Chapter 27
Ashe felt grungy, stiff and stale in the dirty clothing that he had hurriedly thrown on upon leaving the house. They had been within arm’s reach and he hadn’t been willing to search through his closet or dresser. It hadn’t mattered at that moment. Thankfully, he always kept an extra set of work clothes in the closet of his office. A nice shirt. Slacks. And black socks. Upon returning to work, he changed into the spare clothes and felt slightly better. He wished for a hot shower but immediately knew that it was out of the question.
After putting his body load onto his chair, Ashe went to reach for Scott’s journal, which had been left behind the day before. Apparently it had been a clue purposely left behind by Scott, in order to steer Ashe in the right direction.
The right direction toward where? And why didn’t Scott simply explain thing himself? Why the cloak and dagger? That type of behavior showed possible paranoia. A rational person wouldn’t leave a trail of abstract clues hoping they would lead to the right place. That was…a little crazy. He hated using the word when it came to his son. He hated using that the word at all. However, until a better label could be assigned, that word would have to do.
The day before he had walked away from the journal, certain that it was nothing more than what it appeared to be, a notebook filled with abstract images. However, Scott had insisted that the dream journal was more than that. But Ashe still had trouble understanding what.
What could the dream journal possibly show him?
What evidence did Scott’s dreams hold?
Before grasping the notebook, Ashe instead retracted his hand and pulled out his cell phone. Flipping it open, he stared at it for several seconds. He considered calling Katherine, but instead called the guards station. A male guard, one he couldn’t instantly place by voice, answered.
“This is Dr. Walters.”
“Good morning, sir,” the young guard replied.
“Is Tye on duty this morning?” Ashe asked.
“Already out walking B-block, sir,” the guard answered. “You know how compulsively anal he is about his morning strolls, sir.” The guard giggled.
“Does he have a com on him?” Ashe replied, ignoring the humor.
“Always, sir.”
“Could you connect me to his com?”
“Yes, sir,” the guard answered. “Connecting…now.”
A series of beeps came over the phone and ended with the voice of Tye, “Hello. Tye here. How are you this morning?”
“Good morning, Tye,” Ashe said.
“Dr. Walters?”
“Where are the D-block cons at right this second, Tye?” Ashe asked. D-block was also known as Diamond-Block due to the types of people who got sent there. Rich. Wealthy. Each inmate got their own cell, while other blocks piled the inmates on top of each other. Ashe always had an issue with D-block, because he never fully understood why someone with money should get special treatment. And how it would even be legal. It wasn’t right. At one point early in his career, he had questioned the higher ups and will never repeat the action.
It wasn’t worth it.
Ashe quickly learned where he stood in the hierarchy of the prison. He sometimes joked to himself that he stood just above the guards and just below the inmates of D-block.
“Chow,” Tye told him. “Breakfast, sir.”
Ashe thought for a second. He had known the answer. Breakfast was served at six a.m. sharp, no sooner or later. “Could you do me a favor and take Franklin Barrett back to his cell. I need to speak with him. It is important that I have a few minutes alone with him.”
“You want to come onto D-block?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t I just bring Mr. Barrett to your office?”
“This isn’t an official session or meeting,” Ashe said. “I just need to talk to him for a minute or two. Can you help me?”
“Off the books?”
“Off the books,” Ashe complied.
“Can do, boss,” Tye replied. “Give me ten minutes?”
“No problem,” Ashe said. “Thanks, old man.”
“Any time.”
And he was gone.
Picking up the dream journal, Ashe flipped to a page near the middle of the notebook and began to read another paragraph.
…Just when I believe that I have woke up and gotten away from the snarling beast, I realize that I am still in the dream, but only a second before the beast comes through the wall at me. I’m just glad that I can’t feel its teeth as it rips into my flesh…
Ashe dropped the notebook back onto the desk and groaned. He reached down to the area beside the desk where his laptop sat, contained safely in a leather carrying case. The leather case had been left inside of his Mazda last night, or else it might have been left behind, like his work clothes.
What he had left behind, along with a clean wardrobe, was Katherine, confused but understanding. He wouldn’t be surprised if she never called him again.
He put the thoughts to the side.
Finding and right-clicking on the proper file, Ashe scrolled down through the contents and quickly found what he was looking for. Barrett was being held in D-block, Cell 23.
D-block felt like miles from his office, miles that Ashe power walked. His breath became heavy. Sweat beaded at his brow. But he managed to make it to Barrett’ cell in time to watch the barred door close and lock. The sound of the locks engaging gave Ashe a small smirk. He found himself happy the man would spend the rest of his life behind the cold, hard, steel bars.
“He’s all yours, boss,” Tye told him and then walked off.
Ashe approached the bars and looked into the cell, finding Barrett already sitting on his bed. The bulbs on the block were lit but there was little light in the actual cells, causing the murderer to appear as little more than a sitting shadow. Ashe pictured Hannibal Lecter, the genius cannibal from the Thomas Harris novels. He had to remind himself that the man behind the bars was not a criminal mastermind but a leech, a parasite who killed his own family.
Closing his eyes, Ashe had to face the truth. He no longer viewed Barrett as a patient, but as something he loathed. The line dividing the professional from the personal has been bending and cracking to the point that he wasn’t sure he would be able to put it back to gather. He could no longer remain detached, dispassionate.
How could he ever be objective again?
How could he do his job?
Opening his eyes, Ashe was startled to find Barrett at the bar, gaping at his face. The man’s hair was loose and falling at all different angles. There was a glint in his eyes, something that chilled Ashe’s skin.
“Doctor,” the killer greeted.
“Mr. Barrett,” Ashe replied.
“You wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes,” Ashe said. “Have you ever met my son?”
“I can’t say that I have,” Barrett answered, his head cocked slightly to the side.
Ashe looked closely at the murderer, vividly remembering the first time that he had seen the man, not even forty-eight hours before. During that first session, Barrett seemed broken, retreating into a shell of grief and guilt. But the man in front of Ashe appeared different, confident and curious, as if he was a bird inspecting a worm before eating it.
But why? Why the change?
It wasn’t the first time that Ashe had seen the change in Franklin Barrett. During their second session, the killer had reacted to Ashe’s questions by changing into a different creature, but at the time Ashe had been too angry to fully take notice.
Was it simple aggression that caused Barrett to come out of his shell?
The psychologist took a second to think about it and came to a quick conclusion. Barrett had thrown out the name of Steven Reynolds, which had obviously hurt and weakened him. It had granted the murderer a sense of power and possible control. Somewhere inside of Barrett, in spite of the fac
t that he was locked away for life in a maximum security prison, a sense of prestige, hierarchy, and even birthright still seemed to exist. Maybe it was hardwired in every Barrett, earned or not. All that Ashe knew for sure was that he might be able to use those feelings and ideas of superiority against the killer. Barrett felt that he stood tall overtop of Ashe, high over the head of the psychologist, and Ashe would use that height to bring Mr. Barrett back to ground level. He would take out his knees and watch the man fall.
“You’ve never met my son, Scott Walters?” Ashe asked, backing a few steps away from cell door. “Are you sure?”
“That is what I just said,” Barrett assured him. “I don’t normally hang out with high school kids.”
“He’s in college, actually,” Ashe corrected him.
“Either…or,” the killer stated. “He is probably an overachiever like his father. Straight A student in the psychology department?”
“No…not psychology,” Ashe said. “He is more of a sportsman…but still a bright bulb, though. How did you do in school, Mr. Barrett? You seem like an intelligent man. You probably had the big university education. Harvard? Yale?”
“Neither,” Barrett admitted. “I’m more street smart than book smart. Real life experiences can teach a person more than a book ever could. I hung around my old man’s offices instead of some college campus and I am a better and wiser man for it. He taught me everything I needed to know about the family business.”
“Were you and your father close?”
“At times,” he replied.
“How does he feel about where you are now?”
The killer hesitated.
“He doesn’t feel shit,” Barrett said. “He is dead and buried going on 5 years now. Only thing he feels are the worms in his nostrils and Satan’s pitchfork in his ass.”
“You think your father went to Hell?” Ashe asked.
“I’m sure he did.”
“Do you think you will see him again?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Barrett replied.
“Do you think that you are going to Hell, Mr. Barrett?”
The face of Franklin Barrett turned red and his lips clenched shut. Cocking his head, he cracked the joints in his neck, before turning and walking away from the bars. He took a few steps toward the back wall of his cell and stopped. He stood still for nearly a minute before putting himself back at the barred door.
“We are not talking about damnation,” the killer stated. “That is for God to decide.”
“And you are privileged enough to have spoken with God, as I recall,” Ashe said. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“I never said that,” Barrett corrected. “No man is privileged enough to speak to God.”
“What about Moses?”
No answer.
“What about Noah?”
No answer.
“Wait. Hold on,” Ashe began. “You said that your eyes were opened…by God. Is that right? Isn’t that what you said? What did you mean by that? If God doesn’t speak to you, then how did he open your eyes?”
“He showed me,” the man said.
“He showed you what?” Ashe asked.
“The truth,” Barrett replied.
“The truth about what?”
The murderer began to glare at Ashe. “Death,” Barrett answered. “He showed me the truth about death.”
“He showed you…how to kill, you mean?” Ashe asked. “How to kill your family?”
Barrett had to be speaking about hallucinations, but the man insisted that he had never heard any voices. Had he seen something, instead? Ashe wondered. Was the hallucination that had caused him to kill his family a visual one? The presence of a hallucination of that caliber would point toward a psychotic disorder or psychotic break, possibly schizophrenia.
But what did one man’s psychotic break have to do with Scott?
“Is that what happened,” Ashe asked.
“No…you idiot,” Barrett responded. “God showed me the truth about death, the same way that Steven Reynolds showed you. By putting it right in your face…without any chance of turning away.”
Ashe contained his gut reaction to the name, holding his emotions at bay. His face remained still and calm, lacking emotion. He wouldn’t show how the name made him feel. He would simply act unfazed. He would take away the power that it gave Franklin Barrett.
He took a step closer.
“That is not what Steven Reynolds showed me,” he said. “Steven Reynolds showed me how a coward and psychopath can kill an innocent person. That is what Steven Reynolds showed me.”
Barrett began to laugh and the sound was cold. It echoed around the cell.
“Like I said,” the killer replied. “He showed you death.”
“Your wife and son were innocent,” Ashe told him. “Just like my wife.”
“They were not innocent,” Barrett growled.
“How do you know?”
“God showed me,” the man replied, still growling.
“Do you know what a hallucination is, Mr. Barrett?” Ashe barked. “A hallucination is a perception brought on by one or more senses that appears to be real but is not based in reality. Do you understand that definition? Do you see what it may imply in this situation?”
“I am not crazy!”
Ashe sighed. The voice of the man behind the bars resembled his son and that fact scared the shit out of him. They were connected. Only he didn’t have the slightest idea how. And he didn’t have much more time before breakfast was over and the rest of the inmates would be shuffled back to their cells.
“In their beds,” Ashe blurted. “You murdered them in their sleep. That isn’t crazy to you?”
“No,” Barrett replied. “They were going to kill me. It was self-defense.”
Ashe froze.
Self-defense?
How could killing someone in their own beds be considered self-defense? That was a question that was plaguing Ashe. It was a variable that needed to be defined. Undefined variables make problems difficult if not impossible to solve.
“You have never met my son? Never?” Ashe asked.
“No.”
Ashe considered the possibility of the presence of hallucinations. He also thought about the white powder at the bottom of the black and gold container. Drugs, especially heavy substances like cocaine or meth, can cause psychotic episodes, bringing about hallucinations. Psychotic disorders brought on by the use of drugs can be severe and dramatic and could bring about violent actions.
“You like to do drugs, Mr. Barrett?” Ashe asked.
The killer seemed taken aback by the question and appeared to be without an answer.
“A wealthy, important man like you,” Ashe began, “should have no trouble scoring some good substances. Coke. PCP. Meth. Your checkbook was probably filled with carbon copies of many drug deals. Isn’t that right?”
Barrett replied, “I don’t do any of that shit, man.” He began shaking his head. “That will cloud a person’s mind. While in the shark tank, you must remain clear and focused, or else another shark will take off your tail for sport. You know what I am saying? Eat or be eaten. Especially in my family. Eat or be eaten.”
“Is that right?”
“Why do you think I killed my own wife and son,” Barrett stated. “Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. When it comes to money and those who covet it, no one is above getting a knife in the back.”
The statement gave Ashe a cold chill.
Kill or be killed.
Did Scott act in the same fashion?
Kill or be killed?
Ashe wasn’t sure how much he should believe the denial of Franklin Barrett. He looked like the type of man who would use drugs of some form, even if it was a simple hit of a joint now and then. But he doubted that Barrett was free of all drugs.
He once again pictured the white powder at the bot
tom of the black and gold container. Scott had left it behind for reason. It was a second clue. But he would have to wait to get the lab results before he would know for sure what the powder actually was. It could be something harmless. It could be. However, Ashe had a gut feeling that it was more than a sprinkle of sugar or a covering of a dust.
Ashe reached another dead end and forced himself to think about an obvious connection. “Steven Reynolds?” The name didn’t leap from his tongue, it crawled. “How do you know him?”
“Old family friend,” the killer replied with a smirk.
“And you had him over for dinner, the other day?”
“Yea.”
“And he talked about me,” Ashe said. “Did he mention my son? Did he mention Scott?”
“I don’t recall,” he replied and then once again laughed. “He said a lot. That man likes to chit-chat. I can’t recall everything.”
Ashe asked, “Where is Steven Reynolds? Is he here in Youngstown?”
Barrett shrugged.
Ashe became frustrated. He didn’t know why the killer was playing with him, like a cat plays with a mouse. Was it even real? He wondered. Or was it a game? Had Franklin Barrett ever even met Steven Reynolds? He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t deny the possibility.
He slammed his fist into the cell bars and the sound echoed off in both directions. Ashe ordered, “I need to know if Steven Reynolds is messing with my son! Tell me! I need to know!”
Barrett became momentarily startled, flinching at the sudden outburst, but quickly recovered. “I don’t know anything about your son, Doctor. I have never met him. What Mr. Reynolds does is his own business and I can’t say what he does. But I can assume what he would like to do. And it isn’t pretty, Dr. Walters. Whether it is toward you or your son, I can’t say for sure. Honestly.” He giggled. “I would like to find out myself what Steven Reynolds has in store for you. It would be amusing.”
Ashe glared into the eyes of the killer, sure that he was seeing the true man. He forgot all about the withdrawn person that had first entered his office. He wasn’t sure if that first meeting was staged or real, but that didn’t matter. The man before him was taunting him and Ashe felt his face flush red and his blood boil.
He took a final step, putting his body at the barred door. Barrett mirrored the motion and they were nearly nose to nose. Swiftly, Ashe reached his hand through the gaps of the bars and grabbed the hair of Franklin Barrett. Pulling, Ashe ground the face of the killer into the bars. He tightened the muscles in his arm and just kept pulling. Barrett groaned and tried to struggle but couldn’t break the psychologist’s grip.
“Is it funny, now?” Ashe asked. “Is it amusing, now?”
Barrett’s hair felt greasy beneath Ashe’s fingers, almost slimy. The sensation appalled Ashe and he jerked his hand away. Barrett tumbled away from the bars, stunned, his mouth gaping open. And then Barrett began to hysterically laugh.
“Violence is deep within us all, I guess,” Barrett managed to say amongst the laughter. “I guess we all have a knack for it.”
Ashe slammed his fist one more time on the bars. He began to hear other voices which meant that breakfast has ended. Before being seen at the sight of his attack, he turned and rushed off, ashamed of what he had done.
He had assaulted an inmate and a patient.