Psycho - Three Complete Novels

by Robert Bloch

  But Reno had already made a choice of his own; he and Sandy Oliver were going to make another try of getting together, now that Engstrom was giving him back his badge. Amy didn’t see him again. In retrospect it was probably just as well.

  She did see Engstrom. But here retrospection failed her; he was just another figure in the nightmare following the events at the motel, the nightmare that included so many figures and seemed to linger for so many days. During that time everybody did their best to protect Amy from the media, though there was no way of keeping them from her entirely. And until the furor began to die down, leaving town was not the answer.

  That was the real problem, of course; not enough answers.

  Nothing from Charlie Pitkin, who split a whole bottle of sleeping pills between himself and his daughter the night after what took place at the motel.

  None from Eric Dunstable, whose body Amy had almost literally stumbled over in the motel office.

  None from Hank Gibbs.

  Nor would there be.

  He’d died from his bullet wound while still en route to Baldwin Memorial Hospital.

  — 25 —

  Gibbs had covered his tracks well. And bringing them to light again wasn’t all that easy. Despite the spectacular advances of criminology, forensic medicine, and computer science, in the end it came down to a matter of just plain hard digging.

  The partnership between Otto Remsbach and Charlie Pitkin on the Bates project was fully confirmed by data in their respective files. But it took digging to establish the shadowy connection between Charlie Pitkin and Hank Gibbs.

  At least that’s what Sheriff Engstrom confided to Amy on the day before her departure.

  “Gibbs didn’t have anything down in writing,” Engstrom said. “But he probably would have after Pitkin did a job on Remsbach’s estate. That was no big deal; the will named Charlie as executor, and he’d made enough private loans to justify a takeover for repayment. The house, the business, the Bates property—Pitkin would have ended up with it all. Plus Hank Gibbs as a partner.”

  Amy’s pen moved over her notebook page quickly. “But if there was nothing in writing—”

  Engstrom shook his head. “Nothing about a partnership deal, no. But we found other things on paper. Memos in Gibbs’ handwriting, locked away in Charlie Pitkin’s files. Very detailed memos on how to set up the Bates project from the beginning. The two were thick as thieves.”

  “Stealing’s one thing, murder is another,” Amy said. “Do you really believe both of them were in on this?”

  “That’s something we’ll probably never know for sure.” Engstrom sat with crossed legs, the pointed tip of his right boot jabbing empty air. “But in view of the circumstances, it’s likely they did plan the murder of Otto Remsbach together.” Now the legs uncrossed. “Thing is, plans don’t always work out. And that’s when the trouble starts.

  “We don’t think anyone planned Terry Dowson’s death. The way we see it, Gibbs went out there for only one reason—to get hold of that wax figure of Norman’s mother.”

  Amy frowned. “Then you’re assuming he already knew what he intended to do with it.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “There doesn’t seem to be any other logical motive.”

  “Nothing he did seems logical to me,” Amy said. “Killing that child—”

  “Remember what I said about plans getting fouled up. Gibbs did his best; got himself an alibi, parked his car God knows where. And he was willing to lug that wax dummy a long way, most likely through the wooded acreage, just to make certain nobody would see him. What he didn’t count on was those two kids showing up.

  “Nearest we can figure, they were already somewhere upstairs when Gibbs arrived; still don’t know if he got a dupe key or found the door open. Maybe he heard the girls talking upstairs and took a chance on getting the dummy out before they came back down. My hunch is he was worried about having to handle the figure, and he had to hurry because his alibi would only cover him for so long.

  “Anyhow he got the dummy. From what the other girl, Mick Sontag, told us about their movements, he could have taken the figure just before they came down the basement stairs. When Gibbs heard them he hid somewhere until they went into the fruit cellar.

  “That gave him enough time to sneak back up, but not enough to get out before Mick came running upstairs. What he must have done was hide behind the front door. When she ran outside he waited to give her a chance of getting far enough away so as not to see him when he slipped out. That’s probably what he was starting to do when Terry Dowson got upstairs. My guess is what happened then was panic, not plan.”

  Amy nodded. “The plan was only to kill Remsbach.”

  “Frankly, we have no way of knowing. We do know Doris Huntley slipped Pitkin a lot of information about Remsbach’s deals, so she might have been killed intentionally to prevent any chance of her talking. On the other hand it’s quite possible she died for the same reason Terry Dowson did; she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Either way, Gibbs knew where he was going to be on the night of Remsbach’s murder. He did go to Baldwin Memorial Hospital to provide himself with an alibi, but he counted on no one knowing the exact time of his arrival or departure. And no one did.”

  Amy added a line at the bottom of one page and finished her sentence on another. As she did so she glanced up toward the open doorway and outer office beyond. From behind the reception desk Irene Grovesmith nodded and smiled.

  It was difficult for Amy to account for such a drastic change in attitude until she hit upon the reason. Irene must have seen her on the nightly news. Anybody who appears on prime-time television automatically becomes a celebrity, someone you smile at in hopes that they’ll smile back.

  Amy did so, but when she faced Engstrom again her expression changed. “We spent a lot of time together,” she murmured. “I can see now what he was doing—trying to find out just how much I knew. Pretending to help by taking me around, while his real reason was to keep me from learning too much more on my own.” The pen twisted between nervous fingers. “And all the while I thought it was because maybe he had a thing about me.” Amy shook her head. “How could I have been such a fool?”

  “One thing’s for sure,” Engstrom said. “You never should have gone out to the Bates property in the first place, even if you expected to meet Gibbs there. And when you saw his car parked and empty it should’ve been enough to signal that he’d set you up.

  “Which, of course he did—with the office door left ajar to get you inside.”

  “I just didn’t stop to think,” Amy said. “I was concerned about him.”

  “And he was concerned about you. When you reported seeing Dunstable and feeling he might torch the Bates place, Gibbs had no choice. If you’d guessed right he had to move fast, hoping he’d be in time to stop Dunstable from lighting a match.

  “The problem was he had no way of preventing you from coming when you insisted. Even if he could, if something happened out there, Gibbs would have to explain why he lied to you when he promised he’d call us. Either way, he had to do two things—stop Dunstable and get rid of you.”

  Amy was adding to her notes. “I still can’t believe it,” she murmured. “Two cold-blooded murders—”

  The Sheriff shrugged. “Remember Terry Dowson, Otto Remsbach, Doris Huntley. They say killing’s pretty much like anything else people do. It gets easier as you go along.”

  No big deal. Amy heard the echo of Bonnie Walton’s words when she’d interviewed her for the book. If true, there really should be a warning from the Surgeon General. Warning: murder is habit-forming and can be injurious to your health.

  Gallows humor, that’s what they used to call it. But there’s been nothing even remotely amusing about the deaths of those others, or her own close call. She met Engstrom’s gaze. “You actually think Hank Gibbs went out there prepared to kill us both?”

  “He didn’t have any options. Looks like he ar
rived just in time to surprise Dunstable sprinkling that gasoline. Maybe he put up a struggle, maybe not, but we know how it ended. Then Gibbs had to deal with you. Again there’s no telling, but our theory is he’d have burned the motel himself to get rid of the evidence.”

  “Meaning our bodies.” Amy’s shudder was involuntary. “Since no one knew I called him, he’d probably say something about just happening to be driving by and seeing the flames.”

  “Something like that,” Engstrom said. “Burning the motel would get him off the hook. Rebuilding it could be expensive but at least he’d save the house.” The Sheriff leaned forward. “Tell you something else. If things had worked out, I bet that wax dummy of Norman would have ended up in the fruit cellar instead of melting in the motel fire. There’d be plenty of time for Gibbs to risk moving it before leaving to call the fire department, since he didn’t figure on any of us being around.”

  Amy looked up from her notepad. “Why did you send someone?”

  “You can thank your friend Steiner for that. If he hadn’t figured things out and called us, Al wouldn’t have been coming by to check on the place and give you a hand.”

  Amy frowned. “Dr. Steiner didn’t know I was going there.”

  “True. But from what you told him, he had a pretty good idea about Gibbs showing up sooner or later.”

  “What made Steiner so sure?”

  “Who knows?” Engstrom shrugged. “Maybe you’d better ask him about that.”

  And on the day before leaving town, she did.

  This time Dr. Steiner greeted her in his office. And there he answered her question.

  “Masks,” he said. “After we talked the other day I got to thinking about how we hide behind them, and what they symbolize in our society. The most commonplace extremes, of course, represent Comedy and Tragedy, and I found them on the faces of various people you and I discussed. All but Charlie Pitkin. Tragedy, for him, was not a mask.”

  Amy’s notebook was open, her pen at the ready. “What do you mean?”

  Dr. Steiner shook his head. “I’d rather you didn’t write it down. And please, if you use this information, no attribution.”

  “I promise.” Amy flipped the notebook shut with the tip of her pen. “Was he one of your outpatients too?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then perhaps you don’t have to say anything. From what Sheriff Engstrom told me about the double suicide, I think I can guess the rest. The burden of such a relationship must have been unbearable for them both.”

  “He was doing his best to fight it,” Steiner said. “But after what happened the other night, it was too much. He undoubtedly realized that once his involvement became known he couldn’t hope to shield himself or his daughter from the investigation that was bound to follow.”

  Amy nodded. “Then he knew about Hank Gibbs.”

  “I don’t think so. That’s why he went into trauma. Granted, Pitkin was far from a model of rectitude, but he’d never knowingly act as an accessory to homicide.” Steiner sighed. “I just wish he had come to me before—”

  His visitor frowned. “It doesn’t add up,” she said. “This sad man with his sad secret, giving Otto Remsbach all those way-out funny ideas.”

  “That’s how I knew,” Dr. Steiner said. “I can’t recall seeing him smile or say anything indicating he might have the slightest sense of humor. But Hank Gibbs always wore the mask of Comedy.”

  “Were you aware Hank and Pitkin were secret partners?” Amy said.

  “I knew they were close and I assumed it was some kind of business deal. But until this notion about the masks came to me I didn’t guess it must have to do with Remsbach’s plans to turn the Bates property into a tourist attraction. Then everything seemed to fall into place—the relationship between the two, Gibbs feeding Pitkin ideas to pass on to Remsbach, the motivation behind the murders—”

  “The Sheriff thinks the little girl’s murder wasn’t premeditated, and they’re not certain about Doris Huntley. But he’s sure about Hank Gibbs planning to kill Remsbach.”

  “That’s why he needed the wax figure of Norman’s mother, because he wanted it to be found with Remsbach’s body in the bed.”

  Amy’s frown returned. “You think he did this as some sort of a sick joke?”

  “Quite the reverse. Putting that dummy beside Remsbach’s corpse was serious business. You couldn’t buy that kind of publicity.”

  “But that’s insane!”

  “Technically speaking, no. By both clinical and legal definitions, Hank Gibbs was in full possession of his faculties, aware of what he was doing, and realized the consequences. His rationale was psychopathic, not psychotic. Within the context of later events, getting rid of Eric Dunstable and attempting to get rid of you was logical procedure.”

  Amy shook her head. “As I remember it, a psychopath is someone without empathy, someone who can’t identify with others. But Hank was always so helpful, so friendly—”

  “Friendly with everyone, but no friends of his own. A loner in a job that demands interaction with just about everyone.”

  “Then why didn’t he get out?”

  “Perhaps he liked being a big frog in a little pond. Or maybe he hoped he could find a way to jump and make a splash in a bigger pond.” Steiner smiled. “Just like you.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that obvious.” Amy paused. “All right, it’s true—I think most writers want the reward of fame and fortune, and I’m no exception. But I wouldn’t kill for it.”

  “You’re not a psychopath.” Steiner smiled again. “I know it’s all guesswork on my part now, pretty much like coming up with an autopsy report without ever having had a chance to dissect the actual corpse. But I think I knew Hank Gibbs as well as he allowed anyone to know him. And to coin a phrase, actions speak louder than words.

  “If you stop and consider, everything Gibbs did fueled media attention, in a society where such attention is essential for material success. That’s what he wanted out of life, and nothing else mattered, even if it meant taking the lives of others.”

  “It’s hard for me to accept it,” Amy said. “He seemed like such a caring person.”

  “And so he was.” Dr. Steiner nodded. “But only for himself. If you’re looking for the bitterness and the cruelty, it’s there, in his humor. He used it both as a shield and a weapon. His self-deprecation served as both.” Steiner’s chuckle rasped faintly. “I ought to know. I’ve had the same tendencies at times.”

  “You mustn’t let me overtire you,” Amy said.

  “That’s no problem. If there is anything else I can do to help—”

  “You’ve already done more than your share,” Amy said. “I only wish I knew of some way to repay you for all your kindness.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just go write the book. And when you do, remember to tell about the demons.”

  “Eric Dunstable’s demons?”

  “No.” Steiner shook his head. “The demons that possessed Hank Gibbs and continue to possess so many others. Greed. Avarice. The real demons that are taking over this world.”

  “I won’t forget.” Amy rose, smiling.

  “Let me make a suggestion,” Steiner said. “When you’re finished, maybe you can write another book, about life in the asylum.”

  “Here?”

  “No.” Steiner gestured toward the window. “Out there.”

  — ABOUT THE AUTHOR —

  ROBERT BLOCH has won the Hugo Award and the World Fantasy Award Grand Master Award.

  Robert Bloch first gained notoriety as the author of Psycho, the inspiration for the classic Alfred Hitchcock film. His other books include Psycho II, Lori, The Night of the Ripper, American Gothic, and many other novels of suspense and terror. His hundreds of short stories have appeared in virtually every major magazine and anthology and include such seminal works as “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper,” and “A Toy for Juliette.” “The Chaney Legacy,” like many of Bloch’s works, was adapted for t
elevision. He recently published The Jekyll Legacy, a collaboration with Andre Norton.

  His newest book is Once Around the Bloch: An Unauthorized Autobiography. Robert Bloch and his wife live in California.