"A pleasure. Now, what do you fine young scholars require?"
"We found an old dog tag," I explained. "We'd like to return it to its owner. Seems like the right thing to do."
"Wonderful! What thoughtful, special children!" Limestone hopped from his stool and scurried around the desk. "I have an idea. Please follow!"
Limestone bustled toward a staircase, leaving us to keep up. We climbed to the second floor and entered a chamber labeled The South Carolina Room.
"I suggest you start here," Limestone instructed. "See if your soldier was a citizen of Charleston County. We have directories dating from 1782, phonebooks from 1931." He pointed across the room. "If that proves unsuccessful, most of the city's newspapers are on microfilm. The oldest dailies were first published in 1731."
I surveyed the large room. This wouldn't be easy. But Internet searches had generated an overwhelming number of F. Heaton hits. Slogging through local records seemed a reasonable plan.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Limestone. " I laid it on thick. "You're a genius. We'd have been totally lost without you." Big smile. "Looks like we have our work cut out for us!"
"Call down if you need anything," Limestone offered. "Such sweet kids," he remarked, tiptoeing from the room.
The door had barely closed before Hi pounced.
"Oh, Mr. Limestone, thank God you were here! I would have wet my pants without you!" Hi fake-swooned into Shelton's open arms. Both started laughing, drawing frowns from the other patrons.
"Zip it," I responded, giggling. "It worked, all right?"
I looked around, searching for a place to begin.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
CHAPTER 19
Two hours later, frustration reigned.
We'd gotten nowhere with the directories and phonebooks. Ditto for birth certificates and marriage licenses. I began to accept the fact that F. Heaton wasn't local after all.
Hi tried more online sources, but found squat. Shelton was searching newspaper obituaries, looking for a needle in a haystack. Our confidence was in the basement. The name Heaton was simply too common without more information.
The only thing left was the longest of long shots. Sighing, I starting thumbing through records of the Charleston Orphan House. A long shot was better than no shot at all.
Formerly the oldest orphanage in America, the state of South Carolina demolished the Orphan House in 1951. By law, records remained sealed for seventy-five years, meaning the files in the library stopped at 1935. I wasn't holding my breath.
So my find came as a total shock: a musty file labeled Francis P. Heaton. Snatching the weathered folder, I rushed to a table.
"Guys! I've got something!" No need to worry about lowered voices. We were the only people left in the room.
Shelton and Hi crowded close as I opened our first lead of the day.
The contents were underwhelming. Two documents. The one on top appeared to be a standard intake form. I reviewed the scant information provided: Name: Francis P. Heaton
Born: 1934
Parents/relations: unknown
Date accepted as ward of State: July 15, 1935.
Manner of acceptance: left on doorstep of Charleston Orphan House
"They left him on the freakin' doorstep?" squawked Shelton. "That's cold!"
"It was the Great Depression," Hi countered. "That's greatly depressing."
"Enough," I shushed. "There's more."
Below the typed information, someone had penned a few lines in an old-fashioned hand: The infant was left outside the orphanage gates during the night of July 15, 1935. A note attached to the child's swaddling provided only a name. Investigation failed to unearth any information regarding the child's natural parents. The Board has therefore assumed responsibility for Francis P. Heaton as a ward of the State of South Carolina.
"Do you think it's our boy?" asked Shelton. "Francis P. would've been in his thirties during the Vietnam War."
"Could be," said Hi. "What's the other page say?"
The second document was a standard sheet of loose-leaf paper. I flipped it over, revealing a handwritten message in the form a journal entry.
The date scrawled on top read November 24, 1968. Although shakier, the penmanship matched that of the first document. The message had been written by the same person who'd completed the intake form thirty years earlier.
Terrible news for Thanksgiving. Frankie Heaton was killed in action last month fighting in the Mekong Delta. I'd not heard from him in years. A Gazette story reported that Frankie fought valiantly as his entire squad was overcome.
Biting my lip, I forced myself to keep reading.
What a wretched war! My heart breaks to think of Frankie's daughter, Katherine. Only sixteen, and with her mother gone, now an orphan herself. May the Good Lord bless Frankie's soul, and watch over his child.
The note was signed with an illegible name.
We all stared at it mutely.
Shelton spoke first. "What's the Gazette?"