Ashes to Ashes (10 page)

“What are you coloring?” Ashe asked. “Can I
take a look?”

“Sure,” he replied, his eyes lighting up.
Holding up the picture, “It's a dragon flying in the sky.”

The psychologist studied the blossoming
picture, the partially imbued outline. Grub had a difficult time
with emotions, the ones that were complex, hard to both interpret
and
communicate. A lot of the time those types of feelings
came through what he chose to color. A good day involved pages
filled with fluffy white clouds, cartoon animals, and seemingly
endless fields of grass.

Ashe asked, “Why do you want to color a
dragon? Aren't dragons…bad? Scary?”

“Yea,” Grub answered. “Dragons
are
mean.”

“Why are you coloring something mean instead
of nice?”

“I don't know.”

“Is there someone being mean to you?”

“No,” Grub replied. “Everyone is nice. You
are nice.”

“I'm glad people are being nice, Grub,” Ashe
declared and smiled. “You would tell me if anyone is mean to you,
right?”

“Yes.”

Grub was often on the Lonely Mile. However,
it was not always due to his own actions but that of others. He was
an easy target, prone to manipulation and victimization, often used
as a scapegoat by other prisoners.

“Good,” Ashe said. “I am glad.” Thinking over
his words, he continued, “Do
you
want to be
mean
to
someone else? You know you can tell me…right? You can always tell
me…everything…Grub. Do you remember when I told you that? Remember
when I said that we are friends?”

“Best buds,” Grub happily concurred.

“That is right,” Ashe said. “Are you
feeling…anger…friend?”

Grub shook his head. “No,” he replied. “No
anger.”

“Promise?”

“Yes,” Grub responded before breaking eye
contact to look back down at his picture.

“Pinky?” the psychologist asked, flipping out
a little finger.

The inmates head jerked back up. He sat the
crayon and extended his own short digit. “Pinky. Pinky. I like blue
dragons. They are cool.”

“They are pretty cool,” Ashe agreed. “I have
some good news for you, Grub. Would you like to hear some good
news? I know that I am glad to give some good news this morning.
Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes.”

“Your transfer had been approved,” Ashe told
him.

The transfer that Ashe informed Grub about
was around two years in the making, since the moment that Grub had
finally spoken to him about his parents, with pain and disgust in
his child-like eyes. Using his simple words, Grub told a story,
which opened the flood gates for many, many similar narratives,
each one making the hairs on Ashe's arm stand up.

The first story was about Grub's sister,
Norma, which was two years younger than him, from what he could
remember. He remembered vividly his sister's face, small, young,
and bewildered, while her own father tied her to the headboard of a
bed. Grub watched it, also confused. He told Ashe that his father
mentioned that he wanted to teach his son all about sex, along with
what a woman's role was. Taking off the young girl's clothes, the
drunken, abusive father forced Grub, who was 11 years old, to rape
his own sister, while his mother watched obediently from the back
of the room.

Grub's father taught him many other lessons
during his childhood, many that followed him into his adult life.
He was taught to take what he wanted from a woman, especially when
it came to sexual pleasures. He was in charge and a woman should
always give him whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it. He was
the
man
. And he was the
boss
.

At the age of 21, Grub was convicted of 13
accounts of savage sexual assault, with one of the victims barely
surviving. The EMTs saved the young girls life, but no doctor could
save her sight. The attacks were brutal, committed by a violent and
sadistic criminal. The young victims were abducted near their
schools. They were always bound to a bed, hands and feet. After two
days, the victims were simply dumped, clothed and alive, along the
side of a busy road, a place where they were sure to be discovered.
The victims were always young girls, prepubescent and dirty blonde,
resembling what Grub’s sister had looked like as a child.

Grub’s parents were long deceased. He
couldn’t for the life of him recall what had become of his sister.
And Ashe had searched for her, but was unable to turn any recent
leads to her possible whereabouts. It was as if she had disappeared
from the Earth. Or that her own father had eventually grown tired
of his toy and tossed her into the trash.

Competency to stand trial was never
questioned, even though Grub was obviously disabled. Also, the
insanity defense was never raised. He was merely treated as a sick
and twisted pervert. The trial was swift, ending with sentence of
twenty-five to thirty-five years at a federal prison.

“How do you feel about that?” Ashe asked
Grub.

“I don't know,” he honestly replied. “Where
will I go?”

“Like I told you before,” Ashe began, “I want
you to go to the Cleveland Mental Health Facility. You don't belong
here, Grub. You don't belong in a place like this. This place is
not for people like you.”

“But...I'm a bad guy,” Grub admitted. “This
place is for
bad
guys.”

“You're not the same...” Ashe began but had a
hard time continuing. Grub would never understand why he was
different. He had committed brutal crimes against young innocent
girls, for which he was obviously remorseful. He would pay for
them, a fact in which Ashe was fine with. He would not escape his
punishment.

But Grub was also a victim, just like the
girls.

Cleveland Mental Health was far from a
resort, but it was better than Wilson. Grub was not being punished
for life and his sentence would eventually end. He needed to be in
a place where a group of experts would be focused on treating him,
instead of a single psychologist with his hands tied by prison
rules and regulations. Everything that his father had taught him,
everything, had to be undone, unlearned, or Grub, even if Ashe
didn't want to admit it, was a lost cause...a victim beyond
saving.

“When?” Grub asked.

“Tomorrow,” Ashe replied. “I am here to go
over what is going to happen,” he further clarified, “so that you
are not confused when the time comes. A van is going to come to the
prison at 3:30 in the afternoon to pick you up. There are going to
be two men and they are going to have guns. Don’t worry, though,
they are going to be nice guys. They have guns because their boss
makes them. You are going to sit in the back and it might be a
little scary, but it’ll be fine. You will be fine. The two guys are
going to take you to your new home, where you will have your own
room and all the crayons you want.”

The psychologist closely observed how the
inmate reacted.

“It's going to be okay.” Ashe took a breath.
“I have a lot of friends there, Grub. Like Dr. Sanjay Sheth. He is
a good, kind man and will take care of you. I promise you.”

“Will you come with me?”

Ashe was caught off guard by the question.
With everything going on with Scott he wasn’t sure how to answer.
No. That was wrong. He knew exactly how he needed to answer. “Yes.
I will go with you. Grub. Pinky.”

“Pinky,” was his reply. “Can I get
better
crayons there? These ones suck big time.”

Ashe laughed. “They do suck.” Standing, he
extended his hand. With the gentleness of a child, Grub shook it.
“If you need anything when you are there, you have someone call me.
Okay? Okay?”

“Yes.”

Turning to leave, Ashe couldn't help but to
believe the transfer of Grub to be a victory. A small one. Rare in
Wilson. But he would take whatever he could get.

Chapter 10

The warden's office was the next logical step
in Ashe's morning venture. Warden Chase had had a crucial hand in
Grub's transfer. She had acted as Ashe’s liaison when it came to
dealing with the
powers-that-be
. She had conversed with the
key people. She had shaken the right hands. And she had whispered
in the right ears. She had stuck her neck out, more than once,
because she had faith in Ashe's expert opinion.

In spite of popular beliefs, due to movies
and television, where most popular beliefs tend to give birth, the
warden of a prison is not God or a god in the facility. They also
have bosses to answer to, like the state government. And the state
government was often a difficult branch to bend, stern and stubborn
against the strongest winds.

Even though she was not a god, Ashe was often
glad to have Warden Chase on his side. The alliance had come in
handy a few times during his time at the prison.

The door to the warden's office was always
closed but never locked. Ashe paused in front of it. He always had
a habit finding himself in front of many types of closed doors, he
realized, especially at the current moment. Some locked. Some not.
Some sealed. Some not. He had long ago found himself in the habit
of going through the multitude o closed doors, locked or not,
sealed or not, sometimes even though he was told, with no
uncertainty, to keep out. The doors to a crime scene. The doors of
the mind. Many, many other types of doors. One day, he figured, he
might find himself going through a door that he damned sure better
have stayed out of. And then he remembered that he had already
found that door. It had been the door that had led him to Steven
Reynolds.

Before he could knock, Ashe heard a voice
call for him to come in. Warden Chase must have seen his shape
moving through cloudy glass of her office door. “You can come in,
Dr. Walters. Didn't expect to see you so soon,” she said, sounding
as professional and dominant as she could muster. “Now come and sit
your cute booty down and tell me how awesome we both are.”

She then laughed.

Warden Chase was petite, yet her personality
stood taller than most men. She was obviously overcompensating,
Ashe had concluded upon their first meeting, because she was a
small woman in the world of prisons, the realm of masculinity and
aggression. She felt the need to be louder than any man or else she
would never be fully heard or respected. Her hair was a dark black
and it was always in a tight ponytail. She never wore skirts, only
dark slacks. If she was not his boss, Ashe may have thought her
laugh and obviously flirting to be attractive. He considered the
idea. Perhaps he had found another door in which he would never
cross the threshold.

Would not or could not?

“Did you just come from Grub's cell?” she
asked.

“Yea,” Ashe replied, sitting down in a chair
on the other side of her desk. “Got here early. Couldn't
sleep.”

“Sleep? If you’re having a hard time
sleeping, I know the perfect remedy.” Warden Chase laughed again.
“How is Grub? The Lonely Mile treating him well?”

“Better than Han would be treating him if he
were still in Population,” Ashe replied. “I would ask you to for
another session with that man, if I didn't already know how the
last session ended.” With a baseball bat to the head. “There is no
helping that guy. True and honest psychopath. I am just glad to get
Grub out of his cross-hairs.”

“How did Grub take the news? Is he glad to be
getting transferred?”

Ashe thought about it. “He took it the same
way he takes any news…with child like confusion.”

“And your still sure that this is the right
move?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “I have no doubt in
my mind.”

“Good enough for me,” she resolved.

He considered ending the conversation,
leaving the office, and going about his day, but he consistently
and nearly religiously thought about Scott. He thought about the
journal. And he thought about the thin dusting of powder that he
noticed at the bottom of the black and gold container, which might
be residue from some kind of drug.

Drugs can make the brain malfunction in many
different ways, the psychologist knew. There were certain types of
drugs which were designed specifically to make a person change
their behavior, sometimes in such extremes that the person became
someone totally different. These drugs were both legal and illegal,
dispensed by both drugs dealers and psychiatrists.

Had drugs changed Scott?

“I need to talk about a couple of other
things, while I am here,” Ashe told Warden Chase.

She perked up at her desk. “Hit me.”

“I need to make some changes to my first two
appointments,” he replied.

“How so?”

“I am supposed to have a session with
Kentucky Jim in about 20 minutes,” Ashe began, “but I think it
should be rescheduled two weeks from now. He is doing real well at
coping with his anxiety...to the point that he hasn't had any kind
of outbursts for a few months. There is no need to see him so
frequently any more. Once a month should be alright...for the time
being.”

Warden Chase must have already had a blank
piece of paper on her desk, because she immediately began to jot
things down. She paused and simply said, “Okay.”

“As for Foxy,” he continued. “I mean...Ms.
Taneesha Jones.”

“What about her?” the warden asked, failing
to hide smirk.

“You need to consider contracting from
outside of the prison to take over her case,” Ashe continued. “And
then maybe you should seriously consider my request for another on
site professional...female, to take over the female population of
the prison.”

“The higher-ups are still considering the
request,” she replied. “They mumbled something about finding money
in our pathetic budget. The women of this institution too much for
you to handle,
Dr. Walters
?”

He sighed. Years ago, back when Ashe was
still dividing his time between the prison and consulting with the
YPD, there was more than just a single forensic psychologist
working. The prison had two part-time mental health professionals
who answered to a lead on-sight psychologist, Dr. Hadmira. Ashe was
one of those part-time employees, along with a woman psychologist,
Dr. Jennifer Goodwin.