Ashes to Ashes (11 page)

He didn’t go full-time at the prison until
Susanne’s death. After his wife’s murder he decided that the
catacombs of that particular stone prison would make a fine final
resting place for his tired bones. It was a decision he stood
behind, even when he didn’t fully understand why. He had to stick
with it. What else was he going to do?

Not even six months after the decision, the
Wilson Maximum Security Prison lost important funding and, after
the forced retirement of Dr. Hadmira and the extermination of Dr.
Goodwin, Ashe found himself the solo psychologist, left behind to
deal with long hours and a mountain of work. It was exactly what he
had hoped, but he should have been slightly more cautious what he
had wished for.

“Foxy...Ms. Taneesha Jones,” the psychologist
continued, “keeps trying to bribe me with sexual favors.”

“It what way?”

He sighed again.

“Last session...she said that if I signed a
recommendation for her to be allowed time on the Yard again, she
would give me the...‘best blow job of my boring life.’ End
quote.”

“You make a note of it in the record?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn't you mention this to me
before?”

“So many things going on.” He shook his head.
“I thought I could still be professional and objective,” Ashe
began, “but I don't see how that would be possible. I am too
uncomfortable in the situation and need to dismiss myself before
any ethical questions arise…real or make believe. If that is
alright?”

“If you would like,” Warden Chase agreed,
scribbling another quick notation. “That is the session after
Kentucky Jim?”

“Yea.”

Warden Chase jotted.

“I will make sure the guards leave them in
their cells. Anything else?” she asked.

“I need another session with Mr.
Barrett.”

The warden stiffened.

“When?”

“Today,” Ashe replied. “One o'clock should be
good?”

“Why so soon?”

“I came close to scratching the surface with
him,” he replied. “I need to touch the pan while it is still
hot...so to say.”

“Promise me something first,” Warden Chase ,
putting on her serious face. “Tread lightly with this one. This is
not some low life from the streets. This one is different. My
professional and friendly advice is for you to be very, very
careful. Okay?”

Ashe was taken aback but was not completely
surprised by her response. Franklin Barrett
was
different
than an inmate like Kentucky Jim or Foxy…Ms. Taneesha Jones. “I am
always careful.”

Letting out a stiff breath, she agreed.
“Okay. One o'clock.”

“Thank you,” Ashe replied. “I will be out of
my office for a few hours. I have some personal issues to
handle.”

“Anything that I can help with?”

“Nope. I need to deal with them on my
own.”

Chapter 11

Ashe used the block of two hours that he had
cleared up to head back over to the police station. He had a few
things on his mind and a few agendas to bring to fruition. But his
thought process scattered in response to the commotion he found
when he came into the homicide division. There was a lot of
movement among the desks, much more than the night before. And
Oscar's door was open, which was never the case. The detective was
speaking rapidly into his cell phone. Something was obviously going
on and Ashe had a feeling that Scott was involved.

“What is with all the sound and fury?” Ashe
asked Oscar from the office doorway. “Even though your skin is
naturally darker than mine, I can still tell when you are
flustered.” He was trying to mask his tension with humor.

“It’s nothing that concerns you at the
moment,” Oscar replied, putting his hand over the mouth of the
phone. He spoke to Ashe without looking in his direction. Which was
never a good sign, the psychologist knew. Ashe’s old friend could
pull off any bluff, no matter how untrue, while staring down a
suspect, but the detective could never pull off a lie if he had to
look Ashe in the eyes.

Oscar finished his cellular conversation with
a “Be right there, Paul.” Turning completely away from Ashe, Oscar
grabbed his suit jacket from a hanger and slid it on. Oscar was one
of those types of detectives, suit and tie and shiny shoes. “What
can I do for you, Ashe? I have to run.”

“Talk to me,” Ashe insisted. “What is going
on?”

“Nothing that I know for sure,” Oscar
groaned, choosing to meet Ashe’s gaze. “But I will call you later
when I know more.”

“Is it about Scott?”

“Not sure,” he said, his sight darting away
from the psychologist.

Ashe slammed his fist down hard on the desk.
“Damn it, Oscar! Tell me!”

Oscar paused. He took in a deep breath and
looked back to Ashe. “Two dead bodies in Lincoln Park,” he said
matter-of-fact.

“And?”

He took another deep breath. “Shooting,” he
simply added.

“
And?”

“
I was going to call you when I knew
more,” Oscar grunted. “Two dead bodies were reported in Lincoln
Park this morning. Shooting victims. In the homeless cluster that
has set up there over the past year. Someone made an anonymous call
this morning. Probably one of the vagrants getting sick of the
smell. I'm surprised they didn't let the bodies sit and rot instead
of calling it in. We both know how much the homeless like the
police coming into their little towns.”

“How is Scott involved?”

“We believe that Scott...caused the death of
the two men,” Oscar answered.

Ashe began to shake his head back and
forth.

“A leather YSU basketball jacket was found on
one of the bodies, identified by the name on it as belonging to
Scott Walters,” Oscar continued. “A handgun was found as well.
Ruger. It’s being sent to the lab for testing but I was told it is
the same caliber as the one that killed Owen Roberts.”

“His jacket was on one of them?” Ashe asked.
“Why? Why would one of the dead men be wearing Scott's school
jacket?”

“I don't know.”

“That
has
to mean something.”

“I don't want to speculate at this
point.”

“Well. What
do
you know?”

“Not much,” Oscar replied. “I'm heading over
there now.”

“You have to know something, Oscar,” Ashe
spoke, his voice rising again. “I need something!”

“All I know is that
your
son
is
leaving bodies across town,” Oscar answered, becoming irritated.
“That is all I know. That is all I need to know right now. All
you
need to know is that your son's face is not plastered
all over the television, right now, even though it damned well
should be.” He pointed to the flat screen mounted on the wall. “We
have kept this close to the vest as a courtesy to
you
. We
should have his face on the news, on the front page of the papers,
using the public to find him before he runs too far for us to
follow, if that hasn’t already happened by now. But we don't. If
the bodies keep piling up, though, that will no longer be the
case.”

Ashe didn't know how to respond. What Oscar
said was true.

“Why are you here, Ashe?” Oscar asked. “I
have to go.”

Ashe tried to calm himself. “You're going to
call me when you know more?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Ashe said before continuing. “I
wanted to see if I could get your documents on the Barrett case. I
have another interview this afternoon and I need something to get
him to open up to me. He is putting up a wall.”

“Not surprised. He wouldn't talk to us
either, except to confess.”

“In order for me to make a proper assessment,
I need to get
something
from him,” Ashe replied. “I need to
start honestly thinking about a diagnosis before I am forced to
move on. The powers-that-be are really touchy about this one. I
might not be given a lot of time before they take Mr. Barrett away
from me.”

“You don't know enough from the media?”

“I can’t go by what the media says, because I
don’t know what is fact and what is heresy,” he replied.

“He's crazy. That is my diagnosis.”

“I'm not so sure, at this time,” Ashe
replied.

“Why don't you get the court documents?”

“I requested them the other day, but it will
take another week or so,” Ashe answered. “You were lead detective
and your notes and documents will be detailed and thorough. Your
nothing if not detailed and thorough, Oscar. It should give me what
I need, right now. And you always keep back up physical copies,
instead of relying completely on your computer. I can just grab
those
.”

“A week or so, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ashe replied. “That is fast for them.
It usually takes longer.”

“Really?”

“It's just a piece of shit prisoner,” he
began. “What else do they have but time.”

“True.”

“I usually don't get into the second
interview so soon, either,” Ashe replied. “But I have a feeling
that if I don’t crack the man’s shell in hurry…I will never get the
chance again.”

“Sounds likes there is a little more to
it.”

“Franklin Barrett has me curious,” Ashe
answered. “My curiosity is my biggest sin. Next to lust and greed.”
He gave a hollow laugh.

“Mine is pride,” Oscar added.

“So...can I get...?”

Before Ashe was done speaking, Oscar was
already reaching into a tall file cabinet. Pulling out a thick set
of folders, he handed them over. “This is all you need to know. Do
not lose anything. Do not get coffee stains on anything,
either.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Call me.”

“I will.”

Oscar scooted out of the office and Ashe
watched him. The little black and gold container was in his pants
pocket. He traced the outline with his fingertips. Gripping tight
the files on Barrett, he went back to the elevator and pushed the
button for the fourth floor.

On to the next agenda.

Chapter 12

Back in the elevator, Ashe didn't go back
down to the main floor but went up two more floors to the fourth
floor, where the forensic labs were.

The fourth floor was known as the
dwelling
of the science trolls
, as some of the officers would jokingly
call it. But it was all in good fun. Over the past decade, to say
the least, police work had become a highly co-dependent process,
splicing together the sweat of the acting detectives and officers
with the discoveries of the forensic scientists. Blood analysis,
ballistic testing, DNA testing, and other types of similar
processes could make or break a case, convicting an offender or
proving a suspect innocent. The scientists, the nerds that ran the
labs, have become as much a part of the police force as the
uniforms and detectives that beat their feet on the streets.

Once out of the elevator, Ashe marched down
the white hallway toward Laboratory Two. No matter how many times
he had been on the fourth floor, he was always surprised how
immaculately clean everything remained, even though he had never
seen a single soul actually scrub a wall or mop an inch of
floor.

It was magic.

Or gnomes.

Either...or.

The door to Laboratory Two was closed.
Another closed door. Ashe sighed quietly to himself. He didn't
knock, though, but opened the door and went inside, closing the
door behind him.

The lab was exactly as he had remembered it,
down to the location of each and every piece of equipment. Nothing
seemed to have been moved in the past four years. It was like a
picture, never changing, never altering. Long ago Ashe had observed
that the extensive and complex group labeled
scientist
,
whether they are from the fields of chemistry or physics, was
populated mostly and predominantly by control freaks. Even though
they tested and labeled the chaos reality, they obsessively tried
to maintain an illusion of order and control inside of their work
space, with everything in its correct and proper place.

It was complete and utter irony, he
understood. But what would the world be without the phenomena?
Irony. Every thinking man and woman needed a consistent dose of it,
or else he or she might get bored to the point of suicide.

Not only was everything in the lab the same,
but so was the lab tech, Ginger. Ginger was hunched over a narrow
computer monitor, wearing a long white coat and latex gloves. Ashe
couldn't help but to smile at the figure of the old man with bright
red hair. Even though Ginger was in his sixties, there wasn't a
gray hair on the man's head, only red and more red. Ashe never
could tell whether it was natural or dyed. Even his facial hair,
his nicely trimmed beard and mustache was a perfect shade of
cherry.

Ginger’s own nickname was an obvious clue to
the man’s personality. Calling an Irishman a “ginger” was
equivalent to punching him in the nose. Do not do it! It will not
end pretty! Urban legends and stereotypical stigma often considered
a “ginger” person to be soulless. An Irishman, with their hearty
laugh and love of drink and joke, was far from soulless. But,
ironically
, Ginger admitted to Ashe that he had given the
nickname to himself, sometime during middle school. The lab rat
chuckled and chuckle during the confession, and Ashe couldn’t help
but to chuckle along with him. The psychologist was far from
surprised at the revelation. He had known Ginger long enough by
that point to avoid being surprised by anything the lab tech said
or done.

When it came down to the brass tacks of it,
Ashe liked Ginger. He even trusted the man.

“Ginger,” Ashe said, trying to get his
attention. “Ginger,” he repeated, raising his voice a little.
“Ginger!”

Finally the man turned, giving the
psychologist a better look at him. Ashe had been wrong. The man
had
changed, even if the changes were slight. The wrinkles
on the lab tech’s forehead had multiplied and deepened into gorges.
There were also frown lines at the edges of his lips, where only
hints of them had existed before. There were indeed changes. Ginger
had aged. He had aged four years. But Ashe felt confident that the
changes were only surface deep. He could never see Ginger being
anything other than Ginger, no matter how many years aged his
body.