“Okay, okay,” Bob said. “Sorry, didn’t mean it as an accusation. But let me ask you this: do you know anybody in the wide body of buffs, fanatics, researchers, whatever, who might follow me? I’m thinking I may have a valuable piece of intellectual property. Maybe you mentioned it to someone who mentioned it to someone who thought it sounded interesting and decided to look into me.”
“Jack, I don’t even know what it is. Something about guns, that’s all.”
“That’s right,” said Bob.
“Maybe it has to do with something else altogether, something back in Boise. Child support?”
“If my children can’t support themselves by now, there’s nothing I can do for ’em. I think the money manager sends my ex-wives their checks, so I believe I’m okay on that. No, my life’s too dull for intrigue.”
“Jack, no one’s approached me, asked me any questions about you, anything like that.”
“Richard, I’m just going to disappear for a bit. You okay with that?”
“Sure, Jack.”
“I’ll see you in three days at that Mex place on Main, twelve-thirty.”
“You’ve got it, friend.”
Of course, Swagger didn’t show at the Mexican place, but two FBI agents did, and they confirmed that the operatives from the Jackson-Barnes detective agency were in place down the street with a Nikon and a heavy telephoto lens.
Swagger called Richard while he sat there, apologized for being unavoidably detained, and promised to make it up to him and that they’d meet soon, but he couldn’t set a time because his schedule was so “fluid.” He let three days pass and ambushed Richard in the parking lot outside the Y.O. restaurant, another famous joint just across from the Palm in the West End.
Richard was a little buzzed from the martini, and his belly was loaded with protein and carbohydrates. “Man, you show up at the oddest times,” he said, perturbed, Bob guessed, because his photo team wasn’t with him and there was no way he could call it in to them in time.
“I’m secret-agent man, all over the place. I think I dumped my followers. Let’s get a cab and drive around for a while.”
“Jack, maybe you’re overdoing it a bit. I should tell you again, in the past three days, nobody asked me anything about you, and nobody’s keeping an eye on me or anything. I do have something for you.”
“Yeah?”
“I have a friend who has a gun as close as you can get to the Oswald rifle. It’s a Mannlicher-Carcano Model 38 carbine, serial number CV2755, just eleven shy of Oswald’s, from Terni. It’s got the Japanese scope and mount, and it was ordered from Klein’s just a week or so before Oswald ordered his, in March 1963. I’m guessing the same technician attached the scope to the rifle. You couldn’t come closer. A wealthy collector I know paid over three grand for it. I think you’d find it interesting to shoot. We’ve even got some white-box 6.5 from Western. You know how hard that stuff is to come by.”
“Nah,” said Swagger. “See, it doesn’t matter how 2755 shoots. It only matters how 2766 shoots. For a dozen reasons, a hundred reasons, they could shoot different by far. And you know what, Richard? In my theory, it doesn’t matter a lick how even Oswald’s rifle shot that day.”
“Okay, I get it. Second gunman, second rifle. Another Mannlicher.”
“Close, but no. Let me tell you this: I don’t know why, I don’t know who, but goddammit, I know how. Come on, let’s get that cab and go for a ride. On me.”
He herded Richard toward the street in a friendly-bear manner, and the younger man couldn’t resist. If working for somebody, he had to maintain the contact; if the assassination nut he claimed to be, he had to find out whether the new info was cool.
They got in, and Swagger instructed the driver to drive around for a while on the meter, that he’d pay whatever. It was a great gig for the fellow, who rarely got a big ride this late at night. Off they went.
“Richard,” Swagger said, “I want your judgment. Maybe I’m nuts and all I’ve got is bullshit. Or maybe it’s part of the answer. Anyhow, I had a what-you-call-it, epiphany today, which makes me even more sure I’m on to something. It came out of something you said. Let me run this by you—”
“Jack, I don’t know anything about guns. I can’t make a judgment.”
“You’ll get this, Richard. Then tell me if it’s worth hiding, worth looking for an author to partner up with, if it has any value book- or movie-wise. I don’t know about that stuff; you do.”
“Okay, Jack. I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Here’s the key question. Why did the third bullet explode? In my opinion, nobody has answered that correctly. The best answer you get is, it exploded because it exploded. Bullets occasionally explode. You can’t predict it, but you can’t deny it. Get something moving that fast, anything can happen.”
“What’s your answer? Why did the third bullet explode?”
“You said, ‘As it performed its killing duty, it ceased to exist,’ isn’t that right? The bullet from the future, which, in doing its duty, obliterated itself, its rifle, its shooter, and a hundred years of tragedy.”
“I said that, yes. That’s the crux of the conceit. It’s kind of cool, I think.”
“Richard, do you know what ‘lingering’ means?”
“Of course I do.”
“I mean something that hangs around, won’t leave your mind, seems always there, that kind of lingering.”
“Yes, I know what that kind of lingering is.”
“What you said, ‘it ceased to exist,’ that lingered for me. It lingered and lingered, and finally, I realized something. The third bullet. The one that hit Kennedy. It ceased to exist.”
“So it did. To the eternal annoyance of the Warren Commission and the delight of conspiracy animals the world over.”
“No, no. It wasn’t an accident. Here’s the point. It had to do that. It was engineered to do that. And because the engineering was sound, that’s what made the conspiracy possible.”
“Explosive bullet, huh? Just like The Day of the Jackal, with the mercury inside. Or I suppose—”
“No, no. No explosive, no mercury, no glycerin, nothing like that. All those leave chemical traces, easily detectable by the forensics of 1963.”
“I believe the Warren Commission asked the FBI forensics guy about such a possibility, now that you mention it.”
“Yeah, Frazier his name was, and as usual, he was both wrong and stupid. I’m talking about something else. What I mean is that the bullet itself, without changing its composition, its metallurgy, its anything, was engineered in such a way that it had to explode—it had to, that was the brilliance of it all—so that it left no record of its existence. It was the real magic bullet, only everybody was too stupid to figure that out.”
“So what are you talking about? How do you make a bullet explode?”
Swagger said, “I’m talking about velocity.”
He continued to explain to Richard, who sat rapt, as if he did know something about guns after all.
“Where are you?” Nick’s voice came over the cell. It was a few days later. In the meantime, he’d stood up Richard at a planned meet, sent him a few e-mails asking whether he’d come across anything similar to his velocity theory, which Richard was presumably checking, and generally making an annoyance of himself without showing up anywhere to be photographed.
“I’ve switched motels,” Swagger said, giving him the new address. “I’m closer in now, and I can get cabs easier. Man, am I wearing out the ATM, all the cash I’ve been using.”
“Okay, listen to me,” Nick said. New tone to his voice: official G-man, dead-zero serious. “I want you to stay there. Under no circumstances are you to leave and expose yourself. Don’t make me send a car to bring you in and put you under protective; just comply, okay? It’s for your own good.”
“What’s happened?”
“This may mean nothing. I have no evidence it’s anything other than what it seems to be, but still, it’s prov
ocative. A black Dodge Charger, brand-new, the big muscle-car variant with that supercharged 370 Hemi under the hood, was stolen out of a garage in Fort Worth yesterday. It’s exactly the kind of muscle car that was used in Baltimore.”
Swagger said, “He’s here. He’s hunting me. Either Richard told him, or someone is on Richard and knows what Richard knows. And whoever it is, he doesn’t like the velocity theory. See, Nick, this proves it has to do with JFK.”
“It doesn’t prove anything like it. It proves a muscle car was stolen. Maybe it’s in parts in some chop shop, or on the way to a soldier of the Zeta cartel’s garage in Nogales, or being driven around by a couple of meth heads with chicken feed for brains. Those are all possibilities, and they may be more probable than this slightly improbable car killer, whoever he is, if he even exists.”
“Ask James Aptapton if he exists.”
“So. Here’s what I require. You stay put. I mean put. Room-service pizza and Chinese food, lots of daytime cable, get to know your housekeeping staff, that sort of thing. Meanwhile, I am going to put together a task force. I want to bring Dallas Metro in, and since it involves cars, maybe the Texas Highway Patrol. We’ll figure out some kind of sting, find a way to expose you under controlled circumstances, and when he thinks he’s taking you—assuming he exists—we’ll take him. Bet he has some interesting beans to spill.”
“Everything says he’s a pro. He spills no beans. He shuts up, takes whatever ride he gets without ratting, because he believes his outfit will bust him somewhere along the line, maybe not this year but the next. Those guys have made friends with that kind of math. It’s the price they pay for the chicks and the coke and the respect, for being a hard guy. Nick, he won’t tell you shit. By being here, he’s already told you everything he’s going to tell you.”
“Ten years in Huntsville, followed by life in Hagerstown, that might budge him.”
Bob sighed. “You’re thinking like a lawman. Everything’s leverage. Sometimes you have to send a message; that’s the best leverage.”
“Bob, I’m going to have you picked up if you pull any shit. You will go down. You have to play by our rules on this one. It could be a big bust. It all goes away if you go cowboy.”
Bob saw that Nick was bluffing. It wasn’t so. Dead, the pro would be just as much a trophy as alive, particularly if an FBI undercover put him under through Nick’s supervision. And whoever he was, his identity would be his true testimony and point to a next step.
“Do I have your word?”
“Please tell me you’ll set this up fast.”
“It takes time, coordination between agencies. If he’s after you, he’s not going to go away. We haven’t even spotted him yet. We’ll put a net around Richard and see if he shows. If we nail him, we’ll move on to the next step. I need time from you. And sniper patience.”
“He’ll pick up on that in two seconds.”
“For God’s sake, you—”
“It’ll happen late, no traffic, no pedestrians. Tomorrow night, near Dealey, in some alley. He likes alleys. Have a rolling team set up, get there fast, and it’s your crime scene. It’ll be your kill.”
“Or your death.”
“This guy ran down a decent man who never did a thing except pay his taxes and educate his kids. Broke his spine in an alley. Now let’s see him try that trick against some real competition. I won’t lie to you, Nick. I’m not going to sit here in this goddamn room eating Chinese and rereading books for the tenth time. It’s not my nature. My nature is the hunt.”
Nick said, “I can’t authorize this.”
“I’m your undercover. You get all the credit.”
“I’m hanging up. I cannot authorize this.”
“But you will not pick me up, right?”
“Agh,” said Nick in frustration. He hung up.
Swagger went to the closet and removed his small overnight bag from behind the spare blanket, feeling the heaviness inside. He opened it, picking up the stainless-steel Kimber .38 Super, taking reassurance from the familiar lines of the 1911 platform as designed by John M. Browning over a century ago, with its twenty-three-degree grip angle, its flatness, its ergonomic genius of safety and slide-release placement created in a world where the word “ergonomics” hadn’t been invented. It was already cocked and locked, for what was the point of having a pistol if you couldn’t shoot it fast? He knew that nine hardball +P Winchester 130-grainers were in the mag and a tenth in the chamber, bullets that had their own velocity attributes, moving out at 1300 with enough juice to puncture glass or metal and keep on the straightaway for a killing shot. The gun had a familiarity; its ancient frame was of the perfect width and boasted the perfect relation of grip to bore so that when it came to hand, it went on point naturally. Bob slipped a speed scabbard, a minimalist concealment holster that yielded pistol to draw in a flash, on his belt, along with a mag pouch that already concealed two mags. He cinched his belt, then slid the pistol into the holster so that it rested three inches behind the point of his hip but flat against his body.
He put on his khaki coat to conceal it. Then he put his lucky dollar in his pocket. His lucky dollar was four quarters Scotch-taped together. In the pocket, the four coins supplied steadying weight, but if he had to draw, he’d give it a swat, and the heaviness of the coins would pull the coat back and clear and straight, presenting the pistol to the same hand that came back to snatch and deploy it.
Then he called Richard and told him he had to see him tonight at eleven, at the bench outside the Book Depository.
CHAPTER 7
The Russian saw them. Two men sitting on the bench by the reflecting pool. The Book Depository was well lit at night from the front, so the two were bold and clear in the refracted glow. On top of that, the Russian’s eyesight was absurdly superior, so the details leaped at him. No problem telling target from bait. Target was tall, angular. He looked like he’d been around some, been hammered here and there, even if his posture was relaxed. The Russian suspected he’d do better than the last one, that dish of pudding in the alley.
The Russian was parked out of the lights on Houston, across from the Book Depository near the tracks on Pacific. He had a good angle, and he was invisible to them. He hunted for signs of wariness but picked up nothing. The older man never looked around, his body language was not tense, he never swallowed or licked his lips, all tells of high anxiety. He wore a khaki coat, a red baseball hat, jeans, and a pair of boots. He was talking earnestly and listening earnestly.
Soon the chat would be over. Target would get up, and in whatever direction he went, the Russian would follow at a decent interval. The trick of the hit was the timing. No traffic downtown this late, and the police scanning radio indicated no presence of official vehicles in the vicinity. The plan was: wait for him to cross a street and head down a block. Then circle that block at speed with good angle control at the corners to beat him to the next intersection, get there before him, park with lights out. When he approached the intersection, he’d look both ways, probably wait until he had the green even though it was an empty weeknight, then start across the street. Find the angle of interception, accelerate through him (the Dodge did zero to sixty in 3.7 seconds) and smash him hard. Speed should be up to sixty-five by then. At the last second, as he turned to the noise, hit him with the lights, which would visually disorient him and freeze him in place. The kill was certain. There would be no time to react.
He waited, he waited, he waited. Occasionally, a cab pulled by, headed to the passenger-rich zone of the West End, not far away. Music and light issued from that neighborhood, but it meant nothing to the Russian. He sat in the dark corridor on the dark pavement in the dark car. On either side of him, two square brick buildings, dark as well, loomed. He had no idea what they were.
“Donahue seems to come the closest,” Richard said. They sat as if stage-lit on the bench, near the reflecting pool filled with Scope, under the shagginess of the overhanging oaks. A cool breeze stirred the leaves
above to low whispers in the night, perfect for talking conspiracy.
“He goes nutty at the end,” Richard continued, “but it’s a logical nuttiness. He’s tried to answer your question: why did the third bullet explode? His answer is that a Secret Service man in the follow car with something called an AR-15, brand-new in ’63, I don’t know what it is, rose and accidentally fired after the second shot. That was the bullet that hit Kennedy.”
“And being a thin-jacketed, high-velocity 5.56-millimeter round impacting at close range, it behaved differently than the much heavier Carcano 6.5 from six times farther out, and that it was indeed engineered to explode? Is that it?”
“Yes.”
Swagger grunted.
“You don’t like?”
“It’s hard to believe that A) the agent could fire a bullet from an unusual-looking space-age rifle in front of, what, two thousand people, and that nobody would see it or hear it. Or B) on top of that, by the randomness of the universe, his muzzle would line up pointed directly at Kennedy’s head.”
“It’s a theory with many difficulties, yes. As I say, discredited.”
“You’re telling me. I guess the point is, he has good analysis of the Carcano, and he was stuck as to a way to explain the behavior of the third bullet. That AR-15, what would later be called an M-16, seemed to answer all the questions, and it sure as hell was there, but he didn’t realize it raised more than it answered.”
“There is testimony that some people smelled burnt powder in Dealey. And it would explain the government ‘cover-up’ and why they would never admit that friendly fire killed JFK.”
“I can’t buy it. I acknowledge that gun accidents frequently turn on great anomalies, like a .45 that’s never before doubled suddenly doubling, or a ricochet pattern that you couldn’t duplicate in a million years. That does happen. But here you’ve got two, one at either end of the shot, appearing in front of two thousand witnesses, and no one saw it?”
The Third Bullet: A Bob Lee Swagger Novel Page 9