Ashes to Ashes Read online

Chapter 1

  Ashe Walters' grip tightened a little more on his cell phone as his call once again went to voice mail. He let out a stiff breath and listened again to his son politely and casually explaining that he was elsewhere and he would return the call some other time. It was the third time in the last hour and a half that he had tried to get in contact with his son, Scott. Each time he didn't even get the courtesy of a ring from the other end.

  Straight to voice mail. Scott’s phone was shut off, Ashe figured.

  As the recording of Scott's voice came to an end, Ashe decided to finally leave a message after the beep. “Scott. How are you, son?” Staring blankly at the far wall of his office, he tried to gather his thoughts and continue, “I got your message. I don't know...exactly...what to make of it...to be honest. I am trying to get a hold of you to make sure everything is okay.” Ashe never noticed that his office had an echo, but while he sat and struggled with his wording, he could hear his voice slightly repeating in the background. “Give me a call as soon as you get this. Bye.”

  Pushing END on the cell phone, Ashe reluctantly placed it on the top of his desk, next to a closed white file. He stared at it, fighting the sudden urge to call Scott again and again and again until he finally got at least a single ring from the other side. Just one ring. And then his mind would find a little ease.

  Or maybe it wouldn't.

  He wasn't sure.

  Ashe controlled his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He had no evidence that anything was amiss, except for a short and strange message, which only seemed to provide him with a puzzle piece without an actual puzzle. Without an identifiable puzzle, there was nothing to solve, nothing to be concerned about. He was simply giving in to the illusion of a problem, where none may actually exist. Maybe he was simply searching for a riddle to solve, something solid to clench his hand around. Or perhaps, he may want or need a way to reach out and grasp his son.

  But, Ashe tried to remind himself, Scott had been out of his reach for as long as the boy was able to run. As soon as Scott had realized that he had a set of legs beneath of him, he hurriedly made use of them. For football. For track. For basketball. And to swiftly run away to college. He always had places to go and people to see. He wasn't even sure if Scott stopped running long enough to look back, to remember the things and the people that he had left behind.

  Ashe took a large portion of the blame upon himself. He could call his son more often, even if it was only for a minute. It would use very little time from his busy schedule. And it would take little to no effort. But he didn't. He never forced himself to pick up the phone.

  They both had fled, he realized, his son and himself, away from everything that their relationship represented. The admittance of each other’s existence forced them to remember pain. Pain neither of them wanted to recall. That was the cold, hard fact.

  Why the message then? Why call?

  Even with all the rationalizing, Ashe couldn't shake the gut feeling that something was wrong with Scott. There had to be a clue in the recording, something beneath that tickled Ashe's instincts.

  Picking his cell phone back up, he connected once again to his voice mail. “D...Dad?” Then there was silence. “Damn...your voice mail. Call me? Call me back as soon as you can?” Hollow laugh. “As soon as you can, okay?” A deep breath. “Never mind. Forget it.”

  Ashe turned the message over and over in his mind and for a brief instant a hint of a ghostly puzzle appeared. But it quickly faded before any solid details could stand out, leaving behind only a vague realization, a notion that had leaked in from his subconscious. It was not the words in the message that had bothered Ashe, but the tone in his son's voice. There was something distant, dark, not quite right about the way that Scott had spoken. It went far beyond the mere syllables and syntax. During his work as a forensic psychologist, Ashe had heard that tone, that pitch, many time before, from his inmates, but he never expected to hear it be uttered from the mouth of his own son.

  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?”
r />   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.