by Jim Bishop
He opened another field. Both men knew the delicate areas of interrogation. “Do you belong to any other organizations?” “American Civil Liberties Union.” Fritz raised his brows. “How much dues do you pay?” “Five dollars.” Fritz wanted to ask about the curtain rods. He kept trembling on the edge of the question, then pulling back. The captain’s reasoning was that if there really were curtain rods in that package, he didn’t want to stumble into being surprised by that fact. Fritz had heard about Wesley Frazier and the long package in the back of the car; he had also asked Mrs. Paine if Mrs. Oswald had sent her husband for curtain rods or needed curtain rods. The answer was “No.” The men who had questioned Earlene Roberts at the North Beckley furnished room had been told bluntly that Oswald was not bringing curtain rods to his room and wouldn’t be permitted to use them if he did. The owner, Mrs. Johnson, furnished every room with curtains and Earlene had never heard of a roomer bringing curtain rods or curtains.
Fritz decided to take the chance. He was as certain as he could be that there were no curtain rods, just a disassembled rifle. “Somebody told me you had a package in the back seat of the car,” Fritz said. The prisoner sat a little more upright. “No package except my lunch,” he said. The captain nodded. “Did you go toward that building carrying a long package?” Oswald shook his head vigorously. “No. I didn’t carry anything but my lunch.” “Where did you get that pistol?” Oswald relaxed. “I bought it about six or seven months ago.” “Is that so? Where?” “In Fort Worth, I think.” “Where in Fort Worth?” “That’s all I’m going to say about that.”
“Did you make your phone call?” “Yes, sir. Thank you.” “Did you get your party?” “No.”* “You can try again. You don’t have to thank me. We do this for all prisoners.” “I don’t have any money.” “You don’t need it. Call collect.” “That’s right. I hadn’t thought of that.” “What kind of a lunch did you carry?” “Cheese sandwich and an apple.” “What do you give Mrs. Paine for taking care of your family?” “Nothing. It comes to a good arrangement for her because my wife speaks Russian and Ruth Paine is a student of Russian.”
“Did you keep a rifle in the garage there?” “No rifle. I have a couple of old seabags there, some kitchen articles in boxes—that’s about it—no, a couple of suitcases with clothes.” “Do you have a receipt for a rifle?” “I never owned a rifle.” “Are you a member of the Communist Party?” Oswald smiled faintly. “I have never been a member of the Communist Party.” “You know what a polygraph test is?” “Yes, but I wouldn’t take one without the advice of counsel.” “That Selective Service card with the name Alex James Hidell on it, isn’t that your signature?” “I carried the card, that’s all. I told you I don’t want to discuss it.” “I’m just trying to find out why you carried it.” “I won’t talk about it.”
“Who were your friends over on North Beckley?” “Never had a visitor at North Beckley.” “Can you tell me something about that address book we found on you?” “Yes. It contains names of Russian immigrants who live around Dallas. Sort of friends of ours.”
Inspector Kelley, who had been a party to such interrogations for twenty-five years, marveled at the interplay of the two men. He became convinced that Lee Harvey Oswald was engaged in a contest he relished. At one point, when Fritz and some of the other officers left the inner office for a moment, the inspector walked over to Oswald. Kelley wore his most engaging smile. “I just wanted to say,” he said politely, “that I’m an inspector with the Secret Service. As you know, we’re charged with the protection of the President. If you didn’t do this thing, I wish you would tell us so we can find who did.” Lee Harvey Oswald glanced up at a new and slightly more subtle antagonist. “I won’t do it now,” he said, “but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. After I see my lawyer, I’ll talk to you.”*
Kelley stuck a hand in his pocket and walked back to his chair. He was positive that this young man had an ardent desire to let the world know, in time, that he, Lee Harvey Oswald, had done the thing that no other man dared to do and had done it alone. To die, to serve a lifetime in prison, or even to go free without scratching his name on the granite face of history would be, the inspector felt, contrary to the aspirations of the ego and to the conceit and the superiority Lee Harvey Oswald felt in relation with the rest of mankind.
Too many people were talking, too many were foaming with too many notions, and all things had to be dealt with at once. The western edge of the White House had aspects of a solemn football game, with young men running in and out of a jammed doorway, older men walking, heads down, to an office with a free telephone. Two would troop in with books and magazines relating to the funeral of Abraham Lincoln, while two others would debate the delicacy of inviting Senator George Smathers of Florida to the funeral. “He was a close friend of the boss.” “I know, but he is also a Senator and he’ll come in with the Senate group.” An elder statesman, Averell Harriman, sat bowed like a scarecrow in a perverse wind. A young government press agent, David Pearson, asked: “Mr. Ambassador, aren’t you a good friend of President Truman’s?” The long, lined face lifted; the head nodded. “Would you please contact President Truman, President Eisenhower, and President Hoover and invite them to come tomorrow morning?”
Without a word, the old one got to his feet and walked to another office to make the calls, issue the invitations. It had already been done by President Lyndon Johnson, but those in Dungan’s office were not aware of it. Eisenhower and Truman would be in Washington tomorrow, to pay their respects to Mr. Kennedy and to confer with Mr. Johnson. Mr. Hoover was too ill to attend. It would take two hours of Harriman’s time to ascertain this.
The Kennedy group had swift and accurate reflexes, but the death of their leader thrust upon them an unexpected event of magnitude. His death undermined the power structure and, as it crashed in chaos this evening, they planned a funeral which only the most callous would forget. The sunburst vision of charisma which the young man had displayed in all his political battles must, somehow, be made to shine for three additional days, when the bright light would be extinguished forever. As they had planned the best, the biggest, the most dramatic battles in the political wars, so too the final homage to his remains must be enormously tragic. He was a lot more than Jack Kennedy, rich bon vivant; he was President of the United States.
Shriver cut off the phones for a moment to draw up a draft of a plan. “Let’s call 10 A.M. tomorrow,” he said, “the first hour.” He wrote “Saturday 10 A.M.” on foolscap and, beside it, “President’s Family.” It was a start. He wanted a priest there for prayers for the dead at that time. At 11 A.M.—who?—ex-Presidents, maybe the Supreme Court. Noon—noon, perhaps the diplomatic corps. One P.M.—the United States Senate. But what about burial?
Where? What city? What cemetery? Brookline, Massachusetts? Did anyone recall where the baby had been buried last summer—Patrick Bouvier Kennedy? Somewhere near Boston. A family plot probably. On the other hand, Mrs. Kennedy may have thought of a place—certainly she would express her wishes. Two of the volunteers recalled that in March 1963 the President had strolled from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier down the green cascading hill of Arlington National Cemetery. It was a sparkling day. The capital, stretched below, was a geometry of broad boulevards and impressive buildings and monuments.
Three hundred feet below the Custis-Lee Mansion, he had paused to drink the exquisite view. He stood among the ranks of small white headstones, the military dead of several wars, and he said: “I could stay here forever.” This, thought Sargent Shriver, might be the last opportunity to grant him a wish. At Bethesda Hospital, Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara had already remembered that day, that stroll, that wish. Mrs. Kennedy had greeted the recollection with an approximation of joy. It is rare to know a young man’s last wish. The decision was made.
The hour was late, but the caretakers at Arlington were summoned. They consulted plans of the cemetery. They, too, were grief-stricken and, even though the average sold
ier-citizen gets no more than a four feet by eight feet section of the cemetery, they found an unused area on the spot where John F. Kennedy had stood and offered three acres of ground. Someone announced it to the press, and there was resentment among the people at anyone getting that much ground. President Kennedy could settle for less.
Shriver marked off Sunday afternoon for the lying-in-state in the Capitol of the United States. Here the people could form into long queues and file past the box. Monday, the funeral. That would be Monday morning. Probably 10 A.M. There would be a Mass of requiem in either the newly completed Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception or Saint Matthew’s Procathedral. Mustn’t forget a naval guard of honor. Lieutenant John Fitzgerald Kennedy was United States Naval Reserve. Mustn’t forget many things and many people. How many chiefs of state would fly to Washington? The time was 3:30 A.M. Saturday in western Europe; there would be no point in using the so-called “hot lines” at this hour. Still a note could be made to start phoning at 5 A.M. Eastern Time.
A funeral doesn’t accord time to its planners. No one could guess how many people could be accommodated in either of Washington’s Roman Catholic cathedrals. Someone could call Bob Kennedy at once, at least, and find out what the family wishes were? Then, once the capacity of the pews was known, space could be reserved for the family, the personal friends, the chiefs of state, the diplomatic corps, the Senate and House committees, the Cabinet, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the three pool men of the newspaper wire services.
At the hospital, the Attorney General placed an arm around his sister-in-law. He walked her away from the conversational groups, looking at the rug under his feet. Robert Kennedy knew how to “handle” Jacqueline Kennedy. She reposed great confidence in him. He knew that each decision she made tonight represented an additional wrench of the heart. But she had to keep making decisions. “We should get some clothes for Jack,” he said softly. She had not thought of it. What kind? Mrs. Kennedy thought it over. She remembered that he had a dark blue pinstripe suit, a plain blue tie with a small pale figure in it, a white shirt, of course, and a pair of black shoes.
A Roman Catholic would want a rosary entwined in his hands. The President had beads in his room. On the other hand, Prince Stanislaus Radziwill, married to Mrs. Kennedy’s sister, offered his rosary. It was accepted. Mrs. Kennedy remembered that her husband cherished a solid gold Saint Christopher medal which she had given him. Mrs. Kennedy wanted that medal in the casket with Jack. It was a girlish sentiment. She had others: she planned to write a final note to her husband and to seal it in the casket with him.
The Attorney General walked out into the hall and asked Clint Hill to telephone the White House for the clothes and medal. The Secret Service agent phoned George Thomas, the valet, and listed each item. “Just get them together with underwear and give them to a driver on the South Grounds. Tell him to deliver them to the autopsy room at Bethesda.”
The medal could not be found. It was in the President’s wallet, twenty feet from his body. William Greer had it.
The two Secret Service agents had breakfast at 6:30 A.M. in Fort Worth. They had come a long hard way, so when an officer whispered: “I’ll have a man take you up to the commissary,” Roy Kellerman and William Greer looked guiltily at each other and said: “Thank you.” It had been fifteen hours since they had coffee, and yet the requirements of the stomach seemed out of place in an autopsy room. An enlisted man took them from the room and, when they got to the restaurant, they asked what was ready to eat. “Chicken, rolls, and coffee,” was the response.
“All right,” said Kellerman. They sat, working their broad fingers on the formica tabletop. The stomachs were hungry, but the thoughts negated food. Kellerman and Greer had been with the “boss” from the start, and with other Presidents before him, but there was nothing to talk about. They glanced around the room, smelled the steam-heated chicken, and mouthed safe words about nothing in particular. Both were tough law enforcement officers. Since losing their man, it seemed heavy for the spirit to see and watch his autopsy, too.
Neither knew much about the afternoon and evening events in Dallas, except that Robert Kennedy had told Kellerman that a young self-professed communist had been arrested. The plates of steaming chicken arrived, and both men looked at them and decided to try the coffee. They sipped and stirred and ate two rolls. In fifteen minutes, they were back in the autopsy room.
Outside the room, Greer found two men in medical coats trying to get into the room. A check showed that they were newspaper reporters. They left without dispute. Inside, Sibert and O’Neill of the FBI were receipting a glass container with metal slivers taken from the brain. At the same time, Dr. Burkley’s enlisted men were delivering a piece of skull. Burkley gave it to Dr. Humes, who made a sketch of it, examined it, and, with Boswell and Finck watching, found where it fitted.
Not far away, President Johnson sat in the dining room picking at chicken. It was something to do. This was going to be a long night for him—it already was—and he looked around at the young faces: Jack Valenti, Bill Moyers, Cliff Carter, and an old friend who had just arrived, chubby Horace Busby. One of the characteristics the President had managed to hide from most people—except his wife and daughters—was a deep-set loneliness which he denied. He felt it now. It came over him at night and he would call friends at unreasonable hours and say: “Aw, come on over and sit with us awhile.” He noticed that no one this evening called him “Lyndon.” He was “Mister President” to everybody except his wife.
It brought no pleasure. The feeling was one of remoteness imposed upon him. The man who enjoyed friendship and loyalty and the rough-and-tough game of party politics was on a solitary eminence in the dark. Briefly he chewed on the chicken and listened to the conversation and kept the rheumy brown eyes on the television set. The screen switched to Dallas, and there was John F. Kennedy, the graceful, grinning chief, strolling along the Love Field fence in a forest of arms. Mrs. Kennedy, in the nubby pink suit, was behind her husband, smiling graciously and being yanked almost off her feet by the hearty Texas handshakes.
“Shut it off!” Johnson snapped. Then, more softly, “I just can’t take that.” He was trying hard to think of things which would keep him from remembering. He wiped his hands carefully on a napkin and called Secret Service Chief James Rowley. “Rufe did a brave thing today,” he said. “He jumped on me and kept me down. I want you to do whatever you can, the best that can be done, for that boy.” He hung up. It had not occurred to him that Rowley, too, was lonely. If there was any blame, any official laxness, it didn’t matter that the planning of the Texas trip had been in the capable hands of Floyd Boring; it meant nothing that Roy Kellerman was in charge, along with Emory Roberts; no one wanted to weigh the possibilities that, if a Secret Service man had been on the left rear bumper going down Elm Street, it would have been difficult to hit President Kennedy. All indictments filter upward, and Rowley was the man at the top of the Secret Service. He was pleased to hear a praiseworthy report about one of his men, but Rowley knew that he was going to be every critic’s target.
The car was at the curb. The bulky figure came downstairs from the apartment. Under his arm he carried a small female dog. He got in on the driver’s side and deposited the dog on the other side of the seat. It was 9:30 P.M.—late. Jack Ruby had said that he would attend services for the President and they would soon be concluded. He had bragged to everybody. Now he would drive to 9401 Douglas and try to make the boast good.
The car jerked down the road, the little dog braced against the turns. Ruby kept his eye on the road and switched the radio on. His favorite station was KLIF. They had Joe Long at police headquarters. He was giving a summary of all the information the police had of Oswald. In the car, Jack Ruby felt a psychological block against uttering the name “Lee Harvey Oswald.” Although Oswald had not been indicted or tried, the nightclub owner began to think of him as “the person that committed the act.” Jack Ruby frequently felt blocks in his mind agains
t people and names. He saw himself as a good, wholesome person with strong religious beliefs, one who loved law and order and law enforcement officials—one who, perhaps, was guilty of a few minor things like traffic summonses and fist fights—but a true child of God withal.
Reprehensible people did not deserve to have names or faces. “The person who committed the act” was the newest on a long list. Ruby had no trouble detecting good men from bad; he could do it instantaneously. His keen intelligence told him, as a weather vane swings to the new wind. He knew that Joe Long of KLIF was a good man because Ruby recalled that Long had given his club free plugs on the air. Russ Knight was another good man. He was a disc jockey on KLIF, a man who could enunciate his thoughts in swift, sure words. Joe and Russ—good guys.
Cars were parked around Temple Shearith Israel. Ruby switched his lights off, reassured the little dog as he always did, and locked the car. He hurried inside in time for the conclusion of the ceremony. A bar mitzvah was announced for Saturday and the communicants were invited to remain, at the conclusion of tonight’s services, for cake and coffee. The jowly face of Jack Ruby hunted among the features of dedicated Jews for friends. He envied these people; they were regulars. They felt their Jewishness as a freezing man feels the warmth of fire. They were here because the spirit told them to be here. It was not fellowship which brought them, but an atavistic emotion of belonging to the true faith of God. In the temple they heard the true words of all the prophets, the warnings and promises of God himself.
The nightclub owner felt cold. He saw no fire, felt no warmth. The temple and the replica of the Ark of the Covenant, the scrolls of the Talmud, all brought memories of an unhappy childhood. Among the goyim of the Chicago ghetto, Jack Ruby had been a Jew bastard, a Christ killer, before he understood the terms. His father’s divorce from the family left Jack Ruby without an anchor. His mother’s renunciation of reality placed her in a world apart from his, where the true test of strength was in hoodlum gangs and fists.