Asylum Lake (8 page)

Sheriff Buck Tanner had nothing but time on his hands and found himself putting it to use contemplating one of life’s greatest mysteries; why do bad things happen to good people? While he wasn’t what you would call a religious man, he did believe in a certain natural order to the universe, good things happened to good people and so on. That’s what made it so difficult for him to wrap his head around why such a sleepy little town, by and large comprised of honest law-abiding citizens, could be such a magnet for brutality.

Long before his days in law enforcement, Tanner had seen his share of violence and death. As a young seaman he had watched from the deck of the USS Nevada as the Japanese pummeled the unsuspecting US fleet at Pearl Harbor. The battleship had been struck by at least one torpedo and six bombs before being beached shortly after it got underway to join the battle. The site of the charred bodies floating on the blood-red sea amid the twisted wreckage of the Pacific Fleet still haunted him.

And now, just under a month shy from the thirty-year anniversary of that fateful day, the cold hand of death had reached for him once again. The doctors had told him how lucky he was both then and now. He survived Pearl Harbor with two broken and badly burned legs, among a variety of other less serious injuries, and would surely have drowned if not for the actions of his shipmates. As for the recent events and his bandaged head; the pain only reminded him that he was alive. If this is what it meant to be lucky then he could only hope that some of it had rubbed off on his son.

The good news; Johnny’s condition had greatly improved. Of the twenty-three stab wounds throughout his upper body and face, the vast majority were shallow punctures. The most severe of them, however, had proven almost lethal, missing his heart by mere centimeters. According to the doctors, the viciousness of that initial attack probably saved John’s life. The wound was very deep and its location and angle caused the blade to wedge between his ribs. Although it had punctured his left lung, the fact that the blade had broken off during the attack had actually helped prevent major blood loss.

The bad news; the tumble down the basement stairs had left the young deputy with, among a variety of other injuries, a fractured skull. Doctors will tell you that the first twenty-four hours after any type of serious head injury are the most critical. Based on how a patient responds to certain stimuli doctors can place fairly accurate percentages on their chances for recovery. Some patients, however, remain completely unpredictable. Deputy John Tanner fell squarely into the latter category.

Buck wasn’t a patient man, but the doctors and nurses had assured him that time was indeed his son’s best friend. As the hours slipped into days, the guilt of arriving too late, at what they were now referring to as “the death house” weighed heavily on him. His broad shoulders slumped beneath the burden as he kept his bedside vigil.

He did find comfort in the fact that Laura wasn’t here to see their son bandaged and broken. Just this past summer Buck had come home for a quick bite at lunch to find his bride of more than twenty-five years stretched out in the garden beneath her rose bushes. For most of that afternoon he sat in the garden, holding her in his arms for what would be the last time, and cried. He imagined her singing Patsy Kline beneath her wide brimmed gardening hat with the late morning sun warming her arthritic bones when the clot finally made its way to her brain. Stroke, the doctors had explained, all completely painless and quite sudden. His luck, it seemed, hadn’t rubbed off on Laura.

Making his way from his bedside roost, he moved to the window and looked out across the city. Under any other circumstance the view of dawn breaking over the skyline of Michigan’s second largest city would be worth noting, yet Buck paid little attention. His quarry wasn’t on the streets of Grand Rapids; of that he was sure. Beyond that certainty, however, were endless unanswered questions.

As he retraced the events of the past several days, his tired mind kept returning to a solitary word scrawled in blood and the realization that within those six letters was the answer.

After re-cataloging his thoughts for the thousandth time, the dots finally connected and a cold fist of fear closed itself around his insides. Buck struggled to remember the details, closing his eyes to the searing pain in his temples.

It was 1958 and he was still fairly new to the department. He was at home when the call came in from the Sheriff. “Grab your camera and get your ass out to the Lake Hospital.”

Buck had retrieved his Kodak Brownie and all the film he had from the hall closet and raced to the asylum, leaving an untouched meatloaf and his wife and young son at the dinner table. Although frustrated by the sound of his growling stomach, its emptiness would soon prove to be a blessing.

The faded memory flared to life inside his head in a series of black and white crime scene photos. From the lifeless bodies that littered the hallways and rooms to the blood-spattered walls and floors, each image was more grotesque than the last. With a final lurch, his racing mind settled on the final image. Traced in blood on a cinder-block wall deep in the bowels of the building, was a single word - REPENT. Was it a plea for forgiveness or a call for revenge?

Two brutal crimes, separated by less than ten miles but occurring more than a decade apart were connected by a single word written in blood. Standing at the hospital window, awash in the warmth of the morning sun, Sheriff Buck Tanner turned his gaze from the streets below to the bed that cradled his injured son and worried at the possibilities.

Only two minutes into the press conference and Acting Sheriff Frank Griggs already needed to change his shirt. The harsh lighting from the assembled cameras was searing, leaving the rattled deputy slick with sweat. It ran down his back and legs, leaving a soggy mess inside his steel-toed boots.

“Deputy Griggs, Ken Ritz from KATV-41 in Lansing; what can you tell us about the wounds inflicted on the victims? Were they, as some are reporting, consistent with satanic rituals?”Ritz was tall and handsome with perfectly coiffed hair and a near blinding smile that positively gleamed beneath the lights and flashbulbs.

The question, although not unexpected, seemed to catch everyone more than a little off-guard. It was greeted with an uncomfortable silence as Griggs glared from behind the small wooden podium.

“Contrary to certain reports, there is no evidence of occult activity.” Griggs delivered the answer exactly as he had practiced and just as Sheriff Tanner instructed. It was clear to everyone present just what the local law enforcement thought of KATV’s unconfirmed reports of devil worshippers running amuck in the backwoods of northern Michigan.

Ritz countered quickly. “With all due respect deputy…what would you call the dismemberment and mutilation of the victim’s bodies, removal of their organs, and,” Ritz paused for dramatic effect, “the inscription of religious symbols in blood; if not evidence of something satanic in nature?”

The reporter’s smile widened in satisfaction as the reality of the bombshell he had just dropped settled over the room. The blood-scrawled message was one of the details not released by police. Someone, it seemed, was talking out of school.

Griggs’s gaze moved from the smiling reporter and settled on the face of Lieutenant Jim Bowling of the Michigan State Police. Dressed in the standard issue blue uniform and cap, the trooper leaned casually against the wall chewing on the stub of a very fat cigar. Bowling’s views on Bedlam’s finest were well known and the fact that Buck Tanner had retained jurisdiction had caused quite the shit storm between here and the state capital. He smiled at Griggs from beneath his mirrored sunglasses, dropped the still smoking cigar at his feet, and walked from the room, leaving the deputy with yet another mess to clean up.

Griggs turned his attention back to Ritz and continued. “This investigation goes where the evidence leads. And right now, there is no evidence of any occult or religious intent to these murders.” Griggs paused to collect his thoughts, his thick knuckles whitening as he gripped the podium. “As for what the wounds tell me about these crimes…it tells me there’s a sick son of a bitch out there somewhere and with all due respect, I’ve got work to do.”

Griggs stepped from the podium amidst a chorus of shouts and questions and made his way through the sea of reporters. Ritz moved forward to block the deputy’s retreat. “You can’t run from the truth, deputy. Your sick son of a bitch theory, while quaint, isn’t getting anybody any closer to catching those responsible; and more importantly, might just end up getting more people hurt!”

And then, smirking one last time at the sweating deputy, Ritz turned to the rolling cameras, “In the meantime, rest assured KATV’s investigation will continue. Tune in tonight at 11:00 for the latest.”

Twenty minutes later, and with a fresh shirt neatly tucked into his brown uniform pants, Griggs was back at work sifting through the latest reports from the lab. The boys from the state had done a fairly thorough job with the crime-scene, and now, less than a week later, had everything organized into a tabbed three-ring binder complete with glossy photos

As much as the reports revealed, at just over 1,100 neatly typed pages it was quite a lot, and investigators were still left with far more questions than answers. The chief among them was how and why did young Lionel Collins was able to escape from that house of horrors unscathed?

However, the techs had come through with a handful of interesting details. Joanna Reed was very much alive when the hacksaw took her limbs. Thankfully, the twin’s gruesome injuries were all post-mortem, having both been suffocated in their sleep before being dismembered in their cribs. And, finally, the suspect was small in stature, as evidenced by the angle of the wounds inflicted on Ken Reed, yet also strong enough to drag the lifeless body of Deputy Tanner from one end of the house to the other. Most assuredly, however, the devil was buried somewhere in the details.

Griggs tossed the binder on the desk where it landed atop a pile of newspapers. Press coverage of the investigation hadn't been kind. Although not all the reporting had labeled the acting Sheriff as Barney Fife revisited. Most, if not all, were questioning the lack of any sort of official progress by law enforcement.

This investigative paralysis was more about where the evidence was leading than not having any evidence to work with The house was thick with prints, footprints, blood spatter, and other items which lay neatly presented in that damn binder; two reams of paper, at nearly five pounds in weight and all pointing in the one direction that nobody dared to look. Griggs’s stare burned through its cover.

The ringing phone on the other side of the door reminded him of what a shitty day he had to look forward to. As if the torture of the press conference weren’t enough, everybody and their brother was now calling to share suspicions, ask questions, and basically make the acting Sheriff’s life a living hell. Fortunately, Maggie was doing her best to run interference. There was a small list of names that had access to him now. Frank considered scratching Jim Bowling’s name from it but thought better of the idea.

“Frank,” Maggie’s voice echoed through the tinny-sounding intercom on his desk, “Sheriff’s on the line.”

“Thanks, love.” The couple had dropped the formalities with both of the Tanner men out of the office. It would prove interesting once the Sheriff returned. Frank was hopeful for good news when he continued. “Put him right through.”

Their conversation was brief and somewhat confusing for the young deputy. Using a dull pencil, Frank scratched notes onto a nearby piece of paper. A few short minutes later, Frank replaced the telephone receiver onto its cradle knowing little more than he had before picking it up. He scanned his chicken scratched notes trying to piece together some kind of meaning. Johnny’s prognosis hadn’t changed. Buck hadn’t shared whether this was a good sign or bad, and, as usual, Buck was limited with details and Frank knew from experience not to pepper the Sheriff with questions; simple “yes” and “no” responses were the elder law-man’s preference.