURABLES
Jon Bassoff
PRAISE FOR THE INCURABLES
“A twisted tour through the asylum that Jon Bassoff calls his mind. The Incurables is filled with the mad and desperate, but ultimately it’s the humanity that Bassoff finds in his broken characters that sets this novel apart. Don’t get me wrong though, The Incurables is certifiably insane—and I mean that in the best possible way.”—Johnny Shaw, Anthony Award-winning author of Big Maria
“Jon Bassoff’s The Incurables practically bleeds off the page with a dark poetry so intense, that you can still feel it after your eyes are closed. It’s the rarest type of novel that won’t only sink its teeth into you, it will leave you relishing the scar.”—Todd Robinson, author of The Hard Bounce
“With influences and homage as wide and varied as The Alcoholics, Cuckoo’s Nest, and ‘Murder in the Red Barn,’ The Incurables oddly and most affectionately invokes Nick Cave—but not Cave the singer, Cave the novelist—with its backwoods preachers, hell-bent harlots, and dead-eyed dreamers. Think And the Ass Saw the Angel, only superiorly written, carved by prose that cuts deep. Bassoff’s crooked trip to hell is a powerful rumination on the beauty of the damned.”—Joe Clifford, author of Junkie Love and Lamentation
“The Incurables reads like an unhinged murder ballad. In it, Bassoff’s crafted a violent—and oddly affecting—ode to the outcasts, the downtrodden, the broken, the grotesque, and the misunderstood.”—Chris Holm, author of The Big Reap
“The Incurables is terse, sparse and brutal, yet strangely touching at times. Another winner from the Bassoff pen.”—William Meikle, author of The Hole
“Imagine One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest as re-written by Elmore Leonard. A mesmerizing novel.”—Ken Bruen, Shamus Award-winning author of The Guards
Copyright © 2015 by Jon Bassoff
Down & Out Books Edition: December 2017
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover artwork by Daniele Serra
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Incurables
About the Author
Also by the Author
Other Titles from Down & Out Books and its Imprints
Preview from Shakedown by Martin Bodenham
Preview from When the Lonesome Dog Barks by Trey R. Barker
Preview from Accidental Outlaws by Matt Phillips
For my mother
Chapter 1
1953
Thirty-two hundred lives he’d saved, give or take, and he wasn’t done yet. Face gray and weathered, gripping a wooden cane in one hand and a leather medical bag in the other, the famous Dr. Walter Freeman, his portrait hanging proudly from the hospital wall, limped slowly down the empty corridor, anguished screaming and terrible laughter echoing against the linoleum floors and concrete walls. Such awful things within those rooms. Depression and catatonia, delusions and psychosis. But Dr. Freeman didn’t cock his head toward the sounds, didn’t change his expression at all. And why would he have? He’d been walking through these same lunatic corridors for nearly thirty years, had seen every type of mental defect, paid witness to every shade of insanity.
Near the end of the corridor stood a pair of orderlies, one older than the other, but otherwise identically generic with their white coats, buzz cuts, and affectless expressions. They waited silently, arms folded, as Freeman approached.
When Freeman finally reached the door in front of which the men were huddled, they didn’t exchange any pleasantries. Freeman simply pointed toward the room, said, “Edgar Ruiz?” and the orderlies nodded in unison. Freeman leaned against his cane, wheezing softly, while one of the orderlies, the older of the two, unlocked a series of locks and bolts and pushed open the door.
The room was small, maybe eight by ten feet, and the walls and floor were padded, leather covered in rubberized paint. There were no windows, no bed. The smell was all ammonia and urine. Huddled in the corner of the room was a young man, tall and impossibly thin with dirty blond hair combed straight down his forehead, eyes green and wild. He was chewing the skin from his fingers and mumbling the words of the mad. Upon spying the visitors, his expression became panic and rage. “What are you doing here?” he whispered, eyes narrowing to slits. “You’re not my friends.”
“You must relax,” Freeman said, gently raising his hand. “You must not panic. I’m here to help. Only to help.”
For several moments, Edgar remained in the corner, rocking back and forth, breathing heavily. Then he shook his head frantically and pounded his legs with his palms. A terrible screech and the deranged young man sprung to his feet and came charging toward the group, his fists clenched and arms raised like some fire and brimstone preacher. “Motherfuckers!” he shouted. “Gonna kill you all! Drain your blood!” There was no hesitation as the younger and beefier of the orderlies stepped in front of Freeman, grabbed the inmate, and tackled him to the ground. He then took great pleasure in using his forearms to apply pressure to Edgar’s throat and sternum, causing the patient’s eyes to bulge cartoon-style. Edgar struggled for a long time, kicking, screaming, moaning, but the orderly was persistent, and eventually Edgar stilled. The other orderly strode over, grabbed one of Edgar’s arms, and helped his partner drag him across the room. They stood him up against the wall, pinning his arms against his back.
Freeman, for his part, leaned against his cane, studying the patient, not saying a word. He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. He then unzipped his bag and removed a thick file. He placed the bag on the floor and began flipping through the papers, mouth serious, but eyes not without humor. “Edgar Ruiz,” he said. “Age thirty-two. Admitted in July 1939.”
“Fuck you! Fuck your mother!”
“History of anxiety, depression, insomnia. Bouts of homicidal mania.”
“You’ll rot in hell, fucker!”
“Charged with two counts of first-degree murder. Innocent by reason of insanity.”
“I shoulda killed more! I shoulda killed the world!”
“Yes, Edgar. Tell me about it. Why so much anger? Why so much violence?”
“I ain’t telling you shit, fucker. And one of these days I’ll kill you, too. Bury you in a country well.”
Freeman studied him over his spectacles, his eyes lively, his mouth mocking.
“Mr. Ruiz, do you know who I am?”
Edgar spat on the ground. “Ain’t got the faintest. But you resemble a giant cock and balls.”
“My name is Dr. Walter Freeman.”
“That supposed to impress me, fucker?”
“I have treated many like you. Thousands, in fact. A good many of whom were cured. Do you believe me?”
“Fuck you. I don’t need no curing. The world is who needs curing.”
“But it doesn’t matter if you believe me. I’m no snake oil salesman. I’m a physician and a scientist. A graduate of Yale. A member of the American Psychiatric Society. And I am here to tell you that in less than an hour, everything will be different for you. In less than an hour, all of this agitation, this anxiety, will be nothing but a vag
ue memory. Yes, it may be hard to believe, but I am here to help you, Edgar. That’s my mission in this world. I am here to give something you haven’t had in many years: peace.”
And now Edgar’s face changed expressions, his lips spreading into a grin. The grin of a lunatic. For a long moment he glared at Freeman, and then he tried breaking free of his captors, tried biting and kicking and screaming. But the orderlies held on tight, slamming him back to the ground. They were used to this type of violence. With less empathy this time, the brutish orderly kicked him in the stomach three, four times, causing him to vomit and spit up blood.
Freeman adjusted his glasses and licked his thin lips. He took a few steps forward and squatted down to study Edgar. He nodded his head and said, “A shame. I do believe it will have to be the straitjacket for this one. Poor fellow. A diseased mind knows not its disease.”
They used a canvas straitjacket, the sleeves sewed shut. They folded his arms across the front and used friction buckles to fasten the sleeves in the back. Then they placed him flat on a gurney. Wordlessly, the orderlies pushed him through the bleached hallways, while Edgar, recovered from his beating, spat and shouted, shouted how he was gonna kill each and every one of ’em, kill their families, too. His face was red, purple almost, blood vessels exploding from caged rage. And other patients peered out of rooms, giggling some of them, having outrageous conversations most of them. They knew where Edgar was going, knew what would happen to him, so there was a lot to discuss.
“Remember Sally Johnson?” they murmured. “Remember Chuck Branton? Freeman fixed the both of them. Eyes that are dead to the world now! Goodbye, Edgar Ruiz! It was a pleasure knowing you!”
Freeman walked behind the gurney, his right leg dragging, unconcerned about Edgar’s constant threats. He’d dealt with far worse. A woman who’d drowned her four children, one by one, while each begged in turn to be spared. A man who’d strangled three whores in a month, biting off each of their cheeks. Another who’d slit the throat of his wife and her lover, then covered his face with their blood, warrior-style. And then there were the crazy ones…
Eventually they came to the east wing of the hospital, and here all was quiet and calm because these were the patients that Freeman had treated. They sat in their rooms and stared out the window or watched television or sang children’s songs. Such lovely patients. So placid.
The orderlies had seen the treatment before, dozens of times, in fact, and so they watched stony-faced and dull-eyed. Freeman was glad for that. He couldn’t stand any weak-stomached gasping or protesting or, heaven forbid, vomiting or fainting. Because there had been other orderlies, other doctors, who couldn’t bear to watch the procedure. They had complained to the board. Tried to ban the surgery itself. As if medicine was neat. As if genius was neat.
Freeman, for his part, didn’t mind getting a little bloody. That was part of the job. He didn’t wear any scrubs, never had. Didn’t wear gloves, never had. And whenever he left the hospital and his suit was speckled red, he knew he’d put in an honest day’s work.
By this time, Edgar Ruiz had worn himself out and had stopped kicking and screaming, but was still mumbling about the people he’d kill and how he’d do it. Nails to the throat. Hammers to the head. Freeman accepted the ranting as background noise. And so, with practiced movements, he jammed a piece of white padding between Edgar’s jaws, grabbed a hold of his legs (his arms were still restrained), and hit the ECT switch. The convulsing started immediately, neck muscles straining, blood vessels bursting, vertebrae cracking. Unpleasant, but necessary. State psychiatric hospitals didn’t have traditional anesthesia, so one got creative. And since ECT machines were in great abundance…
Three shock applications and Edgar was gone, eyes rolled back into his head, mouth open in a silent scream.
And now began the real show, the show Freeman had performed so many times. He opened his doctor’s bag and took out a simple ice pick imprinted with the name of Uline Ice Company. He placed the tool on the gurney next to Edgar’s head. Then he removed a carpenter’s hammer, the wooden handle beginning to splinter.
Freeman moved over to the unconscious patient and lifted his eyelid. Without hesitation, he grasped the ice pick and jammed the point into the tear duct. He then gripped the hammer and struck the ice pick, once, twice, causing an audible crack. Back and forth, back and forth he cut. Then, with a twisting movement, he withdrew the ice pick, all the while pressing his gnarled fingers on Edgar’s eyelids, preventing hemorrhaging.
Now, softly whistling Brahms’ Lullaby, Dr. Freeman wiped the blood from his own brow and then proceeded with Edgar’s other eye.
Long after the procedure was finished, Freeman remained in the room, eyes on the patient. He’d been unshackled, straitjacket removed, and now lay on the stretcher, eyes open, rarely blinking. His mouth was frozen in a terrible grimace, saliva spilling down his chin.
At five minutes past four, less than two hours after his brain had been sliced with an ice pick, Edgar returned to the world. He turned his head slowly and gazed at Freeman with eyes now pacified, although the flesh below was blackened and badly swollen.
Edgar opened his mouth, but no words came out. Then he opened it again. “Wha? Wha happened?” His speech was slurred.
Freeman remained seated, his posture and expression unchanged. “I’m glad you’re awake, Edgar,” he said. “You slept for a long time. And how do you feel?”
Edgar blinked a few times, then touched his cheek with his fingers. “My face…hurts.”
A tiny chuckle from Freeman. “And well it should. Do you remember me, Edgar? Do you know who I am?”
A long pause, then Edgar closed his eyes. For a moment, Freeman thought he had gone back to sleep. But he opened them before mumbling, “Doctor.”
“Very good. And do you remember what you were doing before you went to sleep?”
Edgar didn’t respond, although he might have shaken his head a bit.
“You were shouting. You were kicking and thrashing. We had to place you in a straitjacket. It was a terrible scene.”
“Angry,” Edgar said.
“That’s right. But you’re not angry now, are you? You’re as calm as could be.”
Another pause. “Now…hungry.”
Freeman smiled. “Certainly. I’ll see what I can do. What do you want to eat?”
Licking his lips. “Ice cream. ’Nilla.”
“Vanilla ice cream it is. I’ll talk to the nurses.”
Freeman rose to his feet, grabbed his cane, and slowly limped over to the bed. He checked Edgar’s heart and his pulse, his blood pressure and his reflexes. Satisfied, he patted Edgar on the arm, a paternal gesture.
“In a few days those eyes will be all healed. You’ll get better and better. The days of misery, the days of anger, are gone forever, Edgar.”
Freeman moved away from the bed, but Edgar grabbed a hold of his wrist and squeezed, weak though he was.
“It’s okay, Edgar. I can stay if you’d like me to. But kindly let go of my wrist.”
But Edgar didn’t let go, in fact squeezed it more tightly. His lower lip trembled although his eyes remained vacuous.
When Edgar spoke again, his voice sounded different somehow, clearer. “The farmer. His wife.” His grip remained.
“Yes? What about them?”
Freeman used his free hand to pry Edgar’s fingers from his wrist. Edgar didn’t protest. He said the same thing. “The farmer. His wife.”
Freeman nodded his head slowly, then removed his glasses, steamed them with his breath, and wiped them on his lapel. He stared into Edgar’s dull eyes, shook his head.
“They are both dead, Edgar. I’m sorry. But you killed them many years ago.”
Edgar’s face showed no expression, but he rolled again to his back and returned his gaze to the ceiling.
“Now you must rest,” Freeman said. “The nurses will take good care of you, my boy. Feed you vanilla ice cream and such.”
Freeman limp
ed toward the door, his cane echoing throughout the room. Before he left, he turned to have one final look at the patient. His eyes were closed again and he was snoring softly.
“Another one,” Freeman whispered. “Saved.”
Chapter 2
Walter Freeman lived in a big house on a leafy street. It was the house he’d grown up in. A two-story Victorian, white with blue shutters. Out front, a neatly trimmed lawn with a pair of enormous maple trees, leaves fluttering to the ground. Freeman pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. He squeezed the steering wheel and stared up at the house. All the lights were off. That was a good thing. It meant that Stella was asleep. It meant that he wouldn’t have to talk to her, wouldn’t have to deal with her own personal brand of insanity. He couldn’t do that. Not tonight.
Still, Freeman didn’t get out of the car, not right away. He removed his glasses, massaged his temples, and sighed deeply. He could feel the beginnings of a migraine. Outside the sky was dark as coal. An autumn wind was blowing, and soon the inside of the car became cold. Freeman barely noticed. He just sat there staring ahead, thinking, always thinking. He thought about his patients from the week, all those he’d saved. Mary Dyer, who’d spent the last several years of her life petrified that there was a man hiding beneath her bed, waiting for the right moment to slice her neck with a butterfly knife. Charles Thompson, who tap-danced for hours on end through the hospital halls but would then suddenly, inexplicably, break down and cry for nearly as long. Ella Browning, who would each day sit at her desk and draw the same picture over and over and over again: a cottontail rabbit with one of its legs bloody. And then there was Edgar. Something different that he couldn’t name. Freeman reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. He used a pocketknife to cut off the end, then stuck it between his lips and lit it. As he smoked, he gazed up at the house, at the darkened bedroom window. And he thought that she could be one of his patients. If he got right down to it, she was just as crazy as any of them. The tremendous mood swings. The abusive language. The heavy drinking. Yes, she could be one of his patients.
