The Truth Book: A Stand-Alone Novella

By Robert Franklin Jackson

The Truth Book

In 1995, the author was invited to attend the fiftieth reunion of the eighth grade class of School No. 54 Indianapolis, Indiana, located at Tenth and Dearborn streets. It was a marvelous evening filled with connecting name badges with faces (and bodies) that have changed greatly during that period of fifty years, remembering long, almost-forgotten experiences, laughter, and dancing, but all came to an end too quickly.

The author, a writer of murder mysteries and is in need of a plot, decided to use the 1995 fiftieth reunion of School No. 54 and Arsenal Technical High School as the setting.

That is where similarities end. The author has created a fictional cast of classmates who will have entirely different appearances, relationships, interests, and personalities than those of the author’s 1945 friends.

The reunion will start out as a fun evening but will end in murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796017168

Robert Franklin Jackson

Your Author, Robert Franklin Jackon, following an enlistment as a U.S. Navy Seabee/deep-sea-diver, four years in elementary school teaching/administration, twenty-seven years as a high school geography teacher, the office of Historian General NSSAR, is not content unless he is working on a writing project. Projects include: Family Genealogy, Sons of the American Revolution - History Vol. III, plus several pamphlets, just completing a 3,200 page encyclopedia of his home town, Oroville, Oroville 1915 - A Place in Time, ninety acrylic paintings, and presently, The Blues of Portsmouth P.D. a Series of eight episode, four other novellas, The Truth Book, wewillfindyouamach.com, No Vacancy, and Pene-lope and Anti-gone, and the book of a musical comedy, Stoneface.

Book preview

Chapter One

Yuba City, California - Saturday, June 30, 2007

I am working on this murder mystery, based on events which started that chilling summer (excuse the oxymoron), of 1995, exactly 12 years ago to the day, when I received the invitation to my 50th Grade School class reunion.

I am a retired city detective, recently turned mystery writer. Actually, I have written two mysteries in what I had intended to be the ‘One Night Reading - Keegan O’Regan Mystery Series’. Then I ran out of ideas for a delicious murder (There I go again). If I can imagine a murder, I can write the dialog and plot to get to the climatic end. But I am having a writers block, or a murder plot block.

Then I decided to put on paper the events that made 1995 a chilling summer.

Here is that story - Richard Freeman Jackman

Chapter Two

Yuba City, California - Thursday, February 16, 1995

It was one of those damp, dreary winter days of February when I went to the mail box and found an envelope with an Indianapolis return address. Damp and cloudy, but not raining, which might seem like a good thing if you have an outdoor job. But in California, rain in the valley means snow in the mountains. Average precipitation is necessary to provide a snow pack in the Sierra Nevada mountains to keep the ski resorts in operation, and snow skiers of all ages happy, and water skiers, too. Because if the snowpack is way below average, the spring melt will not fill Shasta Lake, Folsom Lake and Lake Oroville reservoirs.

All of this is of little concern to me. I am a former police detective, divorced, due to the occupational hazard of spending too much time away from home on stake-outs, and my skiing problem,’ whis-ski’ that is. There is no way I am interested in snow or water skiing.

Sitting in side my kitchen, I took a more careful look at the Indianapolis letter. Actually, the return address said: Class of 1945 Reunion Committee, School #54, Dearborn Street, Indianapolis, IN. I haven’t given Naptown much thought since I left there in January 1951. I graduated from School #54, a grammar school, in June of 1945; Most of the class then became freshmen at Arsenal Technical High School, which was located 15 blocks east of School #54 on 10th Street. Tech, the largest high school in Indiana, with a 1946 enrollment of 4,500+ students was an arsenal during the Civil War. In 1912 the 76 acre grounds and buildings became Arsenal Technical High School. School buildings today include: The Arsenal, Artillery, Barracks, Barn and Guard House. Three newer buildings, Treadwell Hall, Stuart Hall and Morgan Hall plus shops, cafeteria, stadium and gym have been added.

During my eighth grade year my parents moved into a new home about the same distance west of School #54 on 10th Street. There, I had the option of attending Tech or Howe High School. I opted for Tech, because that was where my School #54 friends were. But as it turned out, Tech was so large, like a college, I rarely had School #54 kids in my classes.

Tech was a technical school, whereas, Howe was more of an elite school. Howe was full of very affluent, attractive young ladies. I wouldn’t have traded schools, but not once did I date a Tech girl.

Graduating from Tech with a good grade point average, I chose to live at home and attend Butler University located in northern Indianapolis. I found that Butler had about as many students as my high school. Being a good student, I had high expectations, but soon found myself in trouble. My classes were full of World War II veterans attending college on the G.I. Bill. The veterans were older, experienced, more mature, and more motivated to gain an education and get on with their lives after a four year interruption. This 19 year college student just couldn’t compete with the vets.

The United States was just beginning to get involved with the U.N. Police Action in Korea. One of our School #54 friends was killed in action and was awarded the Silver Star for heroism.

I have mentioned that during my eighth grade year I moved from one neighborhood to another. (A trolly ride down 10th Street allowed me to finish my last year at School #54.) The neighborhoods were as different as two planets. My School #54 friends played war games, complete with uniforms and toy rifles, in the woods and hills of Brookside Park. My friend who died in Korea was very good at ‘war games.’ He took that skill to Korea and died courageously defending ‘Porkshop Hill.’

The move to the other neighborhood, called Irvington, introduced me to ‘alley basketball.’ We played rain or shine, snow or sleet, freezing or scorching temperatures about 350 days per year. Our only break from basketball was a few days of ‘flies and grounders’ at the beginning of baseball season; and at the beginning of football season we played a game of ‘punt, drop kick, pass or lateral’ played on Bancroft Street, with the curbs as ‘out of bounds’ lines. I don’t know why, but I was always on the look out for cops who might arrest us for playing in the streets.

No one is as awkward as a kid learning to shoot or dribble a basketball. (If you look at actors playing a game of ‘two-on-two’ in a T.V. cop show, you can tell who is experienced and who is faking.) After a period of humiliation, I developed quite an eye for a set shot.

With poor college grades and the threat of being drafted. I took my father’s advice and joined the U.S. Navy. Dad, a World War I vet (The war to end all wars.) was a U.S. Navy Veteran. He always said, All wars are dangerous, but in the navy, unless the ship went down, you were always going to have a warm meal and a dry place to sleep.

My best friend and I joined the U.S. Navy. His family was into construction. He was a skilled caterpillar operator. We took tests in boot camp at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center. In planning our next assignment, (We hoped to stay together), my friend convinced me to try for Sea Bee school.

You’re a ‘cat’ operator! I said him. What can I do?

Anybody can hold a hammer. Sign up as a carpenter, (a Builder in the Sea Bees). he answered.

To make a long story short, my test scores were better than his. He was sent to the fleet. I became a Sea Bee Builder. So much for military wisdom.

While I was serving in the navy, my folks, fulfilling a long time dream of my father. They moved to Yuba City, California. Since I had no Indianapolis home to return to, I joined them in Yuba City following my discharge. Once in California, my School #54 classmates were in the past and forgotten.

Butler University, in the spirit of appreciation for those who enlisted into the service, made the decision to post one grade higher than the enlistee was earning. Therefore, when I sent for a transcript from Butler to present to the local Junior College, Yuba College located in Marysville, Yuba City’s twin city, across the Feather River. It is strange. Yuba City is in Sutter County; Marysville is in Yuba County.

I earned an A.A. degree in political science at Yuba College. My next goal was to go for a B.A. at Chico State College, located 45 miles north of Yuba City in Chico, California. Money was tight, so I decided the best solution was to find a car pool of ‘vets’ on the ‘G.I. Bill’ who commute to Chico each day and return to our homes at the end of each day.

I put a message on the Public Notice Board at Yuba College:

LOOKING FOR CAR POOL TO CHICO STATE

FALL SEMESTER - 1956.

Sherwood 2-3962.

Once again to shorten the story, I received a call. A guy had a car-pool of five and needed a sixth. All vets.

I had learned my lesson at Butler. I wanted to associate with a group of older, experienced, more mature, and more motivated to gain an education and get on with their life after a four year interruption, type of guys.

I got into the car with them for my first commute to Chico State College. I immediately discovered that I was the stranger. They had all grown up in either in Yuba City or Marysville. They had either gone to school together or competed against each other in high school athletics.

After a couple of miles of being left out of the conversation, I decided to break the ice. What are you fellows going to major in? (Which reminds me of the joke about not ending a sentence with a preposition. I was thinking, What are you going major to in, assholes?) But I didn’t.

Almost in unison they said. We are going to be cops!

So I heard myself saying, Me, too. Just going along with the crowd.

Can you image what would have resulted if in unison they said, Zeppelin Pilots or Emu Raisers.

As it turned out, my age, experience, maturity and motivation was the best of my new car-pool friends. We all took the same classes. My class notes, and skill at reviewing for tests was resulting in all of us making good grades. I soon was a part of the group.

We all didn’t stay together. We all received degrees in social justice, but the others didn’t want to be cops in their home towns, and be forced to keep their friends in line. The Chico State College Placement Office arranged for interviews, and they joined either police departments or Sheriffs Offices in Fresno, Livermore, Grass Valley and Eureka. I opted for my new home, Yuba City. I didn’t have any friends to keep in line. That accounts for five of the six commuters. One actually raises emus in Richvale.

You have most of my story. I became a cop; worked my way up to detective; married; spent way to much time on the job; drank my share; divorced; retired; decided to do some writing; turned to what I know best, murder mysteries; quit heavy drinking; reward myself with a Corona after I fulfill a set quota of pages for the day. To date I have written two murder mysteries: …. taking the fifth and …. jeff needed killing, both featuring Keegan O’Regan, a Portsmouth, New Hampshire detective. Occasionally, I use the pseudonyme of areff jackman. ‘areff’ is my way of keeping Richard Freeman Jackman anonymous.

Do I think of my ex-wife? No! When I turn a page, shut a door, sell a car, or finish a Corona, I move on. I don’t think any more of her than I do of my School #54, 1945 classmates.

I tossed the reunion letter in my trash basket.

Chapter Three

Yuba City, California - Saturday, February 18, 1995

I was sound asleep when the ringing of the phone jolted me into consciousness. You better not be a tele-marketer or calling a wrong number! It’s 7:04 a.m. on a Saturday. Saturday, Smaturday, one day is just like every other day. But declaring that it was Saturday would make whomever it was feel terrible. Why are you calling?

"Dickie, it’s Amy Adams, in Indianapolis. Did you get your reunion letter?

Dickie? I haven’t been called Dickie in over fifty years. Who is this?’

Amy Adams, at least I was Amy Adams. We sat next to each other during the sixth grade, at School #54.

Was Amy Adams? Thinking like a cop I said. Are you using an alias, now?

No, I got married. I’m Amy Sullivan now, or was, she answered.

I keep hearing ‘was." Are you trying to confuse me?

I was Amy Sullivan, and now I’m not. He died. Death, like shit, happens, you know.

If you throw in another ‘was’ I’m gonna hang up. How did you get my number and address?

The reunion committee got on the Tech Alumni computer and used a Find Your School Classmates program. Do you still have that great smile?

Great smile? The word smile triggered a memory. It was all beginning to come back. About 90% of my School #54 classmates were together all eight year. Several of us had gone to kindergarten at Brookside Kindergarten at 16th Street and Olney. But a new girl, Amy Adams, joined us in November, of our sixth grade. I always managed to sit in the back of the room. There was an empty chair next to mine. Amy was assigned that seat. I remember looking at her and thinking, Wow! Is she cute! Amy was more than cute. She was very mature for a sixth grader. She was blossoming into womanhood, as a few of the girls in class were developing. She seemed very self assured.

Amy looked at me and said, You have a great smile. I love it. That was the last words Amy ever spoke to me until one day on the trolly during our senior year at Tech. On that day she said, Hi, Dickie." Amy was way out of my league.

I managed to say, "Hi, Amy. They call me Dick, now.

Glad to see you, Dick. Oh, here is my stop. Amy was gone.

Now she was back, and I was giving her a hard time. "Amy, I’m sorry about all that grief I’ve been giving you about ‘was.’

Don’t be sorry. I could throw in as couple more ‘wases.’ A couple of more times I married the wrong guy. Are you coming to the reunion?

To be truthful, I tossed the reunion letter. I remember a few of the faces, and I am not sure I want to see how they have changed. I sure have. I am over 200 pounds; balding, but not bald; I have lost my upper teeth. I have this line I use. I have bad news and good news. The bad news is that I am down to eight teeth. The good news is that I only have seven to floss.

Amy answered, "That is a humorous line. I am fifty years older, too. I’m not what you remember. As far as looks go, all my mistakes in marriages were with guys with looks. I’m not looking for a relationship, but I would like to reminisce with an old acquaintance with a humorous line. And, Dick, another reason I called. I know