Ashes to Ashes (5 page)

“Scott doesn't have it in him to kill
anyone.”

“Are you sure?”

Ashe wanted to say yes but couldn't. There
have been numerous times when an inmate, someone responsible for
violent and atrocious crimes, had once upon a time been a normal,
law abiding, lord fearing person. Sometimes something happened, an
unforeseen event or factor occurred, giving them a reason, a
rationale to commit heinous acts, like murder. The event or factor
could come on gradually or suddenly.

Had it happened to Scott?

“I
can
help,” Ashe argued.

“You
can
help,” Oscar agreed. “Go
home. But stay in contact. If Scott calls you or comes and sees
you, get him to turn himself in. He is only a suspect, Ashe. We
just need to find out what happened.”

“You know the suspect too,” Ashe pointed out.
“Doesn’t that cause conflict of interest for you, as well?
Shouldn’t you pass it on to one of the other teams?”

“It fell on my rotation,” Oscar replied. “My
boss already cleared it. Or would you rather have Connelly on
it?”

Ashe bit back his frustration and shook his
head.

Pulling a yellow pad of paper from his desk,
Harrison asked, “What is Scott's cell phone number?”

He gave it.

“I know you said that you haven't been in
much contact with him, but can you think of any place Scott might
go?” Harrison asked. “Girlfriends? Close friends? Hang outs?
Anything would help.”

Ashe thought about it for a minute. He just
simply didn't know a lot about Scott's life, of his normal
routines. He knew little about his son...period. Did Scott's have a
girlfriend? Friends? He was sure that his son had those things, but
did not know who they were.

“I don't...know,” he admitted.

“Okay. No problem.” Oscar jotted down a few
words. “We have a B.O.L.O out on Scott. We will find him
eventually. I just want things to go down nice and smooth. If I
have any further questions, which I probably will, I will give you
a call. ”

“Damn it, Oscar,” Ashe swore. “Don't put me
on the sidelines.”

“It is already done.”

Silence.

Ashe wanted to swear and yell but it would do
no good. When he planted himself, Oscar Harrison was like a wall,
stubborn and immovable. But, no matter how tall or long most walls
were, there was a way around them or over them. If he had to, he
might have to find a way through.

“Ashe?”

“What.”

“If it helps, I don't believe that Scott did
it either. He was always a good kid,” he admitted. “But I need to
know what
did
happen and why Scott ran from it. He needs to
come in...soon.”

“Are we done?” Ashe asked.

The detective took a deep breath. “For
now...I believe.”

Without saying goodbye to his friend, Ashe
rose and exited the office. All he wanted to do was run home and
clear his head. His thoughts were jumbled, crammed together
uncomfortably. It was a mess of worrisome ideas and troublesome
notions.

On his way out of the police building, he
pulled out his cell phone and dialed Scott's number. A recording of
his son's voice instantly greeted him. He hung up without leaving a
message.

Chapter 5

Ashe quickly changed his mind about clearing
his head at home. It simply wouldn’t work. His head would never
clear. And for what seemed like hours, all he was able to do was
drive fast and angry with no discernible destination before him. He
circled and circled the city of Youngstown, his knuckles tight and
white on the wheel, while obsessively checking his mirrors for the
flashing blues and reds of an approaching police car. He couldn't
remember the last time both his car and his mind raced with that
much frantic uncontrollable energy. The last thing Ashe needed was
a speeding ticket.

Youngstown was calm and quiet, even for a
night in the middle of the week. The hush of the empty streets was
the polar opposite to what was going on inside of Ashe. He couldn't
get his mind wrapped around what Oscar had told him.

Scott was suspected of murder.

His career as a forensic psychologist, in
which he had many years of experience, was aimed at understanding
the motivations and behaviors of people, even criminals. And he
always considered himself to be somewhat competent. But he never
thought he would have to figure out and maybe even justify the
actions or suspected actions of his own son. Never in a million
years. As a child, Scott had always been outgoing and outspoken,
even from his first word, which was “no.” Yet, no matter how
outgoing and outspoken Scott had been, he had always been kind and
giving and never violent or aggressive, even when he played pee-wee
baseball and football. He was always competitive, like his father,
but Scott would never hurt another person.

But that was Scott as a child...and even as a
teenager. How well did Ashe know his son as an adult, though? There
were too many possibilities and unknowns in Scott's present life
for Ashe to be comfortable making any type of decision or opinion.
There was simply too much that he didn't know. He just
didn't
know. And it made him feel confused and uncertain
about the innocence of his own son. Could Scott have murdered
someone? He wanted to say no...no way…but he knew better.

No matter how much he desired to seek out the
unknowns, though, Oscar Harrison had abandoned him to the sidelines
of the investigation. Ashe had been labeled
compromised
and
forced to witness everything through an electrical fence, with the
information and clues that he needed out of his view and reach.

He had never been forced to the outside. The
state chose to send him the worst, most viscous criminals to assess
and evaluate, trusting him to do his job, objectively and without
bias. And he did so effectively, even sometimes obsessively, for
years. He had also once stood by the side of Oscar himself through
some strenuous and brutal investigations. Side by side they had
worked the cases. But Oscar had denied him the ability to work
toward finding his son.

How dare Oscar think that he would be
emotionally compromised?

Ashe unconsciously slowed down at a traffic
light and made a swift right turn. He immediately became aware of
the street he had entered. It was dark but he was able to read the
sign. Johnston Street. He knew the name from his memory. Glancing
to the right, he saw Youngstown State University looming against
the far horizon, tall buildings against the black night sky. They
looked like giants watching from a far. To his left, he came upon
an apartment building, one in which Scott had lived in for two or
more years. It was the same building from which his son had fled,
either in fear or guilt, as his roommate lay shot, bloody and dead.
The image gave the psychologist a shiver.

He had only been to the building once or
maybe twice, though he couldn't remember the meaning for the
visits. It was most likely business void of pleasure or personal
regard, a fact that he at once regretted. His subconscious must
have brought him to the building, in spite of his friend's order to
remain on the outside. And his instinct must have figured a reason,
a rationale that brought him to King Tower. At that moment, Ashe
understood that he would never be able to remain on the sidelines.
Not when the suspect was Scott.

Instead of pulling into an empty parking
space across the street or in front of the apartment complex, Ashe
continued beyond the building and swung into the small lot of a
bankrupt gas station. He was not the only person to take advantage
of the abandoned piece of asphalt, three other vehicles also used
it for either permanent or temporary parking. He slammed the maroon
Mazda to a halt, causing his body to slightly jerk forward with the
momentum. It took a couple seconds for him to snatch back his
breath.

The psychologist slid slowly into the silence
and shadows of closed down business. After exiting his car, he
began to walk cautiously down the road. Hands in pockets, trying to
look casual, Ashe came closer to the front of the building. All at
once he froze in place, as if suddenly turning to ice. His eyes
fell on a brown Crown Vic sitting along the road at the front of
the apartment building, a figure behind the wheel.

“Damn,” Ashe swore.

He should have known that Oscar would place
an officer outside of Scott's building, undercover, with eyes
continuously on the front set of double doors. The officer, most
likely a rookie, would have a picture of Scott and would notify
Oscar if he would happen to return. The rookie would sit there all
night, watching and waiting, to be replaced by another rookie in
the morning.

It was a pointless assignment, which was why
Oscar would only assign a rookie to it. But the pointless move came
from an old experience, Ashe knew. Oscar hadn’t always appreciated
surveillance, mostly because he hated to remain still. One case had
changed his mind, though. In the middle of 2000 a fifteen year old
female by the name of Claudette Janita Jones went on the run after
strangling her mother to death. After taking a few hours to speak
to Claudette’s family in order to gather information about the
running killer, Ashe suggested to his old friend that they leak
some false information to the media, claiming that the mother had
actually survived the assault and was back in her home. Oscar
wasn’t immediately convinced of the tactic, but the psychologist
explained the level of hatred that the juvenile had for her mother,
a hatred that had become all encompassing. The detective never
believed that the young woman would be stupid enough to return to
the scene of the crime, but Ashe knew that she would never stay
away while her mother still breathed. And the psychologist had been
right. They walked right up on Claudette Janita Jones as she
approached the front door of the house, a long knife held firmly in
her hand.

But Scott would not return like that young
killer. He couldn’t say that he knew his son well, but he had been
privy to Scott’s determination whenever he was trying to run. Ashe
was sure that his son was long gone and would never return to the
scene of the crime. He knew it for a fact. After Susanne had died,
Scott found his chance to run to college with scholarship in hand
and never once returned to the scene. Ashe figured that he took
some comfort in the fact that his son didn't run across the
country, only into Youngstown, a stone's throw away. He just never
took advantage of the proximity and reached out, at least not
enough to make a difference. At that moment he regretted it, more
than ever before.

Still paused, Ashe considered his options.
The rookie might not know him personally, having been away from
police business for quite a few years. Oscar knew him, however, and
how stubborn he could be. His old friend quite possibly had given
the rookie a picture or description of himself, as well.

“Damn,” Ashe repeated.

To the left was a little alleyway that seemed
to lead to the other side of the apartment complex. It appeared to
circle around to the back of the building. He wondered if there was
another door. Would that door be covered as well? He pictured
another undercover hanging around the back entrance, harmlessly on
the phone or smoking a cigarette. Once exposed to the undercover,
Ashe would have nowhere to hide. What excuse could he possible
conjure up to explain his being there?

He considered the option and the possible
exposure and quickly decided to take his chances. The psychologist
took the alley with caution and careful steps. Coming to the
backside of the tall building, he saw there was indeed a single
back door.

A tall gentleman wearing a dark brown hoodie
stood several feet from the back door, exposed by a single light
hanging from the side of the building. Ashe froze again. He could
see the lit tip of the man’s cigarette, along with the several
butts that had been discarded at the man’s feet. More surveillance,
Ashe realized.

Ashe didn’t move for many seconds, unsure how
to react. He didn’t step forward nor did he turn back. He was still
as stone. The psychologist watched as the man glanced in his
direction. The undercover officer gave Ashe a brief once over
before turning his attention toward another direction.

A breath escaped Ashe’s lungs. He shook the
tension from his shoulders and approached the back door. But, as he
got closer to the door he noticed that it had a scanner. A red
light blinked. It was a card reader. And that was when he recalled
that the front doors had one as well. They were the building
owner’s attempt at security. He vaguely remembered them, proving
that he had indeed been there at least once.

He swore under his breath.

From the corner of his eye, Ashe watched a
young couple appear, walking toward him. Faking annoyance, he
searched his pockets and wallet for an imaginary entrance card.
When the couple arrived, they were more than happy to let him
in.

How nice of them. So much for the illusion of
top-notch security.

Once inside, he quickly made a comment to the
young couple. “Did you hear what happened? Crazy. Right? My son
lives in the building…on the top floor. I’m kind of worried. I hope
he doesn’t mind me coming by so late. I just need to know that he
is okay.”

The young lady nodded rapidly. “I heard it
was a gang hit.”

Her boyfriend laughed. “It wasn’t a gang hit.
That’s stupid. Cheating girlfriend…is what I heard. Caught her in
the act.”

They didn’t know what happened, Ashe assumed.
They were nothing but a part of the rumor river that often ran
through small communities, and an apartment complex was nothing
more than micro-community. They would not be able to provide the
psychologist with anything solid, anything fact based.