Honor Code (6 page)

Damn. Homeland Security had made the military tight-lipped about more than troop movements. “Can you tell me –?”

“Need a warrant,” Monteith interrupted.

“I’ll get back to you.”

Robbins hung up the phone. Lips compressed into a thin line, he stared at the desktop, wondering about a different way to find Hayes.

“What’d he say?” Jordan asked. “Is Hayes stateside? On leave?”

“Need a warrant.”

Jordan glanced at his watch. “It’s still early. I can pull the paperwork and catch the judge at the end of lunch, before court starts back up.”

“And say what? We got a picture of a guy who might be Hayes walking around with Beason? They didn’t take anything at the Center. Beason didn’t ask for help. Where’s probable cause to dig into Hayes’s life?”

“Then why are we bothering with any of this?” Jordan swung his hand, waved at the whiteboard, the pictures of Hayes and the other possibilities.

“Because my gut tells me something is going down. We’re running out of time to figure out what that is.” And he didn’t want to explain to Miz Rose—or himself—if Beason ended up dead at the end of it.

“There has to be another way to find Hayes,” Jordan said. “His father’s dead—I found the death certificate by the way—and from what the Sherriff over in Colleton County said, his family left town. Think an aunt or a cousin might know where they are?”

The kid was learning. “You work on Hayes’ extended family. Put the contact information in the file. We might need it later. I have another idea.”

“Okay.” Jordan reached across the desk and dragged the file back to his side. “What’s your idea?”

“There’s a database we can access. If I remember…” Robbins typed
federal prison records
into the search engine. He scanned the results until he found the link he wanted.

Moments later, the opening page of PrisonTalk filled his screen.

“Ha!”

“What are you looking at?” Jordan asked.

“A website for families and friends of a guy—a service person—who’s been court-martialed. Mostly it’s forums, explaining how the system works, support network and all that crap.” Robbins scanned the screen as he talked. “Here it is.”

“What?”

“I knew I remembered seeing this on here.” He clicked another link. “Find a federal prisoner.”

“What makes you think Hayes is a,
was
a federal prisoner?”

Robbins folded his arms. “Playing a hunch. Miz Rose pegged him as an ex-con. She’s been around long enough, she’s nearly as good at spotting one as a cop. Military prisons are part of the federal system. If there’s one thing the feds are good at, it’s pushing around paper.”

The find-a-prisoner link transferred Robbins to the federal Bureau of Prisons webpage. “BOP. Should’ve thought of that straight-off,” he muttered.

He typed Tyrell Hayes into the search box, inserted race, age and sex, and then clicked search.

A moment later, he pumped both hands into the air. “Damn, I’m good.”

“You found him?”

“Yep. Incarcerated NAVCONBRIG.”

“Where?” Jordan’s tone added, say the name in English instead of letter gibberish.

“You didn’t serve in the military, did you?” Robbins eyed the kid across the desk from him.

“Actually, I did. I left college and signed up.” Jordan shrugged. “It was right after the Towers.”

Robbins gave him another assessing look. “How old are you?”

“Almost thirty.”

He looked sixteen. “Where’d you serve?”

“Basic at Benning. Signals AIT at Fort Gordon.”

Advanced Individual Training in computers and info systems. No wonder the kid could keep up with all the software changes. Seemed like soon as Robbins learned a program, some asshole decided to screw with it.

Still, desk-duty wasn’t the same as boots on the ground. “Stateside?”

Jordan busied himself with the file, as if he understood he was being asked more than rank and number. “Tour in Afghanistan.”

Huh. And he came home sane. And probably stronger than he looked. Robbins had seen a lot of post-traumatic stress in returning vets. Was that Hayes’s problem? Had he snapped and done something stupid enough to get himself court-martialed?

“Where’s NAVCONBRIG?” Jordan repeated. “BRIG I get.”

“Naval Consolidated Brig, down in Charleston.”

“Navy? Hayes is army.”

“All the branches use the Consolidated Brig. Medium security, so he probably didn’t kill anybody.”

“Other than combatants.”

Jordan was looking at the file again. Robbins wondered about the kid’s service, what he was avoiding thinking about right now.

“Does the database say what Hayes was court-martialed for?” Jordan asked.

“No. Just says he was released last week.” Robbins ran the Rolodex in his head and came up dry. “The only way we’re going to get any info on Hayes is in-person.”

“We’re headed to Charleston?” Jordan’s head came up.

“
You’re
headed to Charleston.”

Jordan looked deer in the headlights stunned.

“You’ve been in the army. You know how things work. Go find out what Hayes did. And ask about visitors, phone calls.”

“You want me to do that?”

“Yep.” Kid had to fly free sometime. “One of us needs to be here if things break open. Beason and Hayes could still be upstate or headed back here.”

Robbins kicked back in his chair. “Get going. It’s only 12:40. If you hurry, you can make it before the day shift changes.”

Jordan raked his files together and hustled through the door.

Robbins ran his hand across his jaw and watched the kid leave.

He hoped he’d made the right decision.

Robbins shoved his computer aside. Databases weren’t getting him anywhere. He needed information on Tyrell Hayes. Normally he’d be interviewing people who knew the suspect, but he was shut out in this case. The army wouldn’t let him near the base and he’d sent Jordan to the brig.

The brig. He propped his chin on his palm. Where’d Hayes go after getting out of the brig? He had no car, no driver’s license.

Where did anybody go when he had nothing?

Home.

The word hung like a neon sign on a dark road.

The place they always have to take you in.

Where was home for Hayes?

Robbins reopened his computer and typed in the name of Hayes’ mother. Beatrice Hayes didn’t show up in the DMV with a current South Carolina driver’s license.

Tyrell’s father died over twenty years ago. What if his mother remarried? Robbins opened a connection to the Department of Health and Environmental Control and clicked over to marriage records. He might’ve been “Rocket Robbins” back in the day, but for research, computers left him in the dust. Twenty years ago, he’d have been plodding through probate offices looking for the record that already displayed on his screen. Beatrice Hayes remarried when Tyrell was thirteen. Given the kid’s juvie time, apparently antagonism with his new stepdad had amped up the usual hormonal insanity of young teenagers to a flashpoint.

Another quick trip to the DMV site revealed Beatrice Hayes Munson now lived in Johnston, South Carolina.

Robbins pursed his lips. Johnston. Just twenty miles southwest of Newberry. Easy jumping off spot to “visit” Beason. Wonder what Tyrell’s mama knows about him?

He grabbed his jacket and headed for his car. It was a straight shot down 121 to Saluda, then 121 became Lee Street and he cruised into the small town of Johnston. Another once-prosperous railroad town, the central district had a few of the fancy white-trim old houses tourists liked. One block later, the buildings became small, ranch-style houses on large lots.

Everywhere he looked, there were dogwoods and azaleas in bloom. Spring in the South never got old. Even if it did mean he had to mow the lawn every week.

He passed a couple of scattered businesses, a church with a cemetery next to it, and watched the cross-streets. A few minutes later, he turned into a driveway.

He cut the engine and stared at the wood-frame house.

Stark.

That was the only way he could describe the place.

The solitary tree was a big pine standing all alone in the back corner. A couple of shrubs, trimmed to lopsided balls, stood sentry at the corners.

That was it.

Not even a handful of daffodils.

The rest was a flat-as-a-pancake acre of dry-looking grass. A concrete walkway split the yard straight down the middle—from the front door to a mailbox on a post next to the road. There wasn’t even an offshoot connecting to the driveway. Apparently the Munsons didn’t receive many guests.

Damn.

Munson’s house made his place look great, ran through Robbins’ mind, followed by, it would suck to grow up in a place like this.

He stepped out of the car and noticed the curtain twitch on the front window. At least someone was home. He’d started to call before driving down, but some interviews are better conducted face to face.

An older woman opened the door as he climbed the steps to a bare, concrete landing. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

The door was already closing when he said, “I’m a detective with the Newberry police. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

The door’s closing arc stopped. “About?”

He reached the porch and assessed the woman. African American. Late fifties. Iron-gray hair pulled back severely from a gaunt face. “May I come in?”

She stood in the doorway, one hand still clutching handle. “Do you have identification?”

He pulled out his badge.

Her gaze flicked across the ID, then returned to his face. “Why are you here?”

No invitation to come inside. “It’s about your son.”

She stepped back. The door resumed its closing movement. “I have no son.”

Robbins raised a hand, caught the door. “Ma’am, you have a twenty-eight year-old son named Tyrell. I need to talk to him. That’s all. Just talk.”

“Who is it, Beatrice?” A male voice, raspy with a smoker’s cough, came from somewhere inside the house.

She turned her head, spoke over her shoulder. “No one.”

She pivoted back to Robbins, her dark eyes as hard as her tone. “My son’s dead.”

“He was in the army, but he isn’t dead. He –”

“When he went to jail, he was dead to me. The day they locked him up, I told him he wasn’t my son any longer.”

Oh crap, one of
those
parents. “Ma’am, Tyrell made a mistake. He just got out of the brig. Surely you want to see him.”

“You want to talk about mistakes? Bringing that sinner into the world was my mistake.”

“What did he do?” What was so bad they’d disowned their son? Robbins’ concern for Beason nudged up a notch.

“You’re a policeman. You’ve seen how these hoodlums get started. First it was the vandalism.”

“Graffiti?” They kicked him out for that?

“Destructive. My husband and I tried to put the fear of God into him, but he defied us and defied us. The law finally put him in jail for stealing. They turned him loose when he turned eighteen. According to the state, he was an adult. Fine. An adult.”

She looked ready to spit on the porch. Or her son’s memory.

“He didn’t want to bide by our rules when he was a child. Honor thy father and mother.” A grimace twisted her face. “He didn’t pay any more attention to that commandment than he did, thou shalt not steal. His clothes were packed and waiting when he walked up those stairs. He picked up the bag and left. I haven’t seen his worthless hide since.”

Heavy steps sounded behind the woman.

“I want you to leave.” She again pushed on the door.

“Please call me if Tyrell contacts you.” Robbins wedged a card into the doorframe.

Voices came through the closed door. Robbins hesitated at the top of the steps. Maybe the son wasn’t so dead to the stepdad.

He turned and rang the bell. The voices stopped but no one answered. “Mrs. Munson? Mr. Munson? Tyrell may have taken an old man hostage. We need to know where to find them. Where would Tyrell go if he didn’t come here?”

The door wrenched open and a heavyset man with cold eyes said, “That boy’s headed straight to hell. Do the world a favor and shoot the dog when you find him.”