Ashes to Ashes (2 page)

That sound. The sound that had been recorded
was the sound of a desperate man, one whose reality was shattering
all around him, and the shards were stabbing him from every
angle.

Ashe went to play the message again, but was
startled by an unexpected knock on his office door. It was a subtle
tap...rap...tap. Looking to the clock overhead, he realized the
time and swore lowly. He had completely forgotten about Mr.
Barrett, a new, high profile inmate coming to see him for the first
time. It was a meet-and-greet session, which was a little foreplay
before hands got dirty. Even though the idea of a new inmate always
seemed to wet his appetite and his curiosity, Ashe wasn't sure he
had the ability to focus on Mr. Barrett.

While his mind was still drawn to Scott and
whether or not he should try to call again, Ashe decided to pick up
the white file from his desk. He sat the cell phone down. As
another set of taps vibrated across his office door, he decided to
oblige them with a simple, “The door is always unlocked, Tye!”

He would have to put Scott and his message on
a back burner.

The metal door to Ashe's tiny office deep
within Wilson Maximum Security Prison slowly crept inward. It was
more like a cage instead of an office. Sometimes he felt like just
another prisoner inside of the large prison, with the only
exception being that he could come and go, almost as he
pleased.

Early in his life, Ashe had personal reasons
for being drawn to the field of Psychology. It wasn’t long before
he chose a forensic life, one dealing with the law, over the
comfort of clinical work, choosing a solid stone prison over the
comfort of an office building or laboratory. He gave up voluntary
patients for his chance to work with incarcerated criminals.
Navigating the maze inside the head of a murderer or rapist was far
more complex and challenging than anything he ever would have had
to guide while counseling depressed housewives and anxious
teenagers.

Maybe he was just as insane as the criminals
were, he often suspected.

When the office door was fully open, Tye, a
prison guard and friend, peaked his head in and announced that it
was a good morning. Tye was a living contradiction, at least in
Ashe's mind. Tye was short but muscular, African-American but with
white curly hair, and he was a nice old man working as correctional
officer. Ashe always enjoyed when Tye had a chance to visit his
cage, especially since they would get a chance to exchange brief
banter.

“How are the kids and grandkids Tye?” Ashe
asked.

“Alive and a pain in my old ass,” he replied.
“How is that son of yours?”

“Turning more of my hair gray,” he somewhat
lied. “I will look like you soon.” Ashe had never admitted to Tye
or anyone else outside of the situation how bad off the
relationship between Scott and himself had become. It was a topic
he avoided, because he would then have to face his own shortcomings
as a father.

“Just wait until he breeds you a grandbaby,”
Tye implied and laughed. “Why do you think I still work so much at
my age?”

“So you can afford to spoil
your
grandbabies?”

“Right on, my friend.”

They shared a chuckle.

Tye's smile turned flat and Ashe recognized
that it was time to get down to business. Even though his mind
wasn't fully in the office, he knew that he had a job to do. And,
honestly, the next case was interesting enough that he might just
be able to focus. “You have,” he pretended to glance at the file,
“a Mr. Franklin Barrett for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Tye replied, stepping the rest of
the way through the doorway.

Behind the old correctional officer, Ashe saw
the pale, thin frame of Franklin Barrett. His skinny form was
dressed in the customary uniform of the prison, blue upon blue,
loose fit and easy to wash. His lengthy dark hair was pulled back
from his forehead, but lacked the gel to keep it firmly in place,
causing stray hairs to fall down across his forehead and ears. His
glasses were a set of thick metal frames holding thick lenses,
which seemed out of place perched on the nose of such a gaunt
face.

Ashe watched closely as the man followed
behind Tye, taking note of his movements, his posture, and his eye
contact. Behavioral observation could sometimes hold important
factors to consider. When broken down to the basics, people were
barely more than a list of their behaviors, their actions,
reactions, and motivations. The key was to piece them together
until they made sense.

Lying next to the white folder was a notepad,
already turned to the first blank page, with a black pen on top.
Using the pen, Ashe jotted down the title
APPEARANCE
.
Underneath of the title, he began to jot down quick notes.
...appears to be clean...definitely underweight...skin is
pale...clothing is neat and not disheveled...eyesight is obviously
bad...does not appear to have any tattoos or piercing that are
visible...overall hygiene is well maintained...

In the rear, beyond Tye and Barrett, were 2
more guards, much younger and broader than Tye. “Have a seat, Mr.
Barrett,” Ashe insisted, motioning to the chair on the other side
of his small desk. With another motion, he dismissed the 3
officers.

“We will be just outside the door,” Tye
reminded Ashe. “You know the drill, my man. The door will be closed
but just hit the button on your desk and we will be here faster
than you can say, 'hollyhelltheyarefast.' Not that I gotta remind
you of all of this or anything.”

They left.

The last statement referred to an incident a
few years prior, Ashe assumed, when a felon pulled a shiny blade on
him. However, instead of hitting the button to call the guards, he
grabbed the solid wooden baseball bat that sat on the wall behind
his desk. Broken nose and skull fracture and several days in the
infirmary were to follow. But not for Ashe. He only had a few
scrapes.

The psychologist snuck a grin.

“Mr. Barrett,” Ashe said to the sitting man.
“Do you mind if I call you Frank?” Barrett had yet to look up from
the floor, not upon entering the office or upon sitting in the
chair. He absolutely refused to meet Ashe’s face. “Frank? Mr.
Barrett? My name is Dr. Walters. Do you know where you are right
now? Do you know why you are here?”

No answer.

“All right,” Ashe mumbled. “I will take the
lead in this conversation, but feel free to jump in at any point,
whenever you have something to say or add. Your file states here,”
he commented, before opening the white folder and turning over a
couple of loose pages, “that you are neither mute nor comatose nor
trapped in any waking fantasy or delusion at this moment in time. I
will underline this section and mark a question mark, because I may
have doubts of my own to these assumptions. But, until proven
otherwise I will make an assumption of my own that you are able to
hear me and have the ability to respond to me.”

The psychology sat a couple seconds without
speaking.

“Mr. Barrett,” he continued, “even though the
state of Ohio has found you guilty instead of insane, they still
have some questions about your overall state of mind. The powers
that be want me to give you an intake evaluation and determine what
mental deficiencies might be affecting you. That is why we are here
today. Do you understand me?” For a few seconds he let the question
linger and watched as Mr. Barrett continued to inspect something on
the concrete floor. There was a faint stain, the psychologist knew.
It stuck halfway out from under the desk. He watched as the felon
inspected the blemish. The stain was something that was present in
reality and Mr. Barrett was either focused on it out of obsession
or the desire to avoid eye contact. Either way, the man appeared
present and accounted for.

With the pen, Ashe jotted the
word...
guarded.

“Our first session,” Ashe began, “will be
simple.” He closed the folder. “At this point, I am not worried
about your crime. That will come later. I want to meet...and greet
you...so to say. Get to know you. The person. Your interests and
hobbies. For example. In my free time I like to go above my budget
and dine out, usually picking the most expensive Italian restaurant
I can find. It is the glutton in me, I know it well. I also enjoy
golfing and watching basketball. I do crossword puzzles, too. And I
love a cold Sam Adams after a long day. How about you? What do you
like to do in your spare time?”

No answer.

“Hobbies can say a lot about a person,” Ashe
continued. “What a man does with his spare time speaks volumes
about his character. You agree?”

Dead air.

Ashe continued to let the silence hold sway
over the room. He leaned far back in his chair and watched closely
to how Mr. Franklin reacted beneath the weight of silence. And for
a fleeting moment, the killer glanced up at him before swiftly
putting his eyes back to the brown stain.

The simple glance proclaimed a lot.

It was time to break the silence. He knew
exactly how to startle the calm waters that was Franklin
Barrett.

“How is your family?”

At the word family, Barrett slightly
flinched, and Ashe caught it.

“ So...your family is a pretty big deal, or
so I am told,” Ashe continued, scribbling down a few more notes.
“Correct me if I am wrong, but the Barrett family owns most of
Northeast Ohio. Give or take. Maybe even some of Pennsylvania. Am I
right? I bet you live the good life. Or
lived
the good life,
anyway,” he asserted. Pointing to the cage around him, he
continued, “I don’t exactly live paycheck to paycheck, but money
can get tight. I couldn't imagine not having to worry about
money.”

Barrett murmured.

“Did you say something, sir?”

“Money is evil,” he spoke up.

Ashe perked up. “Why do you believe that, Mr.
Barrett?”

He didn't answer.

“The way I see it,” Ashe began, “money is
only as evil as those who spend it.”

“Or those who covet it,” Barrett added.

“What makes you say that?”

He didn't answer.

Ashe continued to poke and prod.

He knew more about the Barrett family than he
led on, choosing to fake ignorance in order to ask certain
questions. The arrest of Franklin Barrett for the murder of his
wife and son had been front page news for the few months leading up
to the trial. The trial was predicted to last for months to years,
but the trial didn't last as long as expected. Franklin Barrett had
quickly and unexpectedly pled guilty for both murders.

Barrett swore that his wife and son were
plotting to kill him for his life insurance and estate, but no
proof of a plot was ever discovered, as far as Ashe knew. Little
else was spoken about why the man had felt the need to murder his
wife and son.

The Barrett family was a corporate family,
with rumored ties to the mob. To Ashe, Franklin Barrett looked
nothing like a tough guy from the mob.

“We will return to the subject of money in a
minute,” Ashe stated. “How is your relationship with your family?
From what I have seen on television, it looks like you guys are a
tight-knit bunch. Is that true, Franklin? Do you have a good
personal and professional relationship with the members of your
family?”

“They didn’t leave me any other choice,”
Franklin claimed, his head remaining low. “They wanted me
dead.”

“Who wanted you dead, Mr. Barrett?”

“But I stopped them,” he replied. “Kill or be
killed.”

“Who?” Ashe asked. “Who did you kill?”

Barrett went silent again.

Ashe realized that he was fidgeting his pen,
back and forth between his pointer and thumb. Ceasing the motion,
he wrote another set of words and circled them.
Paranoia might
be present and a factor in the crimes. But is the inmate also
delusional? Self-defense? Unclear.

“Mr. Barrett?”

Barrett returned to staring down lifelessly
at the floor. Whatever he had been before the crime, strong or
powerful, he appeared to be nothing more than a sad and broken man,
locked in a prison of his own making.

“Franklin?”

No answer.

“Mr. Barrett?”

Nothing.

Ashe wrote a few more quick thoughts:

Franklin Barrett seems to be struggling with
regret and affliction. It appears to be sincere. But he feels
absolutely justified in his crimes. Kill or be killed? That is what
he said. What did that mean exactly, beyond the usual sense of the
phrase? How clear was his mind during the time of the killings? Did
he understand the difference between right and wrong? Should have
the insanity plea been explored more strongly?

Ashe watched the man for a few more moments,
once again paying close attention to the movements of his eyes.
They were straight and narrow, never darting and never wandering
away from the stain. They still seemed to be focused. The
psychologist had no doubt that the killer was purposely avoiding
any eye contact and act that showed effort and willpower. Barrett
had a lot to tell him, but it would have to wait for later
sessions. The man’s shell was too thick. Cracking it would either
have to be gentle or brutal, and it was yet to be seen which it
would be.

The guilty confession had been real and
honest, I have no doubt. It is as real as the regret he feels for
his crimes. But he still feels as if he had no choice. No choice?
The regret had formed around him like a hard shell. But the shell
had cracks. How could I further expand the cracks in the shell?
How? What might be found beneath the layers of shell?

Reaching out, he pushed the button and called
back the guards. The first session was over. He made one final
note.

The inmate needs to be put under suicide
watch…until further notice.

Chapter 2