Ashes Beneath Her: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  Jack chuckled.

  “We all must forge our own way. I’d imagine both your parents would have found hairless rats a difficult career to accept from their only son.”

  Abe grinned.

  “My little sister’s in medical school. She’d have made up for my inadequacies.”

  Jack guffawed and walked around the counter.

  “I’ve got three daughters myself. A schoolteacher, a mom of six, and a nurse. I love ‘em all just the same.”

  “Any sons?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Two. One followed after me and became a cartographer, the other works as an electrician.”

  “Five kids,” Abe wondered. “My house felt crowded with my sister.”

  “A house can feel crowded if you’re sitting alone,” Jack told him with a wink. He stopped beside his counter and pulled a rolled map from a canvas bag, spreading it out on the counter before picking up a pair of tiny spectacles and perching them on his wide nose. He was a big man, the type who played football in college, and his largeness seemed out of place in the small museum. “We keep maps of the entire peninsula in the back. I pulled Sapphire Road this morning so you could take a peek at the Crow property.”

  Jack placed several Leelanau sand dune paperweights along the edges and picked up a stack of ‘Leelanau is Groovy’ pencils. He put the pencils end-to-end in a large square from Sapphire Road to M-22.

  “Technically this property is divided. Half belongs to Mrs. Virginia Crow. The other half belongs to her brother-in-law, Dr. Byron Crow.”

  “She owns forty acres?” Abe leaned over the map, staring at the property lines. The back of the property ran right up to M-22. A particular stretch of road along M-22 where people had seen a young woman hitchhiking late at night.

  “Yep,” Jack said, tapping his finger along the print. “Mighty fine piece of land right there. I know more than a handful of folks have tried to buy a parcel or two. Used to have lumber kilns out there in the late 1800s.”

  “But she won’t sell?”

  “No way, no how. Claims her son hunts the property, and she likes her privacy. Don’t dare show up selling vacuum cleaners, she’ll run you off so fast the rubber on your shoes will burn up.”

  “Wait.” Abe leaned over the property, following the line of pencils to the road on the north side of the estate. He leaned closer and read. “Misty Lane?”

  “Yep.” Jack ran his finger down the road. “Runs near-parallel with Sapphire - as much as any road can run parallel out here. When you’ve got woods and hills and sand dunes to contend with, roads get rather twisty. This property here,” Jack pointed to a driveway marked on the north side, “belongs to Dr. Crow.”

  “12 Misty Lane?” Abe asked, incredulous. “Does he have a son?”

  “No children and no wife. Though I’ve seen a young man around there over the years. He’s a gangly fellow, all arms and legs, long hair in his face. Not too friendly.”

  “And Virginia Crow’s husband died?”

  “Sure did. Twenty-some odd years ago now. Nice man, too. Hector Crow. He and his wife had barely lived on the Peninsula five years when he passed. Byron already lived there. You see, the Crow boys grew up in Chicago, but visited Leelanau in the summer with their parents. Their father, Troy Crow, bought that piece of land intending to build a summer house, but then he stroked and died before they ever broke ground. The mother split the land between her boys. She couldn’t bear to return, apparently. Byron Crow built his house on Misty Lane fresh out of medical school and took a job at the asylum. Hector lived in Chicago until he got married. Then he packed up and moved north to Leelanau. Hector hung out his shingle as a dentist. He had a little practice in Leelanau, and also performed dental visits at the asylum. Never went to him myself, but townsfolk spoke highly of him.”

  Abe continued to study the map, trying to make sense of the connections. Connections, not coincidences, his dad used to tell him when too many seemingly unrelated parts kept appearing together. The shaggy man from the park, Ben, lived on the same piece of property as Spencer with the gold car. Spencer had visited the park Orla disappeared from. Ben was spotted in Elder Park where Orla’s bike was found.

  “A duo?” Abe wondered aloud.

  “A duo?” Jack repeated back to him.

  “Sorry, thinking out loud.” He tapped a finger on his head. “I’m curious about Spencer Crow. Ever heard anything about him? Has he got into trouble? That kind of thing?”

  Jack grinned.

  “Gossip says he’s broken a few hearts - what with that shiny gold car and those big blue eyes - but nothing unusual. He’s studying to be a psychiatrist like his good ol’ Uncle Byron, so he spends the school year in Ann Arbor.”

  “Have any names that go with those broken hearts?”

  Jack grinned. “You are tenacious like your father, Abe Levett.” He rolled the map and returned it to his bag. “I know the name of one girl because her mother works here at the museum, but if you speak with her, keep me out of the conversation. Last thing I need is Patty’s mom in here giving me the evil eye all week.”

  “Patty?”

  “Patty Janik. She works at the Frosty Cone in Suttons Bay. Bright green eyes, long blonde hair, you can’t miss her. And remember, you didn’t hear about her from me.”

  * * *

  Hazel

  “I’d like a strawberry ice cream cone, please,” Hazel told the pretty blonde girl through the window at Frosty Cone.

  “That will be twenty-six cents,” the girl said, handing Hazel the cone.

  Hazel gave her the change, and then glanced behind her. No other customers stood in line for ice cream.

  “Are you Patty Janik?” Hazel asked.

  The girl smiled.

  “Sure am. And you are?”

  “My name’s Brenda,” Hazel lied. “And this probably seems far out, but my best friend has just started dating a guy and I heard you used to go out with him.”

  Patty frowned.

  “Bret?”

  Hazel shook her head.

  “His name is Spencer.”

  Patty scowled.

  “Bummer for her. He’s a total phony.” Patty whipped her hair over one shoulder.

  “Really? I wondered,” Hazel murmured. “Any chance you have a couple minutes to tell me about him.”

  Patty nodded.

  “Wendy, I’m taking a break.”

  Patty emerged from a side door in the little ice cream shop.

  “There’s a bench over there.” Patty pointed to a park bench across the street. “I went out with Spencer for two months last summer,” Patty started, before she’d even sat down. “He seemed nice at first, and it didn’t hurt he drives that beautiful car.”

  “The gold one?” Hazel asked.

  Patty nodded.

  “Anyway, after a month, he started acting weird, not showing up for dates, missing on Friday and Saturday nights. I mean, seriously, what’s the point of having a boyfriend who’s not around on Friday and Saturday nights?”

  “Agreed. If my boyfriend didn’t show up on Friday night, I’d tell him to get lost.”

  “Exactly. After a few weeks, I told him to forget my number. I’d warn your friend to stay away from him.”

  “Anything else? Was he mean or anything?”

  Patty shook her head.

  “Not mean, but…“ Patty laughed. “I used to joke to my girlfriend, Annie, he was like having a cardboard boyfriend. Half the time I’d be telling him a story, and he’d give me this blank look like he hadn’t listened to a word I said.” Patty kicked her legs out in front of her and lifted one long, tanned leg, admiring her purple toenail polish. “And another strange thing? He cut my hair one time.”

  “He cut your hair?” Hazel asked.

  “It was bizarre. He must have thought I was sleeping. The sound of the scissors cutting startled me, and I opened my eyes to find him holding a piece of my hair. He got up real quick and threw it away. Or said he threw it away. H
e claimed there was gum in it.”

  “But you didn’t believe him?”

  Patty reached for her hair, running her fingers through it and examining the long strands.

  Hazel noticed a striking resemblance between Patty and the missing girls.

  “I did at the time, but later… I don’t know. It bugged me when I thought about it.”

  35

  The Northern Michigan Asylum for the Insane

  Orla

  Orla’s body ached, and when Ben pulled back the sheet to wash her, he gasped and stumbled back.

  She couldn’t see the bruises, but she felt them. Her throat ached as if the man had strangled her.

  Ben swallowed, visibly shaken, and stepped back to her bedside.

  “Who?” he started, glancing fearfully at the door.

  “Dr. Frederic,” she mumbled, tears sliding over her sore cheeks.

  Ben put his head in his hands and shook his head for a moment.

  “Please unstrap me,” she whispered. “I promise I won’t try to escape. I just need. I need…” But the sobs had begun, and she could no longer speak. As she cried and tried to force air beneath her bruised ribs, Ben hastily undid the straps on her forearms and ankles. He put his hands behind her back and helped her up to sitting. She ached between her legs. And when she sat, she saw bite marks on her thighs. The tears flooded and pooled in her lap. Ben held her awkwardly, a hand pressed against her back.

  “There’s a room down the hall with a bathtub. I washed it out a few days ago. I can take you there, but please, please don’t run away,” he pleaded.

  Orla nodded, not sure if she could stand, let alone run away.

  When she put weight on her feet, they stung. She’d only walked a few times since Crow had brought her to the asylum. Her muscles groaned in protest.

  She put most of her weight on Ben, and he held her around the waist, supporting her to a cold, sterile room with a bathtub in the center.

  She sat on a hard wooden chair and watched as he filled the bathtub with steaming water. He produced a bar of soap and a washcloth from a bag.

  When she settled into the water, the bite marks stung, but she sank deeper.

  She had no memory of the assault. She’d lost consciousness seconds after Frederic extinguished the candle, but her body remembered.

  She soaked until the water turned cold. Ben sat in the chair, facing away from her and reading a book.

  “What are you reading?” she asked him.

  He lifted his head but didn’t turn.

  “’The Hobbit’,” he said, holding up the book.

  Orla smiled.

  She and Liam had read The Hobbit together. Well, not together, but simultaneously. They’d spoken on the phone after each chapter, gushing about the giant spiders of Mirkwood, and later about the hideous wargs. They plotted their own hobbit-style adventures in the days before Liam met Erin and shifted his focus to building a family.

  “I love that book,” she said.

  He turned, saw her nakedness, and quickly twisted away.

  “Really? I’ve read it five times,” he admitted.

  “Can you help me out of the bath?” she asked.

  He set the book on his chair and moved to the tub. He tilted his face away, his cheeks red as he touched her slippery body. She grimaced at the pain but gritted her teeth and limped back to the room.

  Ben looked at his watch.

  “Crow will be here in two hours. Please, don’t tell him about the bath.”

  “I won’t,” she assured him.

  He offered her a clean nightgown and underwear. When she lay back on the bed, he left the straps undone.

  “I’ll have to secure them, but I’ll wait another hour, okay?”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “What will he do?” she asked, nodding at her beaten body.

  Ben frowned.

  “I don’t know.”

  But when Crow arrived, he did nothing. He paused, gazed at the bruises distastefully, and then went about his usual work administering truth serum, drilling her with questions, and then forcing her to touch a variety of objects. He wrote down his observations.

  In the hall outside the room as the doctor left, Ben stopped him.

  “Dr. Frederic raped her,” Ben said, his voice rising.

  “And what proof do you have of that?” Crow hissed.

  “Didn’t you see her body? The bruises?”

  “Doctor Frederic is an esteemed colleague, a highly accomplished doctor, and a value to this institution. I suggest you keep your outlandish accusations to yourself.”

  “But-” Ben started.

  “Enough,” Crow barked.

  Orla heard the sounds of his steps fading down the hall.

  * * *

  Orla woke that night disoriented, but sure of one thing: no straps held her bound to the bed.

  She fumbled her blanket away, but the gloves made getting her bearings more complicated. She forced them off, clutching the mattress and swinging her legs to the floor.

  Orla stumbled into the dark hall. Her legs, weak, wobbled beneath her. She huffed, unable to catch her breath, and forged on despite the dizziness pulling her sideways.

  Pausing, she pressed a hand against a wall.

  Screams, sobs, the faces of a dozen people in various states of despair exploded in her mind. She reeled away, turned, pushed her hands out to keep from falling. This time her hand caught on the back of a wheelchair abandoned in the hall. Its last occupant reared up in her vision. A young woman who fought with her husband, who went into the asylum with big dreams, a wild spirit, but emerged catatonic and compliant.

  “No more,” Orla mumbled, curling her hands against her chest. She was in the bowels of the asylum, in a dark place, a forgotten place. Crow had hidden her there, knowing they would not find her.

  “Have to get out,” she cried. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her leg buckled, and she fell to one knee. Pain exploded in her kneecap and her arms swung out for a safehold. She found nothing and hit the ground with a thwack, smacking her face on the cement floor. Another explosion of pain in her chin and jaw.

  The drugs were too powerful, impossible to hold on to consciousness.

  She lay her cheek on the cold, hard ground, legs splayed out behind her. A mass of sticky warmth spread out from her face, a bloody nose, she thought. The darkness crept toward her, softening the edges, pulling her gently away from awareness.

  * * *

  Ben’s face hovered above her. His brow wrinkled, his hands moving quickly as he wiped her face.

  Orla had a vague memory of the previous night. Somehow, she’d gotten loose, fled into the hallway. She had not escaped.

  “I shouldn’t have undone the straps. I didn’t think you’d try to escape. I just wanted you to be able to defend yourself. That was stupid,” Ben fretted, hurriedly lifting her from the floor.

  She whimpered and bit back the pain.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, we don’t have much time.” He carried her back to the bed, hoisting her on top.

  He strapped her to the bed, and seconds later, Dr. Crow strode in, Dr. Frederic behind him.

  36

  Liz

  Liz found Hazel and Abe in Grady’s Diner, hunched over a map.

  “He cut a piece of her hair,” Hazel said. “Who does that?”

  “But she never saw him act violent? He never tried to hurt her?”

  “No, and she wouldn’t have lied. She wasn’t protecting him.”

  “Hi!” Liz said.

  They both looked up, surprised. Abe glanced down at the map.

  “I left you a message yesterday, Abe. You never called me back.”

  Hazel scooted over, and Liz slid into the booth beside her.

  Abe brushed a hand through his hair and sighed.

  “I’m sorry, Liz. My brain has been hijacked by tips since that article came out.”

  “Who cut whose hair?” Liz asked.

  “Remember the guy with the go
ld sports car?” Hazel asked.

  “Spencer,” Liz stated. She remembered. Did either of them believe she did anything except think about the cases, wonder who stole her daughter, who ended her bright, beautiful life full of promise?

  “I spoke with a girl yesterday who dated him last summer. He cut a piece of her hair.”

  “Why?”

  “He claimed she had gum in it, but she clearly didn’t believe him. It creeped her out.”

  “What did she look like?” Liz asked.

  Hazel’s eyes darted to Abe.

  “Long blonde hair, green eyes, very pretty,” Hazel admitted.

  Liz bit her lip. Susie had long blonde hair and green eyes. Jerry sometime called her his green-eyed beauty.

  “Did Susan have any connection to the Leelanau Peninsula?” Abe questioned Liz.

  She frowned and shook her head.

  “What kind of connection? She liked to go to the beach out there. All the kids did, because of the sand dunes. She never dated anyone who lived there. Spencer is a name I would not have forgotten.”

  Abe nodded.

  “Family out there? Close friends?”

  Liz shook her head.

  “We took her to the Polka Fest in Cedar when she was younger. We camped once in a while, but no, nothing that sticks out.”

  Liza gazed at the hand-drawn map. A road ran along the side, M-22, with two additional roads leading away from it. She read Misty Lane and Sapphire Lane.

  “Those sounds like the cobbled streets of Disney World,” she murmured.

  “If you’re heading to the haunted mansion, maybe,” Abe muttered, almost too low for Liz to hear.

  “Explain the map,” Liz insisted.

  Her companions didn’t speak and Liz slapped her hand on the table.

  “Abe!”

  Abe lifted his coffee and drank it down.

  “Ben Stoops? That name ring any bells?”

  Again, Liz shook her head.

  “I saw him at the park where Orla’s bike was found,” Abe explained. “He’s got a look. ‘The guy police love to hate,’ my dad would call him. He’s unkempt, withdrawn, and he drives the truck that boy saw in the park the day Orla’s bike disappeared.”