Asylum

By James R. Newton

A behind the scene fictional account into the world of inpatient mental health services and forensic psychiatry offers real insight into the legal entanglements that are more often created: a system that can be manipulated and crafted for the pursuit of revenge and retribution. The criminal justice system that purports to offer a quality of care frequently creates a new sentencing guideline that sees the more reasonable and humane Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity (NGRI) transform into "Life Without Hope of Freedom".

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 12, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469705934

James R. Newton

James R. Newton is a senior administrator with a non-profit behavioral healthcare agency based in Atlanta, Georgia. A former police officer and criminal investigator, he is a Licensed Professional Counselor and has held numerous clinical and administrative positions, both in community mental health, correctional and institutional settings, involving a wide scope of the behaviorally challenged. He is a graduate of the University of Cincinnati and John Carroll University (Ohio). He lives in Marietta, Georgia with his family, including the untrained family pet, Shadow.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by James R. Newton

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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ISBN: 0-595-17061-7

ISBN: 978-1-4697-0593-4 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

EPILOGUE

DEDICATION

I would like to dedicate this work to the two most influential women of my life. The first is my mother, Jean Kolmar Newton, who while on this earth encouraged, cajoled and nudged me to always put forth your best effort towards a goal or dream despite any shortcomings or obstacles that may be placed in one’s path. To this day she is sorely missed, although her profound impact on others remains unchanged.

The second is my loving spouse, Karen Byers Newton, who will always be a major source of my inspiration. She truly embodies all those traits that uniquely form the composition of a successful woman: mother, stepmother, manager, friend, professional, volunteer, teacher, mentor, nurse, and lover. You honor me with your continued presence in my life.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to acknowledge my friends and colleagues over the past twenty-five years that have added to this work by simply being themselves, both as professional colleagues and true friends. I sincerely hope that in some obtuse way this work can bring a smile to you so that I may in a small way repay all the wisdom, humor and emotion and support that I have gleaned over the course of our mutual associations.

Specifically, I would like to thank the earnest group of friends that formed my collaborative of unpaid technical experts and proofreaders. Thanks to John Prather, M.D., Stacy Prather, John Sukys, Dominic D’Alesandro, Ph.D., Tom Newton and Agnes Newton, Miriam and John Hanson, Dave Bennett, Don Gray, my friends and consumers over the years with the Georgia Department of Corrections and the Georgia Department of Human Resources, and always, my children, Brian and Lauren, and my borrowed children, Meghan and Brooke Rogers.

To the wandering brood known as the Newton clan: though geographically and psychologically diverse as we may be , I love and care for each of you. Specific thanks to my oldest friend, my father and role model.. .Dad, you are the best!.

Thanks to all of you for allowing me to be part of your lives. Read on!

CHAPTER 1

Coastal Mental Health Institute Savannah, Georgia 4:10 a.m.

The hallway was illuminated only by the emergency light over the rear doors of the unit, casting a ghostly pallor over the early morning activity, the smell of disinfectant mixed with the multitude of human body aromas supported the mood as he dragged the corpulent body crookedly to its destination.

Strange parallel track marks were left by the dragging rubber heels of the three hundred pound patient’s cheap jail shoes. The flimsy veneer of jailhouse heel dressing tracked into the highly polished hallway linoleum. As there was little to do for the working hospital patients but to toil daily, the unit floors were spotlessly waxed to a high luster. The fact that this was the only floor in the unit that was even approximated clean mattered little to anyone. The skinny man executed two wide turns as he and his deceased cargo entered the shower room of the men’s side of the patient unit. The man was sweating profusely as his load was almost twice his own weight.

Turning on all four showers, he began the arduous process of arranging what was hopefully going to look like an accident. He was unaware that the shower room would flood within seconds, since someone had placed half the contents of the paper towel dispenser in the drain after the evening shower activity: a sophomoric attempt at humor and annoyance in aberrant harmony with the institute’s inhabitants.

The lip of the shower floor was only a couple of inches above the drain and he watched the water level begin to rise before returning his attention to the dead man.

It had actually been quite easy to lure his target, alias Chester the Molester, to a liaison in the rear hall. Chester’s great libidinal needs were legendary in the facility, even though his recent transfer from the County Jail was less than a week ago. He had been connecting with any available orifice with little regard for the potential for a lasting relationship. The quick promise of uninhibited sexual activity had left the fat man drooling since he made his salacious overture after dinner.

I didn’t know you were interested in such, said Chester, as he grinned and bored his eyes into the crotch of his intended partner. Are you a pitcher or a catcher? Not that it makes any difference to me.. I’ve always been extremely flexible in this area.

Stifling his disgust, he replied, Let’s do each other. I’ll do you first. Now drop those drawers and turn around.

Chester dropped his trousers to his ankles in record time, turned to face the wall and breathlessly lisped, I’m ready.

Chester stared at the wall and heatedly anticipated the warmth of his partner’s flesh. He was surprised when the skinny man grabbed him by the ears and quickly and professionally snapped his head to a neat 90-degree angle. He slumped to the floor slowly given his girth, and punctuated his death with a rather noxious episode of flatulence reminiscent of the two plates of macaroni and cheese served at the dining hall that evening.

The only postmortem error in judgment readily apparent was the distance of the rear hall to the shower, as it took ten minutes to drag his corpulent ‘lover’ to his final resting place. He had to prop the door open with one hand, and drag with the other. Once inside the shower room, the door would have slammed noisily had it not been silenced by the dead man’s cardboard brogans.

He carefully took the clothes off Chester and hung them on a hook just as the water began to spill over the shower room ledge. Placing the body just over the shower vestibule, he positioned Chester’s head in an awkward angle to support the premise of a fall. In a brutal mood, he smashed the dead man’s head sharply into the floor for what he hoped was a nasty bruise supportive of the accidental slip in the shower theorem.

He left Chester in his watery grave, and wiped his bare feet with his towel. Retracing his steps back to his unit, he was somewhat troubled by the black heel marks that were apparent from the shower to the rear of the unit. It actually looked as if someone had roller-bladed down a slalom course.

Good Lord, he was getting sloppy. It was the kind of rookie mistake he never would have made earlier in his criminal career. As he wiped the tracks it was clear that a damp towel was not going to work.a three-hundred pounder whose weight was supported only by his heels exerted far greater pressure on the tile than he could with a towel underfoot. Hopefully, the morning stampede to breakfast by the sixty patients housed in the unit would lighten the telltale track marks.

He turned the corner and saw water ebbing at the end of the corridor. What the hell was that about, he thought. Moving quickly to the pay phone, he dialed the 1-800 number and left his alphanumeric message -999999999 -signifying a completed transaction. Taking a human life was never gratifying, but in this instance he felt he could rationalize his actions. In a way, it was gratifying to know that there was one less child molester in the world.

CHAPTER 2

The interval chirping of his pager awakened Sean McCarthy from his nocturnal chore, and forced him to get out of bed in order to clear the page. He knew that if he didn’t that the mem-o-let feature would begin its single chirp every two minutes until the page was displayed and read. The digital alarm display read 4:45 a.m..

Damn. Sean lumbered over to the dresser and turned off the alarm which was set to begin its symphony of cool jazz classics in less than fifteen minutes.

His wife Lynn, normally comatose after her own eight hours each night, acknowledged his stirring by bolting upright in bed.

Bagel-light-dog-kid-love-, she mumbled, and quickly fell back to her earlier position.

Your wish is my command, dear, Sean mused. Their years of marriage had afforded him the knowledge of the marital secret code that allowed such gibberish to be readily translated into meaningful instructions.

In spite of the morning fuzzy stupor, he quickly encoded the following: bagel -be sure to eat breakfast, light -close the bathroom door, dog -take the dog out, kid -wake the children up for school, and love -you are my main squeeze. It was a terse reminder that Lynn would indeed never qualify as a morning person.

He turned the shower on, and brushed his teeth with some foul tasting Arm and Hammer product that failed to live up to its billing as refreshing. He shaved while showering, and in fifteen minutes was dressed and eager for a bolt of caffeine.

He examined his trim figure in the steamy mirror. Dressed in the familiar navy blue polo shirt with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation logo and khakis, he decided that his close-cropped hair was in dire need of a trim. He had just recently been forced to keep his hair closely shaved less the premature gray shading would completely assume control as his primary color. His steel-gray eyes were beginning to show the effects of his recent unhappiness as well. Given the options, he decided to accept the fact that the aging process would prevail over his rigorous workout and dietary schedules. He plodded down the hall and stuck his head in each of the kid’s rooms.

Time to get up.

He moved downstairs after noting some minimal body movements and assorted grunts of acknowledgment by each of the four kids. The family dog Shadow had already used her keen sense of hearing to detect movement upstairs, and started a litany of leaping, whining and growling to request a potty break. She was eight months old, and still was confined to the kitchen area in the evening and when no one was at home.

He took apart the combination kiddy gate and plywood which served as a barrier to her freedom, and began the process for brewing the all-important elixir of life -coffee. While waiting, he surveyed the room to assure that there was no new damage to the kitchen cabinets from doggy teeth. Cheating a bit to acknowledge Shadow’s bladder needs, he poured the first available ten ounces of the brew into his travel mug, and set outside with the beast.

It was still dark, but gorgeous outside. The weather was balmy, strangely so for late March. It had been unseasonably warm in Atlanta for the past five days, he had cut off the heat weeks ago, and was now having to listen to multiple family member cries of ‘it’s too hot’. To save a few cents, he ignored the complaints, and had yet to fire up the air conditioner. Money was tight, and with this single thought, he began to spiral from his pleasant mood into the daily routine of rehashing: what the hell have I done to deserve this?

His career was the focal point of this rumination, or, more fittingly, it was the lack of a career. Two years ago, he had been the youngest Special Agent-In-Charge of a Field Office in the history of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. With its six hundred employees and three hundred special agents, the Bureau was an investigative body of the State of Georgia that basically supported local law enforcement in more than fifty offices located throughout the state. The agency maintained personnel trained in the areas of hostage negotiations, anti-terrorism, special operations, narcotics and a variety of forensic specialties. The Bureau also administered the Georgia Crime Information Center and the State Crime Laboratory.

Relocated from Savannah to Marietta, just outside of Atlanta, he had been trumpeted as a leader of the future, and even potential Director material. The proximity of the Field Office to the Bureau’s headquarters in Atlanta had been icing on the cake, and threw him in a political arena that could make or break careers. In his case, break careers. The first year was challenging and was marked by several commendations and a major pay increase. This offset the six months of commuting between Savannah and Marietta, a six hundred-mile round trip that had effectively killed one Bureau vehicle and his own 1988 Jeep Grand Wagoneer.

The best feature of that inaugural year was clearly his marriage to Lynn. He had known her in Savannah only in the most cursory of ways.. .she was the finest looking woman in the city. After sharing a discussion table for five days during a management conference, he had become convinced that her then-husband was a most fortunate individual. Her physical beauty was a mere harbinger of the warm and sensual woman beneath the surface. It was most remarkable that three months later, they were sharing the status of separated, single parents of two elementary school age children.

As soon as he heard the news from his matchmaking secretary that Lynn Byers was available, a single phone call was made. It was clumsy, awkward and, to his great amazement, effective in the quest to arrange dinner and drinks. After that first night, he knew that this special woman was the answer to his many years of silent longing.

Each of their first marriages were poor choices made from a mixture of immaturity and inexperience: the presence of children kept them in the relationships far longer than contentment. The ensuing divorces were almost simultaneous in August of that year, and each prevailed in getting custody of their respective children. ‘The Brady Bunch, Part II’, was formed.. .Brian and Lauren McCarthy, his brood, were ages 13 and 12, and Lynn’s two, Meghan and Brooke Byers, 12 and 10. The kids had bonded as quickly as the adults.everyone got their wish for the brother/sister they had wanted. Shadow, the ‘Heinz 57’ terrier mutt rescued from the local animal shelter, rounded out the blended family.

They had married six months into his new assignment, and moved into what was Sean’s dream house in Marietta. ‘Five, four and a door,’ the Realtor had said, in describing the brick home they selected. The reference was to five windows on the second floor, four windows on the first and a front door in the center, a style that was a classic in the Atlanta area. While falling short of being architecturally unique, it reminded Sean of the home he had grown up in as a kid. A picturesque rear patio deck -the ‘drinking platform’-surrounded by a mix of scrub pines and oak trees rounded his own needs in a home.

While the domestic scene vacillated between harried and tranquil, it remained the mainstay of his existence. His coping mechanism as the workplace became more trying was to remind himself that the best part of his life occurred after duty hours.

The assignment of a new Regional Director in his third year at post was the beginning of what became a rapid fall from good graces. Even now, Sean could feel the raw anger ferment as he saw his career end as the result of the Machiavellian efforts of Gene Moore, the micro-managing, political gadfly whom in a characteristic mood swing became suspicious of Sean’s competence.

With no ammunition save the traditional phrasing of a managerial ‘loss of confidence’, Sean was quickly transferred to the Georgia Public Safety Training Academy in Forsyth, Georgia. The 140-mile round trip to the Academy was certainly offensive, but to be widely known as the highest paid firearms instructor in the Bureau was particularly cruel. The stigma eroded the inner fiber of the confident and proud man.

As with most bureaucracies the taint of accusation or reassignment was far worse than actual prosecution or adjudication, and was far easier for short-sighted supervisors to pull off successfully. The slow erosion of his professional growth coupled with the isolation of the assignment had Sean sailing the after-hours drinking platform with regularity.

Thank God the home life is good, or I would be a damn basket case, he thought. It didn’t help his adjustment that while his nemesis Moore was universally regarded as a tyrant, he was still politically well thought of in the community.

Other than partaking of a beer or Margarita on the deck, Sean had stopped trying to make sense of his fall, and reluctantly accepted his fate. He thought he had an opportunity to play his way out of the ‘shit-house’ last May when he quickly solved an internal investigation regarding agents receiving kickbacks. No way. Within weeks, he was back at the Academy.

The stability of his life outside the office was an anchor whose importance could not be minimized. He would continue to pull calendar pages and await a possible chance to reassert his professional skill.

Shadow’s foray into the dense underbrush of a neighbor’s line of evergreens brought the cyclical internal debate to an end. With the contents of the coffee mug dripping on his hands, the retractable leash extended to its full 18 feet before he lost his grip and it skittered wildly behind the dog. The Benjy-dog look-alike was already in full pursuit of an unknown assailant with her leash bounding behind her.

No!

Sean recovered his composure in time to catch the general direction of the free flying beast, and again heard the warble tone on his belt. In the general malaise of the morning, he had neglected to read his pager.

He pressed the read button, and grimaced slightly at its message. Sean took the last sip remaining of the lukewarm coffee, and set out through the dark to regain custody of the errant pooch.

CHAPTER 3

The city of Atlanta skyline framed in Gene Moore’s office window was the most striking feature of the tony wood-paneled rectangle on the forty-first floor of the government offices at the Two Peachtree complex. On a clear day as today, the view appeared to be almost artificial in its striking clarity, framed by the ebony windowsill.

Moore or ‘Mr. Director’ as he liked to be called, strode into the office clutching his morning coffee. He paused, running his portly fingers over the signage on the door...’REGIONAL DIRECTOR’. He thought briefly, without a shred of remorse, of the many people he had stepped on to arrive where he was today.

It seemed mostly irrelevant to him that in his quest to be named the Executive Director of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, he had been required to hurt others. It was a lesson that his father had taught him well. His dad had been the head of a local machinist’s union in the state, and had been instrumental in negotiating contracts with Atlanta’s largest employer.the now defunct Eastern Air Lines. This success was built on a strong foundation of graft, deceit and, when needed, violence.

His role as a Regional Director placed him only one step from the ‘throne’. Since the current Director was less than two years from retirement, Moore found himself in a holding pattern. His typical mode was aggressive, assertive, always on the offensive. This hiatus from active treachery was taking its toll; he became rather cross and ill-humored when he had no outlet for his raw ambition.

He unlocked his desk, and checked the pager that was housed in the small oaken jewelry box. Although he had an official agency pager on his belt, the secondary unit was known to only a select few, he was eager to retrieve its messages.

The speaker-off display allowed the silent vibrator to announce messages without unwanted interruption. He pressed the read button, and slowly began an involuntary nodding of his head, as the message acknowledged that another piece of his overall strategy was put into form.

There were four messages in all.. .each a separate and distinct action with the same purpose: to feed his career ambition. Only one was producing any revenue dollars for him, but his network of cronies was still busy. He had to give himself credit though, he had been very careful over the years. He was painstakingly detailed in all endeavors, whether legal or otherwise. Nobody knew or even suspected a thing.

During this period of inactivity, Moore saw fit to express his nefarious ways in the mode of rapid mood swings, especially to those he lorded over in the office. No stranger to his bile was Maggie, his executive assistant.

Maggie came into the office and began to place his mail in the leather desk caddy. She was an attractive, petite divorcee who had drawn the unfortunate assignment to be the Regional Director’s assistant. She had worked in the office for twenty of her forty-two years, and after her divorce two years ago, she had made a critical error in her career planning.. .she had slept with Moore.

They had been attending a conference of the Peace Officer’s Association of Georgia held in St. Simons, a small coastal city near the Georgia-Florida border. She and Moore had ridden down together, and she was able to maintain an appropriate distance from him until one extremely long night.

After the group’s Hospitality Hour and its complimentary open bar, she made her way to the hotel bar and was attempting to reconcile her financial woes with frequent tumblers of vodka gimlets. Not one to imbibe on a regular basis, a gimlet was the only thing she could stomach since she was partial to Rose’s Lime Juice.

Her ex-husband had fallen madly in love with a convict he had been supervising in his role as a state parole officer. As soon as the mandatory supervision period was complete, Fred had quit his job, bundled up the three-month pregnant, multi-tattooed nineteen year old, and moved to Florida. Since he and Maggie had no children, he took only the contents of the house and all bank accounts with him. Maggie was left with an empty house and mortgage, $25,000 in debt and two car payments, both in her name.. .one of which Fred and his love slave were currently using. All efforts to locate the moron were fruitless to date.

After knocking back three gimlets to ease her misery, she was joined by Moore. It was to be the last vestige of intact memory she had. The next morning she awoke, naked, with the snoring form of Moore draped over her. The memory was nauseating enough without his constant sly overtures in the office each day.

Here’s your mail and messages from yesterday, she said, without getting too close to his ever-wandering hands. And Agent McCarthy is scheduled to meet with you at ten this morning.

Thanks, and may I say you are looking particularly fetching this morning, drooled Moore. Let McCarthy wait twenty minutes before you buzz me. I want to set the stage to really piss him off today.

While they had never discussed or acknowledged the hotel incident, it was clear that Moore would welcome a replay of whatever had indeed transpired. Maggie shook involuntarily at the thought, and tried to brush away the possibilities. She would have been halfway comforted to know that the evening was not solely the result of her depressive drinking, but more related to the sociopathic tendencies of her boss.

Moore pensively reflected the myriad sexual atrocities he had inflicted on Maggie and the others since he had the great luck to attend a forensic conference with a segment on pharmacology. The presentation had included a piece on Rohypnol, the so-called ‘date rape’ drug of the nineties, because of its sedative-hypnotic effects and increased usage reporting on college campuses in which drinks could be easily spiked. Rohypnol, or flunitrazem, was manufactured by the Hoffmann-La Rouche pharmaceutical giant as a prescription sleeping aid. Available in Mexico and sixty-three other countries, it was not available in the United States. Ten times more powerful than Valium, the drug was tasteless and odorless, and acted within thirty minutes of ingestion. Its effects could last for up to twelve hours. These effects included memory loss, dizziness, motor control problems and a possible loss of consciousness. The drug’s combination with alcohol could be lethal. ‘Roofies’ were available on the street with each hit selling from $3 to $5.

Easy to administer, the drug had more than lived up to its billing in rendering his victims quite malleable and totally without recall of their behavior. Obtaining a small quantity had been easy for Moore through the GBI laboratory, and had resurrected his previously dormant sex life.

He had three opportunities to use the drug, and each time he thoroughly enjoyed himself. Each of his victims were employees, two women and one man.. .all Bureau staffers and each time on road trips. The paramilitary atmosphere of the Bureau virtually assured silence when one awoke naked with a screaming hangover. Maggie was the only one with whom he shared his identity.. .the other two he simply abused sexually and quickly departed before they regained consciousness.

Get that idiot Morgan from the Lab on the phone, he barked, recalling that his illicit drug supply was almost tapped. Softening his tone, added, And why don’t we have lunch today. I’ll even buy.

I have other plans, Maggie lied quickly, thinking that it would be rude to note that she would rather have root canal work than break bread with this cretin. As she hurriedly left the office, she began to think of various ways to eke out some measure of revenge against this pervert. She was certain that his day would come. And she most definitely wanted to be there.

CHAPTER 4

Captain Darryl Scroggs, hospital security chief, looked down at the rotund protuberance known in life as Chester the Molester, and remarked, At least he died with Mr. Stiffy ‘locked and loaded’.

The vulgar reference to the erect organ of the deceased did little to salve the foul nature of the scene for Patrolman Billy Paul Colwell. Billy had been on the Savannah Police Department for less than three months, and had ridden patrol without a Field Training Officer for less than two weeks. He couldn’t believe his rotten luck. His first dead body, and here he was in the shower room of the local laughing academy, with the tumescent Pillsbury Dough Boy and a security guy trying his best to be Jeff Foxworthy.

Yeah.. .that’s a real knee slapper, Chief. Look, I’ve called the coroner, and he should be here in twenty minutes. So what do you think happened?

What do you mean, what happened? He got lonely -’as lovers do’.. .came into the shower to get in touch with himself, and fell down and went boom. Look at that knot on his head. End of story.

Scroggs, a former Savannah officer himself, was quite eager to complete his accident report, and get back to his office in order to resume his real day job -selling real estate while on State time. Getting booted off the Department years ago for stealing and selling confiscated weapons from the property room had actually been a blessing. Now he was making more money and had the time to double dip with home sales-although the market had been a little slow as of late.

Colwell bit his tongue, and swallowed his thoughts. Well, who -who-did you say discovered the body? he asked, struggling for some measure of confidence.

He was found right after shift change, around seven. When the day shift arrived, they saw water leaking into the parking lot.. .they opened the two center hallway doors, and it looked liked Hurricane Bertha.. .a three foot high wall of water blew outta there. I don’t get how the water built up like that, you know, with like five doors between this here shower and the front of the building, but shit happens, babe.

When was the last head count? asked the puzzled patrolman.

"It was at three, and fat boy here was in his bed, and that means that he coulda been