Ashes to Ashes

Prologue

...
stream of maroon liquid puddled beneath
the dead man, having rushed from the cluster of gunshot wounds that
had torn into his torso. It spread out beneath like red wings,
slightly circular, slightly dried. The blood reeked of death and
murder, like the smell of thick copper and lingering gun
powder.

Once again the dream woke Scott violently
from sleep, causing him to jerk to a sitting position. Looking
around his quiet bedroom, at how darkness was taking over the
space, he quickly realized that the day was being replaced by a
newly formed night. He must have been asleep for a few hours, which
was much needed after several nights of restless tossing and
turning, always at the edge of sleep only to be jerked back to
consciousness by the images of the lying, bleeding, dying man.

He barely remembered dozing off, having
skipped class. He could not focus on any lecture or note taking.
Lack of sleep could make reality seem like fiction. As if he could
reach out far and long, but never touch anything solid, because
everything around him was simply lights and colors. His mind was
nothing more than a blob of sleep deprivation and paranoia. And
visions of death.

Sitting fully up, Scott put his feet on the
cold wooden floor. Moving his right hand to his head, he ran it
through his sandy blonde hair. Pools of moisture broke and dribbled
from his armpits and his neck. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to clear
his head, wipe away the face of the dead man. The gaping mouth. The
speck of dried vomit at the corner of it.

It was grotesque.

It was horrid.

Standing, he went over to the nearby window.
Prying upward, Scott opened the window and shivered at the instant
breeze of chilled air that brushed against him. Even though the air
seemed to hold frost and he normally didn't like the cold, it felt
good against his hot skin. Spring had barely begun and the nights
were still frigid. Ohio seemed to hang on to winter like a child
tries to hang on to its favorite toy, clutching it for as long as
possible.

Staring out the window, Scott watched
automobiles as they passed on the street below him. They were
students or workers, coming and going. Johnston Street was never
overly busy, but the traffic remained steady throughout most of the
day and into the early night.

Scott lived in an apartment complex,
King
Tower
, which sat a little over a mile from Youngstown State
University. The complex was in a good location for him. It was
close enough to catch the buses, but far enough to be considered
off-campus, which held a strange type of prestige, for whatever
reason. The apartment building was tall and wide, containing many
apartments, from efficiency to two bedrooms. The rent was cheap,
which was perfect for Scott, who survived on his basketball
scholarship along with whatever part-time jobs he could manage,
ranging from McDonald’s to construction work.

Putting his burning forehead against the cool
window glass, he felt his eyelids falling shut.

A single bullet had penetrated the man's
skull, creating a bloody halo beneath his head, an off-circle of
blood speckled with gray matter that had been blown out the back of
the skull. The brain particles had mixed with the blood, creating
pale spots against the maroon, like a twisted abstract painting,
titled A Dead Man Thinking.

Scott jerked from the window. For brief
second he thought about putting head through the glass. The images
and dreams were torturing him, flashing before him while asleep and
awake, like some macabre dance. But it was more than just
delusions. Or were they? Scott found himself confused and
desperate. Was he going crazy?

He thought about turning his phone back on
and calling his father one more time. But he knew that it was too
late for his old man’s help. He didn’t comprehend what was
happening or why but whatever power he had been using to fight the
urge dripped its last drop. No more will power remained. Something
had taken place and he needed to trust it. He gave in. Finally. He
closed his eyes one last time and let it flow into him.

The hand that held the pistol was pale and
shaky. A finger flexed and the pistol fired a final bullet, tearing
into the flesh of the man, who was already dead. Dropping the gun
next to the body, the murderer vomited, disgusted by his own
actions. Once his stomach was purged of bile, he fled.

Opening his eyes, Scott went to his dresser
and opened the first drawer. But before he reached into it, he
stopped to think. The YPD, led by Oscar Harrison, an old family
friend would pursue him. They would be single minded, never giving
the truth a chance to come to the surface, because the truth was
beyond their understanding. Scott didn't fully understand it
himself.

Not his father, though, he knew. Someway, his
father would be involved. And his father always looked in needed
directions, wherever the facts and clues led him. Thinking it over,
Scott knew that he would have to leave clues for his father, ones
that would grab his dad's attention. If his father were the first
to get his hands on the clues, he would most likely dictate where
they led him, and possibly Oscar Harrison would follow his
lead.

His father would be driven. Scott remembered
how his father looked when he was putting a puzzle together. It was
scary. He knew that drive all too well. The good and the
bad.
Quickly, he forced the creeping memory away. It was too
painful.

Taking a few minutes, Scott positioned the
clues. Once the clues were placed, he slipped on a pair of sneakers
and his YSU leather jacket, and then returned to his dresser and
the open top drawer. Reaching back inside he pulled out a silver
handgun, one he had bought nearly a week before, a few days after
the dead man began to taunt him. It was a small Ruger SP101, .32
H&R Magnum, and it had been only for protection. But that had
changed.

Scott was never one for guns, preferring to
setting arguments with a fist instead of a bullet. He was always
amazed at the weight of the gun. In movies and on television, the
good and bad guys always toted them around with ease, as if they
were lighter than air. The real thing was far from dainty or
delicate. The weapon was a solid, heavy, dangerous piece of steel,
made for only one purpose. Everything after the pull of the trigger
was final. And he didn't need to check the chamber. He knew the gun
was loaded, he had loaded it himself.

Turning to his bed, Scott yanked off the thin
white sheet. After draping the sheet over his left shoulder, he
went over to the bedroom door. It was thick and sturdy and locked
by 2 large black sliding locks. They had been assembled recently,
locked in place with thick screws that were planted deep into the
wood of the door.

The first lock on the door slid quietly,
while the dead bolt made a minor squeak. Scott turned the door
handle and pulled cautiously. He was met by a dark hallway, short
and narrow. On the other side of the hall was Owen's door, opened a
crack. The crack was large enough for Scott to peak through. His
roommate's sleeping form could be seen, sprawled half-cocked on his
bed, on his stomach, one leg dangling limply over the side.

Stepping out into the hallway, Scott
immediately and swiftly took the following steps that would take
him over and into Owen's room. The only light came from the
flickers from the television. The only sounds were Owen's snores,
Scott's short breaths, and the erotic video playing on the
television. The only smell, which lingered thick in the air, was
the stink of weed, which resembled skunk piss.

The hand that held the pistol was pale and
shaky.

Scott's hands were neither pale nor shaky.
Using his free hand, he pulled the sheet up and over his head,
letting it hang down to cover the front of him. The sheet was thin
enough that he could still see, even in the dimly lit room. He
could fully make out his roommate. Taking another set of steps, he
approached Owen's passed out form. He put the pistol forward, but
kept it underneath the sheet. Leaning over Owen, Scott put the
barrel of the gun to his roommate's skull.

A finger flexed and the pistol fired...

Scott's finger didn't flex, it twitched,
sending a bullet exploding into the head of Owen. Wet fragments
flew up into the air and against the sheet.

...
murderer vomited...

Scott didn't vomit. He dropped the sheet.
Leaving evidence wouldn't be an issue. Turning from the dead body,
he fled the apartment. He felt himself relaxing, even though he had
committed a violent crime.

It was self-defense.

But who would believe it?

PART ONE

“One cannot properly appreciate the human
realities so long as one labors under the adolescent delusion that
people get the fates they deserve.”

--Nicholas Rescher

Chapter 1

Ashe Walters' grip tightened a little more on
his cell phone as his call once again went to voice mail. He let
out a stiff breath and listened again to his son politely and
casually explaining that he
was elsewhere
and he
would
return the call some other time.
It was the third time in the
last hour and a half that he had tried to get in contact with his
son, Scott. Each time he didn't even get the courtesy of a ring
from the other end.

Straight to voice mail. Scott’s phone was
shut off, Ashe figured.

As the recording of Scott's voice came to an
end, Ashe decided to finally leave a message after the beep.
“Scott. How are you, son?” Staring blankly at the far wall of his
office, he tried to gather his thoughts and continue, “I got your
message. I don't know...exactly...what to make of it...to be
honest. I am trying to get a hold of you to make sure everything is
okay.” Ashe never noticed that his office had an echo, but while he
sat and struggled with his wording, he could hear his voice
slightly repeating in the background. “Give me a call as soon as
you get this. Bye.”

Pushing END on the cell phone, Ashe
reluctantly placed it on the top of his desk, next to a closed
white file. He stared at it, fighting the sudden urge to call Scott
again and again and again until he finally got at least a single
ring from the other side. Just one ring. And then his mind would
find a little ease.

Or maybe it wouldn't.

He wasn't sure.

Ashe controlled his breathing. In. Out. In.
Out. He had no evidence that anything was amiss, except for a short
and strange message, which only seemed to provide him with a puzzle
piece without an actual puzzle. Without an identifiable puzzle,
there was nothing to solve, nothing to be concerned about. He was
simply giving in to the illusion of a problem, where none may
actually exist. Maybe he was simply searching for a riddle to
solve, something solid to clench his hand around. Or perhaps, he
may want or
need
a way to reach out and grasp his son.

But, Ashe tried to remind himself, Scott had
been out of his reach for as long as the boy was able to run. As
soon as Scott had realized that he had a set of legs beneath of
him, he hurriedly made use of them. For football. For track. For
basketball. And to swiftly run away to college. He always had
places to go and people to see. He wasn't even sure if Scott
stopped running long enough to look back, to remember the things
and the people that he had left behind.

Ashe took a large portion of the blame upon
himself. He could call his son more often, even if it was only for
a minute. It would use very little time from his busy schedule. And
it would take little to no effort. But he didn't. He never forced
himself to pick up the phone.

They both had fled, he realized, his son and
himself, away from everything that their relationship represented.
The admittance of each other’s existence forced them to remember
pain. Pain neither of them wanted to recall. That was the cold,
hard fact.

Why the message then? Why call?

Even with all the rationalizing, Ashe
couldn't shake the gut feeling that something
was
wrong with
Scott. There had to be a clue in the recording, something beneath
that tickled Ashe's instincts.

Picking his cell phone back up, he connected
once again to his voice mail. “D...Dad?” Then there was silence.
“Damn...your voice mail. Call me? Call me back as soon as you can?”
Hollow laugh. “As soon as you can, okay?” A deep breath. “Never
mind. Forget it.”

Ashe turned the message over and over in his
mind and for a brief instant a hint of a ghostly puzzle appeared.
But it quickly faded before any solid details could stand out,
leaving behind only a vague realization, a notion that had leaked
in from his subconscious. It was not the words in the message that
had bothered Ashe, but the tone in his son's voice. There was
something distant, dark, not quite right about the way that Scott
had spoken. It went far beyond the mere syllables and syntax.
During his work as a forensic psychologist, Ashe had heard that
tone, that pitch, many time before, from his inmates, but he never
expected to hear it be uttered from the mouth of his own son.