Ashes to Ashes (38 page)

What had happened there?

Oscar returned and grunted at the uniform,
who swiftly stepped aside to let Ashe through the yellow banner.
Ashe didn’t say a word to the officer, because he knew that the
officer was only doing his job, following the orders of his
boss.

Directly behind his old friend, Ashe tried to
take in everything around him, but before he had a chance to let
his eyes explore a tall man appeared directly in front of him,
glaring at the psychologist. “Tell me why I should let the father
of the suspect on my scene? Answer that question for me, Dr.
Walters. I am all ears.”

“Because,” Ashe began, “Sam Adams is king of
beers. Fuck Budweiser.”

“God damn right,” Detective Phillips
blurted.

The detective then raised his hand for Ashe
to shake. Ashe was glad to oblige. “It has been too long,” the
detective said. “I’m sorry that things always have to be this damn
screwed up whenever our paths cross.” The last time that Ashe had
seen Detective Phillips was when they were together on a task force
chasing after a prostitute killer, who turned out to be Steven
Reynolds.

Phillips appeared healthy, rested, a lot
better than the last time that Ashe had seen him. Ashe pictured the
man’s face as it had been back then, bags under his eyes and a
droop at the ends of his lips. But the bags and droop were gone. He
was obviously getting a little bit of sleep, as much sleep a
homicide detective in Cleveland could get, anyway.

“I would understand if you didn’t want me
here, Kurt,” Ashe told him. “Oscar just came around to my presence
in this investigation. He wasn’t easy to persuade.”

“Is he ever?” Phillips stated.

“I am easy going,” Oscar said sarcastically.
“I go with the flow, bending ever in the wind.”

“Bending,” Ashe agreed, before changing the
subject.

“Well,” Oscar said, “this
is
your
scene. I appreciate the call. You didn’t owe me that, but you
already know it.”

“I know it,” Phillips replied. “But this is
your boy too, Oscar. And your son, Ashe. The best way to deal with
this situation is to work together, share information and what not.
You agree?”

“I do,” Oscar said. “What do we have here,
anyway?”

“We have a shit load of witnesses,” Phillips
told Oscar. He pointed to the right where a group of people, adults
and children, were sitting on folding chairs near to a couple of
ambulances. Uniforms were providing them with water and food while
detectives, also wearing blue windbreakers, asked them, most likely
for the hundredth time, what they had seen. Ashe knew the process
and it wasn’t friendly, especially when kids were involved. Kids
just didn’t have the stamina and mentality to deal with something
as serious and in their face as a violent crime.

Kids were too fragile.

Kids were too innocent.

“What are the witnesses saying?” Ashe
asked.

“Most of their stories are the same,” Philips
answered. “The rain came in and the parents got their kids off the
play area and to their vehicles. Some of the parents left while
others stuck around, most likely giving in to their crying kids, to
wait out the rain. I would have done it…to be honest. I give in to
my two sons all the time, just to make them shut up.” He paused.
“They didn’t even see the men until they heard the gunshots.”

“But they did get a look at what was going
on?” Oscar said. “Someone had to have seen Scott or I wouldn’t be
here. Right? Am I right?”

“Scott was spotted and positively identified
by two separate witnesses,” Phillips asserted. “The rest of the
witness didn’t see as much as we hoped, at least when it comes to
identifying those involved. Everyone saw some or most of what
transpired once the first shot was fired, either from Scott or the
other guy.”

“Where is this other guy?” Oscar questioned.
“Have you got a name on him, yet?”

“We do have a name,” Phillips said. “Norman
Bones.”

“Bones?” Oscar cried out.

“Who is Bones?” Ashe pried.

“Hired muscle,” Oscar replied. “If he is the
one that got shot…Scott got lucky. Not many people, allegedly, have
gotten into gun fights with Norman Bones and lived to walk away. We
have plenty of bodies that we are trying to connect to this man…but
nothing ever sticks. He works for some of the rich of the rich
crime bosses and families, even some of the higher types of
gangs.”

“He is not only a local gun,” Phillips added.
“He disappears off the grid now and then, heads up or down the east
coast, from what sources say, taking his
talents
elsewhere,
to other cities. Real piece of work,” he half-joked.

“What kind of shape is he in?” Oscar
inquired.

Phillips replied, “Gunshot wound to the lower
sternum. A lot of blood loss. Exit wound in the back.”

Oscar glanced around the parking area. “Where
is he?”

“Had his ass rushed to the Cleveland Clinic,”
Phillips reacted. “He didn’t die on the way and the doctors told me
that he pulled through surgery just fine. Darn.”

“He should be ready for questioning soon,
then,” Ashe replied, losing interest in the conversation. “We can
get to that…later. I need to walk the scene. I’m rusty…but I need
to do it. Alone.”

Detective Phillips bounced his head. “Be my
guest.”

Removing himself from Oscar and Phillip, he
walked away and took notice of the evidence cones which were placed
strategically throughout the parking lot. Each one marked a crucial
piece of evidence, documenting it with a number, before CSI took a
picture. The picture would be logged into a system of computers and
at a later time the physical evidence would as well. Sometimes the
physical evidence would be processed swiftly, taken immediately, as
it had been when Owen’s bedroom had been processed, but sometimes
it would remain on site where experts could view it in real time,
precisely where it had been dropped or discovered or whatever
during the actual crime. That choice often depended on the lead
investigator and what he believed should happen to the
evidence.

Ashe liked to view the evidence as they lie,
so that he could imagine the crime unfolding before him. He knew
Phillips to also be one of those kinds of investigators, at least
he had been in the past. Ashe wondered if the detective still
operated the same. As the psychologist approached the nearest
orange evidence cone, he instantly noticed that the hard evidence
was still in place. However, it seemed as if some blood remnants
had been irreparably affected by the rain.

How much had been washed away? Had there been
other evidence that had been taken away by the rain before the
police showed up? Could there be pieces of the puzzle lost
forever?

Placed above the areas of found evidence were
sets of tarps that were used to catch the rain if the rain
returned, which, by the look of the clouds, it most likely would.
Rain could be catastrophic for a crime scene and Ashe was surprised
that Phillips had not ordered CSI to remove all evidence,
regardless of the detective’s personal preference. Rain could
easily ruin the integrity of evidence and in turn ruin the
integrity of an investigation.

The psychologist chose to trust Detective
Phillips’ judgment and expertise and move on. He let his eyes
wander from orange cone to orange cone, following the flow of
evidence from one side of the parking lot to the other. He found
one central area which stood out because of excessive splashes of
blood. There was a lot of blood…a lot had been spilled. Even though
the blood had been thinned out by the rain, the core of liquid had
stained deep into the concrete, deep enough to survive the downpour
of water. Ashe knelt down to the splotches of maroon and thought
for a moment.

Close to the blood was a shell casing. Ashe
couldn’t identify the type of gun based only on the shell casing,
he didn’t know guns that well. Oscar would know. Looking close, he
figured it wasn’t large enough to be from a rifle and it didn’t
seem to be from a shotgun.

A handgun? Maybe?

He inspected the immediate area for other
bullet casings, but there were none marked and Ashe didn’t see any
that the CSI would have missed, if the CSI
would
actually
miss anything. One shot. That was all that the shooter in that area
had gotten off. Had it been Norman or Scott? Judging by the amount
of blood, it was most likely the spot where Norman Bones had been
hit.

Another spot a few feet away caught his
attention. A small hole was in the concrete. It had been marked by
a cone as well and looked to Ashe as if a bullet had entered and
been lodged. If the blood had been from Norman Bones, the missed
shot had to have come from Scott. Scott had missed at least a
single shot.

How had his son managed a second or third
shot against a hired gun?

Getting to his feet, Ashe made his way to the
other side of the parking lot where another group of cones stood.
Along the way, he came upon three other cones placed near to the
center of the parking. They seem to be marking faint drops of
blood, drops that seemed to be forming a trail toward the other set
of orange cones.

The other set of cones were placed next to a
yellow line that marked the edge of a parking spot. More blood. It
seemed to be a lot less than what had been spilled at the other
cones. Kneeling closer to the ground, Ashe found two shell casings
that had been discarded. Scott had managed to get off two shots
against a hired killer.

Good boy, Ashe thought proudly.

“Phillips!” Ashe called out, drawing the
attention of the two detective, who had been talking among each
other.

“What do you got, Ashe?” Phillips asked.
“Oscar was just getting me up to speed on your son. Crazy things
are going on.”

“All the cars here accounted for?” Ashe
questioned, pointing to the parked vehicles. “Good. We are
obviously missing the vehicles Scott drove away in. But what about
the one that Norman Bones had come in, most likely with the man
that Scott had taken with him?”

Phillips looked puzzled.

Ashe asked another question, one that may
have been covered while he was walking the scene. “What can you
tell me about the other guy? Do we know who he is, yet?”

“We don’t know,” Oscar replied. “Witnesses
knew who Scott was because of the news conference. It was fresh in
their minds. They did not get a chance to recognize anyone else.
They did say that they believe the guy Scott had taken was injured,
bleeding from his leg.”

“That explains the trail,” Ashe said, eyeing
a path of diluted drops of blood. “I believe the hired gun came
with the man Scott had taken. And this is the main crime scene, but
not the only scene we need to look at. This is only where things
have ended…but we need to find where they began.”

Before Phillips or Oscar could say anything,
Ashe lined himself up with the trial of blood and began to walk
forward. He strolled up to the far end of the taped off perimeter
of the crime scene. Instead of stopping at that point, he bent
underneath the yellow banner and continued forward. He kept his
body facing straight so that he would continue moving in a direct
line.

He could hear Phillips and Oscar walking
behind him, along with what sounded like other footsteps. Ashe
didn’t turn to see who was all on his back, but instead continued
to walk forward. Everyone remained quiet. Only the sound of their
steps could be heard. They walked and walked until another park
road could be seen sitting in the distance. Next to the road was a
small building, possibly a bathroom.

Near to the building, a car could be seen
parked along the road. A yellow Porsche. Ashe stopped and turned to
Oscar and Phillips. Just past the detectives was a little group of
onlookers, both media and other officers. “Tape this area off too
and get the media back.” He pointed out marks on the ground and
blood spots in the dirt. There had been a struggle. “This is our
second scene. It all began here.”

A yellow Porsche sat at the side of the park
road. Ashe went over to inspect the yellow car, walking to the back
of the vehicle, and felt his breath as it froze in his lungs.

“Oscar,” he called. “I know who Scott took
with him.”

His old friend was quickly by Ashe’s side.
“How?”

Ashe motioned to the yellow car and license
plate. “Who do you know who has plates that say that?”

“Son of a bitch,” Oscar groaned. “What the
hell is going on here?”

The license plate was custom and read
LUCKYONE.

“Scott kidnapped Lucky Barrett,” Ashe told
his friend. “Fuck!”

Oscar nodded in agreement.

Fuck indeed.

“I guess I can no long deny a link between
Scott and Franklin Barrett,” Ashe added. “We need to talk to Norman
Bones. We need to know why he was out here with Lucky Barrett. We
need to understand what had happened here.”

Oscar grunted.

Chapter 46

A single lamp was still all that lit the
living room and Bam stood in the thick shadows of it, glaring with
disgust upon her father, who was still tied to the stiff,
uncomfortable chair. Most of his face was back lit by the lamp,
darkened by it, but Bam could see that the smirk was still planted
on his lips. Even though Lucky Barrett sat below Bam, He still
seemed to be looking down on his daughter, as if he always remained
on high.

Exactly how high
did
her father
believed he sat? Bam wondered.

When Bam had met Scott, she instantly knew
that they had something in common, something that was deep within
their psyche. She hadn’t been lucky enough to have had any classes
with Scott, maybe their meeting would have been quicker, their
coupling faster. Instead, she met him before and after basketball
games, which she enjoyed attending on a regular basis. She didn’t
go to games to hang out with friends nor was an acquaintance of a
player, she was someone who enjoyed going to the YSU Penguin games
solo, because it calmed her, making her forget about tests and
other life involved stresses. Like being the daughter of dangerous
and well-known man.