Authors: Cathy Perkins,Taylor Lee,J Thorn,Nolan Radke,Richter Watkins,Thomas Morrissey,David F. Weisman
“Armstrong has a string of drug charges, one burglary, but
nothing violent in his jacket. No kidnapping or anything like that.”
“Could you check on him today? See if he’s where he’s
supposed to be? Eliminate him from the pool?”
“Sure. I have a couple of guys over that way to touch base
with. I’ll give you a call.”
Check-ins with the next two parole officers went the same
way. The fourth guy had landed back in jail over the weekend.
The last one was an unexpected twist.
“Tyrell Hayes did juvie time. I’m not sure he should even be
in the database. He cleaned up his act enough to get into the army. Last I
heard, he was still there.”
“Thanks,” Robbins said. He started to cross the name off his
list, already wondering where he could find another pool of pictures, when he
stopped.
The army.
That could explain the no-hair and the muscles, too.
Robbins flipped through the pages of the thin file he’d
started on Tyrell Hayes. No South Carolina driver’s license. No property or
other information from the databases he typically queried. The guy’s birth certificate
made him twenty-eight years old. So far he hadn’t found Hayes’s mother. The
father had died when Hayes was in elementary school.
“How would a guy like Hayes get into the army?” Jordan
asked. “I thought they screened out anyone with a record.”
“It was all juvie time,” Robbins said. “Hayes got his GED
while he was inside. He had the high school diploma.”
“I didn’t think the military accepted a GED.”
“Depends on what they needed when the guy walked into the
recruitment office.”
Jordan rose and stretched. “Guess the GED impressed the
recruiter. Most people who drop out never finish.”
“Or the recruiter needed to meet his quota and got less
choosey.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re cynical?” Jordan asked.
Robbins hid a smile behind a stiff face. About time the kid
stood his ground. “I’m a realist.”
Jordan rolled his eyes. “How do we find out why Hayes served
time?”
“We don’t.” Juvenile records were off-limits unless he could
show cause.
“We can’t tell if he was convicted of a violent crime?”
Robbins scratched his cheek. “Army has wiggle room with the
GED, but Hayes never would’ve gotten in with a felon record.”
Jordan studied the white board and the print-outs of the
suspects they’d hung in the middle of it. He stepped closer to the board and
stood in front of Hayes’s picture. Finally he said, “What do we do next?”
“We wait for a bunch of parole officers to call us back. Or
for Beason and Hayes to do something stupid like rob a bank.” Robbins laced his
fingers behind his head. “With Hayes, we need to figure out if the guy’s still
in the military and if not, where he went when he was discharged.”
He ran the Rolodex in his head and landed on Sargent Major
Monteith. Last he’d heard the guy was over at Jax. He poked the digits for Fort
Jackson’s main number into the phone and after getting jerked around a bit,
finally connected with Monteith.
“Rocket Robbins. Haven’t heard from you in a month of
Sundays.”
Rocket Robbins. When he was a kid, he’d done everything
fast. Found women. Fell in—and out—of love. Solved crimes. He’d slowed down in
the love department, but hoped he was still up to speed in other areas. “Been a
long time since anyone called me Rocket. They still calling you Ice?”
“I ‘spect they do behind my back.”
“I can’t believe you’re still playing army.”
“Don’t knock it. Six months and I retire on a full pension.
Already got a security gig lined up—and it isn’t as a Rent-a-Cop.”
“I still have a few years. We’ll talk about that security
work when my date gets closer.”
“Done. Now I suspect you didn’t call to check on my
retirement plans.”
“I’m looking for a guy. Last word I have, he joined up. If I
give you a name, can you tell me where he is?”
An exhale filled the short pause. “I’d like to, but with
security being what it is these days, I can’t even tell you if the guy’s
enlisted. Not without a warrant.”
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?”