The officers spoke of Mrs. Worden’s disappearance. The 51-year-old, 140-pound little handyman joked about it in his usual offhand fashion; he was just leaving for home in his truck and was quite surprised that anyone wanted to question him. “I didn’t have anything to do with it,” he told them. “I just heard about it while I was eating supper.” It seems someone had come in with the news.
Meanwhile, back at the farmhouse, the sheriff and the captain had driven up, entered the shed, and made their gruesome discovery.
Gein was taken into custody, and he talked.
Unfortunately for the “searchers after horror,” his talk shed little illumination on the dark corners of his mind. He appeared to have only a dim recollection of his activities; he was “in a daze” much of the time during the murders. He did recall that he’d visited about 40 graves through the years, though he insisted he hadn’t opened all of them, and denied he’d committed more than two murders. He named only nine women whose bodies he’d molested, but revealed he selected them after careful inspections of the death notices in the local newspapers.
There was a lie-detector test, a murder charge, an arraignment, a series of examinations at the Central State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He remains there to this day.
The case created a sensation in the Midwest. Thousands of “epicures of the terrible” — and their snotty-nosed brats — made the devout pilgrimage to Plainfield, driving bumper-to-bumper on wintry Sunday afternoons as they gawked at the “murder farm.” Until one night the residence of the “mad butcher” went up in smoke.
I was not among the epicures. At that time I resided less than fifty miles away, but had no automobile to add to the bumper crop; nor did I subscribe to a daily newspaper. Inevitably, however, I heard the mumbled mixture of gossip and rumor concerning the “fiend” and his activities. Curiously enough, there was no mention of his relationship with his mother, nor of his transvestism; the accent was entirely on proven murder and presumed cannibalism.
What interested me was this notion that a ghoulish killer with perverted appetites could flourish almost openly in a small rural community where everyone prides himself on knowing everyone else’s business.
The concept proved so intriguing that I immediately set about planning a novel dealing with such a character. In order to provide him with a supply of potential victims, I decided to make him a motel operator. Then came the ticklish question of what made him tick — the matter of motivation. The Oedipus motif seemed to offer a valid answer, and the transvestite theme appeared to be a logical extension. The novel which evolved was called Psycho.
Both the book and a subsequent motion picture version called forth comments which are the common lot of the writer in the mystery-suspense genre. “Where do you get those perfectly dreadful ideas for your stories?”
I can only shrug and point to the map — not just a map of Wisconsin, but any map. For men like Edward Gein can be found anywhere in the world — quiet little men leading quiet little lives, smiling their quiet little smiles and dreaming their quiet little dreams.
Lovecraft’s “searches after horror” do not need to haunt strange, far places or descend into catacombs or ransack mausolea. They have only to realize that the true descent into dread, the journey into realms of nightmare, is all too easy — once one understands where terror dwells.
The real chamber of horrors is the gray, twisted, pulsating, blood-flecked interior of the human mind.
Charles Burgess
Beacon Books, a notorious, low-rent house that specialized in soft core sex-cum-crime novels, published Charles Burgess’s one book, The Other Woman, in 1960. Sadly, this minor masterpiece is all but forgotten today. Stylistically understated, it springs to lyrical heights in lurid sex scenes. And its intricate plot about a horny real estate agent who rediscovers the joys of marriage after a fling with a beckoning wanton pays rich dividends to the careful reader. These same talents are evidenced here — in a story about a man who couldn’t live without redheads... or with them.
A Killer with Women
Joe Balli surveyed himself in the mirror and liked what he saw. A man in his middle thirties, Balli knew that women were especially attracted to him, and that pleased him. Angelina, for instance. There was a woman!
Several rooms away he could hear the raucous voice of his wife, Mary, scolding their two-year-old son, and he frowned. Life had become a steady succession of quarrels ever since they were married in Galveston, Texas, six years before. For months now he’d been trying to think of some way to ditch Mary and the kid and marry Angelina.
Thoughtfully, he slipped into a leather jacket and pulled up the zipper. He donned his cab driver’s cap and straightened his tie. There was only one way to deal with people who wouldn’t listen to reason, he decided. Murder.
He was surprised and pleased to find that the idea didn’t shock him any more. He would need a clear head when the time came, and now he knew the time was near. He couldn’t stand his wife’s infernal bickering much longer. Whatever happened to her now she had coming to her, he told himself stubbornly.
Slipping quietly out the back door, he slid behind the wheel of the cab and gunned the motor. In less than ten minutes he would be with Angelina at their rendezvous on Bourbon Street.
She was waiting for him when he entered the dimly lit restaurant in the heart of New Orleans’ teeming French Quarter. Winding his way carefully between the maze of white-clothed tables, he hurried to their favorite booth. She looked up, her smile held little warmth.
“Hello baby.”
“Hello Joe. You’re late.”
Balli nodded. “Yeah. I got tied up in traffic. Forgive me?”
“I suppose so.”
Balli noticed her mood, “What’s the matter, Angie? You got something on your mind?”
“Yes. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about you and me, Joe. How long we been going together? It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”
Balli frowned. “Oh, I don’t know. Six, seven months maybe. Why?” Angelina leaned forward, her dark eyes probing into his. “I hate to rush into things, Joe, but where are we going? What’s going to happen to us?”
“What do you mean?”
Angelina sighed. “Okay, so I’ll draw you a diagram. When are you going to ask me to marry you? Or are you allergic to wedding bands?” Balli grinned and took one of her neatly gloved hands in his. “Just a little while longer, baby. I promise.”
Angelina withdrew her hand. “Why the delay? You’re not married, are you?” she snapped sharply.
Balli laughed. “Married? Me? Of course not! Whatever gave you that idea?”
The girl shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.” Suddenly her eyes narrowed to smoldering slits of fire. “If I thought you were lying to me, Joe, I’d stomp your eyes in!”
Balli spent the next half hour and several drinks placating and assuring her of his love and fidelity. For some reason she seemed hard to convince and it worried him. Had she been checking up? He breathed easier when he saw the fire finally fade from her eyes. She didn’t know — yet. But he’d have to watch his step. Angelina was a redhead and they played rough.
Balli was convinced that he had to do something and fast. Angelina wouldn’t wait forever. During the next few days, a number of ideas raced through his mind, but he quickly discarded them. No hit or miss plans for him. Then suddenly, it came to him. The perfect plan. Carefully he went over it again and again. It would work, he was sure of it. He decided to kill his wife on Monday. That would give him three days to smooth over any loose ends that might crop up...