The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 4)
Page 35
Roscoe J. Jacklin, 48, of Iyanough Avenue, Hyannis Port, died Dec. 24th. A native of Boston, he was a renowned local businessman and owner of Hyannis Port Cars. Mr. Jacklin was a charter member of Cape Cod Lodge, on the Hyannis Board of Trade, Cape Cod Chamber of Commerce and was a corporation member of Cape Cod Hospital Association. During the Korean conflict, Mr. Jacklin served as a Sergeant First Class with the 2nd Reconnaissance Company of the U.S. Army. He leaves his widow, Velda Jacklin and two children.
The fact that he had two children had at least been acknowledged in his obituary, Morton thought, as he wound the film on to the next page. His hopes that the following editions of the paper might include further comment on the fire or its causes were in vain; he read every page of the final five editions of the month to no avail. He rewound the film and headed over to the help desk.
‘Could I get the following couple of months’ newspapers, please?’ Morton asked.
‘Sure thing,’ said the man who had previously helped him.
Morton returned to his microfilm reader and re-read the printouts while he waited, hoping to find further clues to link the cause of the fire to his father. His father’s sister, Alice, had been injured in the fire. She of all people must know what had occurred that night. He had tried contacting her last year, but her reply had been brutally blunt. I have neither seen nor heard from my brother since 1976. And that had been that. His attempts to establish further contact had been ignored. He knew from searches on the internet that she now worked as an artist in Provincetown, right on the tip of Cape Cod. Juliette was adamant that he should just waltz up to her art studio and introduce himself, but that was the police officer in her talking. He doubted very much that his reception would be as warm and welcoming as she imagined it would be.
Three film boxes were suddenly placed down on the table beside him. ‘I’ve got you January and February,’ he said with a grin. ‘Plus March, just in case.’
‘Thank you. Also, where would I find more information about a death in Hyannis Port in 1976?’
‘You’d have to go to Barnstable Town Hall in Hyannis for that.’
Morton smiled, thanked him again and then began to thread up the next film.
He inched through every page of every edition, searching the stories, the adverts, the family notices—even the sports pages; but there had been nothing more written about the fire. Morton could only assume that the cause had been accidental and, therefore, not newsworthy. It still didn’t explain why his father felt that he had been blamed for it, however. He slumped back in his chair. Should he continue searching? He looked at the clock—he had been here for four hours already and he still had one further place to go before meeting up with Juliette. It was time to leave.
Morton exited the library onto Boylston Street and jumped on the green T line subway to Government Center. He emerged above ground in the block-paved plaza of City Hall Square, grateful to be out of the stifling underground heat that he had found common to every subway in every country. He side-stepped away from the throng of pedestrians making their way out of the station. In front of him was the building containing the Boston seat of government: City Hall. Not exactly the most beautiful of buildings, Morton noted, as he strode towards it. Imposing and stark, the building was defined by great blocks of cantilevered concrete. He climbed the short flight of steps, entered through the doors and was immediately directed by a police officer to the back of a line winding its way obediently through officious airport-style security.
‘Please remove your bags, belts and coats and empty your pockets,’ a short policewoman yelled at the line. ‘Take laptops or other electrical items out of your bags and place them in a separate tray.’
Morton obeyed, placing a random collection of objects into the grey tray: a leather belt that had seen much better days; a selection of British and American coinage; an old tissue laced with pocket fluff; and his mobile phone and laptop. The tray sailed along the conveyor belt and he passed through the metal detector without issue.
‘Where abouts are birth certificates—vital records?’ Morton asked a lady wearing a City of Boston cap and who looked vaguely as though she worked there.
‘Next floor down,’ she said robotically, pointing to an escalator behind her. ‘Window two-one-eight.’
Morton took two escalators down to the basement, a chilliness rising to greet his descent. He stepped off into a quiet room with a distinctly oppressive atmosphere. Low ceilings. No windows. No furniture. Just polished red floor tiles and great hunks of unpainted concrete; he felt as though he had mistakenly walked into a prison waiting room. Between the concrete pillars he spotted numbered windows. 218 Births. He headed over to it and peered over the granite counter to the open-plan office behind. Thick red tomes—presumably the birth records—surrounded tables of workers on every wall.
A woman with a kindly face smiled and came over to the window. ‘Hi. How can I help?’
‘Hello. I’m looking for my grandfather’s birth certificate.’
The woman’s smile grew. ‘I love your accent—British, right?’
‘Yep, that’s right.’
‘What happened to your face?’
Morton touched the bruise on his right cheek—the painful result of his most recent genealogical investigation back in England. ‘I fell over,’ he lied.
‘Looks painful. So, was your grandfather born here in Boston?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Morton answered.
The woman reached below the counter and produced a small slip of white paper. ‘Fill this in with as much detail as you can and I’ll go look for it, then you pay twelve dollars at the next window and collect it from window two-one-six.’
‘Thank you,’ Morton said, quickly scanning the form to ascertain what was required. ‘Ah, there might be a problem: I don’t know the names of my grandfather’s parents—that was kind of what I was hoping to find out from the birth certificate.’
‘That’s okay—as long as you have the name and date of birth.’
He knew those details off by heart. Roscoe Joseph Jacklin, born 3rd April 1928 in Boston. He completed the form and handed it back.
‘Okay, here’s your payment slip. Take it to the next window and I’ll be right back with the certificate.’
Morton took the green slip of paper, paid the twelve-dollar fee, then stood waiting patiently by window 216.
He pulled out his mobile and saw that he had a message from Juliette. Hi Hubby. Hope you’re having fun. Found your dad yet? I’m just entering the Charles River. Wish me luck. Xx
Entering the Charles River? Swimming? Diving? He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. He clicked reply. ??xx
‘Excuse me, sir?’
Morton pocketed his mobile and looked up. The lady was back. With empty hands and an apologetic expression on her face.
‘There is no birth record for a Roscoe Jacklin born in 1928 in Boston. I shouldn’t do it, but since you’ve come such a long way and all, I checked for several years either side of that date, but there’s still nothing. Are you sure it was Boston and not any of the villages around here? We only cover the city itself.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Morton replied. The information had come from his father’s birth certificate, which had stated Roscoe’s place of birth as Boston.
‘Because if it was in the villages around here, you’ll need to head out to our sister office in Dorchester.’
‘How far away is that?’
‘About a half hour out on the red T-line.’
Time he didn’t have. ‘Okay, thanks for your help.’
‘You’re welcome—good luck.’
Morton made his way towards the escalators, knowing that it wasn’t luck he needed, just time and access to the right records. That his grandfather hadn’t been born in Boston shouldn’t have come as such a surprise; his entire search for his biological family had been a persistent challenge.
He glided up the escalator on a wave of thought,
considering what his next steps might be.
Juliette was distinctly dry when they met thirty-five minutes later. He leant in and kissed her. ‘Entering the Charles River?’ he questioned.
‘Duck Tour,’ Juliette said by way of explanation.
‘And that is…?’
‘A tour of Boston in a bright red amphibious landing craft from the Second World War. Very interesting, too; I’m now an expert on the Boston Tea Party and the Civil War. What about you—how did you get on?’
‘I’ll tell you over dinner. Hungry?’
‘Ravenous.’
‘Do you fancy Legal Sea Foods? It comes recommended.’
‘As opposed to illegal sea foods?’ Juliette asked.
Morton laughed. ‘Well, you are on honeymoon after all—I don’t want you having to get your police warrant card out.’
She laughed. ‘It’s in my bag just in case…’
He took her hand in his. ‘Come on, it’s only just around the corner from here.’
They were lucky to get a table; the large restaurant on State Street was crowded when they arrived. A young Hispanic waiter directed them to a table with a view down the Long Wharf opposite and handed them each a menu.
‘What can I get you guys to drink? We’ve got some great apple sangria on or our local beer is Sam Adams…or we’ve got a nice Californian red wine.’
‘Sam Adams, please,’ Morton ordered.
‘The same for me,’ Juliette added, receiving a surprised raised eyebrow from Morton. ‘What? When in Rome…’
The waiter returned with the drinks and took their food order of clam chowder and lobster bake.
Juliette raised her beer. ‘Cheers. Happy honeymoon, husband.’
‘Happy honeymoon, wife.’
‘Right, now I’ve got access to some alcohol, you can tell me about your day,’ Juliette said.
‘Ha, ha,’ Morton replied, taking a deep breath, before running through his day’s findings, ending with his inability to locate his grandfather’s birth record.
Juliette listened attentively to his story. Then yawned. Then laughed. ‘Sorry—blame the jetlag. Isn’t there a census or something that would tell you where he was born?’
‘Well…I could take another look at the 1930 and 1940 Federal Census,’ he answered.
Juliette set her beer down. ‘You’ve got until the food arrives to look. I’m sure they’ll have Wi-Fi here.’
Morton grinned, took out his laptop and began to search the 1930 census for his grandfather. He started with Roscoe’s full name, exact date of birth, and birth state of Massachusetts. Nothing. Then he opened the search up for all states. Nothing. Then he removed the date of birth completely. Nothing. There were no Roscoe Jacklins in the entirety of the United States in 1930. Then he just tried the surname Jacklin in the state of Massachusetts. Five hundred and forty-five results. Each would need checking in turn for possible errors. But not now—the waiter was heading their way with two bowls of clam chowder.
‘Time’s up,’ Juliette announced. ‘Anything?’
Morton shook his head as he shut down his laptop.
‘Does all this affect the search for your dad?’ Juliette asked. ‘I mean, your grandfather possibly not being born in Boston isn’t connected, is it?’
‘No…I guess not…I just thought that, since we were in his home city, I would try and find out a bit about him.’
‘Another mystery.’
‘Indeed,’ Morton agreed with a sigh.
Further Information
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