Ashes to Ashes (13 page)

Only lazy and pitiful.

Ashe felt his eyes growing glossy, unfocused.
All the little printed words were beginning blur together. Closing
the folder, he pushed it aside. He was finished with it. Shutting
his eyes for a few minutes, he let them rest before pulling over
and opening the second manila folder.

Inside was nothing but pictures, crime scene
photos. Two photos in, Ashe came across Sue Ann Barrett stabbed and
dead, face up in her bed. The next photo was Kennedy Barrett, in a
similar state. Face up. Dead. In his bed.

The psychologist’s skin crawled.

Owen's blood soaked mattress flashed before
Ashe. He had been found face down in his bed, a bullet to the head.
What was the likelihood that he would find himself focused on two
crimes in which the victims were found dead in their beds, most
likely killed while sleeping. Similar. Possibly. He quickly put the
stack of photos back in the folder and closed it.

Similar.

Yes.

But not the same.

No.

The itch of human imagination wanted to be
scratched, but Ashe refused. Imagination could often lead a person
on a fool’s errand, searching for connections that did not exist.
No matter how many times a coin was flipped, no matter how many
times it landed on heads, there was a fifty-fifty chance that the
next flip would either be heads or tails. He knew the dangers of
forcing a pattern onto events that were obviously coincidence.
There was no evidence or facts supporting the idea of connection.
Scott was not connected to the Barrett family.

He just wasn't.

Was he?

He pushed the question far away, deep into
the pressure pit that was his mind. He thought over Oscar's
documents and findings. Ashe had what he needed, or at least he
believed that he had a place to start.

He would make Barrett talk.

Chapter 14

Ashe was hunched over the stack of case
documents again, reading through them a second time when his cell
phone rang. It broke the silence and thought, startling him nearly
out of his seat. Regaining his composure, he grabbed phone. Before
answering, he looked at the display and the number that
appeared.

Oscar.

“Oscar?” he quickly asked into the phone.

“Yea,” Oscar replied.

He waited for Oscar to continue. But it only
led to seconds of silence.

“You there?” Oscar asked.

“I’m here,” Ashe replied. “What is going
on?”

“I’m still here at Lincoln Park,” Oscar
began. “And we do have two shooting victims. It’s pretty violent,
too. Ugly. The report about the YSU leather jacket was right on the
money. On the left breast is the name SCOTT WALTERS,” Oscar
replied. “What are the odds it belongs to some other person?”

“Little,” Ashe replied. “None. Damn.” Another
set of bodies tied to his son. He had told his friend that Scott
did not have it in him to kill anyone, but he had been proven
wrong. And the fact dug into him like a dull knife.

“We’ve tried to talk to those who are
squatting here in the park,” Oscar began, “but we haven’t gotten a
whole lot of cooperation. Cops are not exactly welcomed with open
arms around here, but you already know that. A couple people did
speak of a possible confrontation, raised voices before the
gunshots.”

“Self-defense?”

“Looks like a good possibility,” Oscar
replied. “I know these two guys,” he admitted. “Far from top notch
citizens, if you know what I mean. Young. Reckless. They have been
in trouble with the legal system since getting out of diapers.
Dipshits. They probably confronted Scott about something and Scott
defended himself. At least it looks that way.”

“That jacket.”

“What?”

“They wanted Scott’s leather jacket,” Ashe
clarified. “They tried to take it from him.”

“But they are dead,” Oscar pointed out the
obvious. “And yet the one is wearing Scott’s jacket. Whether they
were shot before or after trying to take the jacket, Scott should
have it now. Why leave it behind?”

Ashe took a second to think.

“Proof,” he figured. “He wanted to leave
behind proof that it was self-defense.”

“Maybe,” Oscar agreed. “But why?”

Ashe sighed.

“Maybe he wanted these deaths differentiated
from Owen,” he said. “They were not the same. Or at least the
circumstances were not the same. I can’t say for sure. He just
wanted to prove that the shooting was self-defense.”

“And the gun? Why leave the gun behind? The
ballistics are not in, yet, but I’m sure it’s the same gun that
killed Owen.”

“Because he is done,” Ashe replied.

“Done?”

“He doesn’t want to get into another
circumstance where he had to kill,” Ashe explained. “But that only
leaves him helpless.”

He sighed again.

Shit.

“Did anyone see where Scott went?” Ashe
asked.

“It was dark,” Oscar replied. “No one could
say for sure which way he ran.”

Ashe sighed for a final time.

“Where do you think he would be heading? Out
of town?” Oscar asked.

“I wish I knew.”

“Me too,” Oscar admitted. “Sit tight, Ashe,”
Oscar told him. “I will call when I have more.”

They hung up without a goodbye.

Chapter 15

“Do you believe in God, Mr. Barrett?” Ashe
asked the man sitting on the other side of his desk. Barrett did
not lift his head. He once again was staring at the stain that
peaked out from underneath the piece of furniture. Ashe was sure
that the convicted murderer had heard his question, because he
didn’t believe that Barrett was out of his mind, only distancing
himself. The murderer didn’t seem in a daze or dissociative, only
stubborn and closed off. After asking the question, Ashe sat and
watched the man for several moments, knowing that it was sinking in
and festering in the man’s mind.

Ashe took a sip of his black Coffee. The
strong, hot liquid poured into his empty stomach, reminding him
that he had skipped not only breakfast but lunch. He didn’t feel
shaky or weird. He was too focused and wound too tight to feel the
symptoms of fatigue. Taking a second sip of the sweet caffeine, he
made sure not to set the cup down on any of the papers and
documents on his desk. Case documentation. Case photos. Personal
notes. Blank yellow notebook. He had everything in tight, neat
stacks, showing the illusion of structure and organization amongst
the chaos.

“Do you believe in
God
, Mr.
Barrett?”

No answer.

Ashe thought about the transcript.

He continued. “I’m not so sure, myself, to be
honest. Or at least I am not sure of
God
as an actual
thinking entity with a will, a consciousness, and a plan for
existence. Is there an old man standing in the clouds watching and
punishing us at every turn? That seems too much like magical
thinking…to me. I might as well believe in the tooth fairy or elves
and goblins and hobbits…oh my.” He laughed. “I know that rational,
intelligent men, like you and I, should have a hard time believing
in the magic man in the sky. Am I right? Why would we fall for such
nonsense? Am I right?”

“I believe in God,” Barrett spoke. His voice
was low but sure of itself.

“Are you joking with me?” Ashe laughed again.
“You don’t seem like a man that would believe in God.”

“Rich? Wealthy?” Franklin replied, raising
his head a little.

“No,” Ashe assured him. “You are no longer
rich or wealthy, Mr. Barrett. A killer. Is what I mean.”

Immediately, Barrett began to lower his eyes
back to the stain.

On top of the pile of case documents was the
911 transcript. Pulling from the top of the stack, Ashe looked down
at it. “During your 911 call, you said that God would understand
and that was all that mattered. That stabbing your wife and son was
God’s will.”

Ashe took another strategic drink of
coffee.

“Is this God’s plan for you, Mr. Barrett?”
Ashe asked. He pointed to the thick concrete wall around them. “All
of this?”

“What do you know about God’s plan,” he shot
back, meeting Ashe’s eyes for the first time. Ashe could see a fire
ignite in the man’s eyes. “You don’t believe that he even
exists.”

“I said I didn’t know for sure,” Ashe
responded. “But I know that God would never plan on you killing
your wife and son in their beds. Would he?”

“Understanding is beyond us,” he simply
stated.

“How so?”

“It would be like ants trying to understand
how a car works,” Barrett stated. “Or a spider trying to figure why
he is about to get stepped on. Do you see?”

“I get the idea,” Ashe said. “But
you
understand?”

“My eyes were opened.” In reaction to his own
words, Barrett dropped his face. He wasn’t supposed to say those
words, Ashe realized. But why?

“How so?” Ashe asked.

The man didn’t answer.

“What you’re saying is that God planned on
you killing your wife and son?” Ashes voice stayed calm and
neutral. “Stabbing them in the chest? Is that what you are saying?”
He considered pulling out the gory pictures to further illustrate
his question, but changed his mind. The images would most likely
cause Barrett to retreat once again.

“He works in ways mysterious,” he replied.
“And more complex than you could ever imagine.”

“Did God tell you to kill your wife and
son?”

Barrett replied, “God has never
spoken
a single word to me.”

“He hasn’t…ever?”

“No.”

“If he has…you can tell me.”

“Never a word.”

Ashe thought about the statement and it
appeared to come from truth. He couldn’t be sure whether or not a
delusion or hallucination did in fact exist. Or whether or not the
crime was committed due to the delusion or hallucination. The man
could possibly just be religious, fanatic or otherwise
faithful.

He asked the question again, but in a
different way. “Is God the reason that your wife and son had to be
killed? Did he plan it?”

“He plans everything.”

“You say God never talks to you,” Ashe began.
“Is that correct?”

No reply.

“How do you know his plan, then?”

“Everything is his plan, Doctor. Everything
that happens is planned by him,” Barrett replied.

“Everything?”

“All things.”

“Why did you kill your wife and son, Mr.
Barrett?” Ashe asked. “You told the police that they were
conspiring to kill you for your life insurance and your estate, but
no evidence has been found to support the claim. And the claim also
doesn’t include God’s will. So, why did you feel that God planned
on them dying by your hands?”

“The only answer I will give is in those
papers right there on your desk within my documented confession.
Everything else is between God and myself,” he replied, his voice
growing angry.

Ashe didn’t know exactly how to continue that
line of questioning. He had hit a wall. He appeared to be up
against a higher power and would surely lose the fight. He had to
try a different approach. He had Franklin Barrett talking,
speaking, and he needed to keep him speaking.

Delusion?

Hallucination?

Barrett did not seem to believe that he
talked directly to God, but there are other kinds of mental
disturbances that were not auditory based.

Paranoia?

Severe paranoia could be the symptom of a
mental disorder and could influence violent actions, like murder.
It would explain the belief that his wife and son were plotting to
murder him for money. It would also explain the fact that no
evidence was found to show the murder plot existed. It was
definitely a key piece to the puzzle.

Schizophrenia?

He was not disorganized but the paranoia
could be a symptom pointing in that direction. It may even explain
the fanatic belief in the will and plans of God. But, a lot of
people have a fanatic belief in God, without being mentally ill. Or
was that statement simply ironic? And just because no plot was
found did not mean one didn’t exist.

Were Sue Ann and Kennedy victims or killers
who were stopped before the crime came to fruition?

Ashe took a moment to jot down his thoughts
onto the blank page of notebook paper, keeping it to brief short
hand. He didn’t want to take too much time writing. He had to keep
Franklin Barrett communicating.

“How was your relationship with your wife and
son,” Ashe began, “before their deaths? Were you close in any
way?”

The man shrugged.

“I loved my wife and son…then,” Barrett
stated.

“But they didn’t love you?”

“I guess not,” he replied, seemingly sad by
the idea that his wife and son might have never loved him at all.
They betrayed him, Ashe knew, or at least the man believed they
were planning to. The plot of betrayal, real or imagined, led to
the stabbing deaths.

“How do you know…for sure?” Ashe asked. “How
do you know they didn’t love you?”

“They were planning on having me killed,” he
replied, matter-of-fact.

“How do you know for sure?” Ashe asked,
again.

“I just do.”

“You have proof?”

He was silent.

“What if they were innocent, Mr. Barrett?”
Ashe asked. “Is there any chance that you were, are, confused about
the situation? That you are mistaken?”

“I am not mistaken,” his voice became a growl
as he spoke.

“And why are you so sure?”

“I am not crazy,” he snarled. “And you need
to stay out of my head. I did what I did. I had no choice in what I
did. And that is all you need to know.”

“I would like to know more, actually,” Ashe
admitted. His voice remained as calm and neutral as it had been the
entire conversation.

“Let’s talk about you, Dr. Walters,” Barrett
blurted. “Everyone knows about me. But
I
know about you,
doctor. I know a lot about
you
.”