Mendota State
By
George Larson
No football, no cheerleaders, and no marching bands here. No, Mendota State was not collegiate in the slightest. It was the oldest psychiatric hospital in Wisconsin and held many criminally insane patients during its long existence. Some gained notoriety for their crimes, others not so much. It was always a dangerous place, so much so that the worst of the worst were housed in a separate highly controlled wing. I know because I am the majordomo of the place and a keeper of secrets.
My spot was in the D ward or simply the D. Everyone in the hospital understood the significance of the letter, even many of our guests. It represented the seventh circle of hell where murderers, sexual deviants and other violent, perverted denizens called home. It was mine for the past nine years as well. It was a bat-shit place for the crazies who inhabited the confines of the solitary rooms, twenty-two in all and all occupied now.
#
Jeremy, one of the assistants, or more properly called aids, came into the staff room shaking his head, telling us Number 12 was refusing to take his meds again. We typically referred to patients by their room numbers to keep things simple.
Oh God, here we go again, I thought. Number 12 was paranoid schizophrenic and often acted out in unusual ways. Sometimes he refused to wear clothes, other times he pooped in his bed to simply carry out another tantrum. To show us who was in charge. Then and again, he refused to take his required medication. 12 was a problem child with an attitude. Back in the day, the predecessors would shoot him up with Thorazine to calm him. If that did not work, on would go the straitjacket and a time-out in the hole. If those methods failed, there would be a beat down to soothe jangled nerves, ours not his. No more though, well sort of.
Jeremy and Kris went directly to 12 and asked again if he would voluntarily take his morning meds. He shook his head no, continuing to bounce on his mattress. They immediately grabbed his upper and lower body, overpowering him into a supine position on the bed. They then attached flex cuffs to his arms and legs, securing them on the metal head and foot boards. Next Jeremy put his hand over 12’s nose and mouth in the classic style of burking. He reacted by squirming to get air in his lungs. Jeremy then released his hand covering 12’s mouth but continued pinching his nose while Kris dropped two pills into his mouth. The gag worked and 12 swallowed his daily medication with no further fuss. But there was nothing funny about the act. This was our routine for those patients who refused a spoonful of medicine. It was a small victory for us, showing who ran the asylum.
It was the patients of course.
#
I’ve always had a strange, quirky interest in mental health and that’s why I was strongly drawn to the subject. My family suffered from bouts of anxiety and depression but fortunately nothing more serious. I read all I could about the whole spectrum of mental disease in Psychology Today, learning the basics of human nature and how the mind worked or did not. It was when it did not work so well that intrigued me the most. Nature or nurture? Or a combination of both.
Ed Gein. That was the name of the person who for many years occupied a room in Hotel Mendota. Along with many thousands of others, I was shocked at what he’d done but also fascinated at the same time. His gruesome story would be later used by Hollywood as the basis for Silence of the Lambs and other films. Ed murdered two women in Plainfield, Wisconsin but that was far from the worst of what he done. He had dug up the bodies of several women in the local cemetery and fashioned Knick knacks from their skins and bones. Bizarre objects such as lampshades and other items. But what he was best known for was a full skin suit sewn from the bodies of the dead. Ed had some serious mommy issues to deal with too.
Gein was arrested and charged but deemed unfit to stand trial. He was shuffled off to Mendota State Psychiatric Hospital to serve out the rest of his life in the institution. When he died his body was laid in a grave next to his mother and father in Plainfield. Mommy dearest, wherefore art thou, my love?
Ed was old news. He died long before I entered Mendota.
#
I felt the tension rising in the ward. Others could too. It seemed indescribable yet it was present. The psychiatrists and their techs made their usual rounds. The patient’s dayroom was still occupied with the usual cadre of people. Movies were most popular on the large flat screen television but there was something in the air, something I could not discern. Then it happened, quickly with no one watching.
15 and 19 were standing in line in the cafeteria waiting to be served. For God knows what reason, 15 savagely stabbed 19 several times in the back with a shiv. 19 immediately fell to the floor with blood issuing from his wounds. The alarm went out, and paramedics responded but it was too late to save 19. He eventually died from the severe injuries to the kidneys. 15 screamed repeatedly: he is the Antichrist! It made no sense to any of us. Not surprisingly, he had experienced a psychotic break from reality. Number 19 was one of the meekest, least troublesome of the patients. After one hellacious hullaballoo, 15 was charged with murder but since he was already adjudged to be criminally insane, there was no change to his status. He remained number 15. That is how things worked around here.
But not for long. I had had enough brutality, the violence on the ward. It was time for some justice, some payback. And I would be the avenger. Perhaps I was having a bit of a psychotic break too. Regardless, vengeance would be mine. I had made my mind up. Enough was enough.
#
Looking around at the regulars in the dayroom, I quickly gauged the amount of evil in the room. It was enormous and I felt proud that I was to have a role, a major one, in their demise. This was my destiny. To be the savior of lost souls. By killing them, I would free them from their shame and torment.
Several of the patients were highly functioning individuals, meaning their thoughts and actions were rational, seemingly normal. The psychotropic drugs helped them stay focused for much of the time. They could speak cogently and act accordingly. These were the ones most dangerous, especially ones with a homicidal bent. One second, they could be intelligently discussing politics and the next pushing you up against the wall trying to choke the life out of you. You never could let your guard down. Not even for a second. In the blink of an eye, your life could be snuffed out if you were not careful. That was the tension everyone lived under.
Keep in mind that all the patients had yet to be convicted of a crime since none were competent enough to stand trial. Competency hearings were routinely held and occasionally patients left the D to face punishment. But only a few. The rest were lifers.
#
Jimmy the Firefly was one extremely sick dude and a lifer. A pyromaniac to his very core. He was number 21 but we tagged him with the appellation because of the horrendous crime that landed him in Mendota. Jimmy was a boy wonder of sorts. Starting when he was seven years old, he began setting fires, small ones at the time. He would lovingly gaze into the flames, watching their majesty as the fire grew larger and brighter. He was mesmerized by his handiwork and thought his living creations to be his ultimate destiny. No amount of psychotherapy would help with his love for fire.
At 12 years old, the Firefly did the unthinkable, except in his own twisted mind. He set fire to his own house while his mom, dad and two older sisters were sleeping. None escaped the blaze. Jimmy learned his lesson well; that accelerant sped up the process. He was standing on the front lawn holding the gas can and smiling when the fire department arrived.
We had to be very careful of Jimmy. No matches or other contraband to start a fire. We also had to monitor what he watched on TV because scenes of fires would excite him to the point he would loudly squeal in delight. He could be a naughty boy when watching the tube.
I lifted the book of matches from Jeremy’s jacket pocket. He was a chain smoker and a convenient mark. It was an easy snatch and grab, and no one was the wiser except me. I would prove that smoking does kill.
I waited patiently for the dayroom to clear. There was only one other patient other than Jimmy in the room who was heavily sedated. His snoring and drooling spoke volumes. The Firefly’s eyes were glued to the TV screen, engrossed in a soap. I approached him from behind and lit a match and held it in front of him. He immediately averted his eyes from the screen to the glowing flame. He started mewling like a kitten at the shimmering light. While engrossed with the match, I poured the bottle of Flaxseed cooking oil which I had swiped from the cafeteria. It ran down over his head and dribbled over his robe and pajamas. Still staring at the light from the match, I dropped it into his lap, and his clothes caught fire, sending black plumes of smoke into the air. Jimmy did not scream in pain or yell out in terror. He simply stared in awe as the fire consumed his body. He died where he sat. He was finally getting some poetic justice for his horrendous crime. I felt vindicated by my charitable act of kindness.
Of course, there was an investigation, but the conclusion was unanimous. Jimmy found some matches and had self-immolated. Cased closed. Another bed opened on D.
#
Rules on contraband were tightened. No longer could prohibited articles be brought into D by staff. What was good for the gander now applied to employees who worked there as well. No one was punished for the lapse in security. Back to the same old, same old routine. The jailers and inmates wanted a calm, peaceful environment. At least those patients who were cognizant of their circumstances. Many did not know where they were now and did not care in the slightest.
But it was not to be. Number 15 was back in his room as though nothing had happened. As though no one remembered what he had done. But I did. Oh yes. I was the Lord’s avenging, swift sword, and I planned to use it.
#
The med rounds progressed, and the patients continued to play their roles accordingly. A variety of sizes of colored pills voluntarily went down the throats of the willing or forced down recalcitrant ones. Mellow them out were the watchwords used by staff to describe the drill. Whether they helped or not did not make one iota of difference. The desired effect was the same: keep them calm and controlled so they would not act out. Easier on everyone.
I watched number 15 go about his day. He was no longer restricted to his room and could now move about the ward. I thought he had not been adequately punished for his crime. Some retribution was necessary.
I waited for the most opportune time to strike. It was just past morning meds that I made my move by sneaking into his room. He was startled at first but soon relaxed after telling him I was there to change his bedding. It was the right day but wrong time, but he was not paying attention. He was engaged in serious masturbation. As he continued stroking himself, I removed his bed sheet and wrapped it around his neck and pulled hard. So hard that his eyes bulged from their sockets, while putting his unoccupied hand on his neck trying to break my hold. It was to be of no use, a matter of too little too late. He climaxed as his life force drained out of his body. Number 15 was now spent and limp. He had no aspirations left in this life.
Once again there was a formal inquiry about what had transpired and who expired. It was deemed an accidental death, auto asphyxiation to be specific. It was a repetitive motion sickness that could not be cured by modern medicine.
#
My progress was measured in tentative baby steps rather than major leaps and bounds. I have been successful so far but not satisfied. I needed to do something dramatic, something big to kill more patients, to put them out of their misery.
But what to do?
I spent time mulling over my options. There really were not many, truthfully slim to none. I had to come up with a plan of action that would not point to me as the instigator, the culprit of these crimes.
I was living off and on in a fugue state since I began my quest to kill. I was in a disassociated frame of mind. Blanking out memory at times and not remembering things that I should. That condition scared me but would not stop me from completing God’s clever work. Nothing would.
#
It would be laundry.
Wednesday was washday. The large hampers were collected from the rooms and pushed to the laundry. When I was alone, I sprinkled the remaining Flaxseed oil over each. The oil was especially flammable and served as a good accelerant. More of Jeremy’s matches were lit and dropped into each of the hampers and I waited until they fully ignited. I then pushed each one to various parts of the D to help spread the fire.
It did not take long for billowing smoke to fill the ward. The smoke detectors sounded the alarm and then everyone capable panicked. Pandemonium reigned through the hallways, the shouting and screaming creating a cacophony of dreadful sounds. In the dense fog of smoke, I stumbled to the front exit. My body was being crushed by others who were trying to escape the inferno.
I was knocked on the floor and passed out likely due to a concussion. The last conscious thought I had was that I was about to die.
#
“Lucky, Lucky, thank God you’re alive!” Those words spoken by Jeremy were the sweetest I’d heard in an exceptionally long time.
“I thought you were a goner,” he said as I opened my swollen, stinging eyes. “We’ve lost nearly half of the patients,” he commented as he helped me to my feet.
“But not you. You are one lucky dude. You are a survivor, number 7.”
And that I was.
George is a retired senior Special Agent with the Diplomatic Security Service, US Department of State, with many years service traveling, working and living abroad. Following, he spent the last 15 years or so writing eight novels (Dick Avery Adventure Stories) and ten short horror stories of which a number have been included in podcasts and magazines: Dark Horses, Creepy (pod), Mobius Blvd., ParABnormal, Black Sheep and Secret Santa & Other Tales, an anthology. He also holds a BA degree in English (Non Cum Laude).
By
George Larson
No football, no cheerleaders, and no marching bands here. No, Mendota State was not collegiate in the slightest. It was the oldest psychiatric hospital in Wisconsin and held many criminally insane patients during its long existence. Some gained notoriety for their crimes, others not so much. It was always a dangerous place, so much so that the worst of the worst were housed in a separate highly controlled wing. I know because I am the majordomo of the place and a keeper of secrets.
My spot was in the D ward or simply the D. Everyone in the hospital understood the significance of the letter, even many of our guests. It represented the seventh circle of hell where murderers, sexual deviants and other violent, perverted denizens called home. It was mine for the past nine years as well. It was a bat-shit place for the crazies who inhabited the confines of the solitary rooms, twenty-two in all and all occupied now.
#
Jeremy, one of the assistants, or more properly called aids, came into the staff room shaking his head, telling us Number 12 was refusing to take his meds again. We typically referred to patients by their room numbers to keep things simple.
Oh God, here we go again, I thought. Number 12 was paranoid schizophrenic and often acted out in unusual ways. Sometimes he refused to wear clothes, other times he pooped in his bed to simply carry out another tantrum. To show us who was in charge. Then and again, he refused to take his required medication. 12 was a problem child with an attitude. Back in the day, the predecessors would shoot him up with Thorazine to calm him. If that did not work, on would go the straitjacket and a time-out in the hole. If those methods failed, there would be a beat down to soothe jangled nerves, ours not his. No more though, well sort of.
Jeremy and Kris went directly to 12 and asked again if he would voluntarily take his morning meds. He shook his head no, continuing to bounce on his mattress. They immediately grabbed his upper and lower body, overpowering him into a supine position on the bed. They then attached flex cuffs to his arms and legs, securing them on the metal head and foot boards. Next Jeremy put his hand over 12’s nose and mouth in the classic style of burking. He reacted by squirming to get air in his lungs. Jeremy then released his hand covering 12’s mouth but continued pinching his nose while Kris dropped two pills into his mouth. The gag worked and 12 swallowed his daily medication with no further fuss. But there was nothing funny about the act. This was our routine for those patients who refused a spoonful of medicine. It was a small victory for us, showing who ran the asylum.
It was the patients of course.
#
I’ve always had a strange, quirky interest in mental health and that’s why I was strongly drawn to the subject. My family suffered from bouts of anxiety and depression but fortunately nothing more serious. I read all I could about the whole spectrum of mental disease in Psychology Today, learning the basics of human nature and how the mind worked or did not. It was when it did not work so well that intrigued me the most. Nature or nurture? Or a combination of both.
Ed Gein. That was the name of the person who for many years occupied a room in Hotel Mendota. Along with many thousands of others, I was shocked at what he’d done but also fascinated at the same time. His gruesome story would be later used by Hollywood as the basis for Silence of the Lambs and other films. Ed murdered two women in Plainfield, Wisconsin but that was far from the worst of what he done. He had dug up the bodies of several women in the local cemetery and fashioned Knick knacks from their skins and bones. Bizarre objects such as lampshades and other items. But what he was best known for was a full skin suit sewn from the bodies of the dead. Ed had some serious mommy issues to deal with too.
Gein was arrested and charged but deemed unfit to stand trial. He was shuffled off to Mendota State Psychiatric Hospital to serve out the rest of his life in the institution. When he died his body was laid in a grave next to his mother and father in Plainfield. Mommy dearest, wherefore art thou, my love?
Ed was old news. He died long before I entered Mendota.
#
I felt the tension rising in the ward. Others could too. It seemed indescribable yet it was present. The psychiatrists and their techs made their usual rounds. The patient’s dayroom was still occupied with the usual cadre of people. Movies were most popular on the large flat screen television but there was something in the air, something I could not discern. Then it happened, quickly with no one watching.
15 and 19 were standing in line in the cafeteria waiting to be served. For God knows what reason, 15 savagely stabbed 19 several times in the back with a shiv. 19 immediately fell to the floor with blood issuing from his wounds. The alarm went out, and paramedics responded but it was too late to save 19. He eventually died from the severe injuries to the kidneys. 15 screamed repeatedly: he is the Antichrist! It made no sense to any of us. Not surprisingly, he had experienced a psychotic break from reality. Number 19 was one of the meekest, least troublesome of the patients. After one hellacious hullaballoo, 15 was charged with murder but since he was already adjudged to be criminally insane, there was no change to his status. He remained number 15. That is how things worked around here.
But not for long. I had had enough brutality, the violence on the ward. It was time for some justice, some payback. And I would be the avenger. Perhaps I was having a bit of a psychotic break too. Regardless, vengeance would be mine. I had made my mind up. Enough was enough.
#
Looking around at the regulars in the dayroom, I quickly gauged the amount of evil in the room. It was enormous and I felt proud that I was to have a role, a major one, in their demise. This was my destiny. To be the savior of lost souls. By killing them, I would free them from their shame and torment.
Several of the patients were highly functioning individuals, meaning their thoughts and actions were rational, seemingly normal. The psychotropic drugs helped them stay focused for much of the time. They could speak cogently and act accordingly. These were the ones most dangerous, especially ones with a homicidal bent. One second, they could be intelligently discussing politics and the next pushing you up against the wall trying to choke the life out of you. You never could let your guard down. Not even for a second. In the blink of an eye, your life could be snuffed out if you were not careful. That was the tension everyone lived under.
Keep in mind that all the patients had yet to be convicted of a crime since none were competent enough to stand trial. Competency hearings were routinely held and occasionally patients left the D to face punishment. But only a few. The rest were lifers.
#
Jimmy the Firefly was one extremely sick dude and a lifer. A pyromaniac to his very core. He was number 21 but we tagged him with the appellation because of the horrendous crime that landed him in Mendota. Jimmy was a boy wonder of sorts. Starting when he was seven years old, he began setting fires, small ones at the time. He would lovingly gaze into the flames, watching their majesty as the fire grew larger and brighter. He was mesmerized by his handiwork and thought his living creations to be his ultimate destiny. No amount of psychotherapy would help with his love for fire.
At 12 years old, the Firefly did the unthinkable, except in his own twisted mind. He set fire to his own house while his mom, dad and two older sisters were sleeping. None escaped the blaze. Jimmy learned his lesson well; that accelerant sped up the process. He was standing on the front lawn holding the gas can and smiling when the fire department arrived.
We had to be very careful of Jimmy. No matches or other contraband to start a fire. We also had to monitor what he watched on TV because scenes of fires would excite him to the point he would loudly squeal in delight. He could be a naughty boy when watching the tube.
I lifted the book of matches from Jeremy’s jacket pocket. He was a chain smoker and a convenient mark. It was an easy snatch and grab, and no one was the wiser except me. I would prove that smoking does kill.
I waited patiently for the dayroom to clear. There was only one other patient other than Jimmy in the room who was heavily sedated. His snoring and drooling spoke volumes. The Firefly’s eyes were glued to the TV screen, engrossed in a soap. I approached him from behind and lit a match and held it in front of him. He immediately averted his eyes from the screen to the glowing flame. He started mewling like a kitten at the shimmering light. While engrossed with the match, I poured the bottle of Flaxseed cooking oil which I had swiped from the cafeteria. It ran down over his head and dribbled over his robe and pajamas. Still staring at the light from the match, I dropped it into his lap, and his clothes caught fire, sending black plumes of smoke into the air. Jimmy did not scream in pain or yell out in terror. He simply stared in awe as the fire consumed his body. He died where he sat. He was finally getting some poetic justice for his horrendous crime. I felt vindicated by my charitable act of kindness.
Of course, there was an investigation, but the conclusion was unanimous. Jimmy found some matches and had self-immolated. Cased closed. Another bed opened on D.
#
Rules on contraband were tightened. No longer could prohibited articles be brought into D by staff. What was good for the gander now applied to employees who worked there as well. No one was punished for the lapse in security. Back to the same old, same old routine. The jailers and inmates wanted a calm, peaceful environment. At least those patients who were cognizant of their circumstances. Many did not know where they were now and did not care in the slightest.
But it was not to be. Number 15 was back in his room as though nothing had happened. As though no one remembered what he had done. But I did. Oh yes. I was the Lord’s avenging, swift sword, and I planned to use it.
#
The med rounds progressed, and the patients continued to play their roles accordingly. A variety of sizes of colored pills voluntarily went down the throats of the willing or forced down recalcitrant ones. Mellow them out were the watchwords used by staff to describe the drill. Whether they helped or not did not make one iota of difference. The desired effect was the same: keep them calm and controlled so they would not act out. Easier on everyone.
I watched number 15 go about his day. He was no longer restricted to his room and could now move about the ward. I thought he had not been adequately punished for his crime. Some retribution was necessary.
I waited for the most opportune time to strike. It was just past morning meds that I made my move by sneaking into his room. He was startled at first but soon relaxed after telling him I was there to change his bedding. It was the right day but wrong time, but he was not paying attention. He was engaged in serious masturbation. As he continued stroking himself, I removed his bed sheet and wrapped it around his neck and pulled hard. So hard that his eyes bulged from their sockets, while putting his unoccupied hand on his neck trying to break my hold. It was to be of no use, a matter of too little too late. He climaxed as his life force drained out of his body. Number 15 was now spent and limp. He had no aspirations left in this life.
Once again there was a formal inquiry about what had transpired and who expired. It was deemed an accidental death, auto asphyxiation to be specific. It was a repetitive motion sickness that could not be cured by modern medicine.
#
My progress was measured in tentative baby steps rather than major leaps and bounds. I have been successful so far but not satisfied. I needed to do something dramatic, something big to kill more patients, to put them out of their misery.
But what to do?
I spent time mulling over my options. There really were not many, truthfully slim to none. I had to come up with a plan of action that would not point to me as the instigator, the culprit of these crimes.
I was living off and on in a fugue state since I began my quest to kill. I was in a disassociated frame of mind. Blanking out memory at times and not remembering things that I should. That condition scared me but would not stop me from completing God’s clever work. Nothing would.
#
It would be laundry.
Wednesday was washday. The large hampers were collected from the rooms and pushed to the laundry. When I was alone, I sprinkled the remaining Flaxseed oil over each. The oil was especially flammable and served as a good accelerant. More of Jeremy’s matches were lit and dropped into each of the hampers and I waited until they fully ignited. I then pushed each one to various parts of the D to help spread the fire.
It did not take long for billowing smoke to fill the ward. The smoke detectors sounded the alarm and then everyone capable panicked. Pandemonium reigned through the hallways, the shouting and screaming creating a cacophony of dreadful sounds. In the dense fog of smoke, I stumbled to the front exit. My body was being crushed by others who were trying to escape the inferno.
I was knocked on the floor and passed out likely due to a concussion. The last conscious thought I had was that I was about to die.
#
“Lucky, Lucky, thank God you’re alive!” Those words spoken by Jeremy were the sweetest I’d heard in an exceptionally long time.
“I thought you were a goner,” he said as I opened my swollen, stinging eyes. “We’ve lost nearly half of the patients,” he commented as he helped me to my feet.
“But not you. You are one lucky dude. You are a survivor, number 7.”
And that I was.
George is a retired senior Special Agent with the Diplomatic Security Service, US Department of State, with many years service traveling, working and living abroad. Following, he spent the last 15 years or so writing eight novels (Dick Avery Adventure Stories) and ten short horror stories of which a number have been included in podcasts and magazines: Dark Horses, Creepy (pod), Mobius Blvd., ParABnormal, Black Sheep and Secret Santa & Other Tales, an anthology. He also holds a BA degree in English (Non Cum Laude).
