Ashes to Ashes (15 page)

Ashe
did
, however, take a detour past
Lincoln Park. He couldn’t help himself. Like an arsonist returning
to a blazing building, he had to set his eyes on the scene of the
crime. As he came closer, passing it on the street, he could see
the swirling berries and cherries of the YPD vehicles. Yellow
ribbons could also be seen from the road, blocking off an area of
land near to a beaten down baseball diamond.

He drove by the one side of the park and then
turned left at a nearby traffic light. The new road circled around
the other side, bringing him closer to what appeared to be an old,
unkempt baseball diamond, where it seemed that the shooting took
place near to.

In spite of the police presence, groups of
homeless men and women remained in area, refusing to leave their
homes of dirt and hopelessness. They didn’t scatter like roaches,
which some people might assume they would, possibly because they
had nowhere else to go. To Ashe, they seemed to be ignoring the
cops and the crime scene altogether. What could the police
do…arrest them? Put them in jail for a couple nights or more for
obstruction of justice? That might be a good thing for them,
because they would be provided with three hots and a cot, which was
more than they had at the present moment.

Twisting his neck, Ashe tried to look closer
as he drove by. He saw several figures dressed in either uniforms
or plain clothes, standing and talking inside the yellow barrier.
As far as he could tell, none of them seemed to be Oscar. Ashe knew
that he would able spot and properly identify his old friend’s
bulky figure from miles away, the jacket and tie and tan
complexion. It was a silhouette that would be engraved the
psychologist’s memory forever. Either Oscar had returned to the
police station or he was somewhere in the city or the adjoining
suburbs following a lead or leads. If Oscar
was
stomping
across the bones of Youngstown, Ashe prayed to whatever god would
listen that their paths did not cross.

The psychologist could see that another group
of people were gathered on the side of the yellow ribbons opposite
that of the law enforcement. Reporters. They held cameras and
flashed fake grins working hard to get a quote or sound bite from
any officer or detective that would make the mistake of speaking
too close to an active microphone. They would then either put the
words in print for their papers or play the audio during their
newscasts or post both print and audio on their website blogs. The
sight of them gave Ashe a cold chill and he wondered how much they
were told. How much did the media know? There was no way that a
double murder in a public park would remain under wraps. He
wondered whether or not the events of the past day could be kept a
secret for much longer. He doubted it, forcing himself to
appreciate what Oscar seemed to have done to help his son so far,
even if it didn’t include letting him help the investigation.

For a brief second, Ashe regretted going
behind his friend’s back, but he knew that he had no other options
at the moment.

Staying with the traffic, Ashe continued past
the park and made another turn at a stop sign heading in the
direction that would take him to the YSU campus and the Beeghly
Center, where Scott played basketball and Coach Barker kept his
office.

With his cell phone still out, Ashe made
another quick call. But Oscar didn’t answer. It rang and then went
to voicemail. When the voice mail message chimed in, he left a
quick message asking his friend to call him if he had any new news.
He then hung up. Where were you Oscar? Could he possibly be heading
toward Coach Barker as well? Or was he already there? Or had
already been there and left? He hoped not.

When he drove onto the college grounds, Ashe
was instantly flooded with memories of his own college days. Not
the time in grad school, while he had pursued his PhD, but his
undergrad time at Kent State University. Kent State University was
one of the largest universities in the state, with several campuses
in several different counties. But Ashe went to the main campus in
Kent, Ohio, the campus made famous during the Vietnam War and by
the Neal Young song.

When he began going to Kent State, life was
still a blank canvas, one that could still be turned into any
picture that he chose. He did have a major and a person reason to
focus on psychology. But he still felt freed by the possibilities
put at his feet. He initially wanted to study the brain and
research Alzheimer’s in the pursuit of better treatment and
management, perhaps even discovering a cure. The sick and sad
disease works to steal the minds of people and in the beginning
Ashe wanted nothing more than to focus his life in fighting it.
Yet, even though he seemed to have his future planned, he knew that
other options were all around him, if he were to change his mind,
which his eventually did. Those days had been a light and happy
time in his life, even if he had been over loaded with studying,
stress, homework, a painful ulcer, and other education-related
issues.

But, when it came down to it, the main reason
why his time at Kent State was such an enjoyable part of his life
was the fact that it was during that period that he had met his
soon-to-be wife, Susanne Cummings. She had been a freshman like him
and was taking English as a major, which to Ashe had always seemed
like a head-in-the-clouds course study, unlike the solid sciences
like psychology. She had had dreams of being both a poet and an
English teacher. It was her passion and intensity that had
attracted Ashe, because it matched his own. Even then, even on the
very first day he met his beloved Susanne, she had seemed to have
captured the brilliance of the stars to hold her eyes. She would
never go on to be paid poet, sadly, but managed to fulfill her
dream of teaching her love of literature to the local high school
kids, at least for a little while.

Turning on to Elm Street, the psychologist
found the immense parking area for the Beeghly Center. There didn’t
seem to be anyone to direct him to specific parking area, so he
pulled in and parked as close to the front of the building as he
could manage. He parked amongst a small group vehicles, most likely
those of employees or athletes at practice.

He then locked and left his car.

After walking for a minute while searching
for the main entrance way, he was finally able to gain entrance
into the building. He wasn’t surprised at how immaculate the inside
of the building was, with a multitude of plaques and pictures and
flags. Even though the Penguins were a little known team in
comparison to college basketball legends like the Tar heels or
Duke, they were a highly favored team of Northeast Ohio, on and off
the YSU campus.

Ashe did not give much of his attention to
college sports, sticking mostly with the professional leagues, like
the NBA or NFL. He never took the time to care much about March
Madness and The Final Four. He had never filled out a March
bracket. He was always told that the games were better, more
emotional, due to the passionate playing of the college kids. But
he never took the time to see for himself. Yet, even though Ashe
never thought much about college basketball, he was pleased when
Scott got a college scholarship to play for the YSU Penguins. He
was far from surprised when Scott chose to continue pursue
basketball into his college years. He was only surprised that Scott
hadn’t tried to get into a bigger, higher division school, one
whose teams had larger audiences and a higher chance at being
visited by big league scouts. A team with a nationwide fan base and
viewership tended to bring in the most recognition for their
talented players, meaning that more doors were available to lead a
player to the professionals.

Was that still Scott’s goal? NBA? At one
point, all Scott would talk about was playing for the Cleveland
Cavaliers. But that could have changed.

On his way toward the offices in the back of
the building, Ashe passed by a wide doorway. Through the open set
of double doors, he could see out onto a piece of the building’s
basketball court. He paused and admired the sight. At the center of
the polished floor was the penguin insignia, large and strong,
showing any opposing team who they were about to face.

He felt saddened.

Ashe could recall Scott’s first game in front
of a real crowd. It was during fifth grade. The school had
sponsored a weekend peewee basketball league for anyone who wanted
to volunteer. It took place in the high school gymnasium and gave
the feeling of real high school basketball games. Scott had been
excited. He had been one of the first to sign up, even before he
had asked for permission.

Ashe remembered those early basketball games.
He never expected his son to stick with it, because Scott did not
show any initial talent in the game. Scott would not give up,
though. He went to the school playground whenever someone would
take him and he would practice for as long as he could. He was
determined. He was driven. And each day he would go home tired and
sweaty and satisfied. Ashe was proud at the hard work his son was
putting in.

He also didn’t know how his son would react
to playing in front of a group of strangers, unsure of whether or
not the pressure would manifest and affect his son. But Scott
thrived on it, as if he knew and understood that every single
person in the stands, whether they were rooting for his team or
against his team, were, at their core, simply to enjoy the games
and to passionate support both himself and the other young players.
Even before junior high school began, Scott had found his niche in
life.

But after the loss of his mother, Scott put
even more time into basketball, more than Ashe had believer
possible, using the game as a distraction. Scott had lived and
breathed the basketball court, all through school, and yet Ashe
couldn’t remember going to any of his son’s games after the peewee
league. He couldn’t remember going to a single one. Ashe was always
busy, while missing out on watching his son doing the activity that
he loved the most in the world. What a pathetic and neglectful
father he had been.

Through a strong work ethic, and to the pride
of his absent father, Scott had turned his love for the game into a
college scholarship, one he would keep as long as his son’s grades
stayed up the school’s expectations. Which Ashe knew that his son
would. Scott was neither dumb nor stupid nor lazy when it came to
studying and tests. But Ashe couldn’t take credit for that, either,
because when it came down to it, Susanne had been the smart one in
the family. Ashe just worked hard and wrapped himself the illusion
of above average intelligence, a fog that seemed to trick people,
for some reason. He wasn’t sure how or why but continue to allow
people to view him as smarter than he actually was.

Ashe stared at the shiny floor of the YSU
basketball court and wondered to himself. How many times had Scott
played on that court? Many, many times, he was certain. But not one
of those times did Ashe take a few hours from his day to come and
support his son. He had never been in the stands. He had never
attended one single game. Basketball was everything to Scott and he
had never taken a second to care.

What kind of father did that?

A grieving one?

An angry one?

But Scott had done nothing to deserve the
abandonment.

Moving on, Ashe found his way to a short
hallway and a set of offices. A man that the psychologist believed
to be Coach Barker appeared instantly in front of him. Ashe
believed the man to most likely be his son’s coach because the man
stood just outside of Coach Barker’s office door. The man who might
have been Coach Barker was deep in a conversation with a woman,
both of them wearing comfortable warm-up gear. Noticing Ashe, the
motioned him over and ended the chat with the pretty blonde
athlete, who then rushed off the same direction Ashe had come.

“You Dr. Walters?” the coach asked. He was a
sturdy man, not large in stature but obviously solid in build.

“Guilty,” Ashe replied.

“You must hear that word a lot,” Coach Barker
began, “in your line of business.”

“My line of business?”

“Scott has mentioned a few time what it is
that you do for a living,” he admitted.

Ashe was surprised.

“Come on in and have a seat,” Coach Barker
insisted, pointing into his office. Once Ashe was in the room and
ready to seat himself, the coach added, “You’re the third person to
stop by asking about Scott. To be blunt.”

The psychologist tensed and slowly eased
himself down onto a short gray sofa, which lined a wall of the
room. “Damn,” he mumbled. “Detectives?”

“Yep,” the coach answered. “Detective
Harrison and another guy. The second man didn’t talk much. He
seemed a little cranky. Detective Harrison led the conversation.
They,” Coach Barker continued, taking a chair by his desk, one
usually used by visitors, “told me that if you showed up that I
should give them a call once you were gone. He seemed adamant about
it.”

“Detective Harrison is always adamant,” Ashe
assured him. “Why are you telling me this? Why are you warning me?
You could have just let me leave and then called them.”

“Because I still have no idea why two
detectives were in my office asking me questions about one of my
boys,” the coach said. “And frankly, that doesn’t sit well with
me…at all. He expected me to answer his questions but would never
even acknowledge the ones that I voiced to them. He purposely left
me in the dark. And now you, his father, are here wanting to
discuss Scott. Why?”

Ashe thought for a minute.

“My son is in trouble,” he clarified. “I
don’t know how much more I can tell you.”

“Scott hasn’t showed up to practice in six
days. Which is very unlike him, to say the least. And with my two
visits today, I know that something is seriously wrong. I need you
to tell me something…more than those other close-mouth men.”