DAVID ISAY: Just across the East River from the Upper East Side of Manhattan, Wards Island is a drab gray strip of city land, the sort of place even lifelong New Yorkers may never notice. Its skyline consists simply of three institutional high-rise brick buildings, one next to the other. Two of these buildings are identical. They are state psychiatric hospitals, serving patients from Manhattan. The third looks the same as the first two, except this building is surrounded by two high fences topped with loops of razor wire. There are imposing light towers mounted with video monitors, a high-tech microwave security system. This is the Kirby forensic psychiatric center.
(Door opens. Hospital ambience.)
ISAY: Visiting Kirby is like visiting any prison. To get inside, it’s past security officers and two way mirrors, through metal detectors and prison gates. But the simple and disturbing ground rules that must be followed here make it clear that this place is different from anywhere else: don’t wear anything around your neck that you can be strangled with, don’t turn your back on a patient or shake a patient’s hand, never tell a patient anything about your personal life . . .
With all this in mind, I was given permission by the hospital to spend several days, unaccompanied, on one of the wards at Kirby: Ward 2-West, home to 23 men who have been found not guilty by reason of insanity.
(Buzz, door sound, then dining room ambience.)
ISAY: I arrived on the ward on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. It was lunch time. The men were eating in the small sterile dining room at the front of the ward, sitting at half a dozen tables, their chairs bolted to the floor. Trays of food were slid to them from underneath an iron-barred window. Three large security staffers — in blue jeans and t-shirts– stood at the corners of the room, their arms folded, watching the men eat.
PATIENT 1: Anybody want some fruit cocktail free?
PATIENT 2: Is it poison?
PATIENT 1: No, it isn’t poison, but it’s poison to me.
PATIENT 2: How long it been sitting on the tray?
PATIENT 1: It was just given to me.
PATIENT 2: I’m gonna get you a cigarette later on. What place is this?
PATIENT 1: This is Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center for psychopathic maniac killers sadomasochist.
PATIENT 3: Just call Dunn and Bradstreet. Just call Dunn and Bradstreet, alright?
PATIENT 4: This is Alcatraz Island, man . . .
ISAY: I had been told a little bit about a few of the 23 patients here — those who had committed some of the more gruesome and notorious crimes. But I didn’t know yet who was who. At the end of the meal, as the patients filed to the front of the dining room to turn in their plastic utensils — each fork and knife carefully checked in and counted by a staff member — they began to introduce themselves.
PATIENT 1: Hello, I’m a mental patient at the Kirby Psychiatric Center. And I’d like to say hello to my man Charles Manson and all the Hell’s Angels international chapter. Signing out. Peace.
PATIENT 2: My name is Uncle Sam and I am Internal Revenue Service special agent, and I want you to buy US savings bonds. $25 will get you $1,000 increase in seven years to help stop inflation and depression and our boys from going overseas. My name is Uncle Sam . . .
PATIENT 3 (Singing): Sailing take me away from where I’m going to. Ooh oh. The wind around . . .
ISAY: Some of the patients heading out of the dining room this afternoon seem as if they might be mentally retarded. Some look drugged up. Others seem clear-eyed, nodding and smiling as they pass by, not saying much. A short, Asian man with hunched shoulders and rotting yellow teeth plants himself in front of me and stares. I’m told by another patient that he hasn’t spoken for years. He can only laugh.
PATIENT: Ha ha ha . . .
ISAY: As the patients make there way to the dormitories at the back of the ward for their daily after-lunch nap, a huge man with two nose rings and a t-shirt that reads ”kill ’em all” motions me over.
MOHAMMED: I think I’m the person you should be talking to, because I’ve been here sixteen years straight.
ISAY: This is Mohammed, president of Ward 2-West. He was elected by the other patients. In the 1970s he threw a woman in front of a speeding subway. He’s lived here ever since. Mohammed volunteers to show me around the ward, which is cleaner and brighter than I had expected. Except for a securely locked front-door, it could be any ward in any modern state institution.
(Door closes.)
ISAY: He takes me back to the ward’s large open dormitory, where most of the patients are napping.
MOHAMMED: You see that man there, on the bed there? Look at him from a distance. What do you see.
ISAY: Feet?
MOHAMMED: I mean look at the man. It looks like a dead corpse laying there. And another dead corpse, and another dead corpse, another dead corpse . . .
ISAY: Mohammed walks me over to his area, sits me down, and tells me he’s under special watch. He tried to murder three patients recently. He says he’s a gentle person. Except under certain circumstances.
MOHAMMED: Pushed into a situation that I can’t handle any other way, I will retaliate with either mayhem or murder. And this is with full clear and conscious intent to do such.
ISAY: A little later, something strange occurs. A doctor had mentioned that Mohammed’s facial expressions have an odd way of changing without warning. And in the middle of our conversation this happens. I look up to see that his generally placid expression has suddenly transformed into a murderous glare unlike anything I had ever seen before. He is furiously biting his lip, slowly rocking back and forth. He seems poised to attack. That’s when I notice that Mohammed and I are alone, completely out of sight of the security staff. Silently, our eyes lock. I get up and very slowly walk away. That night, as a hospital doctor had predicted, I alternate between nightmares and sleeplessness.
(Fade out, then ward sounds.)
PATIENT: (Makes chicken sounds.) I’ll play the Nazi national anthem for you. You know what that is? (Sings) Da da da da da.
(Door shuts.)
ISAY: There are 150 patients housed on six identical wards at Kirby. Five of these are for men, and one is for women. About two thirds of the patients at the hospital are here because they’ve been found incompetent to stand trial. It’s the hospital’s job to treat them until they are well enough to participate in their criminal cases. There are 50 patients, including those on Ward 2-West, who have gone through their trials and been found not guilty by reason of insanity, which means that, because of their mental state at the time of their crime, they either did not understand what they were doing or were incapable of understanding that what they were doing was wrong.
MELVIN: It was in March the third 1979 when I thought myself to be a federal police officer.
ISAY: Melvin, who is 41 years old, looks like an enormous child. His pot belly hangs out from a too-short tee-shirt. He wears a baseball cap and coke bottle glasses held together with masking tape.
MELVIN: One day I was going out to look for crime, and I didn’t see any crime. I would hear the sirens of the police cars going to the scenes. But I didn’t see any crime. So as I was walking home about three blocks from where I lived, I saw a man walking with a 16 year old boy up the street. So I pulled out my gun. And that’s when I fired and shot him, and he collapsed out in the street.
(Door closes.)
ISAY: Once committed to Kirby, patients are kept here for an indefinite period until it’s determined that they no longer pose any sort of a threat to society or themselves. The release process is long and arduous. Some patients never get out. Denis Woychuk is a legal services attorney who represents patients here.
WOYCHUK: My impression is that people think the insanity plea is a cop out, a way for some a criminal perp to get over and get away with something. Nothing can be further from the truth. In fact what happens is people do a far greater time overall, in maximum security mental hospital, than they would ever do in prison.
VOICE: Look, look, look: miscarriage, bleach, technical, burden, statute of limitations, lenient, due process of lawful misdemeanor, nine and a half months . . .
ISAY: There’s not much variety from one day to the next for the patients on 2-West. They spend the vast majority of their time in one of two rooms on the ward: the smoking room or the day room. The day room is the larger and more cheerful of the rooms. Posters of raccoons and bears and cats hang on the walls. Patients sleep or watch TV, talk to themselves or each other. At the center of the room, Alfonse, a heavyset old Italian man in a tattered cap sits with a world almanac and a pad, meticulously writing out the names of the countries in the European Economic Community, over and over again. Another older man, Nicholas, who is Greek, paces the room, scratching his gray beard talking endlessly, to anyone who will listen, about the evils of taking prayer out of the schools.
NICHOLAS: They shouldn’t throw the prayer of the school away. They don’t have to talk too much. Just say ’Thank you and with your help we proceed.’ That’s all.
ISAY: Nicholas’s crime? Ripping crucifixes from women’s ears.
NICHOLAS: They had no business to take the prayer out. No business whatsoever.
ISAY: While a whole spectrum of crimes have been committed by the men in this room, from misdemeanors to multiple murders, all of the crimes are bizarre. And the majority of them are gruesome.
PATIENT: I had read something once that if you decapitate a person’s head that they go to hell. So that’s where I thought he belonged . . . in hell.
ISAY: According to Dr. Jillian West, a forensics expert and psychologist who has worked at Kirby for the past four years, the gorier acts were often committed by those least aware of what they were doing. And later many experience deep remorse. ’Evil,’ she says, ’is a word that almost never applies here.’
WEST: With all of these patients, every single one, there’s something good there that I can hook into, I can relate to and develop a relationship with, even though sometimes you think ’oh my lord’ when you hear them.
ISAY: Roger, a heavyset man with slightly crossed eyes and a green felt ’leprechaun’ hat on his head, pulled his grandmother’s eyes out. One of them with a fork, the other with his fingers.
ROGER: When I pulled her eyes out, I wasn’t trying to kill her and I was just trying to stop her from killing herself. She was an alcoholic overweight. And she never understood that by drinking and smoking cigarettes she was killing herself.
ISAY: Do you consider yourself mentally ill?
ROGER: No.
ISAY: There seem to be two constants to life on Ward 2-West. One of these is violence. The state considers the staffers who work on the ward to hold the single most dangerous job in New York, with the highest injury rate of any profession. The other constant on the ward is noise. There is nowhere to escape it, although there is one patient who seems to have adapted to it quite well. His name is Peter, and you can always find him at the front of the dayroom, hunched over a table peacefully drawing with yellow plugs stuffed deep into his ears. He is about 50 years old, has curly brown hair and a graying beard, gentle eyes behind thick glasses. Before committing his crime, Peter was a successful commercial artist. Today he’s working on a still life with pastels.
PETER: I’m drawing a banana and a fig on a plate all on a table.
ISAY: Is there a name for this?
PETER: A working title would be ”Exactly what is it question mark exclamation.”
ISAY: I like it. Why?
PETER: If I were going to say why I’d write a book. That’s why I draw pictures.
ISAY: For the first several days, Peter would not speak with me about his crime, although we did do a lot of talking about music and art. The volumes of books he’s read in the years that he’s been locked up, the things he misses.
PETER: I haven’t soaked in a bath. A bath . . . a tub of water . . . a hot tub of water. That’s what I miss. And of course quiet and peace, privacy.
ISAY: After about four days, Peter was ready to talk about his crime. About 13 years ago he tried to murder his girlfriend. Like most of the other patients at the hospital, he says he was delusional when he committed his crime.
PETER: I imagined that there was an assassin behind the door where we were, who had a gun. And if I didn’t do what was expected for me to do, that assassin would come through the door and kill me. That was the imaginary fear that I acted upon.
ISAY: Peter slashed his girlfriend’s throat with a razor blade. She lived, he tells me, and has since married and had children. They are still friends. He says that the recovery from his mental illness has been long and difficult — torturous at times. It’s only over the past year or so that he’s begun to feel ’well’ again. Most of the other patients and the ward, however, are not so lucky.
(Water fountain sounds.)
ISAY: Across the dayroom from Peter, Jack Brown stands for hours at a drinking fountain, his finger on the button, his head tilted in amazement, as he watches the arc of the water.
JACK BROWN: Hi.
ISAY: What are you doing?
BROWN: Testing the water. Because sometimes it’s blood, right?
ISAY: Jack, who always has a deeply concerned look on his face, is on Ward 2-West for murdering a stranger, slashing his neck with a broken bottle. He says that the voices which commanded him to do that have yet to go away.
JACK: I talk to ’em all the time. Merv, Bill, they’re God, they’re not the government. They love me, they protect me. They love to play with me.
ISAY: When was the last time you heard a voice?
JACK: Just before I started talking to you.
ISAY: What did the voice tell you?
JACK: I don’t want to discuss that, you know.
ISAY: Jack does tell me that he’s been haunted by strange visions and voices now for more 15 years.
JACK: I seen a man walking down the street with no stomach. This was missing, my midsection? And I also seen a pair of shoes walking down the street. Right. You ever seen any of these things? No? You lucky, you very lucky.
ISAY: That must be very difficult to live with.
JACK: It’s enough to frighten you to death. That’s why I want to die now. You know, because I’m tired man, you know.
(Sounds of water fountain, then fade out.)
VOICE: I am Mestafa Mohammed, I came to North America on my own, as my uncle lives here and he cannot speak my language and does not know that he is my uncle, and loves the devil because he gives him nothing, and he fears the devil because he puts fear in him ever since he was a little boy, and fears him now that he is a grown man . . .
ISAY: While just about all of the patients on the ward clearly do seem to suffer from one sort of serious mental illness or another, there are a very few patients who appear to be in no way ill. Dressed impeccably, hair neatly combed, when you speak with them they seem smart, eloquent, and rather charming. After a little while, though, it becomes clear why they’re here. They are incapable of feeling . . . anything. They are sociopathic. Again, forensics expert and psychologist, Dr. Jillian West.
WEST: They are incapable of actually putting themselves in their victims’ or their victims’ families’ shoes. They don’t understand how that person suffered, they can’t experience it. And they’re very wrapped up in their own feelings. And to have inconvenienced them.
ISAY: Like this patient, who one day decided to shoot his parents. He murdered his mother and crippled his father.
PATIENT: I’m quick to say, it’s something that has happened. Regrettably it has happened, but I just can’t constantly wallow in self pity. I can’t do that, I mean life goes on.
ISAY: Then there’s Alfred, who committed what might well be the most notorious of all of the crimes in the hospital. He is a mass murderer who machine gunned an office full of people many years ago. He says he can remember every detail of the crime.
RUMPEL: Did you ever see this picture Halloween? When I saw that picture I was wondering how the director got that shot, because that’s how I felt. I just felt like a set of eyes. I felt like the person that is me, the real me, was pushed back and was just an observer. I was more like witness of things that was happening. It was like watching a movie from inside my body. And when I saw that picture I says ’O boy,’ I don’t see how this director got this shot, because that’s how I felt — only like I was a set of eyes. The rest of me was like . . . gone.
ISAY: Alfred says he has a difficult time feeling any remorse for the murders he committed. He spends his days on the ward exercising or meditating or doing yoga, wearing a sweat-suit with the hood pulled over his head. There’s something about Alfred’s face when he speaks. His mouth moves but everything else remains completely still. He is the only patient I meet who strikes me as . . . spooky . . . the way I had originally imagined the patients might be. He is also the only patient who says he objects to these sorts of stereotypes about the criminally insane.
RUMPEL: It’s just like sitting in here with you by yourself. You don’t look like you terrified or scared of me. I mean if I was anything like the people in the movies I could jump on you and bite your face, too. Right, but I’m not doing that. And you don’t seem to be at all nervous, you know what I mean.
ISAY: Actually, I was terrified.
(Fade up on noise.)
ISAY: There are breaks to the days on 2-West. Some days the patients receive counseling. Some days the ward is brought up to the hospital’s activity floor for a couple of hours, where they can take classes. Or read in the library. Or play ping-pong.
(Sounds of paddle ball.)
ISAY: The patients are also taken outside several times a week to the hospital’s large fenced-in yard. Most patients pull red plastic chairs up to the fence, sit, and quietly look out. A number gather around a patient named Dwayne, who spends his yard time singing songs which he has written.
DWAYNE (Singing): You’re always on the run . . . there’s a reason why we’re here . . . so when the day is done . . .
ISAY: If there’s one theme which seems to run through the lives of all of the patients at Kirby, it is a history of abuse. About 80% of the patients here were victims of very serious physical or sexual abuse as children. Like Jan, who owns the guitar which his friend Floyd is now playing. Jan is an extremely quiet, dazed-looking 26 year-old Polish émigré who always dresses in black. Throughout his childhood, Jan’s father beat and tortured him.
JAN: Sometimes he’d come over to me and he’d, like when I was sleeping he’d wake me by taking me by the hair and banging my head against the wall. Other times he’d hit me in the head with a frying pan.
ISAY: Seven years ago, Jan murdered his father . . . by tearing his face off.
JAN: I have dreams about it sometimes. I dream that I see my father all sewn up.
WOYCHUK: People’s mind do not get that bent unless they’ve had things happen to them.
ISAY: Again, legal services attorney Dennis Woychuk.
WOYCHUK: Grisly things . . . unimaginable things. It’s like a nightmare. This is perhaps one of the saddest places in America.
(Sounds of paddle ball and music fade away.)
ISAY: Evenings on Ward 2-West are very much like the days, with the men split up into either the smoking room or the day room, sitting where they always sit, doing what they always do. Although you are likely to find that Peter, the artist, has stopped drawing in favor of a game of Scrabble with one of the security staff. Peter always wins.
PETER: This is one of those cheap words that gets a lot of points: 4 . . . 8 . . . 16 . . . 23 . . .
SECURITY MAN: See, I’m a glutton for punishment. He’s always beating me by these unbelievable amounts.
PETER: Sixty-forty, this game: 60 luck and 40 skill.
ISAY: Of all the patients at the hospital, the one I ended up getting closest to was probably Mohammed, the subway pusher and ward president who had scared me so badly on my first day with his cold killer stare. He later told me not to take his frightening facial expressions personally. They were due, he said, to the drugs he was on. I had also heard from some staff members about Mohammed’s childhood. With some degree of regularity, his parents would cook the family’s pets, and then force Mohammed to eat them.
At dinner on my last evening on Ward 2-West I had mentioned to Mohammed that I was Jewish. And after dinner, as I was watching scrabble in the dayroom, in walked enormous Mohammed, nose rings and all, with a tattered Jewish prayer shawl around his shoulders and a Yarmulke on his head. He sat down solemnly and motioned me over. He had something to tell me.
MOHAMMED: Yentl was the best movie I ever saw. It was touching, it was really touching to see Yentl. And Barbra Streisand. She’s an expert actress.
ISAY: So Yentl is your favorite movie?
MOHAMMED: Yeah . . . it’s my all time favorite.
ISAY: Well . . . shalom.
MOHAMMED: Shalom (laughs).
ISAY: I left the ward on that last evening in the hospital feeling sorry for these 23 men, and, for the most part, feeling grateful that they are kept behind a securely locked door.
(Sound of door opening.)
ISAY: For National Public Radio, I’m David Isay.
PATIENT (Singing): My name is Uncle Sam, and I got a letter for an 18 year old boy or girl . . . draft plan till 36 years. Over here and there say a prayer for Uncle Sam. And don’t stop until Uncle Sam says I am your government of U.S. savings plan. That’s it . . . that’s all I want to say. That’s all . . . like that?
(Sound of door closing.)