Ashes to Ashes

by Nathaniel Fincham

  Chapter 12

  Back in the elevator, Ashe didn't go back down to the main floor but went up two more floors to the fourth floor, where the forensic labs were.

  The fourth floor was known as the dwelling of the science trolls, as some of the officers would jokingly call it. But it was all in good fun. Over the past decade, to say the least, police work had become a highly co-dependent process, splicing together the sweat of the acting detectives and officers with the discoveries of the forensic scientists. Blood analysis, ballistic testing, DNA testing, and other types of similar processes could make or break a case, convicting an offender or proving a suspect innocent. The scientists, the nerds that ran the labs, have become as much a part of the police force as the uniforms and detectives that beat their feet on the streets.

  Once out of the elevator, Ashe marched down the white hallway toward Laboratory Two. No matter how many times he had been on the fourth floor, he was always surprised how immaculately clean everything remained, even though he had never seen a single soul actually scrub a wall or mop an inch of floor.

  It was magic.

  Or gnomes.

  Either...or.

  The door to Laboratory Two was closed. Another closed door. Ashe sighed quietly to himself. He didn't knock, though, but opened the door and went inside, closing the door behind him.

  The lab was exactly as he had remembered it, down to the location of each and every piece of equipment. Nothing seemed to have been moved in the past four years. It was like a picture, never changing, never altering. Long ago Ashe had observed that the extensive and complex group labeled scientist, whether they are from the fields of chemistry or physics, was populated mostly and predominantly by control freaks. Even though they tested and labeled the chaos reality, they obsessively tried to maintain an illusion of order and control inside of their work space, with everything in its correct and proper place.

  It was complete and utter irony, he understood. But what would the world be without the phenomena? Irony. Every thinking man and woman needed a consistent dose of it, or else he or she might get bored to the point of suicide.

  Not only was everything in the lab the same, but so was the lab tech, Ginger. Ginger was hunched over a narrow computer monitor, wearing a long white coat and latex gloves. Ashe couldn't help but to smile at the figure of the old man with bright red hair. Even though Ginger was in his sixties, there wasn't a gray hair on the man's head, only red and more red. Ashe never could tell whether it was natural or dyed. Even his facial hair, his nicely trimmed beard and mustache was a perfect shade of cherry.

  Ginger’s own nickname was an obvious clue to the man’s personality. Calling an Irishman a “ginger” was equivalent to punching him in the nose. Do not do it! It will not end pretty! Urban legends and stereotypical stigma often considered a “ginger” person to be soulless. An Irishman, with their hearty laugh and love of drink and joke, was far from soulless. But, ironically, Ginger admitted to Ashe that he had given the nickname to himself, sometime during middle school. The lab rat chuckled and chuckle during the confession, and Ashe couldn’t help but to chuckle along with him. The psychologist was far from surprised at the revelation. He had known Ginger long enough by that point to avoid being surprised by anything the lab tech said or done.

  When it came down to the brass tacks of it, Ashe liked Ginger. He even trusted the man.

  “Ginger,” Ashe said, trying to get his attention. “Ginger,” he repeated, raising his voice a little. “Ginger!”

  Finally the man turned, giving the psychologist a better look at him. Ashe had been wrong. The man had changed, even if the changes were slight. The wrinkles on the lab tech’s forehead had multiplied and deepened into gorges. There were also frown lines at the edges of his lips, where only hints of them had existed before. There were indeed changes. Ginger had aged. He had aged four years. But Ashe felt confident that the changes were only surface deep. He could never see Ginger being anything other than Ginger, no matter how many years aged his body.

  When the lab tech’s eyes registered the identity of his guest, a wide and familiar grin spread across his face. “Are you lost?” He had a slight Irish accent, one that had faded over time but refused to be gone completely.

  “I could be.” Ashe fidgeted, shifting the case files from his right hand to his left.

  Ginger came over to Ashe and motioned to shake his hand but didn't complete the greeting. Instead, he showed the psychologist his latex gloves, which had something wet on the palms. He shook his head. “I will have to shake your hand in due time, my friend.”

  “Works for me,” Ashe replied and happily retracted his hand. “How have you been, Ginger?”

  “Livin' the dream,” he announced. “You? Still trying to understand the crazies of the world?”

  “Always,” Ashe said. “I'm still expecting you for our first session.”

  “Don't hold your breath.” He laughed. “What brings you to my floor of the building? I didn't think I would see you again, not until I was called to process the crime scene of your murder, that is.”

  “My murder?”

  “Dealing with all those crazies, pissing in their Wheaties,” Ginger began, “will only get you shot or stabbed or all out gutted in the end.”

  “Let's hope not,” Ashe replied.

  “I look forward to processing your crime scene, Ashe,” Ginger said. “It would be an honor.”

  “Honor would be all mine, I'm sure,” Ashe replied. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “I don't do favors.” He shook his head. But he didn't turn away.

  “A second ago you were talking about processing my murder site,” Ashe questioned, showing confusion. “But now you won't do me a simple favor? Make sense to you, Ginger?”

  “It does.”

  Ashe was surprised by the turn of the conversation. He didn’t expect to hit such a solid wall when it came to the lab tech, at least not only seconds into the meet. Ginger always had a bullheaded streak, sometime to the point of annoyance, but he had never refused to help Ashe outright.

  The psychologist put a hand in his pants pocket and felt the black and gold container. He thought about Scott. “I would appreciate it. If I remember correctly, you owe me a favor.”

  “Do I? I don't recall that.”

  “How is your brother doing, Ginger?” Ashe asked. “I hear that the treatment schedule they have him on over there at Sunshine is working well. He might even be released within the next year.”

  Ginger groaned and rubbed his red hair. “Entirely true, buddy.” He was silent for a few seconds. “As long as this has nothing to do with your son. I can't help on that one, mate. Oscar would have my goose for dinner. And you know it. He has warned all of the building against helping you if it involves Scott. Sorry.”

  Ashe didn't take a moment to think. He immediately blurted, “It's not. I wouldn't ask you to go against Oscar. I simply wouldn't do that. I'm seeing someone,” he lied, “and I am not sure about her, yet. I found something while I was in her house the other day and I hope that you could test it for me. I want to be sure about her. You…know why. I don't think she does any drugs, but what I found makes me wonder. It has been a long time since I put myself out there. I want to be sure. You understand that, Ginger?”

  “I do.”

  Taking a chance, Ashe used his free hand and pulled out the container, while also trying not to drop the case files Oscar had given him. “It looks like a lipstick container. But it’s not. I don't know what was in it, but there is a little powder at the bottom. A little. It might be coke or something else. I don't know. Will you test it, please. Off the books. I just need to know. Will you help me?”

  Ashe hoped there was enough of the powder at the bottom of the container for Ginger to test. It might help to at least narrow down the possibilities. Give him an answer. Give him a l
ead. Give him something...more than what he already had.

  Two more had been bodies linked to his son and he was no closer to finding the truth. He wanted to bounce his head off a nearby wall. But refrained.

  “How about it?”

  Ginger groaned again. “Yea…okay. It stays between I and yourself?”

  “Definitely.” Ashe handed over the container, reluctantly.

  “I will call you when I know something,” Ginger told him.

  “I've been hearing that a lot lately,” Ashe mumbled.

  “Huh?”

  “I appreciate your help,” Ashe assured him. “Good to see you.”

  “You too. We square when it comes to me brother?”

  “Get me some answers about that powder and we will be square with some left over.”