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.”
“What do you think you know?”
“I know all about your wife,” Barrett said, immediately causing Ashe’s breath to still. “I know that she is dead because of your arrogance and your selfish acts of recklessly sticking your nose in the wrong brains. You don’t know how to mind your own business. You don’t know how to leave people alone…even when they ask nicely. And you have a habit of pissing off the wrong people. Dr. Walters. And that is why your wife is dead. Because of you.”
“This session is over,” Ashe spat, trying to keep his cool.
“Steven Reynolds is a family friend,” Barrett continued, a grin upon his lips. “I want to take this moment to say hello to you on his behalf. If he were here, I am sure he would say, Hello, Dr. Walters, hope all is well in your world.” He began to laugh.
“This session is over!” Ashe exclaimed, jumping to his feet. Reaching behind him, he grabbed his baseball bat. But instead of putting it against the head of Franklin Barrett, he swung it down onto his desk and struck the red button. Within seconds, Tye and a couple others stormed into the office. “Get him the fuck away from me!” He pointed to Barrett with the tip of the bat.
“Are you okay, my man?” Tye asked, responding to Ashe’s tone and reddening face.
“Just get him back to his cell, please,” Ashe replied. “Please.”
“Would you like me to reciprocate the greeting?” Barrett asked, still laughing to himself.
Tye whacked him across the back of the head with his hand, “You heard the man. Get your ass up and let’s go. You have a cold cell that needs to be warmed back up. On your feet! Let’s go!”
The other two guards didn’t wait for the inmate to stand, but instead grabbed his arms and forced him to his feet. They escorted him out of the door. Tye went to follow, but first stopped, turned, and asked, “You need to talk?”
Ashe shook his head. He leaned the bat back against the wall.
“I’m okay,” the psychologist said.
“Okay,” Tye replied. “Sometimes even head shrinkers need someone to talk to. Don’t forget that, man.”
Ashe nodded.
Tye left and the psychologist fell back down into his chair. He thought about clearing his desk. He thought about swiping his hand across the top of it, violently sending the papers and photos into the air. He thought about throwing his coffee at the wall. He thought about smashing his laptop onto the ground. He even thought about putting his baseball bat, the one he had been gripping moments before, against the desk itself.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he pulled his laptop closer. The machine was connected to the internet by a WIFI signal, one provided by the prison administration. Pulling up the browser, Ashe began to search for the Barrett family, trying to find any connection to Steven Reynolds and the Reynolds Gang. Why would a high class corporate family be connected to a low class psychopath like Steven Reynolds? After typing in the words BARRETT FAMILY + REYNOLDS GANG + NORTHEASTERN OHIO, Ashe watched as the search engine began to pull up results.