Dr. Mary’s Monkey

by Edward T Haslam

  Cartridge trajectories? Isn’t a cartridge the part of the bullet that stays in the gun after the slug flies out of the barrel? Yes, it is. And doesn’t trajectory mean the fight path of the projectile? Yes, it does. And when you pull back the bolt to clear the chamber before inserting another bullet, the empty cartridge flies out of the rife, to the right and to the rear. So what was Garrison talking about?

  Earlier in the same interview, Garrison discussed some of the materials they found in Ferrie’s apartment. His investigators found unusual notations in the margins of one of his books, a reference manual on high-powered rifles. It showed that Ferrie had measured exactly how many feet an empty cartridge few when ejected from that rife and at what angle.10 Hence the apparent oxymoron “cartridge trajectory.”

  Why would someone want to measure cartridge trajectories? One reason is it would facilitate removing undesired evidence from a sniper’s nest. On the other hand, if you wanted to construct a phony sniper’s nest, you would know exactly where to place the cartridges.

  But for this investigation the important words in that sentence are the last two: “cancer research.” It is widely reported by people who knew Ferrie personally that he was actively involved in cancer research. For example, one of Ferrie’s friends said, “Ferrie was going to fix everything. Find a cure for cancer. Get rid of Communism.”11 This activity stretched from his days as an airline pilot (late 1950s) until his death in 1967.

  Continuing with the interview, Garrison states that Ferrie wrote a medical treatise. Ferrie wrote a medical treatise? What did it say about viral cancer experiments? Did it talk about using x-rays? Where is it today?

  When I started this investigation, we did not know the answer to any of these questions. But today we do, and it is an important link in the chain of evidence, as we shall see.

  It is also clear from his interview that Garrison thought that there was more than one doctor working with David Ferrie. Who were the other doctors? What was this claim based upon? If a group of doctors were working with Ferrie, it might be safe to assume that it was really their lab and not Ferrie’s. This is an important point. If Ferrie was simply an executor, instead of the main instigator, the dimensions of the project change dramatically. It also means that the lab may have continued operating after Ferrie’s death in 1967.

  It should be noted that, in the summer of 1967, Garrison was talking about arresting one particular New Orleans doctor: Dr. Alton Ochsner.12 (William Gurvich, one of Garrison’s staff who resigned from the case, is said to have disclosed this fact to Ochsner.) Was Ochsner one of the other doctors Garrison was referring to in this interview when he said “a number of New Orleans doctors”? And if so, was Garrison saying this as a threat to get Ochsner, a political enemy, to stop his anti-Garrison activities? Or did he have information that he could not (or would not) disclose about Ochsner? I will say, speaking as a political observer, that if Garrison had attacked Ochsner openly in 1967, it would have been very bad for him. He needed all the support he could get from the people of New Orleans. Attacking the city’s most famous doctor would have cost him significant political support. He did not need to open up another front in his war.

  The most incredible thing about this interview from our current perspective is the reaction from the press. Or should we call it “the non-reaction from the press”? First, after being told that a District Attorney of a major American city who was investigating a murder in his jurisdiction had accidentally discovered an underground medical laboratory which was inducing cancer, and which was run by a known political extremist with a history of violent political activities and with no formal medical training, the interviewer did not even ask a follow-up question! Then, the members of our national press, the so-called Watchdogs of Democracy, simply continued to bash Garrison from coast to coast.

  Had they bothered to read what Garrison had to say for himself? Had they read it and then somehow discredited it without bothering to tell anyone? Or did they think, “What’s wrong with having a couple of thousand mice full of cancer viruses in your apartment?” Or perhaps, “This is too weird for my audience”? Whatever the reason, the press did nothing. Now Garrison is dead, and we cannot ask him any more questions.

  BUT TWO IMPORTANT QUESTIONS REMAIN: Who was Dr. Mary Sherman? And what was she doing in David Ferrie’s underground medical laboratory?

  The few JFK researchers who remembered the cancer passage in Garrison’s Playboy interview assumed that Dr. Mary Sherman was a local doctor and, therefore, that she was not significant. This was based on the assumption that no one of any measure would be associated with David Ferrie’s cancer research, since Ferrie had no formal medical training. But this was not the case.

  Dr. Mary Sherman was one of America’s leading cancer experts and had all the credentials to prove it. The newspaper articles about her death refer to her as “an internationally-known bone specialist.”13 She was an Associate Professor at a prominent medical school engaged in monkey virus research, director of a cancer laboratory at an internationally famous medical clinic, and Chairman of the Pathology Committee of one of the most elite medical societies in America. The medical articles she wrote were quoted for half a century. So we ask the question again: What was a highly trained medical professional with impeccable credentials doing in an underground medical laboratory run by a political extremist with no formal medical training?

  This question is so vexing that it puts enormous importance on the credibility of this one passage. What other evidence of the Ferrie-Sherman experiments do we have? Unfortunately, for many years, this interview was the single document connecting Sherman to Ferrie’s cancer experiments. Perhaps even more unfortunately, however, this link has now been corroborated.

  But back in the early stages of my investigation, I tried to find out what Garrison’s claim was based upon. I succeeded in talking to a number of people who knew Garrison personally, but they did not know anything about the matter. In the process, I determined that the person most likely to know the answer was Lou Ivon, Garrison’s Chief Investigator, who personally handled Ferrie. What did Lou Ivon know about the Ferrie-Sherman connection?

  I wrote Lou Ivon letters, explaining the questions I wanted to ask, called his house, donated to his political campaign, even offered him royalties on this book, but I could not get Ivon to talk to me about the Ferrie-Sherman cancer experiments.14 I finally gave up.

  Therefore, I have never known what Lou Ivon knows (or does not know) about the Ferrie-Sherman cancer experiments, but my guess is that he probably knows more than anybody else about the basis for Garrison’s claim that Dr. Mary Sherman worked with David Ferrie in his underground medical laboratory. I hope he will talk about it on the record one day. In the meantime, all I can say is that the investigator who probably knows the most about this important subject would not discuss it with me. He may also know who the other doctors were that Garrison had linked with Ferrie.

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  1 Most of Garrison’s biography is from James DiEugenio, Destiny Betrayed: JFK, Cuba, and the Garrison Case (New York, 1992), p. 126 and Jim Garrison, On the Trail of the Assassins: My investigation and Prosecution of the Murder of President Kennedy (New York, 1988).

  2 “Jolly Green Giant in Wonderland,” Time, August 2, 1968, p. 56. (Time was owned by Henry Luce, an active arch anti-Communist who personally financed raids by Cuban exiles against Cuba, in violation of the Neutrality Act, but with the tacit approval of the CIA: see Hinckle and Turner, Deadly Secrets, p. 186. Therefore, Time’s reporting cannot be assumed to be objective on related issues.

  3 The Federal Communications Commission found NBC’s coverage of Garrison biased and ordered NBC to give Garrison 1/2 hour of national TV time to respond. Portions of this broadcast were included in a video called The Garrison Tapes, which aired on cable in the 1990s.

  4 Garrison, On the Trail of the Assassins, p. 126. Garrison thought Shaw was an accessory to Guy Banister, and believed Banister to be prim
arily responsible for “sheep-dipping” Oswald, a deliberate attempt to associate the patsy with the evidence before the crime.

  5 Davy, Bill, “License & Registration Please,” Probe, June 1994, p. 5, and July 1994, p. 1.

  6 Ibid., June 1994, p. 7,

  7 Garrison, On the Trail of the Assassins, p. 298-306 & 318. Also see DiEugenio, Destiny Betrayed, p. 268-269.

  8 Garrison, “Playboy Interview,” Playboy, October 1967, p. 59.

  9 Ibid., p. 175. Jack Ruby (Jacob Rubenstein) was the Dallas nightclub owner who murdered Lee Harvey Oswald “live” on national television. Ruby had a long history of Mafia contact dating back to Al Capone in Chicago.

  10 Garrison, Playboy, p. 165.

  11 Perry Russo, interview with author, January 1993.

  12 Carpenter, Arthur, “Social Origins of Anti-Communism: The Information Council of the Americas,” Louisiana History, Spring 1989, p. 117. His source: Letters, Ochsner to Butler, June 29 and July 12, 1967, Ochsner Papers, Historic New Orleans Collection.

  13 “Police Check Ex-Patients of Slain Medic,” New Orleans States-Item, July 22, 1964, p. 1.

  14 Ivon did call me back once. He thanked me for the donation to his political campaign, and said he would take me “through Ferrie’s cancer research” sometime, but it never happened.

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  CHAPTER 4

  College Daze

  IN THE FALL OF 1969 I WENT AWAY TO COLLEGE. What a turbulent period! Each night the news brought fresh frustrations. Daily footage from Vietnam showed the bleeding and the dead. Body bags of mounting American casualties swept the screen. The smog of an incomprehensible and undeclared war settled over our land. Its endless drifting nature, its unbelievable cost, and its potential for expansion fared anger throughout the country. College campuses rioted. ROTC buildings burned. Congress revoked the student draft deferment, exposing all male college students to potential slaughter.

  Each night the drama was played out on television. Police beat demonstrators with night sticks and dragged them through the streets by their hair. Some applauded the protestors, some the police. Angry words divided friends and families. The generation gap widened. Boomer disillusionment jelled into a sense of national betrayal and challenged the loyalty of the pre-Watergate generation. In return, the Boomer’s parents pondered their questions: “What’s wrong with this new generation? Where is their patriotism? Why don’t they rush to support our war?” The Supreme Court sat and watched as 58,000 Americans died in an undeclared war.

  Then Nixon ordered the bombing of Cambodia. The shock wave of this news rushed across the country. Campuses erupted. In Ohio, soldiers gunned down four college students at a demonstration on the Kent State campus. The second shock wave: “They’ve started killing us.” Mass demonstrations broke out spontaneously, shutting down college campuses all across America. The protestors converged on Washington for a showdown demonstration. Tear gas flowed through the streets of our capitol.

  Those were crazy and bitter days, which were made even more difficult for me personally by the death of my father. I dropped out of college and waited for them to pass. And when they were over, I was anxious to forget them. Completely free of any responsibilities, I hitchhiked around the country just to see what was out there. During the summer of 1971, I returned to my home in New Orleans to re-group and to plan my next steps.

  On my travels I had developed an interest in writing, and started working on a book about my hitchhiking experiences. As the summer wore on, the publicity about the trial of the Manson murders in California took root, and the image of hitchhiking changed. Charles Manson and his companions had hitchhiked their way to one of the most grotesque multiple murders in American history. Everyone became aware of the real and present danger that lurked on the shoulders of our highways. Jack Kerouac’s romantic vision of hitchhiking from On the Road was replaced by Jim Morrison’s stark warning: “There’s a killer on the road.” My “hitchhiking for the fun of it” perspective suffocated, and my book project died. I started looking for something else to write about.

  Mary Sherman’s murder still intrigued me, and I thought it might have good potential for a screenplay. So I decided to track down the real facts. My first call was to the public library to see if there were any newspaper articles. I was informed that the indexing system stopped in 1963. If I wanted a newspaper, I would need to have the exact date. But I did not know the date, so I decided to try to get a copy of the police report. Based on what I knew about Sherman’s murder and her connection to Ferrie, I figured this might be difficult. So instead of calling the police department myself, I decided to call someone “on the inside” who might be able to help me get a copy of the report quietly. I called Big Mike.1

  He was known as “Big Mike” due to his enormous size. He stood six-feet five-inches and weighed close to 300 pounds. Big Mike worked in the Orleans Parish District Attorney’s office and was an investigator for the Grand Jury. I knew him socially, but not well. We lived in the same neighborhood, and his daughter had been a friend of mine during high school. It had been several years since I had been to his house, and I wasn’t sure if he would remember me. It was a Wednesday evening when I picked up the telephone to call him. His wife answered. Yes, she remembered me, and promptly called him to the phone.

  When Big Mike came to the phone, I introduced myself and reminded him who I was. He was friendly, and greeted me with “Yeah, kid, I remember you.” Then he proudly detailed his daughter’s recent accomplishments at college. When he was finished, I told him the purpose of my call: I was doing research for a screenplay and wanted to know how I could get a copy of the police report on the Mary Sherman murder. He was accommodating and in a casual voice said, “That seems easy enough. I’ll see if I can get a copy for you. What was that name again?”

  I repeated the name and spelled it for him. It was clear that he did not recognize it. This concerned me, because it meant that he was not completely aware of what he was agreeing to. If the rumors I had heard about political heat and suppression of the investigation were true, it could mean trouble for him. But I did not know how to tell a gun-toting ex-linebacker like Big Mike that he should keep his head down in his own office. Anyway, I had only asked “how” I could get a copy of the report. He had volunteered to get it for me. I offered to call him back in a week, but he said that it wouldn’t take that long. He told me to call him in two days. I thanked him and hung up.

  Two days later, I called back. It was Friday about 3:30 in the afternoon. My plan was to call early and leave a message with his wife and then call back later that evening. I was surprised when he answered the phone himself. The stress and tension in his voice was immediately obvious. He was home early for a reason: It had been a bad day. He began with: “What the hell did you get me into?”

  I asked naively, “Was there a problem getting the report?”

  “A problem?” he said with gigantic sarcasm. “I have never seen such a shit storm in my entire life. I have done nothing for two days except field flack and try to explain why I wanted to see that file.”

  “I guess that means I can’t get a copy of the report,” I tendered.

  “No, you can’t! It’s an open murder case, and I’m not allowed to discuss it. Don’t ask again.” His voice was cold. His tone was final.

  I said, “Thanks for trying,” waited for the click, and then slowly put the receiver down. Whatever was going on, it was clear to me that the rumors about “the heat” on this case were true. I knew that if Big Mike couldn’t get a copy of the police report himself, then I wouldn’t be able to through any other channel. I would have to wait for another day to find out what happened to Mary Sherman.

  IN 1972 I ENTERED TULANE UNIVERSITY. It was late August of that year, and the campus was buzzing with activity of another semester preparing to begin. I went to the University Center to buy books and to register for my courses. The matriculation was held in a large cavernous room filled with folding table
s stacked with boxes of computer cards. Behind the tables sat graduate students who answered questions, gave advice on professors, and signed up undergraduates for classes. I was interested in taking an anthropology course and located the right table. There I met a brilliant and beautiful young woman named Barbara.2 She had just completed her undergraduate work at the University of Chicago and had accepted a fellowship from Tulane to get her Ph.D. Intrigued by her warmth, and her waist-length brown hair, I invited her to go to a concert being held on campus that evening. She accepted the invitation, and we discussed plans. She did not have a car, and mine was in the shop. We agreed on a convenient place and time to meet and went our separate ways.

  That night Barbara and I met as planned and walked to the concert. The performance was by the New Leviathan Oriental Fox Trot Orchestra, a camp revival troupe that played dance music of the 1890-1920 period. We had a lot of fun, and I felt very comfortable with her. This was a relationship that I wanted to pursue.

  After the concert she told me she lived near Louisiana Avenue. I knew the area well. While it was not far from campus, it was in a marginal area near a high-crime zone known as the Louisiana Avenue Housing Project. I did not think it was safe for a woman to be walking on the streets of that neighborhood alone at midnight, so I escorted her home on the bus.

  Several days later I called her up, told her I had gotten my car out of the shop, and that I was itching to show her “my city.” It was a Monday, but classes had not started. It was still early in the morning, and the weather was beautiful, so I invited her sailing. (Despite my penniless student status, I still had access to a sailboat which my older brother had left in my care when he moved out of town.) She accepted the offer and gave me her address again. I said I would be there in half an hour.

  It was about ten o’clock in the morning when I turned off Claiborne Avenue into Louisiana Avenue Parkway. I remember my surprise at seeing this intriguing street for the first time in daylight. Unlike Louisiana Avenue itself, which was a broad bustling boulevard, Louisiana Avenue Parkway was a quiet oasis, isolated from the activity and noise of city life. Only three blocks long and leading nowhere, this narrow, bumpy street was shaded by massive oak trees which grew together at their tops, creating a canopy over the street and providing welcome protection from the oppressive August sun. The houses were modest, mostly two story rental units whose stucco façades made it easy to confuse one house with another. I pulled over and dug the slip of paper from my jeans to check the address: 3225 Louisiana Avenue Parkway.