by Jim Bishop
Morgan Gies waved the car into the White House garage. He took it to the back and had the driver place it in a deep alcove. Hickey shut the ignition off and said: “Look at this.” He pointed to a star-shaped crack on the windshield. Gies looked. He did not touch. Orders had come down from Chief Rowley to cover SS-100-X without touching it. Hickey said: “I noticed it coming in from Andrews. It isn’t much, but it keeps spidering.” The motion of the car seemed to spread it in radiation.
Gies looked across the hood of the car. “Whatever it is,” he said, “the crack isn’t on the outside. This side is smooth.” Two agents were backing the other Secret Service car into a bin. The President’s limousine had a huge plastic cover drawn over its length. Two men guarded it. They took their posts in the alcove. Deputy Chief Paul Paterni of the Secret Service and Floyd Boring, assistant Agent-in-Charge of the White House detail, were on the other side of the street in front of Blackie’s Beef House, waiting for a traffic light before crossing. They wanted to see this automobile at once. With them were Chief Petty Officers William Martinell and Thomas Mills of the White House medical staff.
Paterni walked in and asked that the cover be removed. Additional lights were turned on. He and Boring walked slowly around opposite sides of the car, leaning forward to look in. The other agents stood back. No marks or scratches or indentations were on the front of the car. Both saw the small star-shaped crack on the inside of the windshield and assessed it as new. The deputy chief also noticed a dent in the chrome plating at the top of the windshield. This was old, but he did not know it. Suitable notes were made. Observations were made orally, so that everyone present could testify to them. The sides of the car were examined, and no marks were found. The outside of the trunk was scrutinized. There wasn’t a discernible scratch to show that Clint Hill had climbed painfully up that back to push Mrs. Kennedy to safety as Greer jammed the accelerator to the floor.
They glanced inside the back. The first thing they saw were red and yellow petals. They were scattered across the black leather seat and on the rug. Governor Connally’s jump seat was folded down. Mrs. Connally’s was still up. Dry blood was everywhere. It had congealed on the seat and it shone on the rug. Great gouts of it must have pumped out of the President’s head on the way to the hospital. Splashes of gray-white had dried on the upholstery. Where the brain tissue was absent, someone had sat. It was also heavy across the rear of the front seat. On the rug, they picked up a three-inch piece of skull and hair.
The men moved to opposite sides of the car and looked in the front seat. Paterni spotted the dull gleam of metal. He called attention to it and reached in at the spot where Roy Kellerman had been sitting. What he picked up was the rear half of a bullet. It was intact, and the lead core was exposed. A moment later, another was discovered on the driver’s side. This was a good find. When Paterni held the two parts together, it was obvious that this constituted one bullet. The middle sections, where the bullet broke, matched pretty well. It was possible that, if the bullet found on Governor Connally’s stretcher was the one which went through Mr. Kennedy’s neck unimpeded except by muscle to hit the Governor and stop inside his trouser leg, then this one could be the shot which hit the President in the back of the head, exploded his brain, tumbled forward, hit the windshield, and broke into two fragments, both falling on the front seat. It was possible. No one would know whether the reasoning was accurate.
The hum of an air conditioner in the autopsy room breathed on the silence. Commander James J. Humes executed his tasks with professional detachment, but it was impossible for a man to forget that this assortment of organic clay had been, until a few hours ago, the most powerful man on earth. Humes made notes on pads; sometimes Boswell made notes on the same sheets; Colonel Finck, the most experienced, knew very little of the actual circumstances of the assassination, but he noticed many small things which had a cumulative effect on his knowledge.
For example, the entry hole in the back of the skull was one quarter of an inch across by five eighths of an inch vertically. The bullet can be assumed to be round. It was 6.5-millimeter. The 7-millimeter side of the measurement showed that the missile had gone through the bone and that the skull and scalp had puckered slightly after it passed inside. This was normal. The 15-millimeter up-and-down measurement of the same wound told Colonel Finck that the head had been bent forward when hit. The missile had struck the skull on a downward tangent, skidding a trifle before boring through the head and out the top.
Boswell made a schematic drawing of the back of a head on a pad and, at the entry point, added an arrow pointed to the left side of the head. The true path was to the right. The doctors, aware that they were not in possession of the findings already established in Dallas, assumed that they were working on impressions tonight, impressions which, when all the facts were ascertained from Parkland Hospital, would be corrected.
The men looked inside the cranial vault. It was easy to do because a third of the skull was missing, and at least 25 percent of the brain was gone. Tenderly, the head was turned so that full light shone inside. Two fragments of skull fell off and rolled on the table. The fissure fractures around the massive defect were brittle. To touch the hair along the edge courted more fragmentation. The X-rays of the skull were studied again and again. Gloved hands moved inside the brain and began to emerge with bits of metal. The pieces were small. The X-rays showed where they could be found. Humes traced as many bits as he could. After a half hour of work he had a total weight of 12 grains on the table. The original bullet weighed 158.6 grains; Humes had recovered 7.5 percent.*
At The Elms, Liz Carpenter wrung her hands as she answered the ringing telephone. She wished that the telephone linesmen would change the number quickly. People who knew the phone number at The Elms were calling to ask Mrs. Johnson, “When you movin’ into the White House, honey?” It was sickening. The new First Lady asked Liz to please make excuses to the callers. Either they wanted to know the sickening details of the assassination, or they were anxious to know how quickly “Lyndon” would take over. Under normal circumstances, Mrs. Johnson was a creature of patience and tact. She huddled deeper into the bed, with the television loudly tolling the oratorio of the dead and the phone buzzing insistently.
Mrs. Carpenter hurried downstairs and back up. “The press is out front,” she said cautiously. “They would like to have you say something, Mrs. Johnson. Anything.” The First Lady stared at the ceiling. “It has all been a dreadful nightmare,” she murmured. “Somehow we must have the courage to go on.” She was talking to her secretary, her friend. But Mrs. Carpenter thought that the words covered the situation. She went back downstairs and, at the gate to The Elms, repeated them to the reporters.
When she returned to Mrs. Johnson, the woman was out of bed. It seemed painful to lie down, to stand, to sit, to watch that infernal machine repeat the horrifying story over and over. Mrs. Johnson reminded Mrs. Carpenter that Zephyr Wright, the family cook, was not at home. She suggested that they both go to the kitchen and make fried chicken.
“It will keep us busy,” Mrs. Johnson said, “and he will probably bring some people in with him. Men forget to eat. Then when they come in they want to know what’s ready now.” A few minutes later, Ray Scherer was on the air announcing: “Acting Press Secretary Andrew Hatcher reported at a news conference that President Johnson met with leaders of Congress for forty-five minutes and asked for their support in this time of tragedy. The congressional leaders assured President Johnson of their bipartisan support. . . Mrs. Kennedy has left the White House. Her children are with her.”
Shortly after, another commentator intoned: “President Johnson left about an hour ago for his home in Washington. . . .”
“You don’t have to talk to those people,” Captain Fritz said. Oswald sat, crossed his legs, and placed the handcuffed wrists on his thigh. “I know,” he said. The reporters in the hall had stopped shouting. Fritz phoned Lieutenant J. C. Day again. When he arrived, he said: “We’re go
ing to make a few paraffin tests.” Oswald nodded. He had no objection. Sergeant E. E. Barnes arrived, carrying portable equipment. The order to do this work in Fritz’s office surprised the sergeant. Prisoners were usually taken to the fourth-floor laboratory.
Barnes nodded to Detectives Dhority and Leavelle. Oswald watched as the equipment was unpacked. He seemed to be interested in the procedure. The paraffin was melted to a warm softness and the sergeant said: “I’m going to make a paraffin cast of your hand.” Oswald shrugged. “It’s okay with me.” The handcuffs were removed. The prisoner said: “What are you trying to prove? That I fired a gun?”
The sergeant applied the stuff to one hand and kept firming it. “I am not trying to prove you fired a gun,” he murmured. “We make the test. The chemical people at the laboratory will determine the rest of it.”
The firing of a gun causes a small amount of recoil. From the ammunition, bits of nitrate are sometimes forced backward out of the chamber. In the case of a rifle, the specks sometimes lodge on the face and on the hands of the person firing the weapon. This test is so unreliable that laboratories have reported positive nitrate results from persons who have not fired a gun and negative results from hunters who have used guns all day. The Dallas Police Department used these tests and sent them to Parkland Hospital for evaluation.
Barnes dipped a brush into warm paraffin and painted the gluey hand of Oswald. It was done a layer at a time until a quarter of an inch of waxy substance had been built up. When it cooled, Barnes and Day wrapped the hand in cotton gauze and painted an additional layer of paraffin on top. When it hardened, it was cut off with scissors and marked “Right hand, Lee H. Oswald.” The work began on the left hand.
Captain Fritz went to his outer office. He told Dhority: “When they finish, take him upstairs.” The second hand was paraffined and peeled like a tight glove. Lieutenant Day said: “I have to make palm prints of your hand.” Oswald was patient. He neither protested nor struggled. An additional test was made of the right cheek. The material went up to the laboratory. Officer J. B. Hicks assisted in making fingerprints and palm prints on an inkless pad.
When the work was concluded, Barnes presented the fingerprints to Oswald on a police sheet and asked him to sign his name across the bottom. This, Oswald thought, was carrying cooperation too far. “No,” he said. “I’m not signing anything until I see a lawyer.” A policeman snatched the card. “Makes no difference to me,” he said. Fritz returned and told Oswald, in the toneless, almost sleepy, manner he had used all day, that the police had found a map of Dallas in his room.
Oswald was unmoved. He wore the expression of a man who senses neither surprise nor significance. “I marked that thing,” he said, “for places to look for work.” Fritz, still standing and waiting to talk to his detectives, said: “There was an X on the School Depository building.” Oswald showed surprise. “My God,” he said, “don’t tell me there was a mark where this thing happened?” Fritz shook his head affirmatively. To ameliorate the effect of the one X, Oswald said: “What about the other marks on the map?” The captain didn’t answer. Oswald was taken to the jail.
The FBI wing of the Justice Department building was ablaze with light. Authority had been delegated; compartmentalized investigation was under way. Off-duty agents had already reported for service. In Dallas, Gordon Shanklin was relaying evidence and bits of information as it came to him from agents at police headquarters. The New York office was already “in progress” on locating all mail order houses which sold rifles and revolvers. The background file on Lee Harvey Oswald began to build. An inspector reread the statute called “Assaulting a Federal Officer” and found that it did not include bodily harm to the President or the Vice-President. This placed the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the unwanted outside position with no legal jurisdiction in the assassination.
The Director, J. Edgar Hoover, had the express order of President Lyndon Johnson to take complete charge of the case but the Chief Executive, except for the majesty of his office, was powerless to do anything legally. The crime was against the peace of the state of Texas, county of Dallas. The man in charge would be Henry Wade, district attorney. His investigative body was the Dallas Police Department. This hamstrung the FBI, which, from 12:45 P.M. could do no more than pledge complete cooperation to Captain Fritz and Chief Curry. Across the inner courtyard of the Department of Justice, Assistant Attorney General Herbert J. Miller, Jr., called the FBI to advise that there was no federal statute applicable to the assassination of a President of the United States and that all legality in the case reverted to the state of Texas.
The situation was more delicate than dangerous. The FBI, with resources far superior to a city police department, phoned Chief Curry to offer the “assistance” of all their manpower in addition to the excellent facilities of their laboratory. Curry’s attitude was detached and cool. In his desk he had a report from one of his officers that the FBI had a live file on Lee Harvey Oswald, a report which charged an FBI agent with stating that the bureau knew the potential danger of this man. It is possible that the chief saw this as an excellent document to release to the surging, shouting press—a document calculated to take his department off the hook of responsibility and put the FBI on it.
He said that it was his understanding that a couple of FBI men were already in Fritz’s office. Everybody was cooperating with everybody else. The Secret Service had men in there, too. Texas Rangers were there, and the whole thing cluttered up the office and didn’t give Fritz much of an opportunity to work. So far as the FBI laboratory was concerned, Dallas had one of its own on the fourth floor. It might not compare with the Bureau laboratory in Washington, but Curry would talk to Fritz and ask him about it. Possibly Fritz wanted all evidence to remain in Dallas.
The captain of Homicide found himself in agreement with his chief. He was unimpressed by the offer. “I need the evidence here,” he said. “I need to get some people to identify the gun, to try to identify this pistol and these things. If it is in Washington, how can I do it?” Essentially, it was the same dispute which had occurred at 1:15 P.M. over the body. All the legalities favored Dallas; all the power was in Washington. There were other phone calls. Some came from officials in Dallas. They asked Chief Curry to complete his laboratory work and permit the FBI to take the evidence for a day or two and return it. “Who,” said Chief Curry, “is making these calls from Washington?” The response was always the same. “Just say I got a call from Washington and they want this evidence up there.”
Hoover phoned Rowley in Washington and offered assistance. The Chief of the Secret Service said that Shanklin had been cooperating with the Service. Alan Belmont, in charge of the FBI investigation, called Shanklin for progress reports and ordered him to funnel all information through the main office. Shanklin said he had men at the School Book Depository, the hospital, and police headquarters. Congressman Ed Edmondson called the FBI to remind the Bureau of something of which it was painfully aware—that Speaker John McCormack of Massachusetts, next in line of succession to the presidency, should have protection. Edmondson said that he and Representative Carl B. Albert had phoned Rowley and asked for guards, but that none had arrived at the Speaker’s office.
The FBI and the Secret Service appreciated the crotchety Speaker’s wishes, which were that he would not tolerate agents shadowing his gait. Edmondson said that the shooting of the President could be but the first act in an overall conspiracy to murder the heads of government. Cartha DeLoach, administrative assistant to the Director, phoned Dr. Martin Sweig of McCormack’s office. The FBI had no jurisdiction in the field of personal protection, but DeLoach was glad he called, because Dr. Sweig said that McCormack wanted no protection and had ordered him to “remove” two Secret Service men waiting quietly in a room next to the Speaker’s suite in the old Washington Hotel. Mr. McCormack, a stubborn second-generation Irishman, said that the city was full of fear and hysteria and he was not going to add to it.
In the f
ile section, an FBI agent dug up James Hosty’s reports on Lee Harvey Oswald. Another agent went through the identification files and found fingerprints on Lee Harvey Oswald made by the Marine Corps on October 24, 1956. The same record revealed that he had been honorably discharged on September 13, 1960, and had been arrested for disturbing the peace while distributing Free Cuba pamphlets on the streets of New Orleans on August 9, 1963.
Calls were coming in from all over the country. The FBI switchboards were alive with winking lights. Deputy Attorney General Nicholas Katzenbach phoned to ask that he be kept informed if anyone was arrested for the assassination. He was aware that Oswald had been charged with the murder of Tippit, but his interest centered on the President. Belmont had a man in the State Department with Abram Chayes, examining the Soviet side of Oswald. State asked the FBI to forward copies of anything it had in the files on the suspect. Norbert A. Schlei, another assistant attorney general, called the Bureau to ask what kind of people killed Kennedy. He was drafting a proclamation for President Johnson and the phrasing would depend upon whether “they” were madmen, office seekers, political malcontents, segregationalists, or so forth. Schlei was told that there was no definite information; the suspect in hand proclaimed himself a Marxist and had once sought citizenship in Russia, but no one could yet say that he had plotted the assassination or carried it out. Further, no one knew whether this man had acted alone or in concert with others.
Word reached Washington that a police official in Dallas claimed that there was “proof” that the FBI was aware of Oswald as a potential assassin. Washington correspondents phoned the FBI. The word they got was: “We are rendering every possible assistance in Dallas.” Out of Washington went some highly placed phone calls demanding that Curry retract the statement and rephrase it properly: “. . . that the FBI had a file on Oswald as a defector but nothing that would point to him as a violent person.” If Curry wanted to say that one of his lieutenants “claimed” that an FBI agent had stated otherwise, that would be all right provided that the Chief also announced that Agent James Hosty denied making the statement. The next phone call, from an embassy, announced that the Mexican government had closed its border to the United States and was screening all passengers at international airports. No plotter would get into Mexico.