Ashes to Ashes

by Nathaniel Fincham

  Chapter 18

  Ashe didn’t immediately pull into the bar’s parking lot, but instead made a couple passes in order to make sure that Oscar’s beaten Impala wasn’t present. On the second pass, he was sure that Oscar’s brown, four-door was nowhere in the area. Nervous. Anxious. He pulled his Mazda into a far space, one at the back corner of the small parking lot, where it might not be at once noticed if Oscar were to arrive while he was still inside. He would have to worry about his escape if or when the time came.

  Taking a deep breath, he questioned whether or not he should have parked another place besides at the pub itself, like in the parking lot of another business, from where he could walk over, guaranteeing that his car was hidden. Even though it wasn’t too late to make that move, he cautiously shut off the car, instead. The hot motor began to tick and it mirrored the rhythm of unease that was tap tap tapping against his spine.

  Taking a deep breath, he got out of the car.

  The psychologist had a few expectations when he walked toward the small college sports pub and he was not disappointed upon entering. The bar, even though it was barely late afternoon, was semi-busy with drinking college tweens. They must be drinking away their strained nerves or numbing themselves for an important upcoming exam. Finals were lurking in the shadows, after all. They may even have been toasting to a semester that was closer to over, but that would only include those who were not dumb enough or masochistic enough to take the dreaded summer classes. Ashe had always taken at least one summer class while at Kent State. He was pretty sure that he had been both dumb and masochistic, which was one of the many reason he began to study psychology, a science that dealt with trying to figure human nature. Sometimes it seemed almost as pointless and absurd of a concept as the idea that a meteorologist can successful interpret and predict the flow of air.

  A wise man, perhaps Ghandi, had once stated that all psychologists were actually, deep down, bat-shit-crazy themselves. And Ashe never argued with that astute observation. Takes one to know one, they say.

  The psychologist never paused or slowed down upon entering the pub, but instead he went directly up to the populated bar, as if he were an everyday visitor. He tried give off the aroma of belonging. However, he was sure his age alone would show him to be a fake, a phony. If any of the rowdy college coeds cared whether or not he was among them, Ashe could not immediately tell. They appeared to ignore his very existence, like they most likely ignored every person above the age of twenty-five, outside of their assigned class professors, but that was merely a matter of survival instinct.

  Ashe noticed that it was a short walk from the side door he had used to the bar, which was a strategic move, he assumed. If they put the alcohol close to entrances, it gave the students less time to think about what they were doing and change their minds. There must be a short gap between them entering and them pouring booze into their bellies. If not, they may decide to study instead of get drunk. As if that would ever happen. The psychologist recalled the time back when was confronted by that same daily decision, to drink or to study, to party or to not. If he had chosen the booze over the text books a little more often, his life might have turned out completely different, positively and negatively.

  Coming up to the focal area of the pub, the wooden bar, Ashe was assaulted by a row of flat screen televisions on the back wall. Every televised sports event seemed to be wiping across the thin plasma screens. Bodies dashed and dodged and ran and scored. Instead of becoming hypnotized by the athleticism, like the others who were perched at the bar, he sat on a nearest empty bar stool and motioned for the male bartender.

  The young man who wore a tan shirt that advertised the name of the establishment, Dogwood, slowly made his way over to Ashe. There was no other name on the shirt besides that of the bar, which was a sign that the place had a high turnover, so high they didn’t waste their time or money to customize the employees’ uniforms. Business that hired mostly college student as employees usually went through workers quickly and often. It didn’t matter to Ashe that the bartender’s name was not put on the shirt, because he knew the young man to be Regime Watkins, his son’s best friend, or so said Coach Barker.

  “Let me get a Sam Adams,” Ashe immediately ordered. “Whatever is in season,” he then clarified. “Surprise me.” When the bartender darted away, Ashe slid a five dollar bill across the wood of the bar. He wasn’t sure how he was going to play it. What method would he use to initiate the conversation? Bartenders were often busy and hard to entice into an actual exchange or discussion longer than a couple seconds at a time. For a fleeting instant, he considered stating that he was there on behalf of the YPD, but he knew all too well how that had worked out last time. He didn’t have to wait for an opening or use a specifically designed interrogation method, though, because an opening was at once presented to him.

  The bartender swiftly snatched, opened, and sat the frost bottle down in front of Ashe. The young man then quickly took the green bill from the bar as he glanced at Ashe’s face. He became strangely still. “Do I know you?” he asked before turning to the cash register to make change for Ashe’s bill.

  “Me?”

  Something then happened that the psychologist never would have expected. Recognition spread across Regime’s face and the young man asked, “You’re Scott’s dad. Right?”

  Ashe was instantly taken aback and mentally spun around until he was slightly dizzy and ready to possibly fall of the tall barstool.

  “Yea,” the psychologist slowly admitted, trying to show a healthy bit of confusion at how the stranger how recognized him. He didn’t lead on that he knew the bartender as well and had come to that certain place with a plan and an ulterior motive. “How did you know that?”

  “I’ve seen a few pictures with your face,” Regime replied. “Scott showed me them. He talks about you sometimes. Not often, I have to admit. All good things, I promise.”

  “I doubt that,” Ashe mumbled and regretted it.

  He observed the kid, sizing him up. The young man was obviously an athlete. The psychologist didn’t have to have been privy to any special knowledge to recognize it. He could see the tight muscles below the kid’s uniform shirt. The kid’s appearance was also orderly, with neatly trimmed hair, which was cut very close the scalp. His face was clean shaven. From initial appearances only, which sometimes spoke more than a person’s words, Scott’s friend seemed to be a solid and trustworthy fellow. A lot could be ascertained about a person by the typed of friends the held company with. A large part of Ashe wanted his observations about Regime to hold true, because it would further back up the notion that Scott had remained good, strong, and wholesome.

  “What brings you by?” Watkins asked.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” Ashe fibbed. “Scott always talked about this place. Felt like a cold beer. Long day. You know how that goes. Right?”

  “I sure do. Scott coming by to meet you?”

  Ashe inhaled the question. Regime obviously had no idea what was presently going on with Scott. Exactly how close were him and his son, exactly? He wondered. “I haven’t talked to my son in a little while,” he stated. “What is your name?”

  “Regime.”

  “Are you and my son close? You guys hang out a lot?”

  “Most days,” the young athlete answered. “Hold up a minute,” he added before rushing away when he noticed that another customer had pushed an empty Bud Light bottle across the bar and into the area sometime called the Trench or the Hole, instructing the bartender that another drink was being requested without actually speaking aloud. Ashe took the moment alone to sip from his own bottle of beer. After replacing the customer’s empty bottle with a full cold one, Regime returned to Ashe, greeted a familiar female customer along the way.

  Ashe chugged another gulp of his tasty beer.

  “You hang out at Scott’s a lot?”

&nbs
p; “Sometimes…I guess,” Regime replied. “Not too much. We usually see each other at practice. Or we might just hang out…and do…whatever….wherever. We don’t have a lot of free time to just hang out, you know. Busy. Busy. Busy.”

  “You ever meet Scott’s roommate? Owen?” he asked. “I’m not too sure about him. I get weird vibes. You know.”

  “A few times,” Regime said. “Don’t exactly care for the guy, to be honest. Always doped up on something or another. Not my type of people.”

  “Get high?” Ashe asked, his voice rising in false surprise. He then looked around as if he had spoken the scandalous secret too loudly.

  “And low…and over and under,” Regime replied, jokingly.

  “Does Scott do it with him?” The eyebrows of the concerned parent lowered down nearly to Ashe’s eyelids.

  “Hell no!” the young man exclaimed, smacking the top of the bar. His eyes then darting around, as well, seemingly self-conscious about his vibrant expression, as Ashe had pretended to be. “Scott doesn’t even drink. I don’t drink either, which is probably surprising, since I work in a bar. Irony. I know.”

  It was common knowledge that the psychologist loved irony.

  “Scott is like me…wants to be as healthy as he can be…so he can be the best player that he can be,” Regime continued, pounding his strong fist against his chest. “I don’t even know why he ever moved in with that dude Owen.”

  “How did they become roommates, then?” Asked inquired. “Scott told me once but I don’t remember. It seems like such an odd fit.”

  “I totally agree with you there,” the young man agreed. “Scott had this one roommate the first semester. Randy Pride. Smart dude. Like genius quality. Quiet. Barely knew he was in the apartment, when he was actually at home instead of at the library. Scott had found him through an ad in Craig’s List. He had struck gold with Randy. After that first year, though, Randy transferred to another school, some high collar place in another state. I don’t know why the dude had gone to YSU for even one semester, instead of a place like Yale or Harvard. Mystery to me.” Regime rushed off and then returned to continued. “Scott was really bummed. He had to get another roommate and fast. He couldn’t afford the place on his own. Scholarships don’t pay much in the way of room and board and food. Just like Randy Pride had done, Scott put an ad on Craig’s List. Owen Roberts was the only reply. And your son was desperate. You know how that goes.”

  “I do. Why didn’t you guys room together?”

  “I don’t think friends should live together,” the young man informed Ashe. Smart answer, Ashe thought to himself. “Things can get weird and sensitive and tense, even over the little stuff. It could end good friendships. I’ve seen it happen. Didn’t want that to happen to us. Scott’s my dude.”

  “Owen rubbed you wrong,” Ashe thought out loud.

  “Very much,” Regime replied, taking the statement for a question. “I remember this one time that Scott had told me about. Owen freaked out...more than usual. Scott said that he was on some kind of acid trip. Owen came into the apartment yelling and screaming and cussing at Scott. Scott said that he tried to calm him down. Scott said that Owen was so far gone that he didn’t even recognize Scott. Owen thought that Scott had broken into the apartment to rob them…or something like that.”

  “Crazy.” It was crazy. Scott had felt threatened by Owen. Had it been self-defense after all? But then why had Scott shot Owen while he was sleeping? There was no confrontation going on at the exact moment. And why did he then run? “What did Scott do?”

  “Got Owen under control.”

  “How?”

  “By being the stronger man.”

  “Did they fight?”

  “A little. Pushing and shoving, mostly.”

  “They did have it out again, though, not too long after that,” Regime said, grabbing Ashe’s full attention.

  “About what?”

  The young man seemed to search his memory. “He never said or at least I don’t remember if he did,” the bartender replied. “Same stuff, probably. If it would have been me, I would have hit that dude a long time ago. Psycho…drug addict. But Scott has always had more patience than me, I’m damn nearly a monk when it comes to patience.” He was summoned away again by the clang of an empty bottle, but swiftly returned.

  The young bartender continued, obviously caught up in the conversation.

  “Scott had once told me that he had discovered that Owen has some kind mental health history,” he informed Ashe. “I guess that Owen had admitted to being in the loony bin, no offense, Mr. Psychologist, somewhere in Cleveland. It was called Cleveland Mental…something. I’m not sure.”

  “The Cleveland Mental Health Hospital?”

  “That is the place,” Regime told him, pointing his finger at Ashe. “Owen never said what he was in there for. I don’t know if Scott ever found out for sure. According to Scott, Owen only babbled something about being a loser and whacko. If I had to guess, I would say that he was in for rehab.”

  “Possibly,” Ashe lied. But the Cleveland Mental Health Hospital didn’t provide any inpatient rehab or detox services, as far as he knew. It was a serious place for serious psychological issues, which was why he had chosen it for Grub’s transfer. But why would a college student need a bed there? It was an interesting question and another location to move on to.

  “Is my guy okay?” the young man asked, suddenly growing concerned, as if finally taking in the whole of their exchange. “You are playing twenty questions with me, man, and I know an interrogation when it is directed my way. Come clean with me. Did something happen? You didn’t just happen to be in the neighborhood, did you? I made be a jock but I’m not blind or stupid.”

  Ashe took a long chug and finished his beer. He didn’t put the bottle in the Trench. It would be his one and only drink.

  “Hold that thought,” Regime forcefully ordered and bustled off. That time he had a line of customers to tend to. It gave the psychologist a couple of minutes to consider and determine how much he could safely tell to the young man without making matters for Scott worse. His thoughts were stiff and he was unsure how to proceed.

  “When was last time that you saw my son?” the psychologist continued to pry once the young bartender was back in front of him.

  “It’s been a few days,” Regime explained. “He came to that morning’s drills and then he dropped me off for my shift after we were done.”

  “Here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Was he acting…normal?”

  Regime thought.

  “Distant. On edge. Cranky. I just figured he was having problems with Bam,” he replied.

  “Bam?”

  “His girlfriend.”

  “Right,” Ashe replied, as if it weren’t the first time hearing the name. Another lead. Perhaps the most important one. He had to find his son’s girlfriend. There was even a chance that Scott was with somewhere with his girlfriend that very second. She might not have any idea that Scott is on the run. The chance was slim but it existed.

  The psychologist then wondered why Coach Barker hadn’t know about Scott having a girlfriend. Had Scott hidden it from his coach? Did Scott chose to keep the girlfriend a secret from others too, only telling his best friend?

  “Scott is rarely in a bad mood,” Regime clarified. “And Scott rarely complains about Bam or talks about them fighting, but it did happen from time to time. I didn’t think too much of it…at the time. Woman troubles can make the happiest person grouchy.” He laughed.

  “Scott has been on edge for a while?”

  “A little bit. I guess. I don’t know.”

  “What is Bam like?”

  “I really can’t say,” the young man replied. “I never met her. Which was weird…now that I think about it…but oh well. He has always made time
for his friends, whenever he could. Scott was good for that. I’m sure that I will meet Bam when Scott is ready to introduce us. Scott has been a private person for as long as I’ve known him and I’ve learned not to push the issue. Sometimes, though, he can be an open book but sometimes that book is sealed tighter than a Swiss bank. He does talk about her, to me. I’m sure that I will meet here eventually.”

  “Yea. I have to get back to work. Hope they don’t smell the beer on my breath. I have gum in the car.” He went to move away from the bar but never made it an inch.

  “Stop, man,” Regime demanded. “You still haven’t told me anything about what is going on with Scott. And now you are going skip out on me? I’m insulted. You are my dude’s pops and all, but that doesn’t mean that you can piss me off. You hear me?” The young man fought to keep his tone from escalating, but his composure was barely in his grasp. The psychologist respected the passion of his son’s friend. Regime Watkins cared. No doubt about it.

  Ashe tried to rub the stress from his eyes with his fingertips. He failed. He merely made the sensitive orbs hurt even more. He inhaled, but before he could begin his explanation, the psychologist made a brief, unplanned glance to the left side of the bar and out that side’s window. Through the glass he saw something that made his heart stop but his pulse quicken. A brown car was pulling into a parking spot.

  Frozen in surprise, he watched Oscar’s broad form climb out of the vehicle. Ashe could tell that his old friend’s face was reddened, darker than its usual tint, in spite of the distance between them. The psychologist would swear that he heard his old friend groan and grunt with disgust before spitting onto the cement of the parking lot.

  Slamming the car door, Oscar wandered around to the back of the vehicle, stopping by its trunk. He looked to Ashe like a grizzly bear stomping grumpily through the trees, hoping to stumble upon some fresh food. The psychologist had a dilemma. He could either wait to be spotted, to be attacked and eaten, or he could flee before the large, clawed animal took notice.

  Ashe could not wait to be spotted, he insisted to himself. Even though Oscar and he were close and have been for most of their lives, ever since early childhood, the psychologist knew that the detective separated the duties of his job from his personal ties, meaning that he wouldn’t hesitate to charge his own friend with interfering with an ongoing investigation, along with obstructing justice. Ashe may end up temporarily in a jail cell and any chance of helping his son would be taken completely from him.

  He considered the exit on the opposite side from where Oscar would soon be entering. But large windows lined most of that wall. It would be bad choice for escape, because he would remain in full view of the windows and potentially Oscar right up until he climbed into his car. The homicide detective needed only a glimpse. “Where is your bathroom?” Ashe blurted to Regime.

  “What?”

  “Where is your bathroom?” he repeated. “Is it in the back?”

  Regime pointed to a back corner, past a jukebox, another flat screen television, and the expanse of windows. “Back there,” he said with suspicion. “What the hell is going? Are you going to bail on me, after all?”

  Ashe’s hastened even faster as he again regarded Oscar Harrison, who continued to admire the sun while he waited for another figure to immerge from the car.

  “Damn it!” Ashe cried out.

  The other, slower detective opened his car door and exited the brown car. Roger Geiring. Detective Geiring was a middle aged cop, a hard ass with an old school state of mind when it came to police work. He didn’t agree with the use of outside consultation and never had. He didn’t like psychology as a whole. It was on even tilt with voodoo and astrology. Only cops should be allowed to do cop work. An investigation didn’t need what Geiring often described as guessers and liars. He had never cared for Ashe and always claimed that psychologist got in the way of the real detectives. It never mattered how invested Ashe often became in the case or the results he may have brought forth. In Geiring’s eyes, he had never been nothing more than an imposition and a liability.

  Can’t teach an old cop new tricks, Ashe often told himself, because it used to help ease the stress pains he received from the gray haired detective. It was either repeat the saying until he was calmed…or punch the egotistical cop in the jaw.

  There was more behind the words and action of Geiring, Ashe was certain, but the psychologist never took the time to dig deeper into the son of a bitch’s psyche. If he ever did, he bet he would find a long line of lawmen, possibly going to back to the old west and six-shooters, when cops drank whiskey while on duty and had shoot-outs in front of the local tavern/brothel. It would explain his outdated views and old-fashioned arrogance.

  Before the pair of detectives chose to approach the sports bar, they stood for a couple minutes to discuss something. Ashe watched them, still slightly frozen. He remembered when he had been be the man who stood by Oscar, on their way to question a lead. A twinge of what might have been jealousy unexpectedly vibrated in Ashe’s gut. He turned away and looked back at the bartender.

  “What is wrong?” Regime asked.

  “Look,” Ashe began. “Scott is in trouble and a pair of police officers are about to walk in here to question you. They believe that your best friend Scott shot and killed his roommate Owen in cold blood. In fact, they are pretty certain of it. Mainly because Scott is running and no one knows where is or might be heading.”

  “Wait. What? Bullshit.”

  “No bullshit,” Ashe assured. “Truth. And the police department wants me to stay out of the investigation, but I won’t stop until I find Scott. If they catch me with you, it could all end right now. Will you help me?”

  “Yes. Of course. Hurry out the back. Quickly.”

  “I was never here,” Ashe blurted, before departing from his seat seconds before Oscar waltzed through the door. As he pushed across the distance and into the men’s bathroom, he heard Oscar call for the bartender by name.

  The bathroom was decent size, consisting of two stalls, two urinals, two sinks, and one snug, medium sized window. Ashe rushed over to the window and felt a little relief when he saw that it slid upward to open and it didn’t have a screen. But when he tried to force it upward, the glass jolted to a stop as the wood frame jammed. He was left with only a gap of a few inches.

  Ashe breathed heavily through his nose.

  Putting his fingers through the gap, he shoved as hard as he could. The psychologist sweated and swore at the stubborn sheet of glass, thankful that no one else was using the bathroom. Inch by inch it began to move and slide until it was finally open. Looking around the window, Ashe saw that he had no leverage or anything solid to stand on. Knowing that he damned well shouldn’t, he chose to climb head first out of the window. Luckily, it wasn’t very high off of the ground. Halfway out, he used the outside wall to push against. Once his legs were beyond the threshold, the weight of Ashe’s body pulled him to the ground. A burst of pain jolted through his right shoulder as it took the blunt force of the short fall.

  Swiftly, Ashe jumped to his feet and immediately felt a discomfort in his right leg. No one had been lingering outside the bar to see his embarrassing escape. Moving quickly, he knew full well that he couldn’t go back to his car. It was in full few of the side windows.

  Damn it, he wanted to cry out. He should have parked somewhere and walked. Damn.

  He regained his bearings. It was as he had figured. The bathroom window had placed him at the front corner of the building, where there were no windows, away from the line of sight of the side windows and Oscar. Across the four-lane road outside of the pub, the psychologist saw the golden arches of a popular fast food place. He would have to use his sore body and limp his way over to it, so that could wait there until Oscar and Geiring left, hopefully without seeing his car.

  The street’s bright yellow
cross-walk was a few from him. Ashe went to the curb and waited for the traffic light to change in his favor. He then proceeded as swiftly as possible toward the McDonald’s, the entire way planning out his next move. He had the name of Scott’s girlfriend, but it was only a nickname. That information would be useful, at least not yet. But he had also been told that Owen Roberts had spent some time in Marymount. He saw no harm in wading into the victim’s psychological past.

  It took nearly around thirty minutes for the two detectives to get what they want from Regime Watkins. Ashe wondered if Regime had given him up. As he watched his friend and his nemesis driving away, he had a gut feeling that Regime kept his word and never spoke of Ashe’s presence in the pub.

  Once he was back the driver’s seat of his car, the psychologist took a personal second. The Cleveland Mental Health Hospital? Shit, he swore in his head as the sun of a memory dawned on him. Grub. The psychologist found his phone and the time. “Damn it! Damn it!” He quickly ignited the car’s engine and swore a third time.