Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy
Page 32
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963
12:24 PM – CST
Quin recognized Iggy’s panic and abruptly turned to follow her line of sight. There! The last window on the sixth floor. Something was amiss. No kidding—square-peg, round-hole stuff. Man, that Iggy had spy-caliber intuition. He broke into a sprint and weaved his way through the parade watchers toward the schoolbook warehouse.
He reached the building, jogged up the front steps, and entered. Around a bend, he spotted a staircase on the right. Excellent. He raced up half a flight and then the next one as it doubled back. A slew of curses voiced themselves in his brain; the stairs stopped short on the second story. He went through a doorway and traversed catty-corner across a wide secretarial pool dotted with typewriters on wooden desks.
Quin maintained a confident stride, acting as if he belonged. As he passed through a couple more doorways, he was fighting off feelings of impotence, until he came to a door in the northwest corner of the edifice and savagely ripped it open. Pay dirt. A hidden staircase along the back wall. He bounded up, two at a time.
Halfway to the third floor, the stairs turned ninety degrees to the left—clearly the corner of the building. At the top of the landing, he had to run around to catch the next flight directly above where he’d started. Who built these crazy stairs? M.C. Escher? He doggedly continued. Fourth story. Fifth. Sixth.
The expansive room encompassed the entire level and housed hundreds of boxes, presumably containing textbooks. Most of them boasted Rolling Readers in bold black font. The piled cartons towered seven feet tall along the walls and throughout the interior, constructing hallways that allowed one to navigate the maze.
Quin made a beeline down a dusty corridor toward the front windows.
12:26 PM – CST
Former Secret Service Agent Bickford Haycock skidded in a wide arc, landing the DuoGlide between two parked cars at the intersection of Jackson and Houston Streets. “This is as close as we’re gonna get on the bike.”
The pair hopped off the Harley and ran three blocks north along Houston, working against one-way traffic. Reaching the park’s oversized statue of George Dealey, they veered left and crossed Main Street into the infield of the plaza.
As they slowed to a fast trot down the sloping grass, Bick observed his companion canvassing the crowd. “Do you see the KGB?”
“No, but I’m having a hard time figuring it out.” Dee moaned in frustration. “Everyone isn’t where they’re supposed to be. And we only have four minutes left!”
“Keep cool. Remember the situation isn’t static like in pictures. People are in motion.”
“Right. You’re right. I’m used to them being stationary like an X on a map.” She sighed and then fixated on an individual. “Wait. That person definitely doesn’t belong. See? Next to the man and child? A woman in an overcoat with a scarf covering her hair. Could be anybody in disguise.”
They cautiously approached.
“Iggy! Thank goodness it’s you.” Dee embraced her. “We’ve just come from the Carousel. The KGB have escaped!”
“They what? How?”
“No time for that now. Any sign of them here?”
“I saw something in an open window on the sixth floor of that building.” Iggy lifted her eyes toward the Texas School Book Depository. “It could have been a chrome pistol. Quin’s checking it out.”
“Dammit!” Bick spat on the ground. “Oswald. He works there and he freed the KGB. They’re probably up there now. I’ve got to go and back up Quin.”
“What about the FBI?”
“They’ve got their heads up their asses. We’re on our own.”
“Well, Sera and I have this area covered.” Iggy indicated the Pergola and infield. “But where’s Sam?”
Bick raised his brows. “I thought he was with you.”
A quizzical expression crossed Iggy’s face.
“Never mind. Dee, go warn Sera and return to the bike. Under no circumstances are you to stay and watch Jackie and JFK.” Bick slashed his flat hand horizontally. “It’s too dangerous. Promise?”
Dee blinked in a half nod.
“Good. We’ll all meet back at the house when this is over. Go!” Bick dashed up the hill.
12:28 PM – CST
Dee hustled across the now traffic-less street and climbed the concrete Pergola steps. Sera was standing on the far left side near the roofed-in portion, several yards from Mr. Zapruder’s filming perch. Dee related the latest shocking developments to her friend. Sera stamped her foot, uttered a few expletives, and began a more diligent surveillance.
Her task complete, Dee returned to street level. She paused before the sidewalk, facing Elm. To her right a sizeable green highway sign instructed, Stemmons Freeway Keep Right. As if on cue, a well-dressed man with a black umbrella ambled in front of her. If memory served, his name was Louis Witt. The raingear signified an obscure political protest of one. Dee smiled at his absurdity. He was attempting to heckle the president about his father. As the US Ambassador to the United Kingdom in the 1930s, Joseph Kennedy Sr. had supported British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, who was appeasing Hitler as he propagated Nazi policies before the dawn of World War II. Witt planned to wave and open the umbrella to represent the PM’s trademark foul weather gear.
Dee contemplated Bick’s sincere warnings and concern over her safety. She loved him like a big brother, but—she gazed at the excited citizens chattering and waiting for the historic event—like hell she would leave. This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see Jackie K.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963
12:29:00 PM – CST
12:29:00 PM – CST
The motorcade proceeded along Houston Street and began to navigate the sharp left onto Elm. A phalanx of motorcycles led the way, followed by the pilot car, four more motorcycles, and the lead car. Next came a 1961 Lincoln convertible—the presidential limousine—which slowed to a crawl as it made the turn. Two motorcycle cops on each side flanked the rear of the vehicle.
Dee watched as the procession of automobiles started to trundle past. She glanced anxiously across the road at the babushka-wearing Iggy, who was shielding her eyes from the sun while scanning the throng. Before Dee could fathom that the moment had arrived, a wave of cheering cascaded down from the corner. The open-top black limo overfilled with six occupants came into view, American and presidential flags billowing from the front quarter panels. Resplendent in a tailor-made, pink Chanel suit and matching pillbox hat, the First Lady sat next to her husband, holding a vibrant bouquet of red roses.
12:29:30 PM – CST
Getting swept up in the thrill, Dee bounced up and down on the balls of her feet while completely forgetting her trusty camera. She waved at the approaching Jackie K., who beamed and waved back, causing Dee to nearly swoon with excitement. Louis Witt initiated his individual rally, opening and shutting the black umbrella metaphor high above his head.
12:30:00 PM – CST
History imploded as Dee heard a loud report. Directly in front of her, the president raised both elbows laterally to shoulder height and brought his clenched fists to his throat in a guarded manner. Mrs. Kennedy turned to her husband, reached out, and leaned toward him in concern.
Seated forward of JFK, Texas Governor John Connally reacted, swiveling to his right with right arm clutching his trademark white cowboy hat on left knee. As another firecracker pop echoed, he slumped into the lap of his wife, Nellie. He cried out, “My God, they’re gonna kill us all!”
A third frightening bang resonated. Dee screamed in horror as she witnessed the back right portion of Kennedy’s head blow up, spattering the Lincoln with bloody tissue.
12:29:00 PM – CST
12:29:00 PM – CST
The motorcade proceeded along Houston Street and began to navigate the sharp left onto Elm. A phalanx of motorcycles led the way, followed by the pilot car, four more motorcycles, and the lead car. Next came a 1961 Lincoln c
onvertible—the presidential limousine—which slowed to a crawl as it made the turn. Two motorcycle cops on each side flanked the rear of the vehicle.
Inside the Pergola, Sera heard a peculiar scraping noise over the swelling din of the crowd. Whipping her head toward the square, roof-topped section, she saw a booted foot and denim-clad leg peeking through the uppermost rectangle of the latticework concrete structure. What the hell? Of course. She’d fallen into the trap of not thinking to look up. The top of the colonnade would be a perfect spot for a hit man to hide. But he would not get away with it. She broke into a determined run.
12:29:30 PM – CST
Arriving behind the Pergola, Sera saw the culprit’s leg swinging up to gain purchase on the roof. She instantly assessed the ease with which an assassin could mount the superfluous Work Projects Administration’s legacy. Although the rectangular openings started high above, they were reachable. Several ledges made narrow footholds, the first measuring thirty inches from the base. Climbing rapidly, she reached the rim of the pale green copper roof and grabbed a boot dangling over the edge. Holding fast, Sera kicked away from the side, relying on gravity to make her body into a counterweight. The suspect slid off the sloped roof, thrashing his legs in an attempt to loosen her vise-like grip. As Sera desperately hung on, they passed the point of no return and tumbled to the ground.
12:30:00 PM – CST
As she lay flat on her back, Sera panicked; her lungs had deflated on impact. Her throat made a strangled wheeze as she tried to inhale. Just when she took a sudden rasping breath, a staccato burst pealed out. She rolled over. What was that?
The man Sera had pulled down lay to her left, groaning. She turned to him and recognized his features with a shock, as another explosion reverberated around the plaza. “You! You’re supposed to be dead!”
“You’re ruining everything, you crazy American!” KGB cell leader Kon clambered to his feet to the sound of another shrill blast.
12:29:00 PM – CST
12:29:00 PM – CST
The motorcade proceeded along Houston Street and began to navigate the sharp left onto Elm. A phalanx of motorcycles led the way, followed by the pilot car, four more motorcycles, and the lead car. Next came a 1961 Lincoln convertible—the presidential limousine—which slowed to a crawl as it made the turn. Two motorcycle cops on each side flanked the rear of the vehicle.
Sweating from foreboding rather than exertion, Bick zigzagged his way across the sixth story of the Texas School Book Depository and rounded a tower of boxes. Victor and Quin were battling in the sawdust on the freshly laid plywood. The KGB operative now straddled the astronaut, with his chrome pistol drawn in a threatening manner, but Quin forced the weapon away. Bick felt a surge of relief. At least the gun was no longer targeting the Commander in Chief through the window. He shook his head at his brief moment of schadenfreude and raced toward the melee.
12:29:30 PM – CST
Bick’s tenure in the Secret Service had taught him to react on autopilot. He bent his legs and leapt at Viktor, body slamming him off Quin. Liberated, Quin sat up abruptly, trying to figure out his good fortune. As Bick wrestled with Viktor, he observed Lee Harvey Oswald materialize from around the corner, carrying a long package wrapped in brown paper. In a flash, the slimy snake disappeared between a row of boxes and the open southeast window.
12:30:00 PM – CST
Boom, click, click. In a shooter’s stance, on one knee, with his bolt-action Mannlicher-Carcano rifle resting on a strategically placed stack of boxes, Oswald aimed out the southeast window and fired. The bullet sped toward the Lincoln convertible sixty yards away, sliced through JFK’s back and exited his neck, punching a hole in his necktie knot. The president was wounded seriously but not fatally.
Bick shouted, “Stop him! It’s that human zero Oswald!”
Boom, click, click. Oswald’s second shot narrowly missed his mark in the car on Elm Street, hitting John Connally instead as he turned in response to the first report. The slug entered the governor’s back, shattered his fifth rib and tore a ragged two-inch hole under his right nipple. At high velocity, the projectile continued carving a path straight through his right wrist until finally lodging in his left thigh.
In the warehouse, the gunfire seemed to surround them. Quin focused on the sound of shell casings clattering to the floor. He ran toward the source while Viktor shoved a box of Rolling Readers with his feet, tripping Quin and sending him flying. Bick persisted in trying to pin down Viktor.
Boom, click, click. Oswald discharged a third shot, which uncharacteristically for the former Marine marksman, entirely missed the intended vehicle. The bullet zoomed one hundred and fifty yards to hit a curb down Elm Street in front of the Triple Underpass. A chunk of concrete ricocheted up and scraped bystander James T. Tague on the right cheek.
12:29:00 PM – CST
12:29:00 PM – CST
The motorcade proceeded along Houston Street and began to navigate the sharp left onto Elm. A phalanx of motorcycles led the way, followed by the pilot car, four more motorcycles, and the lead car. Next came a 1961 Lincoln convertible—the presidential limousine—which slowed to a crawl as it made the turn. Two motorcycle cops on each side flanked the rear of the vehicle.
At the top of the Grassy Knoll sloping up from the street, Sam was crouching behind the corner of the stockade fence. Although all spectators’ eyes were riveted on the parade, he could not risk being seen, particularly by his fellow Team Orbis members. He tugged his Locklier H2 2011 out of the waistband of his jeans and held it up to the gap between wooden slats at the corner. The hand holding the gleaming metal felt clammy with perspiration. Once again, Sam balanced the scale in his mind: the value of one man’s life versus millions. Rationally, the argument always favored the masses. And Kennedy was a monster. Or at least, that’s what he would become. Now, he was technically an innocent man. What did that say about the guy who would be pulling the trigger?
12:29:30 PM – CST
Sam lowered the weapon and hung his head. Iggy had him pegged all along. He was not a murderer. With his guard down, a hand from behind seized the butt of Sam’s gun and tried to wrench it from his fist. Sam struggled to maintain possession as he turned to face his attacker. KGB henchman Dmitriy punched him in the gut. Sam doubled over, bewildered as to how the spy had escaped their makeshift prison. Gasping for air, he was grateful to see a man in a double-breasted suit running to his aid. As the three men scuffled, Sam received a bash to his skull and collapsed, still trying to keep the Locklier away from the killer.
12:30:00 PM – CST
A deafening crack rang out in the park. Dazed from the blow to his head, Sam’s grasp weakened, and Dmitriy easily plucked the gun from his hand.
Another kaboom echoed through Dealey. Sam watched, powerless, as Dmitriy aimed the 2011 like a pro through the crook in the fence.
Sam fought to get up as Dmitriy fired and a thundering crash clanged out. Impossible. A Locklier 2011 was silent. What had happened? Sam shuddered to think he was culpable.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963
12:30:08 PM – CST
12:30:08 PM – CST
Secret Service reflexes instinctively took over. Clinton J. Hill had leapt off the driver’s-side running board of the follow-up car and was already sprinting toward the presidential limousine. From the passenger side, John D. Ready also jumped, but quickly returned to his post when he determined he couldn’t cover sufficient ground to reach the preyed-upon convertible. From the rear seat, George W. Hickey Jr. snatched up his automatic rifle and cocked it, while the other agents in the entourage simultaneously drew their firearms. Too little, too late.
Stricken with shock, Dee monitored helplessly as Agent Hill grabbed the handhold jutting out from the trunk of the Commander-in-Chief’s Lincoln. He hoisted himself up, only to stumble off the footstep as the car lurched forward. He valiantly galloped a couple of strides and landed his feet squarely on the seco
nd attempt. The First Lady had inexplicably climbed onto the trunk, her white-gloved hand reaching for something. Hill seized her elbow and forced her into her seat. He assumed a spread-eagle posture across the top of the backseat as driver William Greer accelerated through the Triple Underpass.
The idyllic scene of moments before had morphed into pandemonium. Some spectators dropped to the ground in terror. Others screamed as they ran up the Grassy Knoll toward the parking lot to escape in their cars. Those remaining stood stupidly, watching the rest of the motorcade as it fled Dealey, not cognizant of the violence that had erupted. An involuntary sob emanated from Dee’s throat.
12:30:30 PM – CST
But there was no time. Dee pushed through her grief and assessed her surroundings. No immediate threats appeared; no KGB surfaced, as police swarmed the plaza. A motorcycle cop who had flanked the driver’s side of JFK’s vehicle parked across the street and ran over to search the area behind Dee. She recognized him instantly as Bobby Hargis, the officer who was supposed to shoot Viktor in the buttocks. On her right, a man huddled on the grass protecting a toddler. She spied Iggy across Elm, motionless as a statue. Without thinking, Dee plodded her feet forward, one after the other, over the sidewalk and off the curb. Barely a yard from her, the official party bus whizzed by, breaking her trance.
12:31:00 PM – CST
Standing in the gutter, Dee craned her neck, observing as a multitude of vehicles continued to rush past, following in the wake of Kennedy’s limo. When the street had cleared, she dashed across, planting herself firmly in front of Iggy. “This is an animated nightmare. My God, what have we done?” Her companion was staring, unfocused, arms hanging loosely, her fingers trembling.
“Iggy? Are you all right?” Dee felt panic burgeoning inside, threatening to take over. Their leader had never before been rendered inert during a crisis.
Iggy opened her mouth, but failed to speak. Dee grasped her shoulders and shook hard. “Iggy? Come on. We have to find the others and get out of here. The police are going to ask questions. We cannot be hauled in as eye witnesses.”