Robert Bloch's Psycho

by Chet Williamson

  “How are you, Norman?” Goldberg said, and Norman thought he must be smiling, his voice sounded like he was smiling, but Norman didn’t look at him. Instead he looked at Dr. Reed, and when he saw the vast disappointment in Reed’s face, Norman looked down at the floor again. “Are you going to talk to me today?”

  Norman didn’t say anything. He just looked at the floor.

  “Dr. Reed has been telling me that you’ve gotten very verbal in the past several weeks. So I thought I’d come and see for myself.” From the corner of his eye, Norman could see Dr. Goldberg cock his head as though he was waiting for Norman to answer. Still, Norman said nothing. “Dr. Reed,” Goldberg said, “would you mind leaving me alone with Norman?”

  “Doctor, is that wise?” Reed said. “Norman has never been violent here in the hospital, but—”

  “I’m sure that will not change if I talk to him in private,” Goldberg said. “Please.” It was not a plea, it was a command.

  Dr. Reed left the room, and Norman heard the door squeaking closed. It stopped just before the lock mechanism would take effect. Dr. Goldberg came closer to Norman so he could speak softly to him. He was several inches taller than Norman, and bent his head so that he could talk directly into Norman’s ear.

  “Norman,” he said, “are you going to speak to me?” He paused. “You speak to Dr. Reed, yes? I don’t think it’s asking too much for you to talk to me as well. It’s important that you speak to other people, you know. Now, Norman, I don’t mean you any harm. You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m just trying to discover what’s best for you, the method of treatment that will serve to return you to normalcy. You understand?”

  Norman gave his head a quick, short nod.

  “Good, good,” Dr. Goldberg said. “I’ve allowed Dr. Reed to treat you with psychoanalytic therapy these past few months, nothing else, and he’s assured me that you’ve been making progress. But as the superintendent of this institution, Norman, I have responsibilities, and I take them seriously. I have to see firsthand that you’re improving. And you can show that to me by simply carrying on a conversation. Now will you do that?”

  Norman wanted to, but he felt afraid, and he didn’t know why. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  “Norman?”

  He tried again, and a little whine escaped his throat. He shook his head in frustration, quick little jerks, and kept looking down. He could feel tears edging into his eyes.

  “I know you’re trying,” Dr. Goldberg said, “but you have to do more than try. I know you can do it. Speak to me, Norman. It’s that simple.”

  Norman felt his heart beating faster. His stomach roiled, and he was short of breath.

  “I can’t stress too strongly the importance of this, Norman. If you won’t speak, I have no choice but to conclude that your therapy will have to be changed. Now let me explain what happens during the therapy that I believe we’ll have to adapt to. The name is unfortunate, since the various ‘shock’ therapies are, in one sense, not shocking at all, but…”

  Norman scarcely heard what Dr. Goldberg said after that. He’d heard some of the men discussing shock therapy in the social hall, both electroshock and the insulin shock that they used to use. Norman had heard of them before he had entered the state hospital, but he’d never really known much about them, and from what the men said, the procedure sounded like something out of a nightmare, as bad or worse than that terrible force feeding he had witnessed.

  Being strapped down while jolts of electricity were poured through your brain, or receiving such high-dosage injections of insulin that you would go into a coma … it was horrible, and this was how Dr. Goldberg was proposing that Norman should be treated.

  “… So you see, Norman, these therapies have been highly successful in the past, and I see no reason that they might not be equally beneficial in your case. You need have no fear, despite what you might have heard about electroconvulsive therapy. These are merely horror stories to frighten people.” Dr. Goldberg paused, then said, “Of course, if you were to talk to me today, or, shall we say, in the next few days, you could continue your traditional psychotherapy sessions with Dr. Reed. So Norman, it’s really up to you. It’s your decision, isn’t it? Now … is there anything you’d like to say to me before I leave you today?”

  With all his heart Norman wanted to speak, but he couldn’t. A lump of fear the size of a fist clogged his throat, and he found himself gasping like a beached fish.

  “All right, then,” Dr. Goldberg said. “I’ll leave you for now.” He walked to the door, opened it fully, and left the room.

  Norman sat down, trembling all over. He heard Dr. Goldberg talking in a low voice to Dr. Reed, and he heard Dr. Reed reply in a somewhat animated, even angry tone, though Norman couldn’t understand the words. Dr. Goldberg spoke again, much in the same tone as before, but for a longer time, and Dr. Reed, when he responded, spoke in a softer tone.

  Then Norman heard footsteps fade away down the hall, and Dr. Reed appeared in the doorway. He looked sad, and didn’t come into Norman’s room. He said, “Dr. Goldberg wants to speak to you again in three days. If you don’t respond to him … you’ll no longer be in my care, Norman. I’m sorry. We’ll discuss this later, but now I just…” He shook his head. “We’ll talk later. But we’ll resolve this, Norman. We will.” He gave a forced smile and left the room, locking the door behind him.

  Norman sat trembling for a long time. He didn’t want to cry, but felt tears push through. For a moment, he wished his mother were there to tell him what to do. He wished that she would have spoken to Dr. Goldberg, pretending to be him, but then he realized that he couldn’t have trusted her to do that, that even if she had been willing to come back once he allowed her to, she probably would have been herself, and that would have been far worse than not talking at all. After Mother opened up on Dr. Goldberg, he would probably have had Norman shocked, drowned, and force-fed whether or not Norman was willing to eat. No, he was better off without Mother, no matter how frightened he was.

  And then he thought about Robert. Whenever Norman had a problem, every time that Robert came to visit, that problem seemed to go away. And Robert was coming to visit tonight.

  * * *

  “And I’m frightened,” Norman told Robert as he concluded his story about Dr. Goldberg’s visit earlier that day.

  Robert glumly pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “What does Dr. Reed think?” he asked Norman.

  “Well, we had our therapy later, and he’s convinced that I can … break through this fear of mine and talk to Dr. Goldberg. That’s what we worked on today and what we’ll do tomorrow. We’re trying to identify the roots of my fear, and once we’ve defined it, we can find a way to conquer it … at least that’s what Dr. Reed says.”

  Robert shook his head. “Little brother, I think it’s terrible that you’re put in this position. I mean, that you should have to perform for this old headshrinker like a trained monkey. What he’s really saying is do what I want you to do or I’ll torture you. He doesn’t have the right to do that. Even if you’d gone to prison, they couldn’t do that.”

  “Yes, but … I can’t very well tell him that. Dr. Reed is in charge of my treatment now, but Dr. Goldberg can change that anytime. I’m a patient, Robert, not really a prisoner. Well, I am a prisoner, but … oh, you know what I mean.”

  Robert chuckled. “I do. And I know something else. Nobody is going to torture my brother, not while I’m around, got me?”

  “Robert,” Norman said carefully, “I don’t want you to … I’m concerned that you might—”

  “Hold it,” Robert said, holding up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking—that I had something to do with getting rid of your other … problems. But I didn’t. It was an escape and an elopement, nothing more. So maybe Dr. Goldmine will have a change of heart. But believe me, Norman, nobody is going to give you shock treatments. Dr. Reed doesn’t want that to happen … and I don’t want that to happen. So it won�
��t.”

  “But … please don’t—”

  “We’ve been lucky about things so far, little brother. No reason our luck can’t continue, right? Like that lucky piece of yours you showed me, that petrified wood.”

  Norman dug into his pocket and brought out the small stone. Its smooth, polished surface gleamed warmly. “Maybe … maybe you should have this,” Norman said. “You’ve given me so much. This is the only thing I have to give you.”

  Robert laughed. “What have I given you?” he asked, a sly look on his face.

  “You gave me … a brother. A friend. Someone who understands. Who cares about me. Here. Take it,” he said, holding out the piece of petrified wood.

  Robert looked at it, then took it, felt its smoothness, turned it in his fingers, and slipped it into his pocket. “Okay, little brother. Thanks. Better than a rabbit’s foot—and healthier for the rabbit, huh?” He grunted, reached down, grabbed his ankle, and made a mock grimace. “That sure would smart,” he said, and laughed.

  Norman laughed too, but, as they continued to talk, he couldn’t banish from his mind the image of a cleaver coming down onto the leg of a soft, brown rabbit, splitting fur, flesh, and bone. Even after Robert was gone, it lingered, finally vanishing when he slept.

  12

  The following evening, a man sat in a black car at the edge of the parking lot of the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and thought that it was a good night to be hunting. The weather wasn’t as intense as the storm that had hidden him on his previous visit. There was neither thunder nor lightning, but there were dark clouds from which fell a drenching rain. It made people run quickly to their cars, and not bother to notice strange vehicles with strange men inside them.

  He had parked where he could see the large 1958 peach-colored Lincoln Premiere coupe that was licensed to Dr. Isaac Goldberg. He didn’t have to recognize the man when he appeared in the parking lot, and that was good, since nearly everyone’s face was once again covered by umbrellas. All he had to do was watch for the man who got into that Lincoln. He knew what to do when that happened.

  A man came out of the building, a black umbrella making him anonymous. He walked to a car that the man recognized as belonging to Dr. Felix Reed, and he recognized Reed as well when the door opened and the dome light went on. Go in peace, Felix Reed, the man thought. I have no war with you.

  Dr. Isaac Goldberg, the man he wanted to take, was still inside the building. It would be easiest if he just came out, but, if he didn’t, maybe the man would have to go in after him. It would be difficult, but not impossible. He had done it before. He wondered if he had enough patience to wait.

  However he chose to do it, it was a job that had to be done. He owed it to that victim with whom he shared his blood and his heritage, that unseen, forgotten victim who had suffered so much. But not forgotten by him.

  Justice would be served tonight.

  The man had done his homework. He started thinking about what would be the easiest way into the facility.

  * * *

  Dr. Elliot Berkowitz and Nurse Marie Radcliffe paused outside Dr. Goldberg’s office door, and Berkowitz knocked. “Come in,” Dr. Goldberg called, and they entered the office. Goldberg was sitting behind his desk, a pile of papers in front of him, and a pen in his right hand. He looked, Marie thought, a bit annoyed at being disturbed.

  “Ah, yes,” Goldberg said, setting down the pen. “The Tillson case. Please, both of you, sit, sit…”

  Dr. Berkowitz then proceeded to give Dr. Goldberg the most recent report on Jacob Tillson, a fifty-three-year-old schizophrenic who had lived with his father until Tillson beat him to death with a lug wrench for whispering inside his head while he slept. Tillson had calmed down considerably in the four years he had been in the hospital, but was starting to have some violent outbursts, one of which Berkowitz had witnessed, and two others which Marie had seen.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Goldberg said, nodding. “And what course, Dr. Berkowitz, would you recommend?”

  “I think he should be removed from the general population until we’re able to get these outbursts under control.”

  “And how do you hope to do that?”

  “An intense round of psychotherapy—he’s been significantly cut back—and I think we should change his meds. He’s been on chlorpromazine for several years now, and I’m thinking that one of the newer antipsychotics might be more effective.”

  “The newer drugs are in development,” Goldberg said. “but I’m not sure that there’s anything as effective as Thorazine, at this point. And to take the patient out of the general population and isolate him, well, that’s a step backward, is it not? I wonder if electroconvulsive therapy might make him more tractable.”

  Shock therapy. Of course, Marie thought. Goldberg’s solution for everything. She looked at Berkowitz to gauge his response.

  The younger doctor stretched out his first word for a long time. “I’d … like to consider that as a last resort.”

  “Why?” Goldberg asked. “We’ve discussed this before, and I thought you were in agreement that these therapies are highly effective, yes?”

  “Yes,” Berkowitz said. “But I’m just thinking that if the same results can be achieved by less…” He paused.

  “Less … inhumane methods?” Goldberg said. “Is that what you are thinking, Doctor?” Berkowitz paused just a bit too long. “I believe you are. So you think that I, after what I have gone through in my life, after the inhumanity I have seen, you think that I would suggest treatments that you consider harsh if I did not think the results would be superior to other, less invasive therapies?”

  Marie suddenly felt that she should not be there, that this should be between mentor and pupil, but Goldberg’s flash of anger faded, and he sat back and smiled benevolently. “I can understand how the younger generation might be hesitant to use such therapies, but you must believe me, Dr. Berkowitz, I have seen their effectiveness over many decades. And their superiority to more ‘modern’ methods. Tell me, do you know German?”

  “Just a smattering. From my mother.”

  “Ah, unfortunate. Otherwise I would lend you my copy of Meggendorfer’s Allgemeine und spezielle Therapie, which is filled with successful case studies. As an alternative, let me find some journal articles that may prove instructive to you. And, since you are in a learning situation, try the newer drugs on Tillson if you like, and let us see what happens. If you prefer to keep other therapies as a ‘last resort,’ as you put it, so be it. But remember, we deal in results. Now, is there anything else?”

  Berkowitz seemed properly chastened. “No, sir, thank you.”

  “Very well,” Goldberg said. A small smile cracked the corners of his mouth as he opened his central desk drawer. “But before you go, would you like a cookie?”

  Berkowitz smiled shyly and took an Oreo from the proffered package. “Thank you, sir.”

  Goldberg held out the package to Marie, but she murmured a “No, thank you,” and he put the cookies back in the desk.

  “Nurse Radcliffe, would you remain a moment, please,” he said. “Thank you, Dr. Berkowitz.”

  Berkowitz stood, smiling sheepishly, and left the office, closing the door behind him. Marie smiled as well, wondering what Dr. Goldberg had in mind.

  “Nurse,” Goldberg said, “you deal with our patient, Norman Bates, on a regular basis, do you not?”

  “I do.”

  “How does he communicate with you?”

  “Well, now it’s verbally. He’s far from chatty, but he relates to me, gives brief answers to questions. The only one he really talks to at length is Dr. Reed.”

  “You know this for certain?”

  “I’m … pretty sure. Dr. Reed has told me that Norman talks quite freely during their sessions.”

  “But you have not witnessed this?” Goldberg asked.

  “Well … no, not really.”

  “Regrettable.” Goldberg sighed.

  “But I’ve seen some grea
t advances in Norman since he arrived here. He’s much more open, aware of things around him—”

  “Ja, I’m sure he is,” Goldberg interrupted as he got to his feet, and walked to his record player. “Thank you, Nurse. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a pile of paperwork and a lengthy opera to get through this evening.” He gingerly lowered the tone arm onto the record, and Marie heard a blare of familiar music.

  “Die Meistersinger,” she said as she stood.

  “Ah, an aficionado!” said Goldberg, grinning with delight.

  “Not really,” she said. “We played it in high school orchestra.”

  “And what was your instrument?”

  “The flute.”

  “Very nice,” Goldberg said. “Do you know the opera or just the overture?”

  “Just the overture, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, I envy you your discovery. That dour anti-Semite produced one of the jolliest operas ever written in Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg.” Goldberg held up a boxed set of recordings. “This is Kempe conducting the Berlin Philharmonic. Ferdinand Frantz plays the delightful Hans Sachs. This is my first time hearing this version. It just arrived in the post from New York.”

  “You certainly have a lot of operas,” Marie said, gesturing to the rows of boxed sets.

  “Being otherwise childless, these are my children. I play them carefully, and just as carefully replace them in their liners and boxes when done. Dust is the enemy of records, Nurse Radcliffe.”

  “Well, I’ll remember that. I’ll leave you to your opera then,” Marie said, moving toward the door.

  “Believe me, I shall have my fill tonight! Five long-playing records, ten sides. I expect it to keep me company until midnight while I do my work. The switchboard has orders to never put through calls to me after seven.” He chuckled. “It’s blasphemous to have the masters interrupted by the cacophony of a telephone. Thank you for answering my questions about Mr. Bates, and I hope you have a quiet evening, Nurse.”