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send him the worst, most viscous criminals to assess
and evaluate, trusting him to do his job, objectively and without
bias. And he did so effectively, even sometimes obsessively, for
years. He had also once stood by the side of Oscar himself through
some strenuous and brutal investigations. Side by side they had
worked the cases. But Oscar had denied him the ability to work
toward finding his son.
    How dare Oscar think that he would be
emotionally compromised?
    Ashe unconsciously slowed down at a traffic
light and made a swift right turn. He immediately became aware of
the street he had entered. It was dark but he was able to read the
sign. Johnston Street. He knew the name from his memory. Glancing
to the right, he saw Youngstown State University looming against
the far horizon, tall buildings against the black night sky. They
looked like giants watching from a far. To his left, he came upon
an apartment building, one in which Scott had lived in for two or
more years. It was the same building from which his son had fled,
either in fear or guilt, as his roommate lay shot, bloody and dead.
The image gave the psychologist a shiver.
    He had only been to the building once or
maybe twice, though he couldn't remember the meaning for the
visits. It was most likely business void of pleasure or personal
regard, a fact that he at once regretted. His subconscious must
have brought him to the building, in spite of his friend's order to
remain on the outside. And his instinct must have figured a reason,
a rationale that brought him to King Tower. At that moment, Ashe
understood that he would never be able to remain on the sidelines.
Not when the suspect was Scott.
    Instead of pulling into an empty parking
space across the street or in front of the apartment complex, Ashe
continued beyond the building and swung into the small lot of a
bankrupt gas station. He was not the only person to take advantage
of the abandoned piece of asphalt, three other vehicles also used
it for either permanent or temporary parking. He slammed the maroon
Mazda to a halt, causing his body to slightly jerk forward with the
momentum. It took a couple seconds for him to snatch back his
breath.
    The psychologist slid slowly into the silence
and shadows of closed down business. After exiting his car, he
began to walk cautiously down the road. Hands in pockets, trying to
look casual, Ashe came closer to the front of the building. All at
once he froze in place, as if suddenly turning to ice. His eyes
fell on a brown Crown Vic sitting along the road at the front of
the apartment building, a figure behind the wheel.
    “Damn,” Ashe swore.
    He should have known that Oscar would place
an officer outside of Scott's building, undercover, with eyes
continuously on the front set of double doors. The officer, most
likely a rookie, would have a picture of Scott and would notify
Oscar if he would happen to return. The rookie would sit there all
night, watching and waiting, to be replaced by another rookie in
the morning.
    It was a pointless assignment, which was why
Oscar would only assign a rookie to it. But the pointless move came
from an old experience, Ashe knew. Oscar hadn’t always appreciated
surveillance, mostly because he hated to remain still. One case had
changed his mind, though. In the middle of 2000 a fifteen year old
female by the name of Claudette Janita Jones went on the run after
strangling her mother to death. After taking a few hours to speak
to Claudette’s family in order to gather information about the
running killer, Ashe suggested to his old friend that they leak
some false information to the media, claiming that the mother had
actually survived the assault and was back in her home. Oscar
wasn’t immediately convinced of the tactic, but the psychologist
explained the level of hatred that the juvenile had for her mother,
a hatred that had become all encompassing. The detective never
believed that the young woman would be stupid enough to return to
the