Robert Bloch's Psycho (23 page)

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 great 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.”

“You're welcome, Doctor. Good night.”

Marie closed the door behind her and stood in the silent hall for a moment, wondering what their brief conversation meant for Norman. Probably the same thing that it meant for Jacob Tillson. Shock treatment. She knew how timid and fearful Norman was, and how terrified he was of any therapy other than his sessions with Dr. Reed. If Dr. Goldberg had his way, Marie hoped that it wouldn't throw Norman back into his previous catatonia.

The tension of the meeting with Drs. Berkowitz and Goldberg had worn her out, but it was still a long time before she could go home. She was on evening shift starting today for two weeks, which meant in at five in the afternoon, out at two in the morning, and it was only eight o'clock now. Night staff was skeletal but necessary, and its duties were shared among the nurses with the least seniority, of whom Marie was one. At least it only occurred three times a year. Attendants would bring Norman his breakfast and lunch, while she would still see him at dinnertime.

The only good thing about her new schedule was that Ben Blake was on the same evening shift, so they could meet during their breaks. Their relationship had intensified during the last few weeks. When their days off were the same, they went out to dinner or a movie at the Fairvale Cinema, and some nights they stopped at Delsey's for burgers and a beer, but never more than one. They were intoxicated enough with each other's company.