Ashes to Ashes

by Nathaniel Fincham

  Chapter 17

  Ashe Walters felt his head begin to clear as he drove away from the prison. He felt his thoughts loosen as the tenacious tension lessened. The jumble in his brain still existed, the pressure that was crammed in his mind only loosened, but it did not appear to be as tight of a mass as before. He could still feel it, however, like a tumor, but as he bolted away from the prison with a new direction in his immediate sights, he honestly felt a tingle of hope, maybe not hope complete, or hope in a perfect and happy ending to the current crisis, but a sense that he was on the right path to helping his son, which was better than where he had been moments prior, shunned by his friend, doubting himself, while working with abstract pieces of fragmented clues and dreams which only seemed to frustrate him more and more. He was moving forward instead of spinning his wheels in the mud. The mud, which had been thick and sticky beneath his tires, suddenly seemed to become solid, giving him traction, enough traction to get out of the trap.

  His new found sense of purpose might have also been conjured by the clear sky and sunshine overhead. It might have also been the air, which was cool and crisp, existing at a calm and gentle medium, neither too hot nor too cold. A good day like the one around Ashe, with each breath tasting sweet and refreshing, made it easier to think, to prioritize.

  He had a purpose, Ashe told himself, a place to go and begin his official investigation, even if he was disobeying a direct order from the lead detective. Even though he could be considered trustworthy, loyal, and professional by many, it wouldn’t be the first time that he had had to step on a few toes in order to force his will upon stubborn police officers. But he never thought he would have to go against Oscar, someone who always seemed to listen and appreciate what he brought to the table. That fact, that one fact was what seemed to be throwing him off kilter more than anything else. Oscar always had his back. Perhaps his old friend had changed during their time away from each other. Maybe Oscar had lost his trust and faith in a man who was responsible for his own wife’s brutal death.

  It didn’t matter. The psychologist was on his own with an intended destination and he was confident that it would lead to another and another, sure that the beginnings of a path was being constructed out of the rough and rocky terrain that had been previously in his way. All he needed somewhere to start, to take the first real step toward finding his son. He finally admitted that he did not have time to sit around and decipher his son’s dreams or make ignorant assumptions about someone he honestly did not know any longer. He needed to treat Scott like another patient that he was assessing, researching, and evaluating. The act of doing so would involve collecting data from collateral sources, like friends, coworkers, or significant others, any person that had an active role in Scott’s current life, instead of focusing on irrelevant facts from a father who only had information that was old and outdated. Relevant data could even come from legal documentation and personal records. But that would be tricky and Ashe was unsure had to go about retrieving those forms of documentation without the backing of either the prison or Youngstown Police Department. He had neither. He was on truly and completely on his own in the wild.

  He didn’t know his son, Ashe had no choice but to accept, but he could think of a person that would surely know Scott, or at least point him in the right direction.

  In the car’s mirrors, Ashe watched as the immense structure of Wilson, with its tall, wire-topped fences, fell further and further behind him. He usually never saw the prison as either hindering or claustrophobic, because he truly and honestly loved his job, the pros and cons, the good days and bad, all the way down the most violent criminals that would rather slit the psychologist’s throat than let him into their minds. But, that day, he was glad to be driving away from it.

  Using quick glances, Ashe managed to fish both his phone and the phone number from his pocket without side swiping another vehicle. Dialing with his free thumb, he pushed SEND and waited until an automated service answered. He listened as a monotone, robotic female voice listed the available options. Speaking firmly, he told the computer the name of whom he was trying to reach. He then waited another half a minute while the service connected him to that person’s office.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  Finally, a voice answered, “Coach Richard Barker. How may I help you?” If anyone knew his son, anyone at all, it would be his basketball coach. Ashe asked the coach if he would be in the office for the next hour or so, because he would like to stop to speak with him about an important matter that was time sensitive. Coach Barker assured him that he would be in his office until late into the day, even into the night, most likely.

  The coach didn’t seem surprised to hear from Ashe, making Ashe a little nervous, because he had never spoken to the coach a day in his life. He only knew the coaches name due to him finding it on the internet. Because of that fact, the coach should be questioning the urgent and spontaneous meeting. But the man didn’t. Oscar might have spoken to the man already, he thought to himself.

  Oscar was good at his job, that fact was never in question. But would he set traps? Would his old friend leave warning to potentially important people to watch out for and report the psychologist? Ashe wasn’t sure but the possibility made him pause and think. And after thinking, thinking hard, picturing Scott, he continued to drive toward the YSU campus. He even drove a few miles faster. He sighed loudly, but refused to change his directions, no matter what obstacles he might run into.

  Ashe did, however, take a detour past Lincoln Park. He couldn’t help himself. Like an arsonist returning to a blazing building, he had to set his eyes on the scene of the crime. As he came closer, passing it on the street, he could see the swirling berries and cherries of the YPD vehicles. Yellow ribbons could also be seen from the road, blocking off an area of land near to a beaten down baseball diamond.

  He drove by the one side of the park and then turned left at a nearby traffic light. The new road circled around the other side, bringing him closer to what appeared to be an old, unkempt baseball diamond, where it seemed that the shooting took place near to.

  In spite of the police presence, groups of homeless men and women remained in area, refusing to leave their homes of dirt and hopelessness. They didn’t scatter like roaches, which some people might assume they would, possibly because they had nowhere else to go. To Ashe, they seemed to be ignoring the cops and the crime scene altogether. What could the police do…arrest them? Put them in jail for a couple nights or more for obstruction of justice? That might be a good thing for them, because they would be provided with three hots and a cot, which was more than they had at the present moment.

  Twisting his neck, Ashe tried to look closer as he drove by. He saw several figures dressed in either uniforms or plain clothes, standing and talking inside the yellow barrier. As far as he could tell, none of them seemed to be Oscar. Ashe knew that he would able spot and properly identify his old friend’s bulky figure from miles away, the jacket and tie and tan complexion. It was a silhouette that would be engraved the psychologist’s memory forever. Either Oscar had returned to the police station or he was somewhere in the city or the adjoining suburbs following a lead or leads. If Oscar was stomping across the bones of Youngstown, Ashe prayed to whatever god would listen that their paths did not cross.

  The psychologist could see that another group of people were gathered on the side of the yellow ribbons opposite that of the law enforcement. Reporters. They held cameras and flashed fake grins working hard to get a quote or sound bite from any officer or detective that would make the mistake of speaking too close to an active microphone. They would then either put the words in print for their papers or play the audio during their newscasts or post both print and audio on their website blogs. The sight of them gave Ashe a cold chill and he wondered how much they were told. How much did the media know? There was no way that a double murder in a public park would rem
ain under wraps. He wondered whether or not the events of the past day could be kept a secret for much longer. He doubted it, forcing himself to appreciate what Oscar seemed to have done to help his son so far, even if it didn’t include letting him help the investigation.

  For a brief second, Ashe regretted going behind his friend’s back, but he knew that he had no other options at the moment.

  Staying with the traffic, Ashe continued past the park and made another turn at a stop sign heading in the direction that would take him to the YSU campus and the Beeghly Center, where Scott played basketball and Coach Barker kept his office.

  With his cell phone still out, Ashe made another quick call. But Oscar didn’t answer. It rang and then went to voicemail. When the voice mail message chimed in, he left a quick message asking his friend to call him if he had any new news. He then hung up. Where were you Oscar? Could he possibly be heading toward Coach Barker as well? Or was he already there? Or had already been there and left? He hoped not.

  When he drove onto the college grounds, Ashe was instantly flooded with memories of his own college days. Not the time in grad school, while he had pursued his PhD, but his undergrad time at Kent State University. Kent State University was one of the largest universities in the state, with several campuses in several different counties. But Ashe went to the main campus in Kent, Ohio, the campus made famous during the Vietnam War and by the Neal Young song.

  When he began going to Kent State, life was still a blank canvas, one that could still be turned into any picture that he chose. He did have a major and a person reason to focus on psychology. But he still felt freed by the possibilities put at his feet. He initially wanted to study the brain and research Alzheimer’s in the pursuit of better treatment and management, perhaps even discovering a cure. The sick and sad disease works to steal the minds of people and in the beginning Ashe wanted nothing more than to focus his life in fighting it. Yet, even though he seemed to have his future planned, he knew that other options were all around him, if he were to change his mind, which his eventually did. Those days had been a light and happy time in his life, even if he had been over loaded with studying, stress, homework, a painful ulcer, and other education-related issues.

  But, when it came down to it, the main reason why his time at Kent State was such an enjoyable part of his life was the fact that it was during that period that he had met his soon-to-be wife, Susanne Cummings. She had been a freshman like him and was taking English as a major, which to Ashe had always seemed like a head-in-the-clouds course study, unlike the solid sciences like psychology. She had had dreams of being both a poet and an English teacher. It was her passion and intensity that had attracted Ashe, because it matched his own. Even then, even on the very first day he met his beloved Susanne, she had seemed to have captured the brilliance of the stars to hold her eyes. She would never go on to be paid poet, sadly, but managed to fulfill her dream of teaching her love of literature to the local high school kids, at least for a little while.

  Turning on to Elm Street, the psychologist found the immense parking area for the Beeghly Center. There didn’t seem to be anyone to direct him to specific parking area, so he pulled in and parked as close to the front of the building as he could manage. He parked amongst a small group vehicles, most likely those of employees or athletes at practice.

  He then locked and left his car.

  After walking for a minute while searching for the main entrance way, he was finally able to gain entrance into the building. He wasn’t surprised at how immaculate the inside of the building was, with a multitude of plaques and pictures and flags. Even though the Penguins were a little known team in comparison to college basketball legends like the Tar heels or Duke, they were a highly favored team of Northeast Ohio, on and off the YSU campus.

  Ashe did not give much of his attention to college sports, sticking mostly with the professional leagues, like the NBA or NFL. He never took the time to care much about March Madness and The Final Four. He had never filled out a March bracket. He was always told that the games were better, more emotional, due to the passionate playing of the college kids. But he never took the time to see for himself. Yet, even though Ashe never thought much about college basketball, he was pleased when Scott got a college scholarship to play for the YSU Penguins. He was far from surprised when Scott chose to continue pursue basketball into his college years. He was only surprised that Scott hadn’t tried to get into a bigger, higher division school, one whose teams had larger audiences and a higher chance at being visited by big league scouts. A team with a nationwide fan base and viewership tended to bring in the most recognition for their talented players, meaning that more doors were available to lead a player to the professionals.

  Was that still Scott’s goal? NBA? At one point, all Scott would talk about was playing for the Cleveland Cavaliers. But that could have changed.

  On his way toward the offices in the back of the building, Ashe passed by a wide doorway. Through the open set of double doors, he could see out onto a piece of the building’s basketball court. He paused and admired the sight. At the center of the polished floor was the penguin insignia, large and strong, showing any opposing team who they were about to face.

  He felt saddened.

  Ashe could recall Scott’s first game in front of a real crowd. It was during fifth grade. The school had sponsored a weekend peewee basketball league for anyone who wanted to volunteer. It took place in the high school gymnasium and gave the feeling of real high school basketball games. Scott had been excited. He had been one of the first to sign up, even before he had asked for permission.

  Ashe remembered those early basketball games. He never expected his son to stick with it, because Scott did not show any initial talent in the game. Scott would not give up, though. He went to the school playground whenever someone would take him and he would practice for as long as he could. He was determined. He was driven. And each day he would go home tired and sweaty and satisfied. Ashe was proud at the hard work his son was putting in.

  He also didn’t know how his son would react to playing in front of a group of strangers, unsure of whether or not the pressure would manifest and affect his son. But Scott thrived on it, as if he knew and understood that every single person in the stands, whether they were rooting for his team or against his team, were, at their core, simply to enjoy the games and to passionate support both himself and the other young players. Even before junior high school began, Scott had found his niche in life.

  But after the loss of his mother, Scott put even more time into basketball, more than Ashe had believer possible, using the game as a distraction. Scott had lived and breathed the basketball court, all through school, and yet Ashe couldn’t remember going to any of his son’s games after the peewee league. He couldn’t remember going to a single one. Ashe was always busy, while missing out on watching his son doing the activity that he loved the most in the world. What a pathetic and neglectful father he had been.

  Through a strong work ethic, and to the pride of his absent father, Scott had turned his love for the game into a college scholarship, one he would keep as long as his son’s grades stayed up the school’s expectations. Which Ashe knew that his son would. Scott was neither dumb nor stupid nor lazy when it came to studying and tests. But Ashe couldn’t take credit for that, either, because when it came down to it, Susanne had been the smart one in the family. Ashe just worked hard and wrapped himself the illusion of above average intelligence, a fog that seemed to trick people, for some reason. He wasn’t sure how or why but continue to allow people to view him as smarter than he actually was.

  Ashe stared at the shiny floor of the YSU basketball court and wondered to himself. How many times had Scott played on that court? Many, many times, he was certain. But not one of those times did Ashe take a few hours from his day to come and support his son. He had never been in the stands. He had never at
tended one single game. Basketball was everything to Scott and he had never taken a second to care.

  What kind of father did that?

  A grieving one?

  An angry one?

  But Scott had done nothing to deserve the abandonment.

  Moving on, Ashe found his way to a short hallway and a set of offices. A man that the psychologist believed to be Coach Barker appeared instantly in front of him. Ashe believed the man to most likely be his son’s coach because the man stood just outside of Coach Barker’s office door. The man who might have been Coach Barker was deep in a conversation with a woman, both of them wearing comfortable warm-up gear. Noticing Ashe, the motioned him over and ended the chat with the pretty blonde athlete, who then rushed off the same direction Ashe had come.

  “You Dr. Walters?” the coach asked. He was a sturdy man, not large in stature but obviously solid in build.

  “Guilty,” Ashe replied.

  “You must hear that word a lot,” Coach Barker began, “in your line of business.”

  “My line of business?”

  “Scott has mentioned a few time what it is that you do for a living,” he admitted.

  Ashe was surprised.

  “Come on in and have a seat,” Coach Barker insisted, pointing into his office. Once Ashe was in the room and ready to seat himself, the coach added, “You’re the third person to stop by asking about Scott. To be blunt.”

  The psychologist tensed and slowly eased himself down onto a short gray sofa, which lined a wall of the room. “Damn,” he mumbled. “Detectives?”

  “Yep,” the coach answered. “Detective Harrison and another guy. The second man didn’t talk much. He seemed a little cranky. Detective Harrison led the conversation. They,” Coach Barker continued, taking a chair by his desk, one usually used by visitors, “told me that if you showed up that I should give them a call once you were gone. He seemed adamant about it.”

  “Detective Harrison is always adamant,” Ashe assured him. “Why are you telling me this? Why are you warning me? You could have just let me leave and then called them.”

  “Because I still have no idea why two detectives were in my office asking me questions about one of my boys,” the coach said. “And frankly, that doesn’t sit well with me…at all. He expected me to answer his questions but would never even acknowledge the ones that I voiced to them. He purposely left me in the dark. And now you, his father, are here wanting to discuss Scott. Why?”

  Ashe thought for a minute.

  “My son is in trouble,” he clarified. “I don’t know how much more I can tell you.”

  “Scott hasn’t showed up to practice in six days. Which is very unlike him, to say the least. And with my two visits today, I know that something is seriously wrong. I need you to tell me something…more than those other close-mouth men.”

  “Are you a father?” Ashe asked. “Do you have children?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “I’ve lost track.”

  Ashe was unsure what the comment meant exactly.

  “Each young man or woman that have been or will be in in this office, out on that court, is my child,” Coach Barker said. “And don’t tell me that it isn’t the same thing. I live and sweat for those young men and women, every day of my life, rain or shine. Everything I do is so that those boys and girls are at their best, physically and mentally. I want nothing but good things for every one of them. And I will do whatever I can…whatever is asked of me…for all of them. So…when something happens to them…I am invested…completely.”

  “Has Scott ever mentioned his roommate?”

  “Owen? Once or twice.”

  “He didn’t play for the team?”

  “No,” Coach Barker said, almost giggling. “From what Scott has said about Owen, the boy was not cut from that type of material.”

  “How so?”

  “A little wild, I guess,” the coach admitted. “Partied. Late nights. Scott would be tired some mornings, dragging ass during practice and I would get on him. He would tell me that his roommate kept him up late…loud music…having friends over…that type of stuff. He even showed up one practice with his hands, his knuckles bruised and cut up real good. Said that him and his roommate got into a fight.”

  “A fist fight? Over what?”

  “He wouldn’t say,” the coach replied. “But it had to have been something serious for Scott to fight. Your son could usually keep his head straight no matter what shit was thrown his way. This Owen kid must have pushed him too far. Or maybe scared him into reacting.”

  “I’ve never known Scott to get into a fight,” Ashe thought out loud.

  “Some kids just don’t have a violent bone in their body…unless they are pushed to it…and then watch out.”

  “When was this fight supposed to have happened?”

  “A month or so ago…I believe,” the coach replied. “Maybe sooner…maybe not. I’m not sure.”

  “You are still having basketball practice? You said that Scott has missed the last handful of practices? Isn’t the season over?”

  “And the next season immediately began,” the coach replied, winking. “Practice never really stops, in season or between seasons.”

  “Any other fights or problems that you know of?” the psychologist asked.

  The coach shook his head. “Scott didn’t have much of life outside of basketball and his classes, like most athletes on my teams. Scott was especially driven…in both areas. I know he worked here and there, whenever he needed the extra cash. But I can’t say if he is currently employed. Not much of a social life, as far I know. Not much time for partying and living it up with the kind of life that your son lives. It is all about sacrifice.”

  The psychologist knew about sacrifice.

  Ashe asked, “I know that you said Scott had missed a few practices, which was weird, but has Scott been acting weird in any other way, lately? Unusual? Strange? Not quit himself?”

  Coach Barker thought.

  “Distracted,” he stated. “Like something was on his mind and he couldn’t focus. Again. That was not like Scott, because Scott is always focused on what he needed to do. He had been anxious, too, I guess. Stressed…but what college student isn’t under some kind of crisis, especially one that juggles education and basketball as well as your son.”

  Ashe nodded, even though the behavior could have manifested in his son for other reasons. Girlfriend trouble. Money issues. Drugs. He hoped that it was simply girls or money. But he immediately pictured Owen’s bloody mattress and doubted it.

  “Did you ever get the feeling that Scott might have started taking drugs?”

  “No,” Coach Barker blurted. “Never Scott. Drugs would interfere with what he wanted out of his life and Scott would never partake in anything that jeopardized his aspirations and potential. When he would talk about his roommate Owen he would get animated about how much he hated dealing with Owen when he was high or drunk or both. Never Scott. Never, ever.”

  “Ok. I had to ask. Does Scott have a girlfriend?”

  “The girls like Scott,” Coach Barker stated. “He is a good looking and intelligent athlete at a sports college. He wouldn’t have any problems attracting a woman or two. But I can’ say for sure if he was serious with anyone. I don’t remember him mentioning any girlfriend.”

  Ashe sighed. A steady girlfriend would be a good source of crucial information. If he found her, if she were to exist, he might even find his son.

  “Are you going to tell me what this is about? Or are you going to run off and leave me in the dark as well?” Coach Barker asked.

  Ashe considered doing just that. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Coach Barker seemed to be filling the role of father to his son, the role that Ashe seemed to have abandoned a long time ago.

  “Owen is dead.”

  “Wha
t?”

  “Shot. And Scott is their main suspect. And he is missing.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Coach Barker replied, exacerbated by the mere idea, the same reaction that Ashe had upon hearing the news. “Not Scott. He had always been one of the better ones around here. There is no way. I won’t believe it.”

  Ashe bobbed his head in agreement, choosing to leave out the other two dead bodies.

  “I believe that you honestly care about my son,” Ashe disclosed. “I am asking you, as someone else who loves Scott and will do whatever he needs to, do not contact Detective Harrison. He doesn’t want me involved in this but there is no way that I am staying out. And please, please don’t contact the media. It would only cause frenzy and put Scott in more danger.”

  “I have no intentions of contacting anyone,” Ashe was thankful to hear the coach admit. “I just want you to call me, whenever you know more. Keep me in the loop. I beg you, father to father.”

  “I will do that. I promise.” He almost said pinky.

  “Thank you.”

  “I need one more thing.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did Scott have any close friends? Anyone in particular that he hung out with on a regular basis? I know that he was part of a team, but is there one individual you would consider to be Scott’s best and closest friend?”

  “Yea. Regime Watkins.”

  “Did you tell Oscar about Regime?”

  Coach Barker sighed.

  “Yea. I did,” the coach said. “He left a little over an hour ago. Maybe he’d already talked to Regime and moved on.”

  “Maybe,” Ashe replied. “I’ll take my chances. Where would I find him?”