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 contin
ued. “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.”
“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.
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