Ashes to Ashes (4 page)

The waitress smiled and jotted down the order
in shorthand.

“Same,” Katherine told the waitress, which
the waitress also jotted, before ducking away.

“Writer?” Ashe asked.

“Yep,” she answered, before drinking from her
bottle. “I can't tell you what I am writing, though, because it is
top secret. I don't want you to steal my epic idea. I will say that
it is like Harry Potter meets The Sound and the Fury.”

“Sounds...fascinating.”

“Indeed,” she said, agreeing. “What is it
like working with crazy people?”

“I don't work with crazy people, exactly,”
Ashe clarified, with a slight laugh. Crazy people. It was a term
that he has heard quiet often. If they only understood how more
complicated and complex that term actually was. If it was easy, his
job would be a walk in the park, which it definitely was not. “I
administer assessment and treatment at Wilson Maximum Security
Prison. I assess all inmates during initial intake into the prison
and then decide if a mental illness may be present. Some are more
obvious than others. And you’d be surprised how many criminals are
completely sane. But if there are symptoms present, I have to
diagnose the illness, plan and run the treatment schedule.

“I thought the crazy people get weeded out in
court?” Katherine asked. “The insanity defense…or whatever?”

“In spite of popular thought, the insanity
plea rarely holds up in court and never gets anyone off. Prisons
have a good number of inmates with mental illnesses, mild to
severe, and they deserve treatment just like anyone else.”

“Do they? Why? They are murderers and
rapist.”

“It is not that simple.”

“Isn't it?”

“With living, breathing, thinking people…it
never is.”

“Are you still a consultant for the YPD?”

Ashe was caught off guard by the question. He
hasn't done that in a long time. Not since his wife's death. “My
sister is thorough, I will give her that much. Not in a long time.
4 years, give or take. Let’s just say that I used to help an old
friend out, now and again, but not anymore.”

“How's come? That seems right up your
alley.”

“Personal reasons,” he replied.

For nearly a minute there was no more
speaking.

“I had a wife.”

“I know.”

“And she passed several years ago.”

“Your sister told me,” Katherine revealed.
“But she never told me how. You don't want to talk about it...I am
sure. I am not trying to pry. I am curious at the cellular level,
but I know where the boundaries are.”

“An accident.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” she expressed,
reaching out for his hand. Ashe began to reach across the table for
hers, but withdrew it at the sound of his chirping cell phone. He
was almost glad for the interruption.

Pulling the phone from his pocket and
brushing the screen, he answered the call. After listening to the
other side intensely, Ashe ended the call with a simple, “I will be
right there.” Glancing over to Katherine, unsure how to meet her
eyes, he conveyed, “I have to go. An old friend wants to have some
words with me. I haven’t heard from the man…in a…long time. I
really
am
sorry, but it must be important. I really have to
run. What a way to end a first date. I apologize.”

“
First
date? Does that mean that there
will be a second?”

“I will call you and you can tell me,” he
said sincerely. Ashe wasn't exactly sure why, but he wanted another
chance. “I am going to stop by the desk and insist that I pay for
everything ordered and future additions. Order whatever you want,
that is legal. No. I insist. Stay all night if you want. It was
nice meeting you, Katherine.”

“It was.”

Cursing under his breath, Ashe took one last
mouthful of alcohol. He then rushed away from the table, worried
about what else the night had in store for him. All he wanted was
to go to bed early. That was never more than a dream.

Chapter 4

As he pushed his way into the police station,
Ashe was struck in the face by an onslaught of memories. For quite
a few years Ashe had balanced a split career. On one side he worked
at Wilson Maximum Security Prison under another forensic
psychologist, Dr. Yosef Hadmira, but that was only part-time,
as-needed work. On the other side he was a paid expert consultant
for the Youngstown Police Department, working most of the time for
the homicide department, and his old friend Oscar Harrison.
Sometimes he would also help with other cases, some involving
robber or rape or other types or crime. He would even occasionally
help other departments in the surrounding area, like Cleveland.

One of the reasons that Ashe had first begun
consulting was because he felt like he was helping society, as
clichéd as that may seem. It was true, though. Somewhere deep down,
he must have the common hero-complex that some people seemed to be
built with. He honestly wanted to help people and stop bad
guys…quote…unquote. It was something that burned deep, and the
coals would always be hot, he figured, even though he quit
consulting many years before. He was just one end of the spectrum,
though, he knew. While the need to be important and to save others
ran in the blood of some, the need to conquer and rape ran in the
blood of others.

It was that darker end of the spectrum that
he wished to better understand. Why was there less light? Where do
the dark colors come from? Mental illness? Chemical imbalance?
Impulse control? Evil? Demons? Satan? In the end, they seemed to be
different words to describe the same phenomenon.

Behavior.

It had been hard, stressful work. Some cases
had been simple, involving obvious suspects like a cheating husband
or greedy son-in-law. Those had been cut and dry. But there had
also been cases that were far from simple, ones that would not fit
easily in a solved or an unsolved folder. Those were the cases that
had tested Ashe, his education, his professional skills, and
sometimes, during those certain jobs, his beliefs, his sanity, and
even his own sense of reality.

He would always walk away from those
cases...altered. And there had sometimes been dire consequences. It
had been one of those consequences that forced him to walk away
from consulting four years before.

There was a long desk directly inside the
police station, with a guard and a metal detector. Ashe recognized
the guard on duty. He waved to Oswald and nodded.

“Welcome back, Dr. Walters,” Oswald greeted,
surprised to see the psychologist. “Here to see Oscar?”

“He called.”

“Kind of late.”

“You don't have to tell me. Any ideas?”

“I just watch the door. Keep the shady folks
out,” he insisted. “Come on through.” he motioned to the metal
detectors. The psychologist emptied his pockets and passed through
unheeded. On the other side, Oswald handed Ashe an all access
visitors pass.

“How's the family?” Ashe asked.

“Good. You?”

“Can't complain.”

“Nice seeing you, Dr. Walters,” Oswald
conveyed as Ashe turned from him.

“You too, Oswald,” Ashe replied.

He swiftly took the elevator to the second
floor. Once out of the elevator, he noticed that the floor of the
homicide division was a flutter with activity. Weaving through the
desks, Ashe nodded to a couple of familiar faces.

“The boss in?” He asked a short Latino man
who was sitting at a desk near to Detective Harrison’s office.
Fredrick Jones was his name. Good guy. Good cop. Bad drinker.

Detective Jones nodded.

Ashe gently but firmly knocked on Detective
Harrison's office door and waited for a response. Detective Oscar
Harrison was one of the head officers in the homicide department.
He led one of several investigative teams. And he and the
psychologist were old, old friends, going clear back to school age.
Oscar used to cheat off Ashe during Geometry. Ashe let Oscar beat
up any bully that wouldn't leave him alone. They were indeed old
friends. And they both seemed to have fallen on the same side of
the spectrum...the lighter side.

The naive side, some might say.

Ashe knocked again and was greeted with,
“It's unlocked!”

Opening the door, he strolled straight in,
closed the door behind him, and sat down.

Harrison's office was almost as small and
cramped as his own, but held a comfortable feeling that Ashe never
could muster for his cage. Perhaps it was the carpet. Perhaps it
was the subtle yet effective black and white pictures hanging on
the walls, depicting the good ole days of crime fighting, when
police officers had long hair and thick cigars. It might also have
been the single window, with the view of a tall tree, something
that Ashe’s cage would never have. Whatever it was, it made the
psychologist a little jealous.

“You got here faster than I expected,”
Harrison stated, putting down a pen. “It is good to see you, Ashe.
It has been a while. How are things? I’ve been meaning to
call.”

“And I’ve been meaning to answer. Things
are...normal,” Ashe replied. “Normal for me, anyway. You
look...healthy.”

Oscar grunted. “I am. In a way. Cholesterol
still high. Did I interrupt something? You look...dressy...if that
is even a word. Why are you dressed up so late?” He looked at the
clock on the wall. It read 10:49. “I figured that I would have
gotten you out of bed. Early to bed…early to rise...or
something.”

“Late to bed, early to rise, is more like it,
these days. Blind date, actually,” he replied. “Sarah had set it
up. First one since...first one in a while.”

“Really?”

“Yea.”

“I'm sorry that I had to blow that for you,
man,” Oscar expressed, sincerely, picking the pen back up off his
desk. He began to chew on the capped end. “I know that it couldn't
have been easy making that step.”

“It was more of a look than a step,” Ashe
explained. “See what is in the pit before I willingly plunge back
into it. If I ever choose to plunge back in. You know what I
mean?”

The detective grunted. “A little morbid, but
I do,” he replied. “How is work?”

“Complex.”

Oscar gave a little groan. “Isn't it always?
They sent Barrett to Wilson. You had the pleasure of his company,
yet?”

“You know that I have,” he responded. “Your
name was all over the news on that one. Prime time coverage. You
looked a little pale on the television, though. You need to get
more sun.”

“I'm South American,” Oscar began, trying to
rile up his subtle Spanish accent. “I never look pale.”

“You were born in Arizona and raised here in
Ohio,” Ashe corrected him. “You're
mother
and
father
are South American.”

“Technicalities.”

“Why am I here, Oscar? Small talk was never
your strongest skill. And the way that you are chewing on that pen
is a giveaway. You've also been looking down at your desk more than
at my eyes. What is wrong?”

“When was the last time you spoke to
Scott?”

“Scott?” Ashe asked. “It has been a while.
You know how things had gotten between us. It hasn't gotten any
better over the past few years.” He thought about mentioning the
strange voice mail, but immediately changed his mind. Just because
the message sounded weird to him, doesn't mean that Oscar would
hear anything out of the ordinary.

“That is a shame,” Harrison replied, shaking
his head.

“What does me being here have to do with
Scott? Did something happen to my son, Oscar?”

The detective took an obvious second to
gather his thoughts. “A call came in earlier this evening, at
around dusk, from an apartment complex just outside of the YSU
campus. King Tower. Neighbor heard a gunshot coming from the
apartment across the hall and called it in to 911. When officers
arrived, the front door to that apartment was ajar. Upon entering
the premises, the officers found a body in a back bedroom, lying
face down in a bed. A single gunshot wound to the back of the
head.” Leaning back in his chair, he continued. “I didn't know that
it was Scott's apartment until I got there and saw the pictures in
his room.”

“Scott?” Ashe asked. “In his bed?”

“The body was not Scott, Ashe. Of that I was
immediately certain,” Oscar assured him. “We believe it to be
Scott's roommate.”

“Ummm…Owen?”

“Owen Roberts,” Oscar concurred, nodding his
head. “That was the name we were given.”

“Scott?”

“Scott is missing,” Oscar replied. “A young
man fitting his description was seen by several witnesses fleeing
from the building. No one can say with certain which way he was
heading, only that he was on foot.”

The psychologist didn’t know what to say.

“Does Scott own a handgun?” Oscar
continued.

“Not that I know of,” Ashe replied. “He was
never much of a firearms type of person.”

Questions were filling Ashe's brain,
scattered across his mind like long, complicated equations.,
equations that were missing important variables. He had to find the
missing sections in order to solve the equations.

“
No
,” Oscar quickly demanded.

“What?”

“I know that look,” Harrison replied. “Your
wheels are spinning so fast that they are smoking up my office.
Let
us
handle
this
.”

“Scott is my son.”

“And you are too close to this,” Oscar
insisted. “You know more than anyone how things can go when someone
gets emotionally compromised. It is never good. Things go sour when
you can't think rationally.”

“I always think straight. It’s what I
do.”

“You can compartmentalize better than most
people, Ashe,” the Detective declared. “I'm not arguing against
that fact. And I've always admired that in you. It makes you
strong. It makes you good at your job. Maybe even a little cold,
seemingly objective to a fault, in some cases. But this is
different. This is your son. And he may have murdered someone. No
one can be objective, distant in a situation like this. It is not
possible. And I have seen how you can be when things get too
personal for you. We all have seen the consequences.”