Ashes to Ashes

by Nathaniel Fincham

  Chapter 49

  Detective Oscar Harrison hovered over his steaming cup of hot sludge for what felt like an hour, but might have only been twenty minutes. Ashe watched him from an angle, trying to stay out of direct view of his old friend. The expression Oscar was giving the air directly in front of his face was not a pleasant one. It was a mixture of frustration, resentment, and helplessness, as if the investigation, which he always put everything that he had into, was getting away from him, and there seemed to be nothing that he could do about it. Ashe also knew that one of the reasons for the expression was because Oscar cared for their longtime friendship and didn’t want to let him, and Scott, down.

  The psychologist had been witness to that exact expression several times during their many years together, and sometimes he was even on the receiving end of it. Those times were rare, but they were never pleasant, Ashe remembered.

  The last time that Ashe had been witness to that particular expression was the day that they found Susanne’s body, a day where every expression, every word, every single detail remained chiseled in the rock of his brain, like the pyramids of Giza, far away from the effects of time and weathering. It would remain untouched, even though a part of Ashe would love to take a sledgehammer to the stone, hit it and hit it, smash it and into dust, in order for it to blow away. But it would never decay, it would never alter or shatter, at least not until the day Ashe died and his brain was finally given over to the worms, only then will that day cease to exist, for him anyway.

  Oscar had taken that day hard, as well. Ashe knew that his old friend blamed himself for Susanne’s death, which might have been the main reason why Ashe hadn’t been the only one to withdraw. Oscar had also been drawn away, not from his detective duties, but from his friendship his Ashe, because he most likely had been having a difficult time facing Ashe, guilt weighing on him. But Ashe never blamed Oscar. It had been anyone’s fault outside that of Steven Reynolds and himself.

  “What are we going to do, now?” Ashe nervously asked, finding it difficult to meet his friend’s eyes.

  “We wait,” Oscar replied.

  “For how long?”

  “However long it takes,” Oscar grumbled.

  `Ashe let it go, immediately sorry that he had questioned Oscar. There did not seem to be any clear cut answer for what to do or where to go next. The death of Norman Bones had stalled the train of motion that both men had recently jumped aboard. They had been barreling toward his son, but the steam had suddenly vanished and the locomotive became stilled.

  Staring at the detective, Ashe knew what Oscar was waiting for. He needed a target for his frustration. He needed to place the hairs of his scope. That target would be Detective Phillips and it didn’t sit well with Ashe, because Detective Phillips was a good cop and had been in the trenches with them during the hunt for the Eastside Slasher. The Cleveland cop had aged years in those few months, as they all had. Going through an experience like that had bonded the men, making them brothers, survivors in arms. Phillips had messed up by not having men permanently attached to Norman Bones, not just because it was protocol, but because it was necessary. He had made a big mistake. It was obvious. Maybe Phillips was losing his focus, having been at war with the bad guys for too many years. Maybe he had lost his edge. Maybe. But that did not make him an enemy, a target for Oscar’s anger. It just wasn’t right.

  The face of the true enemy was still unclear.

  But Ashe knew damn well that it was not Detective Phillips.

  “I’ve been thinking…” Ashe began but was interrupted.

  “You think too much,” Oscar blurted.

  “It’s a gift,” the psychologist replied, continuing. “I’m almost sure that Lucky Barrett began by taking the pill himself. You have only discovered the pill within the last handful of years, but I’m sure that the pill goes as far as back as his wife’s death, if not much further.”

  “If he has been using it that long,” Oscar said, “then he should be a raving lunatic by now.”

  True, Ashe had to agree. But who said that Lucky Barrett wasn’t just that, a recluse in the throes of a severe and debilitating mental breakdown from having taken a violent pill for who knows how many years. Ashe would have to wait to meet the man before he knew for sure.

  Oscar added, “No one else lasted past the first or second dose before going into a killing frenzy. Look at his brother. Why is he different?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Ashe admitted. He took a much needed sip of his coffee. It was already getting cold. The thin cups provided by the hospital did little to maintain the heat of the drink. “But it most likely has to do with his personality or his state of mind. Maybe he was already a raving lunatic before he took it. I don’t know. But I believe that he has found a way to use his paranoia.”

  “Use it?”

  “Yes,” Ashe said. “When a person has paranoia they are always on edge, looking for the next attack, even if there was never a first attack. They see things that might or might not be there, lurking around the corner, in the bushes. It is like the common story about the conspiracy nut who keep his food in locked containers so that someone does not slip poison into his meals when he turns his back. With someone like Lucky Barrett, someone who has actual enemies in the world, there might actually be a threat around the corner, the next rising star thug wanting to slice his throat. His paranoia may even cause hypersensitivity to those dangers. If you think about it, for each actual life threatening event that Lucky was able to sidestep, there probably were many, many more imaginary events that he believed he had avoided. Luck of the draw, pun not intended. The threats that were actually avoided only served to solidify his paranoia and beliefs.”

  “I can see how that could happen,” Oscar grunted.

  “The pill became a weapon,” Ashe continued. “In more ways than one, I guess.”

  Footsteps began to echo from another hallway, possibly the initial hallway Ashe and Oscar had entered when following Dr. Webber. Ashe stiffened, understanding what the sound of the firm steps meant. Phillips had arrived with a crew to tie down the crime scene.

  It didn’t take long for the group of men to travel the length of the halls to arrive at Ashe and Oscar. Before Detective Phillips acknowledged them, he began to bark orders to his men, who rushed like soldiers into battle. They seemed to be a mixture of CSI and uniforms. Detective Phillips sent two uniforms to speak to the doctors and nurses that had been anywhere near the room where Norman Bones was knifed. He put two more uniforms at the door, where they placed a yellow ribbon cordoning of the area. He then ordered the two CSI techs into the closed off room, an order they obeyed with white gloves and equipment bags in hand.

  “Can we have a word?” Oscar asked Phillips.

  Phillips nodded and followed Oscar down to the end of the hall. Their voices began in low murmurs but quickly escalated into arguing. The sound bounced from the walls and became louder and louder each time it hit. By the time words reached Ashe, he could almost hear every syllable clearly.

  “You fucked up,” Oscar spat. “Where were the guards? You had Norman Bones in their prime and ready for questioning. He would have spilled his guts…even if you had to offer him a deal. How did you not see this possibility happening? Where were the fucking guards?”

  “Why are you in my face, detective?” Phillips wanted to know.

  “Because you fucked up.”

  Phillips sighed. “I made a call. I needed my men where they were, questioning the witnesses.”

  Oscar pointed toward the room. “He was our most important witness. And someone managed to put a sharp knife in his formerly beating heart. And now he is dead and so is our trail to Scott and Lucky Barrett.”

  “And I can’t do nothing about that, now,” Phillips told him and sighed. Before letting Oscar a chance at rebuttal, Detective Phillips turned and walked away, back to Ashe and
the crime scene. He had a job to do. Cleveland was his town and Oscar was a guest. And maybe Oscar had worn out his welcome.

  Oscar waved Ashe over to him. “It’s time to go,” he said to the psychologist. “Let them do their job. They apparently do not need our common sense.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just get in the damn car, Ashe,” Oscar exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “You ask too many questions.”

  The walk back to Oscar’s car was a tense one, filled with silence and heavy breathing. No words were exchanged and Ashe was almost thankful for it. Once they were back in the vehicle, Oscar just sat there. He didn’t put the keys in the ignition. With his head laid back against the headrest, he closed his eyes. He was simply still. Oddly so. Ashe sat next to him, uncomfortable, unsure what to do or say.

  Oscar’s cell phone shattered the calm and caused Ashe to cry out. After giving him a raised eyebrow, Oscar answered by turning it directly onto the speakerphone. “You better have something for me, Ginger.”

  For a second Ginger didn’t talk, thrown off by the tone in Oscar’s voice. “I do, my boy. I scanned that partial picture into my computer. I got some other computer geeks to help, too. We combed the internet for a match…and bingo…we got one.”

  “Enough with the foreplay,” Oscar growled.

  “It’s a picture of the Barrett family,” Ginger said. “It came from the Cleveland Post. It was taken at some kind of fancy function several years ago.”

  Ashe considered the implication. “The entire family is in it?”

  “Most of it,” Ginger responded. “Many generations of rich and powerful assholes in one black and white photo. Shades of gray don’t really show the arrogance of the lot, you know.”

  “What is the point, Ginger?” Oscar barked.

  Ashe intervened. “Names? Does the photo have the names of who is in it?”

  “At the bottom,” Ginger replied. “Why?”

  “I have an unexpected hunch,” Ashe explained. “Read me the names, please.”

  “We don’t have time for name that Barrett,” Oscar groaned.

  Ashe swiftly shushed him. “Enough with the attitude, Oscar. I want to find my son and you are not helping. Go on, Ginger.”

  Ginger began to read the names. Ashe stopped him midway through.

  “Amber Barrett? Did you say Amber Barrett?”

  “I did say that,” Ginger answered. “The daughter of Lucky Barrett.”

  Ashe lit up. “How much do you want to bet that family and friends call her Bam? And how much do you want to bet that Scott is with her. There is our link to Scott. And our third clue.”

  “Ginger…get me the address where Amber Barrett is presently living,” Oscar ordered, before hanging up on him.

  “Are you going to tell Phillip the break we just made?” Ashe asked him.

  “No,” Oscar insisted. “I don’t want anyone but us to know, right this second. This isn’t about Phillips. If you are right about someone in his or our department working for Lucky, I don’t anyone else to know where we are going until we get closer. We don’t need them to beat us there and kill anyone else.”

  “Agreed.”

  It didn’t take long for Ginger to track down the mailing address for Amber Barrett. Finally, Ashe found himself on his way to his son. Hopefully. But he knew that things were not coming to a close. Many more troubles were ahead of him. And things were far from over.