Robert Bloch's Psycho

by Chet Williamson

  He had made Mother proud, and it made him feel better, braver, stronger. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he would find out. Mother was right. Dr. Reed had lied to him, and he had to find out about what. He had to find out everything.

  … My treatment so far has approached hypnotherapy. It would be only a small step to go the whole way. Norman trusts me and has proven malleable. If I were to undertake true hypnotherapy, I could have him accept a brother figure, suggest it as a separate personality, have him carry on conversations with it only when I announce its visits, have that personality act as I direct, and have Norman forget those directives once they’ve been carried out. He did the same under the influence of alcohol and his own panic—all the easier to do under hypnosis.

  If I can plant in Norman’s mind the idea that he has a brother, one who was lost and has now returned and wants to form the bond that Norman never experienced, perhaps he could act as that brother, do things that the brother wanted done, the same way he acted as Mother. Of course, it’s essential that what he wants done and what I want done are the same. So the reasons should be to protect Norman. Both the brother and I want to protect and help him, have him reenter society as best he can without further trauma or shock.

  Another essential benefit of Brother is that once I indicate through hypnotic suggestion what needs to be done, I can be absent while it’s occurring. I dislike thinking of it as an alibi, but that is of course what it is. The logistics, the actual physical planning, will be the most difficult thing to accomplish. Since I’ll have to be conspicuously absent when Brother is doing his work, I’ll have to place him in the passage ahead of time and have him wait, then go to his destination, do what needs to be done, and—

  Then what? Leave the victim at the scene? Hardly. It would be ideal if the victims would simply vanish. After all, people can have reasons for disappearing. Those reasons can even be feeble and people will accept them. I can think of one conceivable reason for two of my malefactors already.

  But. What if Brother should be caught in the act? Then Norman Bates somehow escaped from his room. And in the event he’s captured, I’ll plant a command that he’ll remember nothing of how he got there. As uncommunicative as he already is, that should work well. Depending on whether Brother has already accomplished his mission, Norman will be considered more dangerous if he hasn’t, or far more dangerous if he has.

  Speaking of danger, I must consider that Norman may speak of Brother to someone else. That seems doubtful, since the only other person he barely speaks to is Marie Radcliffe. Still, I could tell him that he’s not permitted to have visitors and that I’m making an exception, since I believe the relationship will do him good, so it would be best not to mention the visits to anyone else. I have no doubt he’ll remain silent.

  Another matter of concern is Norman’s absence from his cell when Brother is active. I’ve already given orders that after dinner, no one is to disturb Norman but me. Attendants occasionally glance through the door slot, but …

  * * *

  “Here,” Dr. Reed said. He handed Norman a long construction made of what felt like rolled blankets and beddings, bound together with cord. At first Norman didn’t know what to do with it, but Mother did.

  Put it under your blanket. You’ve done it before. Then take off your shirt.

  Norman did as she said, and arranged the roll of beddings to look as much as possible like a sleeping person under his own blanket. He put his shirt on the bed.

  “All right,” Dr. Reed said. “Let’s go.”

  Norman saw Dr. Reed draw back the quilted padding that covered the brick walls of his room. In the dim glow of the flashlight that Dr. Reed held, it seemed to Norman that the wall had actually moved back, creating an entrance. Dr. Reed passed through it and he followed, letting the padding fall back into place, after which Dr. Reed put his hand on some device on the wall, and the wall closed up again with the low rumbling Norman had heard earlier.

  Follow him. Don’t speak.

  Norman obeyed Mother and trailed Dr. Reed down a dark tunnel that took several turns. They finally came to a set of stairs that wound down into deeper darkness. “Be careful,” Dr. Reed said.

  At the bottom of the stairs Dr. Reed opened another section of wall, and they stepped into a large damp room. “Equipment time,” Dr. Reed said, and, leaning down, came back up with what looked like a folded sheet of plastic and …

  A knife.

  … A major question is what tool Brother should use. It can’t be bare hands, since Norman isn’t in the best condition. He’s already proven himself proficient with a knife, so that may be best. A single stab wound, then perhaps wrapping the victim in a plastic sheet, cleaning up the blood, and taking the victim to the hiding place.

  In order for Brother’s incursions to be successful and undiscovered, there should be little distance between the hidden entrances and the locations of the victims. This will necessitate patience, but that’s a small price to pay to diminish risk.

  I believe I’ve decided on my first subject. His absence will not improve the situation regarding treatment here, but, on the other hand, I loathe him for his treatment of Norman, as will Brother, who would certainly consider him worthy of elimination. It’s a very low risk maiden voyage as well, since the passage opens both into Norman’s room and the subject’s. As for the subject’s disappearance, with luck it may be thought a successful escape attempt …

  … Everything went perfectly. I opened the door, spoke the key word to Norman, and told him to follow me. I was amazed to see the change that had come over what had been Norman. I gave him—or shall I say, Robert—the knife and led him to the secret entrance to Miller’s room. Then I told him to count to 4,000 then follow my instructions, and I left.

  Though I was extremely apprehensive, the next morning it appeared that Miller had vanished with no sign of a struggle. How he had escaped (since the entrance was not found) was a mystery, but that he had escaped was a certainty. When I looked later, the body was in the hidden room in the cellar, wrapped perfectly, and the knife lay beside it, carefully cleansed of any blood …

  * * *

  Norman took the knife and looked at it for a long time. Finally Dr. Reed said, “Robert? Are you all right?”

  Answer him, boy. Like Robert would.

  Norman thought for a moment, then said, “You bet, Doc. I’m fine.”

  Do you see, Norman? Look at what you’ve done.

  The flashlight in Dr. Reed’s hand didn’t throw much light in the big room, but when Norman looked around, he saw, lying on the floor ten yards away, what looked like four cocoons, tightly wrapped and crimped at the ends.

  “Observing your handiwork again?” Dr. Reed said. “Robert, sometimes I think you take too much pride in your work. What’s our goal here?”

  Mother prompted him. To keep my brother …

  “… keep my brother safe.”

  “And how are you doing that tonight?”

  By making Nurse Marie …

  “… making Nurse Marie disappear.”

  Dr. Reed smiled. “You can be proud, Robert.” He gestured to the four bodies wrapped in plastic. “Perfect crimes. And tonight you wait and count while I get far away from here, and we’ll have one last perfect crime. And then everything will be fine.”

  … If the truth should ever come to light, some may wonder why I went to such lengths, why I could have not done these deeds on my own, rather than go through the extremely difficult process of having Robert be my proxy. The fact is that I never could have done the deeds. For me to plunge a knife into a human body would be impossible. That is why I have had to resort to this subterfuge to remove those who seek to treat psychiatry as a medieval practice.

  Then how, they might wonder, do I justify using Norman Bates in this way? First, Norman has nothing to lose. He is already where I might be imprisoned if I were caught performing these actions myself, and he has no chance of ever walking free. Second, I have enabled h
im to fight for a great cause—indeed, his own cause, the cause of all who suffer from mental illness. Third, he is unaware of what his other persona is doing. Thus he feels neither guilt nor trauma from his deeds.

  If what Norman commits are crimes—though I see them more as sacrifices made to bring about a more modern and compassionate age—then they are as close to perfect as crimes can get, with no victims, and the perpetrator not even aware of what he does.

  But do I personally feel no guilt over people dying? Certainly not regarding Miller. He was mentally ill, but not to the extent that he should have been housed here. Recidivism among his kind is certain. And in only a few contacts with Norman, he set back my work by weeks. Society is far better off without him.

  As for the others, they used our science to satisfy their own sadism. Gunn, Lindstrom, even Goldberg. Remarkable that a man who experienced what he did in the camps could be so unfeeling to the sufferings of others. And if he was what rumor suggests he was, I should feel overjoyed that he is dead.

  But regarding Marie Radcliffe, I do feel guilt. She holds a piece of evidence that could be damning, and even if I told her that Norman told me that he dropped that evidence and Goldberg picked it up, I doubt she’d believe me. She knows something’s wrong, and that Norman has something to do with it all, and sooner or later she’ll reveal that to someone other than me. As great as the risk of one final disappearance may be, the risk of letting her live is greater. And so I sent her that list of patient file names that I needed pulled as soon as possible from the cellar storage room.

  Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

  As for Nick Steiner, I think he was uncomfortable with Goldberg’s policies, but always went along to get along. Now that he’s superintendent—and I expect him to remain in that post—I think we’ll see a positive change. It’s not for my own advancement that I’ve done these things, but for the advancement of the field and of this hospital in particular.

  “First, do no harm.” Yes. But sometimes harm must be done so that greater harm to many more can be avoided. If there is a God, I pray that he’ll forgive me for what I’ve done and must do tonight. I believe that the God of the Mind already has.

  19

  “Now you remember, Robert. You remember everything you were told, don’t you?”

  Yes, Doc.

  “Yes, Doc.”

  I count to …

  “count to four thousand…”

  * * *

  And while Robert mechanically repeated back to him the commands he’d been given, Felix Reed thought that at least this time he wouldn’t have to go through the risky activities of stealing car keys and driving unobserved out of the parking lot and sinking still another car in the swamp. More people than ever would wonder where the hell Marie Radcliffe had gone to, but he’d told Robert to unlock the file storage room door afterward, so that it wouldn’t be one of those goddamned locked room mysteries, in which they might stumble across the secret entrance. There’d been a chance of that with Ronald Miller, but Reed had been able to unlock Miller’s cell door after Robert finished his job, and get away from the facility before Miller’s absence was discovered.

  This one was going to be dicey, but everyone had secrets. Reed himself was a prime example of that, wasn’t he? He smiled as Robert continued reciting the litany of acts that would mark the final disappearance. Then he and Norman could both rest, and Robert could himself vanish, move to a different part of the country. There would be a tearful farewell, and Robert would be only a memory, never to return. And then this facility, finally swept clean of sadism and cruelty, would have a fresh start, and Norman Bates could heal slowly and without trauma.

  At last Robert’s recitation was complete. He had it all.

  Everything would be all right now.

  * * *

  Mother … how did you know … all that?

  I told you, Norman. I listen and I see. I heard what that doctor told you to do. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. You pushed me back. So I had to show you, so you can see what he really is. And what this Robert really isn’t. And now you know.

  Oh, God, Mother …

  That’s all right, boy. Mother will handle it. Everything will be all right now.

  * * *

  “Then we’re ready to go, Robert. Follow me and I’ll get you settled, and then I’ll leave you.”

  Felix Reed turned to walk back to the entrance that led out of the large room, but when he heard no footsteps behind him, he stopped. Norman Bates was just standing there, the plastic sheeting in his left hand, the knife in his right.

  “Robert? Didn’t you hear me? It’s time to do your work.”

  Reed was relieved when Norman started walking toward him. But then he noticed there was something peculiar about Norman’s gait. It was almost effeminate, the hands held slightly up rather than at his sides, and the steps were closer together than normal. He was walking like a woman.

  An older woman.

  He stopped only a foot away from Reed, and he was smiling. It was a smile Reed hadn’t seen before, neither Robert’s confident grin nor Norman’s sheepish half-smile, but a close-lipped smile with the corners of the mouth turned up high like a doll’s. It seemed a cruel smile.

  And when Norman spoke, it was in a voice Reed had never heard. It was higher and verged on cracking, an aural sheet of ice melting in sunshine. And it said, “Robert isn’t going to do that.”

  Felix Reed felt as though the ground had dropped from under him. He was alone in the dark with a pet tiger that had done his bidding, and around which he had never felt anything but safe and secure. But the tiger had changed, gone feral again.

  “Now, Robert,” Reed said, hating the way his voice trembled, “let’s not forget why we’re here. We’re here to help Norman, aren’t we?”

  “You’re here to use Norman,” the strange voice said.

  “No, no … listen to me. You are Robert, and you are going to do what we agreed upon.” Reed was shining the flashlight right into Norman’s eyes, but they barely responded, fixed as they were on Reed’s face.

  “Robert isn’t going to do anything,” Norman said. “He can’t. He’s dead.”

  “No,” Reed said, “Robert isn’t dead. He’s here.”

  “He never really existed,” Norman said. “It’s only ever been me and Norman. Why did you trick him? Why did you try and fool my only son?”

  If he’d had the slightest doubt before, Reed was certain now. It wasn’t Robert standing there with the knife in his hand. And it wasn’t Norman Bates, either. It was Mother.

  “I didn’t try to fool him. I was trying to help him. I’ve only ever wanted to help Norman—to help you.”

  “You’re a liar.” The voice became even more bitter and harsh. “You wanted those people dead, and you wanted Norman to kill them for you. You tricked him into it, didn’t you? Tricked my boy into killing for you.”

  “No, it was Robert who killed them, not Nor—”

  “Liar!” Mother shouted, and Reed cringed, trying to think of a way out. “There is no Robert!”

  “No, no!” Reed pleaded. “There is!”

  * * *

  Mother dropped the plastic sheeting, and her now free hand shot out and grabbed the flashlight from the doctor’s sweating grip. She shined it full into his face, this man who had helped banish her, and had then used her boy as his assassin. His eyes were wild, and tears were in them. His crying made snot run from his nose, and the sight disgusted her.

  “There is! There is a Robert!” he shouted again, and to her surprise, Mother saw the doctor’s face change, melt, transform into the very image of Robert Newman that she had seen through Norman’s eyes when she was chained deep down inside of him.

  She could not accept even the imagined reality of Robert Newman.

  Mother slashed up and across with the knife, and the blade ripped through the doctor’s neck. He fell back, down onto the damp stones, and Mother dropped the flashlight, turned the hilt in
her hand, sank to both knees, and stabbed down at that lying, false face, over and over again until its features were drowned in a red pool that appeared black in the flashlight’s residual gleam.

  * * *

  Norman watched it all, unable to move, unable to stop Mother from doing what she did. Only when she finally released the knife, whose blade remained wedged in Dr. Reed’s cheek, and stood up did Norman reclaim his own flesh.

  He felt unmoored and lost, as though life itself were nothing but confusion. His brother was gone as though he had never existed. The only doctor who had cared for him was dead. And he had become a murderer again. Whether it had been Robert or Mother who used it, it had been his body that had lurked and killed and hidden away what had been done.

  And now Mother, who had been dead and buried, had returned to save him, to claim him, to take over his life once more.

  I know, Norman, I know, things didn’t go the way you’d hoped, but life is full of disappointments. What matters is that I protected you from that doctor. Norman felt a sigh shiver his entire body. You got into trouble again because your mother wasn’t there, didn’t you? Because you believed that doctor’s lies and you sent me away. Well, I’m back now. And I’m going to stay.

  All right, Mother.

  All right, Norman. Now, stop moping, boy, there’s work to be done! You do as I tell you, and then go back to your room like a good boy.

  He could remember nearly all of it now. Mother helped him to remember, just as she told him what to do every step of the way. As Norman wrapped Dr. Reed and the knife that had killed him in the plastic sheet and put him next to the others, he thought back to each one of those times, remembering the realities that had appeared disguised in his dreams.

  When he was finished with Dr. Reed, he took the flashlight from the floor and went into the passage, up the spiral staircase, through the narrow turns until he came to the entrance to his room. He pressed the plate on the wall and moved to the side as the door opened. Then he pushed aside the padding, went in, took the rolled bedding from under his blanket, and set it, along with the flashlight, on the floor of the passageway. He stepped back into his room, reached around and pressed the plate again, drew back his arm and replaced the padding as the heavy door slowly closed.