Justification For Killing

by Larry Edward Hunt

  The time was 12:12 p.m. Eighteen minutes to go.

  A large outstretched hand greeted the Captain as he arrived in the outer room, “I’m sorry John! I got back as quick as I could.” It was Clem.

  “No time... no time... come on Clem we’ve got to go. You can tell me all about it later, where do I sign out?”

  One of the Judicial Officers instructed him to take a seat and the Discharge Officer would see him as soon as the Judge signed his release papers. He was now fighting the clock.

  Captain Scarburg and Clem both fidgeted in their hard plastic and steel chairs, which filled the Booking/Discharge room. The stark hardness of the chairs did nothing for their hind sides as they awaited the Captain’s name to be called.

  Back in the cellblock Officer Kennedy proceeded to the Number Two cell, his partner stood guard by the exit door. Slamming and locking his inebriated prisoner’s cell door Officer Kennedy turned to leave but remembered something Officer J. D. Tippit had told him earlier. He now had to see what Mr. Doees had written on the wall.

  Opening the cell door with a loud clang he walked over to the note filled wall. What did Mr. Doees say last night? Look for something under... under... darn, wish I had been listening when Tippit was talkin’. Where the heck is it, he thought taking a cursory look over the wall at the dozens of handwritten, scribbled notes. What a mess! We’re goin’ to have to paint this wall. This thing’s got too much junk written on it. Hastily he glanced over the wall again, shucks, there ain’t nothing here worth readin’.

  Walking to the broom closet at the far end of the cellblock Officer Kennedy removed a gallon of grey paint and two paintbrushes. Opening cell Number Two’s door he grabbed the newly arrived inmate and impatiently demanded, “Come here... help me paint this wall.” His partner remained at his station by the door - as stated, unless it was an emergency both officers could not be in a cell at the same time.

  As he began to slap the paint on the wall the drunk commented, “Ossifer, ossifer... uh... uh... yeh know Lee Oswall?”

  “What? Wall? Yeah paint the wall. Shut your whiskey talkin’ mouth and keep painting that wall?”

  “Hoos Oswall? Hoos Jack Ruby?

  “What are you mumbling about? I said ‘Shut up’ just paint!”

  The drunk would not be quiet, “whats thuh School Buildin’ and thuh Texas Movie Theater? It must be today at 12:30, ain’t today the 22th... I betcha some other bum...” interrupting his thought he stopping to burp and at the same time almost throwing up, continued... “said these thangs. Huh, Ossifer, what yew thank?”

  “Shut up you drunken bum and paint over that trash on the wall. I ain’t tellin’ you agin!”

  They had the wall re-painted in cell Number Two in a few minutes. “There, the wall looks better, nice and fresh. Now I don’t have to look at all that worthless scribbling done by them bums. Come on you’re goin’ to cell Number One ‘till this paint dries.”

  The prisoner in cell Number Two’s last brush strokes covered over, what was likely, the most momentous piece of historical information ever written about an American tragedy before the event had even happened. Underneath the coat of fresh, grey paint had been ample assassination data that could have ensured the immortalization of Officer Kennedy’s name in the history books of the future. A Kennedy would be in history books all right, but his name would not be Johnny, but John – John Fitzgerald Kennedy would become the American icon, but Officer Johnny Kennedy’s name would never be remembered. History would forget his name. The “scribbling” read:

  11/22/63 12:30 pm

  JFK Killed

  Texas School Book Building 6th Floor

  Lee Harvey Oswald did it

  He will kill Officer J.D. Tippit 1:15 on 10th St

  Catch him in Texas Movie Theater

  I’m just a patsy he’ll say

  Jack Ruby 11:31 am Sunday 11/24/63 will kill Lee Harvey Oswald.

  Beware basement Dallas City police station

  Back in the processing waiting room Captain Scarburg’s previous jail cell buddy, the prisoner from cell Number One was called to the Discharge Desk. The Captain watched as, it seemed, an endless stream of papers were being shoved in front of prisoner Number One to sign. After the last release document had been notated, the bag of his valuables was emptied out on the table, and another paper pushed in front the prisoner to annotate. He looked at his belongings and of course signed and initialed the paper. Turning to Clem the Captain spoke almost in a whisper, “Clem hurry downstairs, get the car, and drive it around to the front police station entrance on Houston. We’re running out of time.”

  “Mr. Doees! Mr. Doees! The Discharge Officer announced aloud to the people milling around in the waiting area.

  Hurrying to the chair at the officer’s table Captain Scarburg sat down as he was replying, “Here!!”

  The papers came one after the other. When was it going to stop, he thought. At last his bag was poured out in front of him, and he signed and initialed his last form, but the Discharge Officer was holding his Iphone up in the air with one hand turning it end over end trying to figure out what it was. Finally, he handed it to Captain Scarburg, “Here take your shiny Cracker Jack do-dad and git outta here!! And hey, don’t forget your Monopoly money.”

  Free, free at last.

  The time was 12:18 p.m. Destiny’s clock had ticked down to its last twelve minutes.

  Luckily the elevator was on the sixth with doors wide open - the Captain jumped in, pressed the ground floor button and prayed no one was on floors one through five waiting to go downstairs. Luck was with him - maybe it wasn’t luck but fate? The elevator door opened on the ground floor. He walked as fast as humanly possible without running to get to the front door. Glancing up at the huge clock over the main entrance - ten minutes – ten minutes to change the world.

  The time was 12:24 p.m.

  Chapter Sixteen

  TEXAS SCHOOL BOOK DEPOSITORY

  Outside on the sidewalk he looked to his left - no Clem. He turned and looked right - no Clem. By-ned...! I’ve come so close! I can’t run to the School Book building on the far side of the square, and up the back fire-escape in six minutes, it’s too far... just to far!!! Picture!! I need a picture of the sixth floor of the Book Depository building.

  He had just finished snapping the photo thinking all hope seemed lost when around the corner stormed Clem in his grey Nash Rambler station wagon. The Dallas police officer on foot blocking the south end of Houston was frantically blowing his whistle, “Stop! Stop! Road closed!” Luckily he was afoot and could not pursue Clem and his station wagon. Clem, ignoring the police office, slammed on the brakes with a squeal in front of the City Jail. He hollered, “Git in John, git in!!” Clem peeled away from the curb as fast as his old bucket of bolts could travel. He proceeded north on Houston. The police had just begun to block the intersection, but he had blown through the barricade at the corner of Elm and Houston before it was in place. A few cars lengths past the roadblock Clem stomped on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, allowing the car to slid to a stop beside the east side of the Book building, close to the rear.

  Captain Scarburg’s feet were already touching the asphalt of Houston Street before Clem could get the Rambler fully stopped. “Five minutes to go... Clem get back around to your parking place on Main Street, now...” he yelled as he started running down the sidewalk toward the fire escape.

  “Can’t have but a minute or two left,” he said out loud.

  The time was 12:27 p.m.

  Earlier on the way in from Celina they had “borrowed” a police ‘No Parking’ orange warning cone. Clem had placed the cone in a parking spot around the corner from Houston on Main Street. They had to guarantee Clem would have a place to park. He did.

  Up the fire escape, the Captain went. The first two flights of stairs he covered two and three steps at a time. From floors three to seven it was one step at a time. Sucking hard for air, he realized he wasn’t as young as he once was. A
step or two from reaching the roof he stopped, bent over with hands on his knees, breathing hard he tried to catch his breath. Slowly he inched himself into a position where he could see the southwest corner of the roof. He was running out of time.

  The time was 12:28:30.

  There... there he was, the sniper, squatted down behind the brick wall. The rifle appeared to be an old M-1D, 30-06 caliber, military rifle with a mounted telescope. The shooter was still on the far end of the building from Captain Scarburg’s fire escape, but he recognized this particular military rifle. While stationed in South Vietnam, he had seen the M-1D Garand rifle many times while working with the Montagnards or “mountain people.” This particular sniper’s rifle had been one of their favorites. Obviously, they used whatever weapons they could obtain, but this one was sturdy and accurate. If they couldn’t get an M-1D like the one on the roof, they got the older M-1Cs that were obsolete. The older “C” models had been replaced by the newer and better “D” models. Fired at long distances with a 30-06 bullet it made a formidable sniper rifle. The Captain remembered what General George S. Patton had said about the M-1 Garand, "In my opinion, the M1 Rifle is the greatest battle implement ever devised." Certainly, this rifle was more than adequate as a long-range killing instrument.

  Glancing over his left shoulder he could see the large yellow and red Hertz Rent-a-Car clock mounted on the roof. Got to get a quick picture, he thought taking a snapshot of the sniper crouched on the roof.

  The time was 12: 29:15.

  There was no time to huddle behind an air-conditioner, no time to sneak up on the shooter... no time... no time... the Captain only had a minute... actually just less than one minute - forty-five seconds to be exact.

  Taking the last step from the metal fire escape he slipped his leg over the brick wall and onto the asphalt and gravel roof. He tried to be as silent as humanly possible. He feared his charge across the roof and the crunching noise his shoes would make on the gravel would only give him a couple of seconds before the shooter turned and possibly shot him stone cold dead.

  One more look at the clock.

  The time was 12:29:35!!!

  It was now or never!! Captain Scarburg knew from the fire escape to the south side of the building was one hundred feet or something less than forty yards. He began his bolt across the roof, running faster than he ran the forty yard dash back in high school football...one second... two seconds... three seconds... the sniper heard the footfalls and began to turn in the Captain’s direction - the muzzle of the M-1 began to move too. His best time for forty yards had been 4.8 seconds, but he had been seventeen years old!! Across the roof he ran, it seemed like his feet were stepping in syrup, but somehow when he was close enough, he reached out and grabbed for the barrel of the M-1.

  Startled, the assassin touched the trigger with his finger, the rifle fired. It could not have been accurately aimed since the sniper’s head was beginning to turn toward Captain Scarburg.

  Was that a bright blue flash of light? Or was it just the flash from the rifle discharging? No, it couldn’t be, it was blue! It happened so quickly; it was hard to say exactly what was the source of the flash.

  The two bodies crashed into each other... it was the best tackle the Captain ever made. At the University of Alabama, he was a linebacker and punished many a runner. But he didn’t believe he had ever hit a running back as hard as he tackled this shooter. Both men tumbled over onto the gravel surface of the roof. The shooter landed on top. He was attempting to regain his feet, Captain Scarburg was grabbing at him when the sniper slipped his grip – the shooter leapt to his feet grabbed his rifle and fled down the rear fire escape.

  What was that... another rifle shot? Yes, yes, it was a rifle shot being fired, and the noise was back toward the other end of the building. Since the building is a perfect square one hundred feet by one hundred feet, this shot had to be about one hundred feet to his east.

  Exhausted, overwhelmed and totally drained of his adrenalin Captain Scarburg could not feel the sharp gravel of the roof punching into his back as he lay on the roof looking upwards toward the large rectangular clock – all he felt was the exhilaration of Mission Accomplished!!!

  The time was 12:30:00, Friday November 22, 1963.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I HAVE TO WITNESS THIS MURDER”

  “Wait...! Wait...!” The Captain said loudly. His outburst was not going to affect or alter the outcome of the shootings. That was not why he yelled. He reasoned, I have not come this far, endured so much, and traveled thru time and space from the 21st century back to 1963 without seeing this. I know it is morbid, but I have to witness this murder! History was happening just over the edge of his roof on the street below. He actually wanted to be an eyewitness to the assassination! He jumped to his feet, and cautiously raised his head slightly over the brick wall and could see the whole of Dealy Plaza panoramically displayed below. On Elm Street was the black limousine with the President. He could see Agent Hill climbing on the rear trunk. The assassin’s bullet he had just heard from the other end of the building had struck its intended mark – the President’s back and missed Agent Hill entirely.

  Captain Scarburg hurriedly pulled his camera from his pocket and took a snapshot of the gruesome scene below.

  His mind kept telling him, get to the fire escape... get to the fire escape NOW! But he seemed to be paralyzed. The confusion and panic on the street below had him mesmerized. Suddenly, the explosive noise of another shot echoed off the surrounding buildings, but wait a doggone second, this one came from those trees and bushes right over there to his right. That’s the Grassy Knoll area, he said to himself. And that did not sound like a rifle shot! That was a pistol!! So there undoubtedly was another shooter on the Grassy Knoll!

  Suddenly the sound of another rifle blast jarred his ears, again coming from the vicinity of the far end of his building. Wait a minute, that sound seemed to have come from the Dal-Tex building across the street. That could not have been Oswald, he thought. I wonder which shot actually kills President Kennedy – one from Oswald, a sniper in the Dal-Tex building or that shooter on the Grassy Knoll?

  Looking straight down he recognized someone - well actually it wasn’t recognized, more like de´ja´vu, as he saw what had been previously described to him in his office back at SCAR Headquarters - a small man in a brown raincoat, opening and closing a large black umbrella - ANHUR, you son-of-a-gun, I see you... I see you! He could see the people in Dealy Plaza running in all directions - some running away from the scene of carnage, some running up the slight hill toward the area called the Grassy Knoll. He could see the motorcycle cop jump from his Harley with gun drawn hurrying up the hill. Hmmm... I wonder if I can see the Grassy Knoll shooter fleeing? He began to turn to see the trees, bushes and parking lot behind... I must get a picture of this too, he thought snapping another picture.

  As he took the final picture of the Grassy Knoll, he noticed something unusual. Everyone, on or near the Grassy Knoll, was racing toward Elm Street and the scene of the assassination, but wait, he saw a person hurriedly fleeing through the foliage to a waiting black automobile parked in the city’s Impoundment Lot. The direction of travel was totally opposite to the direction of the panic stricken crowd on the north side of Dealy Plaza. This person was wearing a dark colored jacket, possibly green with light colored pants that could, maybe, be tan. In his right hand was a black bag - a bag possibly carrying the sniper weapon. Captain Scarburg had cursed his lack of ability to discern colors on his arrival in the cow-pasture, but now he was thankful - had it not been for the Captain’s monotone vision this person would have blended into the surrounding foliage of the trees, shrubs and evergreens, totally camouflaged. But wait – there was something else he noticed! As the sniper exited the trees and moved out into the open he could see him quite clearly; however, this person was NOT a man!! It was a WOMAN!! Without thinking, he snapped another photo. “I believe I have seen that face before… but where?” He said out lo
ud as he watched her run across the parking lot and jump into a four-door, black Cadillac Deville.

  He had no time to contemplate this fantastic realization because suddenly it hit him... GET OUT...! GET OUT NOW...! THE FIRE ESCAPE!

  TIME TO FLEE

  The last minute or so Captain Scarburg had been so absorbed and enthralled he thought it almost unreal - it was as if he were watching himself in a movie. But time to affect an escape was beginning to run out... he would think about the woman shooter later, now he had to flee. Flee down the fire escape, hurry around the west end of the Book building and hopefully meet Clem at Elm Street. Elm Street, just mere feet from where the motorcade was whisking the President away, now fatally shot.

  He had been right - the people were so stricken with panic they hardly paid any attention to the cars following the Presidential parade. He grabbed the door handle and like an acrobat had swung into the passenger’s seat before Clem came to a complete stop, “Let’s go Clem - pull back into the traffic and let’s get the heck out of Dallas.” As Clem navigated the traffic, the Captain spotted the brown raincoat again and began feverously rolling down his car window.

  Sticking his head out he frantically waved his arm and yelled, “Hey Anhur, hey Anhur!” The diminutive man Captain Scarburg saw in the brown raincoat with the large black umbrella must have recognized him for he immediately pointed his finger at their Nash Rambler and opened and closed his umbrella, swiftly, a couple of times. It was just long enough for the Captain to get one final snapshot before leaving the scene of one of America’s greatest tragedies.

  Just a few hundred yards west down Elm was the triple overpass. Immediately past the railroad overpass the highway makes a right turn onto the on-ramp leading to the Stemmons Freeway. Two miles north they will take the Dallas Freeway and finally head back to Celina - and safety.