Chapter 45
Ashe and Oscar easily found the location of the scene. It was within a small park not far from Lake Erie. The park sat a short distance from the downtown area and felt isolated from the tall buildings and busy streets, like an oasis in the desert. As they entered the park they immediately noticed bright light in the immediate distance, lights that were being used to illuminate whatever ghastly scene awaited them.
Oscar got his car as close as he could before eventually pulling behind a blue and red flashing squad car. The lights were whirling, reflecting off of the nearby trees, as if they were jumping or dancing around the wooded area. Other squad cars were present, parked chaotically along and around the road. Their lights joined in the graceful romp. It would have been beautiful if Ashe didn’t know precisely why the blue and red lights existed, why they were dancing. They were not dancing for love or peace but for other more morbid reasons. They danced for death.
Exiting the car, Oscar went to the trunk. He pulled out two blue windbreakers, both having the letters YPD scrolled across the back. Oscar tossed a windbreaker over to Ashe. “In case it starts to rain, again,” he insisted. But Ashe knew that there was another reason for him to wear it. It would help the psychologist to blend with the rest of the officers, at least those that didn’t personally know him.
Slipping on the jacket, Ashe didn’t get a chance to turn away before Oscar called to him. He turned in time to catch an object before it hit him in the face. Ashe knew what it was instantly. It was a laminated badge. On the badge were the words CONSULTANT. Using the clip on the end, he hooked it to the neck of the windbreaker.
“I want as little questions as possible,” Oscar told him.
“One can dream,” Ashe replied.
They had to shift through a small group of reporters in order to get to the crime scene tape. The crowd of media was sparse but sure to grow over the next couple hours, even if the day had gone and night had taken over. It made sense because most hard crimes, like murder, happened mostly during the night time hours, Ashe knew, because criminals used the night to conceal their atrocities from the judging eye of the sun. Midday or midnight, the media would show up at a crime scene ready to smell blood, because reporters could be like soldiers, never sleeping or resting whenever there was a good story…or a good war taking place.
Among the crowd gathering at the borders of the crimes scene, Ashe didn’t notice any gawkers, the kind of folks that tend to flock toward the chance to witness violence or pain. They were the same type of people that slowed down their vehicles so they could get a better look at a tragic car accident in hopes of viewing a dismembered body.
Ashe hated those types of people.
Several of the reporters attempted to get a quote from Oscar, but the detective shrugged them off without a word. He gave them the kind of cold shoulder that only a seasoned homicide detective could. When he felt like speaking, he would make sure that it was done his way…or no way.
Upon arriving at the yellow banner, marking the boundaries of the crime scene, Oscar flashed his badge to the uniform that was guarding the parameter. Lifting the flimsy barricade, Oscar made his way over the border. Ashe moved to follow but was stopped by the uniform, who put his hand up, giving the psychologist a good look at his palm.
He didn’t recognize the man’s face, but he recognized the smug expression that often held sway over most of the early recruits. They joined the police force to fight crime, be the tough guy, but a few more years would knock the smugness from the young cop’s face. They would become as jaded as the next. That is unless the officer was just a deep down arrogant asshole, like Detective Geiring. That man’s smugness would never leave him until someone put a bullet between his lips. Maybe not even then.
“Oscar!” Ashe called out to his old friend.
Oscar paused mid stride and came back to the parameter limit. “What is the problem, officer?” he asked. “He is with me. I am pretty sure that that is clear by the badge on his windbreaker.”
“You have been cleared to enter the scene, Detective Harrison,” the uniform declared, “but I was not aware of any consultant coming with you. You are going to have to clear this dude with Phillips. Phillips is making the calls.”
“I know that Phillips is making the calls,” Oscar bit back. “He is the one that called my captain who in turn called me. Hence…me being here.”
“I see that you are here, Detective,” the uniform replied. “Your presence is duly noted. But in order for him to come through, you will have to speak with Phillips. No way around that. Not for you or for me.”
Oscar nodded and rushed away, leaving Ashe alone. The detective was gone a few minutes, giving Ashe those minutes to imagine what he was going to see. How bad would it be? Who had been taken? Who had been shot? He tried to glance around the uniform and into the scene, but he could not make out much. He saw what appeared to be a parking area for the park, which was where the bright police lights seemed to be focused. He could see the outlines of vehicles and other figures standing around.
What had happened there?
Oscar returned and grunted at the uniform, who swiftly stepped aside to let Ashe through the yellow banner. Ashe didn’t say a word to the officer, because he knew that the officer was only doing his job, following the orders of his boss.
Directly behind his old friend, Ashe tried to take in everything around him, but before he had a chance to let his eyes explore a tall man appeared directly in front of him, glaring at the psychologist. “Tell me why I should let the father of the suspect on my scene? Answer that question for me, Dr. Walters. I am all ears.”
“Because,” Ashe began, “Sam Adams is king of beers. Fuck Budweiser.”
“God damn right,” Detective Phillips blurted.
The detective then raised his hand for Ashe to shake. Ashe was glad to oblige. “It has been too long,” the detective said. “I’m sorry that things always have to be this damn screwed up whenever our paths cross.” The last time that Ashe had seen Detective Phillips was when they were together on a task force chasing after a prostitute killer, who turned out to be Steven Reynolds.
Phillips appeared healthy, rested, a lot better than the last time that Ashe had seen him. Ashe pictured the man’s face as it had been back then, bags under his eyes and a droop at the ends of his lips. But the bags and droop were gone. He was obviously getting a little bit of sleep, as much sleep a homicide detective in Cleveland could get, anyway.
“I would understand if you didn’t want me here, Kurt,” Ashe told him. “Oscar just came around to my presence in this investigation. He wasn’t easy to persuade.”
“Is he ever?” Phillips stated.
“I am easy going,” Oscar said sarcastically. “I go with the flow, bending ever in the wind.”
“Bending,” Ashe agreed, before changing the subject.
“Well,” Oscar said, “this is your scene. I appreciate the call. You didn’t owe me that, but you already know it.”
“I know it,” Phillips replied. “But this is your boy too, Oscar. And your son, Ashe. The best way to deal with this situation is to work together, share information and what not. You agree?”
“I do,” Oscar said. “What do we have here, anyway?”
“We have a shit load of witnesses,” Phillips told Oscar. He pointed to the right where a group of people, adults and children, were sitting on folding chairs near to a couple of ambulances. Uniforms were providing them with water and food while detectives, also wearing blue windbreakers, asked them, most likely for the hundredth time, what they had seen. Ashe knew the process and it wasn’t friendly, especially when kids were involved. Kids just didn’t have the stamina and mentality to deal with something as serious and in their face as a violent crime.
Kids were too fragile.
Kids were too innocent.
“What are the witnesses saying?” Ashe asked.
“Most of their stories are the same,” Philips answered. “The rain came in and the parents got their kids off the play area and to their vehicles. Some of the parents left while others stuck around, most likely giving in to their crying kids, to wait out the rain. I would have done it…to be honest. I give in to my two sons all the time, just to make them shut up.” He paused. “They didn’t even see the men until they heard the gunshots.”
“But they did get a look at what was going on?” Oscar said. “Someone had to have seen Scott or I wouldn’t be here. Right? Am I right?”
“Scott was spotted and positively identified by two separate witnesses,” Phillips asserted. “The rest of the witness didn’t see as much as we hoped, at least when it comes to identifying those involved. Everyone saw some or most of what transpired once the first shot was fired, either from Scott or the other guy.”
“Where is this other guy?” Oscar questioned. “Have you got a name on him, yet?”
“We do have a name,” Phillips said. “Norman Bones.”
“Bones?” Oscar cried out.
“Who is Bones?” Ashe pried.
“Hired muscle,” Oscar replied. “If he is the one that got shot…Scott got lucky. Not many people, allegedly, have gotten into gun fights with Norman Bones and lived to walk away. We have plenty of bodies that we are trying to connect to this man…but nothing ever sticks. He works for some of the rich of the rich crime bosses and families, even some of the higher types of gangs.”
“He is not only a local gun,” Phillips added. “He disappears off the grid now and then, heads up or down the east coast, from what sources say, taking his talents elsewhere, to other cities. Real piece of work,” he half-joked.
“What kind of shape is he in?” Oscar inquired.
Phillips replied, “Gunshot wound to the lower sternum. A lot of blood loss. Exit wound in the back.”
Oscar glanced around the parking area. “Where is he?”
“Had his ass rushed to the Cleveland Clinic,” Phillips reacted. “He didn’t die on the way and the doctors told me that he pulled through surgery just fine. Darn.”
“He should be ready for questioning soon, then,” Ashe replied, losing interest in the conversation. “We can get to that…later. I need to walk the scene. I’m rusty…but I need to do it. Alone.”
Detective Phillips bounced his head. “Be my guest.”
Removing himself from Oscar and Phillip, he walked away and took notice of the evidence cones which were placed strategically throughout the parking lot. Each one marked a crucial piece of evidence, documenting it with a number, before CSI took a picture. The picture would be logged into a system of computers and at a later time the physical evidence would as well. Sometimes the physical evidence would be processed swiftly, taken immediately, as it had been when Owen’s bedroom had been processed, but sometimes it would remain on site where experts could view it in real time, precisely where it had been dropped or discovered or whatever during the actual crime. That choice often depended on the lead investigator and what he believed should happen to the evidence.
Ashe liked to view the evidence as they lie, so that he could imagine the crime unfolding before him. He knew Phillips to also be one of those kinds of investigators, at least he had been in the past. Ashe wondered if the detective still operated the same. As the psychologist approached the nearest orange evidence cone, he instantly noticed that the hard evidence was still in place. However, it seemed as if some blood remnants had been irreparably affected by the rain.
How much had been washed away? Had there been other evidence that had been taken away by the rain before the police showed up? Could there be pieces of the puzzle lost forever?
Placed above the areas of found evidence were sets of tarps that were used to catch the rain if the rain returned, which, by the look of the clouds, it most likely would. Rain could be catastrophic for a crime scene and Ashe was surprised that Phillips had not ordered CSI to remove all evidence, regardless of the detective’s personal preference. Rain could easily ruin the integrity of evidence and in turn ruin the integrity of an investigation.
The psychologist chose to trust Detective Phillips’ judgment and expertise and move on. He let his eyes wander from orange cone to orange cone, following the flow of evidence from one side of the parking lot to the other. He found one central area which stood out because of excessive splashes of blood. There was a lot of blood…a lot had been spilled. Even though the blood had been thinned out by the rain, the core of liquid had stained deep into the concrete, deep enough to survive the downpour of water. Ashe knelt down to the splotches of maroon and thought for a moment.
Close to the blood was a shell casing. Ashe couldn’t identify the type of gun based only on the shell casing, he didn’t know guns that well. Oscar would know. Looking close, he figured it wasn’t large enough to be from a rifle and it didn’t seem to be from a shotgun.
A handgun? Maybe?
He inspected the immediate area for other bullet casings, but there were none marked and Ashe didn’t see any that the CSI would have missed, if the CSI would actually miss anything. One shot. That was all that the shooter in that area had gotten off. Had it been Norman or Scott? Judging by the amount of blood, it was most likely the spot where Norman Bones had been hit.
Another spot a few feet away caught his attention. A small hole was in the concrete. It had been marked by a cone as well and looked to Ashe as if a bullet had entered and been lodged. If the blood had been from Norman Bones, the missed shot had to have come from Scott. Scott had missed at least a single shot.
How had his son managed a second or third shot against a hired gun?
Getting to his feet, Ashe made his way to the other side of the parking lot where another group of cones stood. Along the way, he came upon three other cones placed near to the center of the parking. They seem to be marking faint drops of blood, drops that seemed to be forming a trail toward the other set of orange cones.
The other set of cones were placed next to a yellow line that marked the edge of a parking spot. More blood. It seemed to be a lot less than what had been spilled at the other cones. Kneeling closer to the ground, Ashe found two shell casings that had been discarded. Scott had managed to get off two shots against a hired killer.
Good boy, Ashe thought proudly.
“Phillips!” Ashe called out, drawing the attention of the two detective, who had been talking among each other.
“What do you got, Ashe?” Phillips asked. “Oscar was just getting me up to speed on your son. Crazy things are going on.”
“All the cars here accounted for?” Ashe questioned, pointing to the parked vehicles. “Good. We are obviously missing the vehicles Scott drove away in. But what about the one that Norman Bones had come in, most likely with the man that Scott had taken with him?”
Phillips looked puzzled.
Ashe asked another question, one that may have been covered while he was walking the scene. “What can you tell me about the other guy? Do we know who he is, yet?”
“We don’t know,” Oscar replied. “Witnesses knew who Scott was because of the news conference. It was fresh in their minds. They did not get a chance to recognize anyone else. They did say that they believe the guy Scott had taken was injured, bleeding from his leg.”
“That explains the trail,” Ashe said, eyeing a path of diluted drops of blood. “I believe the hired gun came with the man Scott had taken. And this is the main crime scene, but not the only scene we need to look at. This is only where things have ended…but we need to find where they began.”
Before Phillips or Oscar could say anything, Ashe lined himself up with the trial of blood and began to walk forward. He strolled up to the far end of the taped off perimeter of the crime scene. Instead of stopping at that point, he bent underneath the yellow banner and continued forward. He kept his body facing straight so t
hat he would continue moving in a direct line.
He could hear Phillips and Oscar walking behind him, along with what sounded like other footsteps. Ashe didn’t turn to see who was all on his back, but instead continued to walk forward. Everyone remained quiet. Only the sound of their steps could be heard. They walked and walked until another park road could be seen sitting in the distance. Next to the road was a small building, possibly a bathroom.
Near to the building, a car could be seen parked along the road. A yellow Porsche. Ashe stopped and turned to Oscar and Phillips. Just past the detectives was a little group of onlookers, both media and other officers. “Tape this area off too and get the media back.” He pointed out marks on the ground and blood spots in the dirt. There had been a struggle. “This is our second scene. It all began here.”
A yellow Porsche sat at the side of the park road. Ashe went over to inspect the yellow car, walking to the back of the vehicle, and felt his breath as it froze in his lungs.
“Oscar,” he called. “I know who Scott took with him.”
His old friend was quickly by Ashe’s side. “How?”
Ashe motioned to the yellow car and license plate. “Who do you know who has plates that say that?”
“Son of a bitch,” Oscar groaned. “What the hell is going on here?”
The license plate was custom and read LUCKYONE.
“Scott kidnapped Lucky Barrett,” Ashe told his friend. “Fuck!”
Oscar nodded in agreement.
Fuck indeed.
“I guess I can no long deny a link between Scott and Franklin Barrett,” Ashe added. “We need to talk to Norman Bones. We need to know why he was out here with Lucky Barrett. We need to understand what had happened here.”
Oscar grunted.