A stabbing, a shooting, and an uneasy relationship with the mentally ill haunts a city.
On May 6, 2009, a man walked into the Wesleyan University bookstore and fatally shot Johanna Justin-Jinich, a 21-year-old student. She, a girl he had been obsessed with ever since a friendly acquaintanceship turned sour two years earlier, was pronounced dead at Middlesex Hospital. Stephen Morgan, the shooter, was able to walk away from the scene.
The larger shooting spree that he had planned for the Wesleyan student body (he referred to it in his journal as "The Jewish Columbine") did not come to be, but for the day and a half that Morgan remained on the lam, we -- Justin-Jinich's classmates and peers -- remained on lockdown in our dorms. By the time he turned himself in, many of us, myself included, had fled campus.
Despite witnesses, security footage, and a spoken confession, Stephen Morgan was found not guilty of his crime, on the defense of insanity. Specifically, he is "delusional, psychotic and paranoid and" -- as we all learned that day -- "a danger to himself and society." Officially, he appears to have a schizoaffective disorder. As such, he now qualifies for intensive counseling and anti-psychotic medication, in the care of a team of psychiatrists and social workers, all of which he will be receiving while serving 60 years at Connecticut Valley Hospital (CVH), 1.4 miles away from the bookstore cafe where he shot and killed Justin-Jinich.
The following fall, the cafe had been remodeled, so as not to trigger the fractured psyches of the staff and students who had been present and themselves threatened. A framed rainbow PACE flag, taken from Justin-Jinich's dorm room wall, is now displayed in tribute behind the counter.
It was an unhappy reminder, for the remainder of my time at Wesleyan, of the tragedy that had marked my insular community.
As a student at Wesleyan, I was a transient member of the Middletown community. I spent my freshman year mainly on campus, but made frequent jaunts down to Main Street, a strip of shops and restaurant a couple of blocks downtown from campus. I voted on the city's ballot at the community senior center in the 2008 election. In my second semester, I volunteered, as a part of an anthropology class, at the Middletown Historical Society, housed on Main Street, where I cataloged archives attesting to the street's 350-year history.
But it wasn't until I was in my senior year that someone, in a tone usually reserved for unsubstantiated rumors, told me another senseless tragedy that had occurred before my time. In the summer of 1989, a patient strode away from CVH and took a bus to Main Street. It was the day of the annual Sidewalk Sale, meaning hordes of residents were out on the streets. The inmate, David Peterson, then 38, approached a family as they exited Woolworth's and stabbed 9-year-old Jessica Short 34 times as her mother and sister looked on.
Paul Gionfriddo, who grew up in Middletown and attended Wesleyan, was running for mayor that summer. His campaign manned a booth about half a block away from the stabbing; he recalled for me the scene of incomprehensible chaos he witnessed before the news of what happened filtered its way down to him.
The staff as CVH, whom Gionfriddo met with shortly afterwards, was devastated at the mistake that had cost Short her life -- Peterson, with his diagnosis of chronic paranoid schizophrenia and history of violence, was never supposed to have been let off of the grounds. They also recognized the setbacks that this mistake would cause for their programs, including an outpatient facility they had been hoping to open to help transition deinstitutionalized patients back into the community. At the trial, Middletown residents called out for Peterson's death. In the end, he, like Morgan, was found not guilty by reason of insanity. It was the third time he had received this verdict for a stabbing attack.
"Downtown Middletown almost died after this, because no one felt safe there anymore," Gionfriddo told me. Its decline is well-documented, as in a 1990 New York Times feature describing an atmosphere where "homeless people now outnumber shoppers on some parts of Main Street." Main Street and the surrounding downtown area were plagued by the mentally ill rendered homeless by deinstitutionalization, Gionfriddo explained. They lined up at a soup kitchen in the North End that also functioned as a "flophouse" -- which gave them a place to sleep, but no services, and required them to leave first thing in the morning. With nowhere to go, they wandered, and their presence on the streets further discouraged families from returning downtown.
Though we weren't there for its demise, it was only during my time at Wesleyan that efforts to revitalize Main Street -- begun during Gionfriddo's term as mayor -- finally began to take hold. The North End now houses a mixed-income apartment block, a Community Health Center completed in 2012, and the Green Street Arts Center, Wesleyan's (uneven) contribution to promoting arts education and outreach. The past two New Year's, it's played host to "Midnight on Main," a downtown community festival. My classmates and I spent much time at Main Street's restaurants and, later, its bars, many of which opened during our time there. A few days before I graduated, a frozen yogurt lounge opened -- just as I was departing, Main Street, it appeared, had finally arrived.