It was not like Holbrook was alone. Abuse in state mental hospitals dated as far back as the 1700s, when the first such asylum was built in Philadelphia. By the 1960s, deinstitutionalization was meant to bring an end to it but it hadn’t. Those with mental disorders were placed in the hands of regular hospitals, clinics, halfway houses, family homes and for many, simply released back onto the streets. Was it any wonder the same people ended up dead or arrested? Mental illness was the elephant in the room that no one wanted to deal with. It was easier to lock them up, throw away the key and forget about them.
It was a wicked cycle of abuse that would never end.
As for questioning staff, well, that conversation wasn’t even on the table.
Men like Chapman were looked upon like modern day heroes, martyrs for America, dealing with the untouchables, the rejects, the faulty. And Chapman knew it. He and others were capitalizing on it all under the guise of treatment, therapy and a weak government budget.
Browsing news articles and videos, it was all there.
Hanna soon came to learn that Nurse Harvey wasn’t the first to die at Holbrook, neither were reports of abuse of patients uncommon. It was widespread, going far beyond the walls of Holbrook and affecting each and every forensic unit throughout the country. Some more than others.
Staff abandoned orders from their superiors and made their own decisions, medication was ignored, understaffing, patient neglect, a lack of security and widespread beatings; the list went on. When some patients were too much to handle they would simply transfer them to another hospital where they would repeat the cycle. But they weren’t the only ones who were moved around. While she couldn’t find any dirt on Chapman, Jenkins or Porter, she did come across articles that reported psych techs being fired in one state only to land a job in another state hospital simply because the demand for staff was so great. Never having worked in a forensic facility like this, and only an ER in the city, this was news to her. Rampant brutality, everyday violence, it was commonplace. No wonder Chapman was so defiant. He knew her accusations would just be brushed under the rug.
Patients thrown into walls; others tied to urine-soaked beds with unregulated restraints, others dying unexpectedly garnered no more than a snippet in a daily paper only to be forgotten. With privacy laws and protection of a patient’s personal information, many of the patients who died under unusual circumstances were not even identified.
Chapman’s words came back to haunt her. “The government doesn’t have the budget to give us adequate security; do you really think they have the time or money to throw at investigating allegations or deaths? Hell, it’s just one more mouth they don’t need to feed. All they will request is staff retraining, and more focus placed on incident reports. And who reads those? Me. Not them. No one cares, Nurse Cross. The sooner you accept that, the better.”
No one cares?
It seemed so. That night she pored over complaints, reports, and it all seemed to back up what Chapman said. Allegations only led to the closure of forensic hospitals and patients being reintegrated into the community. Did the government want that? No. The public certainly didn’t. Besides the prison system, they were the last defense against crazies flooding the streets.
Just when she was about to close her laptop, she happened to come across an article detailing a death in a psychiatric hospital in Utah. A patient had been strangled by a psych tech. A full investigation led to multiple transfers, one firing and the resignation of the unit doctor after an inquiry had turned up allegations of financial improprieties. Before charges could be brought against the doctor, he fled. While the article withheld the name, something about it caught her attention enough that she placed a call to the hospital in question. After experiencing two dropped calls, being routed through numerous departments and given the runaround, she ended up speaking to a very apologetic director. Not only did she give her a window into the process they had to go through and how it differed with each state, but when asked what happened to the doctor, she dropped a name that sent a chill through her.
“Dr. Chapman. That was a long time ago. Before my time but I do recall the article.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“I believe he surrendered his license and didn’t return to work.”
It wasn’t uncommon for doctors found responsible for malpractice to simply move to another state and continue after a long period of time. But was that the case here?
Was it the same Dr. Chapman? She was no private investigator and certainly wasn’t in the position to know his career history but the director of the hospital might be. One black mark against his record might not carry weight but two?
That’s what brought her to the office of the senior director of patient care services at Holbrook. Amanda Sterling was in her mid-fifties, blacker than black hair pinned back, crow’s feet at the edges of her eyes and a permanent frown from daily stress. All that faded as her secretary told Hanna she was ready to see her.
Her office was bigger than Chapman’s, a nice cozy corner office with a beautiful view of the surrounding forest. On her desk were framed photos of her family,
