Crockett's Crusade

By Dale Headley

In this book, the author argues that what we are teaching and how we are teaching it in this country is focused, not on the student, but on the process - a process that is nearly 400 years old and entirely inappropriate for the 21st century and beyond. He charges that the educational hierarchy in America is motivated not by true educational excellence, and the development of happy, successful adults, but the inculcation of a narrow set of skills deemed useful to our increasingly powerful corporatocracy.
Finally, the author offers not just a scathing critique but a number of suggestions of what needs to be fixed, what needs to be changed, and what needs to be completely discarded. In the end, he presents some uniquely radical ideas and models for what American schools should look like - some totally different from anything youve ever experienced or are likely to have even imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781499066692

Dale Headley

Dale Headley is a former teacher, coach, and author of six other books, including "What're We Doin' for P.E?" and "97th Street.". His interests include long distance running, and he is a USATF Masters All-American and multiple California state T&F Champion. He lives in San Bernardino and Running Springs, CA.

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Copyright © 2015 by Dale Headley.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014915538

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4990-6668-5

               Softcover        978-1-4990-6670-8

                eBook            978-1-4990-6669-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/19/2015

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

Chapter XXXVII

Chapter XXXVIII

Chapter XXXIX

Chapter XL

Chapter XLI

PROLOGUE

L et me begin by introducing myself. My name is Arnie Crockett, and I am the newly-minted Chief Constable of Oak Hill, California, a metropolis of about 5,000 in the eastern San Joaquin Valley. This is my second career. I was elected to this office a year ago, in 1992, at the tender age of 57. In a sense, I inherited it, but I’ll get to that.

We all experience those unplanned moments in our lives that change profoundly the way in which we view and challenge the world. For me there were two such life-altering transformations. The first forced me to grow up against my will; the second helped me grow old with purpose. The first was when I left home, and the second was when I returned nearly 40 years later.

As a child growing up in depression-wracked Oak Hill in Central California in the 1940’s I had one imperative: have fun. I lived to play. When I wasn’t playing—like when I was in school—life was, well, dreary. That changed abruptly when I got drafted in 1953, near the end of the Korean War, the tail end of which I experienced intensely. That was not play. Nor was my subsequent career in the Los Angeles Police Department, including both as a patrol officer in the 77th Street division, or later as a homicide detective in RHD, downtown; neither was even remotely like play. In 1990, I retired to my cabin in the San Bernardino National Forest, ready for the fun to finally return. And it did, along with blessed contentment.

But it was not retirement itself that was the second profound change in my life; it was my sudden, unexpected, and serendipitous return to my birthplace, where I finally found my ultimate purpose in life and my one true love.

One Friday morning, not long after retiring, I found myself staring numbly at the page 4 headlines in the Los Angeles Times. My best friend from my youth, Eddie South, had been murdered on Wolfskill Peak, where I had once hiked and explored for many idyllic hours as an adolescent. Eddie was the chief constable of Oak Hill, and he had been reconnoitering for possible marijuana cultivation on the nearby mountaintop, when he was killed with a single shot to the head by a then-unknown assailant. I had not had any contact with him in all those years, yet I never forgot the fun we had puncturing the pomposity of Oak Hill residents all those years ago—the happiest time of my life.

So I locked up my little cabin, tight as a drum, turned off the water and electricity, and put my pal, Kojak—the German shepherd I hiked with every day—in a kennel, with the expectation that I would be returning in a few days. But, as Robert Burns wrote: The best laid schemes…

By Saturday morning, I had driven north 300 miles from my forest hermitage to do my utmost to find out who had killed the best friend I ever had and to make him pay. Six days later, I had succeeded. I also succeeded in keeping Eddie alive in my heart and mind by fulfilling his career trajectory; I was elected—drafted, really—to be the new chief constable of Oak Hill.

As soon as I had arrested Eddie’s killer and decided I wanted to stay in Oak Hill, for a while, at least, I de-kenneled Kojak and brought him to his new home. He immediately took to everybody, and they to him.

In the process of investigating Eddie’s murder, as well as those of 4 other victims of a singularly unique killer, I had reconnected with the girl with whom I had anonymously fallen in love at first sight on the third day of 8th grade. We are now together, I assume forever.

The chief constable of little Oak Hill, in the eastern Sierra Nevada foothills, really doesn’t have all that much to do. We have no gangs to speak of, except those that occasionally spill over from the marginally larger town of Porterville, a few miles south, where there is an airport the high tech drug mules like to use. The only premeditated murders in the last ten years were all at the hands of the same person, who is now in prison for life and no doubt cursing me every day.

Our little constabulary—mine and Eddie’s, I’d like to think—was small. It consisted of me in my dingy office, 25 year old Duane Altmeier, my deputy—in his cubicle just outside my door; and petite, smart, and immensely capable Irma Kamimura, usually found at the counter in the outer office, dealing with the public.

Duane happened to be the son of the love of my life, Marjorie Lawson, whom I first saw gliding up the aisle in my 8th grade English class, handing out spelling sheets. She was Marjorie Altmeier, now, divorced from Duane’s father. And Irma was the granddaughter of Japanese-Americans whose homes and farms had been summarily confiscated in 1941 by the U.S. government in direct violation of the Constitution. And it wouldn’t be the last time the irrational fears of Americans would cause them to abandon their professed principles; but that’s another story.

Both Duane and Irma were a pleasure to work with—smart, dedicated, and responsible to a fault. When local malefaction required additional manpower, I could always depend on a helping hand from deputies from the nearby Porterville Police Department, and occasionally, the Tulare County Sheriff’s Department, run by Sheriff Tom Whiting, who had become my good friend during the investigation into Eddie’s murder. As things now stood, I was quite content with being a big fish in a small pond, a pond where serious crimes were a rare anomaly. Or so I thought.

CHAPTER I

I leaned back in my swivel chair with my fingers interlaced behind my mostly bald head, and regarded my skinny, young, deputy diligently collating speeding tickets on my desk. Hey, Duane, you ever watch The Andy Griffith Show on TV?

Yeah, sometimes, on Nickelodeon, why?

Does it ever remind you of us?

What? You think I’m Barney Fife, or something?

That hadn’t occurred to me. Maybe I should just make you put one bullet in your gun.

Very funny.

Seriously, though, that used to be one of my favorite shows back when I was working out of the 77th Street station in L.A. I thought how great it would be to be like Sheriff Andy, without having to carry a gun or deal with sad, poor, downtrodden, defeated, hungry, angry people all the time, and usually failing. I thought how great it would be to just be able to help ordinary people get their cats down from trees, or something. And whaddya know, here I am in Mayberry West. I’ve seen more smiles in a week, here, than in all my years on patrol or as a detective.

Yeah, but you got a lot of exciting action.

You watch too much TV. I never even fired my gun at anyone. Most criminals down where I worked either gave up or ran away. If they gave up I didn’t have to shoot them. If they ran away, I would never shoot them, though one of my partners did, once. The job of a patrol officer in that part of L.A. is to listen to people’s grievances and try to commiserate with them if I couldn’t solve their problems, which I usually couldn’t. It usually involved having to stand there smelling their alcohol and cigarette breath, both of which turn my stomach. You know what the most frequent crime is? Wife beating. Time and again, some woman would call us for help because her husband was wailing on her. But when we tried to arrest him, she’d plead for us to let him go. These poor women feel they have no other choice but to let their husbands keep beating them, rather than be left abandoned; it’s incredibly sad. Most of the people committing crimes down in South L.A. feel they have no other way of surviving; and in many cases, they don’t. The other thing that was everywhere was prostitution. Most of these hardened women weren’t born that way, they just came, at some point, to the conclusion that dealing for sex was preferable to starving. There’s none of that, here. People call us because they need help on simple, everyday, problems, and we do our best to provide it—without a gun, in my case.

Are you saying I shouldn’t wear a gun, Arnie?

No, but tell me, how many times have you had to shoot it?

Never, yet.

How many times have you taken it out of your holster?

I don’t know, three or four times, I guess. But I feel better being prepared in case a gun is needed.

That’s fine, for you. But the only time I take a gun on a call is when I think I have a good reason to think it might be necessary. So far, it rarely has happened. Bottom line: I don’t want to shoot anybody if I don’t have to. That being said, I don’t disagree with your decision to carry one. You’re a responsible person who won’t abuse the privilege. Here’s a dirty little secret: a lot of cops become cops just so they can shoot people and get away with it.

Well, I do enjoy working with you, Arnie, and I do admire you, greatly.

Thanks, Duane. I know it won’t last long. As soon as your mom and I get married I’ll probably retire—again—and they’ll elect you as chief constable.

I’m not sure I want to do that.

Why not? You’d be great at the job.

Ticketing speeders and busting shoplifters may be okay for you, but I crave more action.

I can understand that. What are you, twenty five? I guess your testosterone and adrenaline levels are much higher than mine. I’m more than twice your age; the juices don’t flow so freely, anymore.

But nothing much happens around here.

I wouldn’t call saving Irma’s life and breaking open the murder investigation last year nothing.

Yeah, but that was the most exciting thing that’s happened here in a decade. The rest of the time, it’s pretty boring.

Me, I like boring. I like not having a gun chafing my hip. You know what you should do?

What?

Join the FBI.

Just like that?

Well, you’d need to go back to school and get a law degree I imagine, but with your record and glowing recommendations from me and Tom, I’d like to see them keep you out.

I’ll think about it.

Irma stuck her cute head inside my office.

Hey, Arnie, got a call you need to take—line 2.

Thanks Irma. I pushed button #2 on my phone doohicky. Hello, Chief Crockett. I still hadn’t gotten used to that moniker. Right away. Have you called the fire department? Good. Be right over.

What’s up?

Someone’s dead at the junior high school.

You mean a student?

"Don’t know, yet.

CHAPTER II

M ark Twain Junior High was only five minutes from the station, but the fire department and EMT’s were already there when we arrived. Twain Junior High was about 75 years old, and it showed. The grungy, gray exterior of the front was interrupted by a stone archway and double doors slathered carelessly in rust-red acrylic paint. They were already standing open when Duane and I entered a dark hallway about 100 feet long. I didn’t remember it being this dark and cramped when I attended in the 40’s, About halfway down, someone lay fully covered by a white sheet. Given the okay by the EMT’s, I carefully lifted the sheet. It was a man in a brown, three-piece, tweed suit lying on his back, unmistakably deceased, and appearing to have died in considerable agony, judging by the anguished grimace frozen on his face. His jacket was unbuttoned, as was his vest, and his white dress shirt appeared to have been torn open, with a solid red tie pulled loose. His eyes were closed, thankfully; I hate seeing corpses with their eyes open, accusing me. If the rescue squad had administered any resuscitation measures, they had given up, and were just standing there, helplessly staring at him.

Whatcha got, guys?

Oh, hi, chief, said one of the EMT’s, a pudgy but fit-looking young man in a blue uniform, well, he’s DOA where he lies.

How?

You’ll have to wait for the coroner to get here from Porterville for an official cause, but my guess?

Yes?

Judging by that frothing at the mouth, there, and the odor of bitter almonds I smelled when I tried CPR, I’d say he was poisoned with cyanide.

Suicide?

Maybe, but it doesn’t make much sense that he’d be out here in the hallway instead of at his desk in his room, does it?

‘His room’? He’s a teacher?

Yeah, that’s what I understand.

Not unless he changed his mind, said Duane.

What? said the EMT.

I mean maybe he could have started to kill himself, but then panicked when he couldn’t breathe and tried to make it to the nurse’s office.

Maybe, I said, it’s right over there, I see. I pointed to the little sign above the door next to the office door, and we could all picture this poor guy struggling in panic to get there. Judging by the contorted expression on his face, if he had intended to commit suicide, I was pretty sure he changed his mind. If I wanted to kill myself, I’d do it with a bullet through the brain, which is the way Eddie died, though not by his own hand. And there’s no changing your mind, as this poor soul may have done, to no avail. He died in pain and fear, something I hope to avoid.

Well, I said, we can’t examine him yet, until the coroner’s people process him, and they may be as much as an hour away.

I noticed there were no kids around, but several adults who appeared to be teachers and administrators lined the walls of the hallway, seemingly stunned by what they were viewing.

Anybody here tell us more about who he is? I asked, as I scanned the line. A voice came from over my shoulder. Yes, he was one of our teachers.

And you are?

Ted Douglas, I’m the principal. What can I tell you?

To begin with, what did he teach?

Ninth grade general science. His room is right over there. He pointed to an open door on the left, two back, which we had passed coming in.

Can you think of any reason he might have wanted to take his own life?

Mister Bartle? I can’t imagine that.

Mister Bartle? B-A-R-T-L-E?

That’s right; Charles Bartle.

I jotted the name down in my little notebook. Any personal or professional problems you’re aware of?

None. He’s a popular and well-liked teacher who knows—knew—and taught his subject very well.

How old is he?

I’m not sure; about forty, I think.

Married?

Yes. My god, I’m going to have to tell them.

We’ll take care of that, sir.

Children?

Two.

Well, there’s nothing more we can do here until the medics arrive, Duane. Might as well check out his room.

Right.

Before we entered room 104, Duane and I struggled into surgical gloves, which I always bring along as standard equipment for any call. We walked to the open door, peered inside briefly to get an overall impression of what could turn out to be a crime scene; then, so as not to disturb any potential evidence, walked carefully around the perimeter of the room. I was trying to remember if I’d ever sat at any