Robert Bloch's Psycho

by Chet Williamson

  “I think that side’s a little too tight,” Myron said. “Got an awful lot of hose to get down there. Let me try the other.”

  The tube slipped back out of Wesley’s nose, and he gasped at the sudden pain. His sinuses felt like they were exploding, and there was burning behind his eyes. He opened them and saw the tube moving toward him again, and again he squeezed shut his now tearing eyes.

  The rubber tip probed into his right nostril now, and it hurt, but not as much as the first time. “Aw, that’s a lot better,” Myron said as Wesley felt the tube snake down the back of his throat, deep, deeper, and he choked again.

  “Just swallow,” Myron said. “Nothing to it if you just swallow.”

  Wesley tried, and it helped, but the sensation was one that he had never before experienced, even in a nightmare, and the tears dripped from the corners of his eyes.

  “Now, you don’t have to cry—this is gonna be good for you.”

  Wesley opened his eyes, and through his tears he could see Myron Gunn looming over him, with still many inches of tubing in his hand. “Isn’t that deep enough?” one of the attendants said.

  “Nope. It’s gotta go in up to this line,” Myron said, pointing on the tube to a red line still several inches from Wesley’s face. “Gotta get in the stomach, otherwise he could puke it all up, and, my friend, we don’t want that. Now watch and learn…”

  Wesley shut his eyes again and tried to pretend he was somewhere else. He thought about being outside on a summer day, sitting next to his wife before the terrible thing happened, and trying to remember how pretty she was, but it was difficult to do that as the tube continued to roll into him and tickle its way down his own tube, the one that led from mouth to stomach.

  “All right, up to the line,” Myron said after what seemed hours. “You can open your eyes, Wesley. You don’t want to miss this.”

  Wesley opened them slowly, and saw Myron holding a glass quart jar filled with a thick greenish liquid in his left hand. In his right, he was holding above his head the end of the tube, which now had a plastic funnel inserted in it. “Dinnertime,” he said, and he raised the jar up to the tube and poured in the green mixture.

  Wesley didn’t feel it going into his nose or down his throat at all, but he could feel it when it slopped into his empty stomach. It felt cold, not having been first warmed by his mouth and gullet. His stomach started to revolt against it, and he began to panic, wanting to reach up and grab the tube and rip it from his nose, but the attendants held his hands tight, and the man at his head pressed down even harder.

  “Now, now,” said Myron Gunn. “This is what you get when you won’t eat your dinner like a good boy…” Myron’s voice became softer and more dangerous. “… and when you chop up your wife with an ax.”

  Wesley opened his eyes and saw the hate in Myron’s face.

  “That’s right, Wesley. This is what you get for your sins. This is how you only begin to atone for what you did, you little monster. Think this’ll drive the demons out of you? Maybe not, but it’s a good start.”

  And Myron Gunn poured the rest of the green liquid into the funnel until it was full.

  * * *

  Norman heard the moaning a long time before he and Frank reached the open door. He slowed his walk so that Frank got ahead of him and looked back. “Come on,” Frank said. “Just guys doing their work.”

  Norman followed, getting closer to the sound that was coming from a door ahead on the left. Frank stopped when he got there and looked in. “Hi, guys,” he said, and Norman heard the men inside respond, but the moaning didn’t stop. He walked to where Frank, his arms crossed, was standing, and looked into the room.

  Norman gasped. A nearly naked man lay on the table, held down by the others, while Myron Gunn held up a funnel and tube, a tube which, Norman saw, led into the man’s now bleeding nose. The man was fighting against the three who held him, all his spindly muscles straining against the straps, but to no avail.

  Then Myron Gunn fixed his gaze upon Norman, and Norman froze at the sight of his basilisk glare. “Well, well, if it isn’t Nor-man,” Myron drawled, and gave Norman a smile that was no more than a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Have you had your lunch, Nor-man? Maybe you’d like to join our boy Wesley here. I think we could rustle up an extra tube somewhere, couldn’t we, boys? Whaddya say, Norman?”

  Norman said nothing. He just gave his head a short shake. Myron set down the now empty funnel and walked slowly over to Norman, until their faces were nearly touching. The man’s breath smelled of onions and something sour. Norman, trembling, looked down at the cement floor. Myron whispered so that only the two of them could hear.

  “No? No, thank you? Well, don’t worry, pal. I’ll get you here eventually. Or maybe some hydrotherapy, like they did in the old days. Would you like that? Would you like me to hold you underwater until you can’t breathe? Would you like me to hook up the electroshock to your fat head and leave it on maybe just a little bit too long? Maybe fry the Devil right out of you?”

  Norman kept looking down and shook his head again, just a little shake to say no but not enough of a refusal that it would make Myron madder than he already was. At least Norman hoped not.

  “Well, we’re all done here, Norman,” Myron said, moving back to the table and picking up the funnel. He detached it from the hose and looked down at the man lying on the table. “Taking out the tube is like taking off a Band-Aid, Wesley—you do it fast enough, and it only hurts for a second.”

  Then Myron took the end of the rubber tube and yanked. Norman watched as the tube flew from the man’s nose, leaving a trail of blood, mucus, and something green. He felt tears sting his eyes as Myron took a wad of cotton and shoved it, none too gently, up the man’s nose to stop the blood that was moving across his cheek like a small red snake.

  Then Norman heard a voice he knew.

  “What’s going on here?”

  He turned, feeling as guilty as if he had been one of the people torturing the man on the table. It was as though watching it was as bad as doing it. Nurse Marie was just behind him, and the look on her face was one he’d never seen before. She looked furious, and was glaring at Myron.

  “How dare you do a procedure like this in front of another patient?” she said in a voice that was soft yet filled with anger. Not waiting for an answer, she turned to Norman. “Are you all right, Norman?” she asked, the anger gone from her tone.

  Norman nodded, then looked down again, feeling like a child caught in an impossible situation.

  “He’s fine,” Myron said. “He was interested. And I was explaining the procedure to him. Wasn’t I, boys?”

  The other three men nodded, and Nurse Marie looked at Frank. “Why didn’t you take him away?” she said. “Go back the way you came?”

  “I didn’t know what was going on,” Frank said. “The door was open.”

  “And why was it?” Marie said, whirling on Myron again. “These procedures aren’t for open viewing!”

  Now Myron’s eyes narrowed and the smile left his face as he walked, his head out like a vulture’s, toward Nurse Marie. Norman was suddenly afraid, not for himself, but for her. “The room,” Myron said, stopping in front of her, “was warm. Hot as the pits of hell. And why I should even have to tell you why I opened the door is beyond me. The way I see it, you’re just a nurse. I’m the head attendant. I’m the one who tells people what to do and when to do it, not you. Chain of command, Nurse.”

  “And do you think Dr. Reed would be happy about exposing his patient to this kind of”—she gestured to the blood on the table next to the man’s head—“barbarity?”

  “Force-feeding isn’t pretty,” Myron said, sneering. “A lot of what we do isn’t pretty here. But we saved that man from starvation, and if he gets a bloody nose as a result, that’s God’s will. Now why don’t you get your little busybody self out of where the men work, and if you want to squeal to Dr. Reed, go right ahead.” He frowned at Norman. “His being he
re was an accident. If anybody’s at fault, it’s Frank. Right, Frank?”

  Frank nodded. “Yeah, Myron, I just shoulda taken him back the way we came. Sorry.” He turned to Marie. “Sorry, Nurse. I’ll, uh, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “There,” Myron said. “Now everything’s peachy again, isn’t it? Frank, why don’t you escort Nurse Radcliffe and Mister Bates back upstairs while we finish up with Mister Breckenridge here … unless the nurse would like to stanch the bleeding for Mister Breckenridge.” He raised his eyebrows at Nurse Marie.

  She looked at Frank. “Please take Norman upstairs.” Then she walked into the room and over to the man on the table. “I’ll be happy to take care of the patient,” she said.

  Norman felt Frank’s hand on his arm, turning him toward the end of the hall. As they walked away, Norman looked back to see Myron Gunn leaning out the doorway into the hall. He waved goodbye to Norman with his fingers, then disappeared back into the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  8

  “So, Dr. Berkowitz,” Dr. Goldberg said, leaning back and luxuriating with one of the cigars he always seemed to be smoking in his office, “how have you found your first weeks here at the state hospital?”

  Goldberg had just finished giving Elliot his observations on the resident’s performance during the short time he had been at the hospital, and Elliot had been pleased by the laudatory qualities of it. Dr. Goldberg had a few suggestions, but seemed pleased by Elliot’s performance so far.

  “It’s fascinating work, Doctor,” Elliot said. “I was surprised to find that it really does feel like a mental hospital rather than … a prison. The correctional aspects are there, of course, but I’ve found that the doctors and staff, for the most part, are really interested in bringing about cures for the patients’ various conditions. And they seem like patients rather than prisoners.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Goldberg said. “That is what we strive for here, even though, like most state institutions, we are severely understaffed. Still, one must never forget that our patients are potentially quite dangerous, much more so than in the private facilities in which you have trained.” Goldberg’s face grew cloudy. “Our recent escapee is a prime example of that.”

  Elliot nodded. “There’s been no trace of him?”

  “Nothing. He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. At times, considering the harm of which he is still capable, I almost hope that is true. I wait in fear of the reports of his next victim.”

  “Are you really afraid he’ll rape again?”

  “Yes. He was undergoing electroconvulsive shock treatments, and they were slowly making him more … civilized. But obviously not civilized enough. I think with several more months’ work, we might have had a breakthrough.” Goldberg paused and chuckled. “Civilized. That is what I wish to see every patient here eventually become, that is my dream.” He raised his head and listened to the music playing softly from the other side of the room. “Opera,” he said dreamily. “Perhaps we should give all the patients opera treatments. Were they to aspire to understanding and appreciating the finest, most all-encompassing of the arts, a blend of music, drama, dance, and art, then they might truly become civilized. I know of no opera devotee who ever went insane … oh, some of the divas, perhaps, but that’s an occupational hazard.”

  Elliot laughed politely, though the comment was actually funny. It wasn’t hard to appreciate Goldberg’s bon mots, and Elliot found himself really liking the man. “You are a big opera fan, aren’t you?” he said, as he gestured to the oversized shelves near the record player.

  “I have been an aficionado since my youth in Vienna. I heard Mahler conduct, you know. One of the greatest Jewish composers and conductors. What a shame that he never composed an opera.” Goldberg stood and walked toward the shelves holding several rows of boxed sets of long-playing records. “Come. See if there are some that you know.”

  “Well,” Elliot said, standing and following him, “I have to confess I’m not all that familiar with opera. My mother would play the Saturday Met broadcasts when I was at home, so I’ve heard a lot of them, but at that age you don’t pay too much attention. It was beautiful music, that’s all I knew.”

  “And that is all one needs to know to start. A lifetime of joy awaits you.” Goldberg displayed his collection with a gesture. “See what there is here that you might remember from childhood.”

  Elliot dutifully cocked his head to the right to read the titles on the boxes, and named several operas he remembered hearing. Then he paused. “You have a lot of Wagner.”

  “Ja, two different Ring cycles, and at least one of all his other operas, except for the very early ones.”

  “I’m … kind of surprised that you like him,” Elliot said.

  “You mean, of course, because of his virulent anti-Semitism.”

  “Well, yes. I mean, Israeli orchestras won’t even play his music, will they? After all, he was Hitler’s favorite composer. From everything I’ve heard, Wagner’s music was the sound track for the Third Reich.”

  Goldberg nodded and took a puff on his cigar. “That is all true, but it is also true that Richard Wagner died half a century before Hitler became chancellor. He could not protest at the way his music was used, nor was he responsible for the way our people were treated.” He sat in a chair next to the record player. “It has taken me many years to learn to separate the art from the artist, but I have done it, in Wagner’s case, at least. His music is sublime, no matter what your faith or your race, and I feel that he, in his art, was touched by God, as were Mozart and Verdi and Puccini. I listen to the music, which is the finest manifestation of Wagner’s soul, not his anti-Semitic screeds. I have forgiven him his sins and celebrate only the beauty he has created.”

  Elliot smiled. “That’s rather a good way to consider it.”

  “Is it not like our profession?” Goldberg said. “We do not seek to judge. We seek to observe, to appreciate the good.”

  “But,” Elliot said, “we also try to unearth the bad, and, by understanding it and helping the patient understand it, we help to heal.”

  “Yes. To cure that sickness and thus dispel what people think of as evil. Ja, that is a good way to put it. Wagner’s anti-Semitism was an illness. If we had been able to get him on the couch, who knows?”

  “Perhaps the history of Germany would have been very different,” Elliot said, thinking of his lost father.

  “Or,” Goldberg said, “perhaps he would have proven to be another Ronald Miller, and escaped as soon as we turned our backs.”

  * * *

  There was a soft rapping on Dr. Reed’s office door. “Come in,” he said, glancing up from his patient reports. The door opened and Nurse Radcliffe stood there.

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” she said, “but do you have a moment?” Reed beckoned her in and motioned to the wooden chair in front of his desk. She sat. “You’re seeing Norman late this afternoon, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think you should know there was an incident in the basement. Between him and Myron Gunn.”

  Reed straightened up. “What happened?”

  Marie told him what she had come across; Norman witnessing Wesley Breckenridge’s force-feeding and Myron’s not-so-veiled threats to Norman. “I’ve never seen him so upset,” she said. “And Myron was merciless—with Wesley too. I stayed to stop his nosebleed after Frank took Norman upstairs, and … and Myron shut the door and just watched me as I worked. Not a word, but he looked at me like … well, it wasn’t pleasant.”

  Reed shook his head. His mouth was a grim line. “Jesus … Jesus, why did Frank let him watch in the first place?”

  “The door was open, and—”

  “Well, right there’s a breach of the rules!”

  “And I think Frank … well, he’s not as compassionate as some of the other attendants are.”

  “All right. I’ll talk to him. And from now on only Ben and Dick take
Norman on his walks—if I can ever get him to want to take a walk again. Damn Myron Gunn…”

  Marie paused for a moment. “I don’t know how to put this, since it’s not really my place, but … would there be any way to file a complaint against him?”

  “I’ve tried. Just between you and me, I’ve talked to Dr. Goldberg about his cruelty, but the doctor finds that his good qualities—his ability to control patients, oversee the attendants, and keep things contained when situations with patients have gotten chaotic—outweigh his negative qualities. I disagree, but then I’m not the superintendent.” Reed stood up. “Thank you for letting me know, Nurse. I’ll see what I can do. I think the first thing is to see Norman.”

  * * *

  Norman was sitting on his bed, still trembling. He had tried to read a paperback Western by a man named Elmore Leonard, but, though he liked it, he couldn’t keep his attention focused on the story of bounty hunters and their adventures. Norman couldn’t get the picture out of his mind of that little man on the table, being held down while Myron Gunn yanked out that horrible piece of hose. It was so long.

  Norman shuddered. And Myron Gunn had told Norman that he would do that to him someday, or drown him in one of those old tubs. Both ideas terrified him. And he believed that both things could come true. Myron Gunn seemed to have all the power in the hospital, more than Nurse Marie and Dr. Reed and Ben and anyone who was kind to him.

  When the knock came on the door, Norman jumped straight up from the bed, even though the rap was gentle. He hugged himself to stop shaking, then said, “Yes?”

  The door opened slowly, and Dr. Reed stood there. “May I come in?” Norman tried to speak, but found he could only nod. Dr. Reed entered slowly and sat in the chair. “I understand you had an unpleasant experience today. In the basement.”

  Norman nodded, and was able to finally get out a whispered, “Yes.”

  “That should not have happened, Norman. And none of it was your fault. It won’t happen again.”

  “He … he said he’d do it to me … choke me like that … and drown me…”