by Janet Dawson
The University of California library system is enormous, containing millions of items. It’s a useful resource for any investigator. And I’m a Cal alum, a paid-up member of the alumni association, so I had a library card and access to all those books—and periodicals. I pointed my Internet browser to the UC Berkeley library’s website. The main building, Doe Library, houses the Newspapers and Microforms collection, which has over 200 newsprint subscriptions and another 900-plus archived on microfilm, with microform reader-printers that have software for scanning articles to a USB flash drive. The newspapers from Salinas, Monterey and San Luis Obispo were there. But the Camp Roberts Dispatch, five volumes of newspapers from the years 1941 through 1946, was in the nearby Bancroft Library.
Historian and writer Hubert Howe Bancroft began collecting books and manuscripts back in the 1860s and eventually wrote a thirty-nine-volume history of California and the American West. Because so many of the figures he was writing about were still alive, he’d accumulated original documents, transcribed portions of original archives, and interviewed the people who’d made the history. Bancroft sold his vast collection to the University of California in 1905 and it was now one of the largest and most valuable collections in the United States, containing among other treasures Mark Twain’s papers, the university archives, a pictorial collection containing everything from drawings to photographs, and an oral history project full of recordings. The Bancroft also has old newspapers like the Gold Rush-era Alta California, and more important to the case at hand, an Army camp newspaper published during World War II.
The online catalog listing told me that five volumes of the Camp Roberts Dispatch were stored in an off-campus location. I had to put in a request for the materials and I did so online, asking specifically for the volume that contained newspapers from 1943. A short time later I received an e-mail from a librarian telling me he wasn’t sure which volume held 1943, so he’d requested all five, and they’d be available at the Bancroft around three o’clock the following afternoon. The library closes at five, so I made plans to be there before three. That way I’d have a couple of hours to search the newspapers.
For now, it was noon and I had just enough time to grab some lunch before keeping a one o’clock appointment with a new client.
Chapter 29
Lupe Hernandez called Tuesday morning as I was getting ready to leave my office for an appointment. “Jeri, I found that death certificate. Byron C. Jasper, died March 20, 1943. It says he died in a fire. I’m putting it on the fax machine now.”
“Thanks, Lupe. I appreciate your getting to this so quickly. How much do I owe you for the certificate?”
“Call it a favor, and next time I need something in Oakland you can get it for me.”
I hung up the phone and heard my fax machine buzz and whir. A single sheet of paper slowly emerged from the machine. I picked it up and examined the copy of Byron Jasper’s death certificate. The cause of death was listed as injuries due to fire. I was hoping the fire had merited a story in the Camp Roberts Dispatch. At least I had a date to bring the incident into sharper focus. I quickly looked up a 1943 calendar on the Internet. March 20 fell on Saturday that year.
I left the office for my appointment. A couple of hours later, I drove to Berkeley. Parking near the University of California campus is always problematic. I found a public lot on Channing near Telegraph Avenue and walked two blocks north to the campus, heading across Sproul Plaza, site of so many demonstrations, from the Free Speech Movement and the anti-war protests in the 1960s to the current protests about lack of state funding. At Sather Gate, a bridge leads over Strawberry Creek. Though it was late June, the campus was crowded with students attending summer sessions. I angled up the hill past Wheeler Hall and took a path between that building and South Hall, one of the oldest campus buildings. A couple of well-fed squirrels were chasing each other around the trunk of an oak tree. When they saw me, they skittered up the trunk to a branch and looked down at me, chattering a warning.
The Bancroft Library fronts on a green space looking east toward Sather Tower and the Campanile, its bells now chiming three. Inside the building I stowed my belongings in the lockers provided for that purpose. Because of the fragile nature of the items in the Bancroft, nothing can be taken into the Reading Room except paper and pencils, and I’d brought an ample supply of both. I showed my ID at the desk on the first floor, then climbed the stairs to the second-floor Reading Room. At the registration desk I was issued a one-day pass, then I went inside the Reading Room. I’d printed out the e-mail I’d received yesterday from the librarian, so now I showed it, then took a seat at a nearby table, waiting for the materials. A short time later, the librarian carried five oversized bound volumes to the table. I stood over the table, the better to see the pages as I opened the first volume, finding a yellowed newspaper dated 1941. It was like holding history in my hands.
I leafed through the first few issues of the newspaper, which had been published weekly, on Fridays. I glanced at headlines on articles and the advertisements, some of which were illustrated. Here was an ad for Muzzy Marcelino and the Fanchon Marco “Girl Revue,” set to appear at the Paso Robles Auditorium, and another from a used car lot where one could acquire a 1929 Model A Ford Coupe for the sum of $35, which sounded like pocket change now but was probably a lot of cash in the early forties.
It was tempting to linger, but I needed to find some information about the fire that supposedly took the life of Byron Jasper. I quickly determined that volume three of the Camp Roberts Dispatch ran from May 1942 through May 1943.
There was a date and cause of death listed on Byron Jasper’s death certificate. But had the fire that claimed his life occurred the same day? He could have been injured days or weeks before that, lingering until he died. I carefully examined the yellowed newspaper, turning the pages dated January and February 1943. I learned that for a buck-fifty, I could get a “ranch dinner” at the Paso Robles Inn, the “Waldorf Astoria of Paso Robles,” according to the ad.
The camp really was like a small city. Here was a photo of a singing group comprised of several of the camp’s “Negro soldiers,” and an article about Tuesday and Thursday music and drama workshops at the Paso Robles USO. There were four movie theaters and the listings changed every week. Each week held a photo and a caption describing a “Roberts Rose,” a civilian woman who worked at the camp. Some of these roses had joined up as well, trading civvies for uniforms. And there was a Ping-Pong tournament underway at the recreation halls.
In a February issue, I found an article about Second Lieutenant Emmet E. Heflin, otherwise known as actor Van Heflin. His latest real-life role was a training officer in Battery D, 53rd Field Artillery Training Battalion. In early March I learned that a big Hollywood show was due at the camp, and so was the Broadway play Claudia. The newspapers for the following weeks contained an article and photo from a sham battle conducted by the 88th Infantry Training Battalion. The March 19, 1943 edition told me that Bing Crosby and the Clambake Follies had packed them in at the Soldier Bowl the previous Sunday.
In the next issue, dated Friday, March 26, I saw photos from the Crosby show—and a headline that read SOLDIER DIES IN FIRE.
On Saturday, March 20, 1943, a late-night fire had consumed a tool shed located northwest of the Main Garrison at Camp Roberts. Firefighters had extinguished the blaze. On Sunday morning, daylight revealed a burned body in the rubble. The military police had been called in, along with the camp provost marshal, the military police detachment commander, and two special investigators, both sergeants.
The victim had been identified as a recruit at the camp for training—Byron Jasper, from Los Angeles. A second man from Jasper’s company was missing, listed as absent without leave. His name was Harold Corwin, from Oakland, California.
So Binky had died. Or had he? I stared at the old newsprint, trying various scenarios. What if Byron Jasper hadn’t died in that fire? The man Pearl saw in 1979, the one she was sure was Bink
y, had been using the name Hank Calvin. The name of the soldier who’d supposedly gone AWOL—Harold Corwin—could easily migrate to Hank Calvin. Or maybe Binky really was dead and this was an exercise in futility. But the prospects intrigued me.
I searched for more information about the fire in subsequent editions of the Camp Roberts Dispatch, and found one more article, dated in early April 1943, some two weeks after the fire. The Camp Roberts investigators had determined that arson caused the fire. Did that mean the dead soldier had been murdered, with the missing soldier as the probable suspect? Was fire really the cause of death? Or was the victim dead before the fire consumed his body?
How had the bodies been identified? Did they use dental records back in 1943? Or were there items found on the body that told the investigators the dead man was Byron Jasper? Had the Army investigators, with a missing soldier and a body, simply assumed which was which?
I reached for my index cards and pencils, listing every detail I could find about the fire and the death. I added my own questions, and I had plenty. Had Harold Corwin and Byron Jasper been reported missing from their barracks Saturday night? Were they considered absent without leave until Sunday morning, when the fire’s ashes revealed the grisly remains? Why were those recruits together in that shed, after hours?
A fire set to cover one’s tracks—I’d read that scenario before, in the LAPD file on Ralph Tarrant’s murder. The actor had been shot and his house torched in an attempt to cover up the murder. But a neighbor saw the flames and called the fire department. My theory was that Binky and Sylvia Jasper had killed Tarrant and set the fire. Had Binky, at Camp Roberts, killed the other soldier and set another fire? Or was he really dead? Was I letting my feelings about what was a very personal case get in the way of my judgment? Maybe I wanted Binky Jasper alive, living in Alameda under the name Henry Calhoun.
I shook myself out of this funk. I was finished with the newspapers, so I used a computer terminal to search the Bancroft catalog for Oakland city directories. The library had them, back to the nineteenth century, and including volumes from 1921 to 1941. A note said that no issue had been published in 1942. I requested the volume for 1941 and looked up the name Corwin. I found a listing for Arthur Corwin, his wife Ruth, two sons, Stanley and Harold, and two daughters, Donna and Thelma. Corwin’s occupation was listed as cannery worker, and the address was on Brookdale Avenue in the East Oakland district known as Fruitvale. Back in the late nineteenth century, the area had been full of orchards, mostly cherry and apricot, and by the time World War II broke out, Oakland with its major seaport and rail terminus, had a huge canning industry, with food processing plants like the Oakland Preserving Company, the precursor to the now-famous brand Del Monte.
I left the Reading Room, retrieved my belongings from the locker where I’d stashed them, and went next door to the Periodicals Room in Doe Library. There I looked through microfilmed copies of the Salinas Californian, Monterey County Herald, and San Luis Obispo Tribune, searching for more details about the Camp Roberts fire. I didn’t find much beyond what had already appeared in the Camp Roberts Dispatch. Then I got a roll of microfilm from the Oakland Tribune and looked at the newspapers for late March 1943. Sure enough, I found an article, a brief column that said Corwin’s parents resolutely denied that the eighteen-year-old private would have deserted.
Were any members of the Arthur Corwin family still living in Oakland? The Fruitvale District had changed quite a bit since World War II. Before the war the population was primarily white. After the war, African Americans moved into the district, but now the majority population was Latino. I rewound the roll of microfilm and returned it to the desk. Ranged along the walls of the Periodicals Room were computers with access to library catalogs and the Internet. I used one of these to log onto the Alameda County Assessor’s Office website, which had a searchable online database for property tax information. I typed in the Brookdale Avenue address I’d found in the 1941 Oakland city directory. When I clicked the “submit” button, the tax records came up with a parcel number. The amount of taxes owed on the property made me guess that it had been sold since Proposition 13 capped real estate taxes in 1978. I went to the Clerk-Recorder’s website, clicking on the link for real property sales and transfers. Electronic records were available back to 1969. If the property had been sold prior to that, I’d have to go to the county offices to look at microfilms of actual documents, which often had information useful in locating a person, such as the name of the realtor involved in the purchase.
I typed in the last name Corwin and selected “deed” as the document type, then clicked on “submit.” My search returned more than a hundred records. There were lots of Corwins in Alameda County. I searched on the name Arthur Corwin. The database didn’t return any records. But the name of Stanley Corwin, Arthur’s older son, did come up. He and his spouse, Marlene, had owned the property until the late seventies, when it had been conveyed to Joel and Shelley Corwin. The most recent deed, dated just a few years ago, listed the owners as Ramón and Elsa Torres.
I looked at my watch. It was late in the afternoon, after five. I resisted the impulse to go home. Instead I walked back to the parking lot, retrieved my car, and drove to East Oakland. Maybe I could find Ramón and Elsa Torres at home on Brookdale Avenue. The address I sought was just below Thirty-fifth Avenue, where houses were close together on deep lots. I drove slowly along the street, looking at numbers. Then I spotted the house, a classic one-story California bungalow, of a type built in large numbers in the 1920s and 1930s. This one had stucco siding painted pale blue, with orange trim around the double-hung windows. The front porch had thick, square columns and was decorated with clay pots full of succulents and bright red and orange geraniums.
I found space at the curb opposite the house and parked my Toyota. Then I crossed the street and climbed the steps to the porch. When I rang the bell, I heard a dog bark inside the house. But no one answered. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly six. Maybe the people who lived here weren’t home from work yet, or they’d stopped for an errand. I took out one of my business cards and scribbled a note, leaving it stuck at the edge of the door.
I went down the steps, car keys in hand, waiting to cross the street after an oncoming car passed. Instead, the gray sedan pulled into the driveway of the blue house. Two people got out, a stocky man in khaki work clothes and a woman wearing jeans and an oversized red-and-white striped shirt. He opened the trunk and took out two canvas bags full of groceries, while the woman reached for a third sack. I turned and intercepted them as they approached their front steps.
“Mr. and Mrs. Torres?”
They stopped when they saw me. I guessed his age as mid- to late-forties. His wife was a few years younger. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.
I had another business card out, ready to hand over. “My name’s Jeri Howard. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for the Corwins, the people who used to own this house. Do you know where I can find them?”
“Why are you looking for them?” Mrs. Torres asked.
“I’m trying to trace a member of the family. His name was Harold.”
Mr. Torres shrugged as his wife stepped past me and went up the front steps. She plucked the card I’d left and glanced at it before unlocking the front door. The dog that came barreling out was a medium-sized black-and-tan mutt with some terrier antecedents. He barked at me and sniffed my shoes.
“Stop that, Patch,” Mr. Torres said. The dog paid no attention, instead wagging his tail as I stroked his ears. “Never heard of a Harold Corwin. The man who owned the house was Joel Corwin, and before that it was his father, Stan Corwin.”
“Stanley Corwin would be Harold’s older brother.”
“Ramón, the groceries,” Mrs. Torres said from the porch.
“Let me get these inside.” Mr. Torres hefted his sacks and carried them up the steps and into the house.
I lingered on the porch with Patch and smiled at Mrs. T
orres. “It’s a nice house. I love these California bungalows.”
“We like it, too.” She returned my smile. “We rented this house for several years before we bought it. We paid rent to a real estate company that managed the property, so we didn’t actually have much to do with the Corwins.”
“We did see Joel now and then,” Mr. Torres said, returning to the front door. “Like the time that pine tree in the backyard fell over during a storm and hit the back of the house and caused all that damage.”
His wife nodded. “Oh, yes. What a mess that was. It broke a window and poked a hole in the roof. We had rain coming in, and pine needles and cones everywhere.”
“Joel came over to take pictures of the damage and again when the roofing company people gave the estimate for a new roof,” Mr. Torres said. “Another time he had his father with him. The old man was in failing health. Cancer, I think.”
“Old Mr. Corwin died. I remember reading his obituary in the newspaper.” Mrs. Torres looked at the house’s pleasant lines. “When Joel decided to sell, I’m glad he gave us the first opportunity to buy. He told us his grandfather bought the house when it was first built, back in the twenties. The grandfather was a cannery worker, back when there were lots of canneries here in East Oakland. My daughter is a history major at Cal State down in Hayward, so she looked up all sorts of stuff on the neighborhood in the history room at the Oakland library.”
“Small world,” I said. “My dad taught history at Cal State Hayward. Professor Tim Howard. He’s retired now.”
“I’ll have to ask Laura if she took a class from him. She’s going to graduate next year. Right now she has a summer job at the state archives in Sacramento.”
“I think I’ve got Joel’s card somewhere,” Mr. Torres said. “Let me see if I can find it. He and his wife live in Orinda and he works in the City. I can give you the name of the real estate agent that handled the transaction for us. I’m sure she could put you in touch with him.”