End of Days

by James L. Swanson

  Agent Rufus Youngblood decided he should escort the new president to the plane with as little fanfare as possible. There would be no entourage, no big motorcade accompanied by police cars and motorcycles with their screaming, attention-getting sirens. And Youngblood dared not put Johnson in SS-100-X, the presidential limousine. How could he? The backseat was still wet with blood and brains.

  Instead, Johnson got into an unmarked car that gave no outward clue to the identity of its precious passenger. It was not a convertible.

  AT 1:27 P.M. (CST), Walter Cronkite broadcast an update: “We just have a report from our correspondent, Dan Rather, in Dallas, that he has confirmed that President Kennedy is dead. There is still no official confirmation of this, however.”

  At 1:32 P.M. (CST) Cronkite made another announcement: “This is the bulletin that just cleared from Dallas, that the two priests who were in the emergency room, where President Kennedy lay after being taken from the Dallas street corner where he was shot, say that he is dead. Our man, Dan Rather in Dallas reported that about ten minutes ago, too.”

  At Parkland Hospital, at 1:33 P.M. (CST), Mac Kilduff walked into a room to make a statement to the journalists who awaited him there. His hands trembled. Then he spoke: “President John F. Kennedy died at approximately 1:00 CST today here in Dallas. He died of a gunshot wound to the brain. I have no other details regarding the assassination of the president.”

  Merriman Smith transmitted to UPI a three-word report: “PRESIDENT KENNEDY DEAD.”

  In the KLIF radio newsroom in Dallas, station owner Gordon McLendon handed off the microphone to a colleague: “Bob, do you have more?” He did: “The President is clearly, gravely, critically and perhaps fatally wounded. There are strong indications that he may have already expired, although that is not official. But the extent of the injuries to Governor Connally is a closely shrouded secret at the moment.”

  Then he coughed and cleared his throat. The sound of papers rustling in his hand—the latest bulletins from United Press—went over the air. Then he spoke: “President Kennedy is dead, Gordon.”

  Now the announcers spoke simultaneously over each other’s sentences: “This is the official word” and “Ladies and gentlemen, the president is dead.” Then one voice alone speaks: “The president, ladies and gentlemen . . . is dead.”

  WITHIN MINUTES, news of Kennedy’s death flashed across America. At 1:38 P.M. (CST), a visibly shaken Walter Cronkite appeared on CBS television and made this announcement. “From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official: President Kennedy died at 1:00 P.M., Central Standard Time, two o’clock, Eastern Standard Time—some thirty-eight minutes ago.” Cronkite removed his eyeglasses, shook his head and paused. He was on the verge of tears.

  Just a few weeks ago he had enjoyed the privilege of conducting a one-on-one, sit-down television interview with President Kennedy. Cronkite pulled himself together and continued. “Vice President Lyndon Johnson has left the hospital in Dallas, but we do not know to where he has proceeded; presumably he will be taking the oath of office shortly and become the thirty-sixth president of the United States.”

  THROUGHOUT THE nation, people at home that afternoon sat in their living rooms, riveted by television and radio alerts. Others gathered in quiet groups around office televisions sets and radios. Millions of people working that day were out to lunch when Kennedy was shot, and they heard the news when restaurants tuned their TVs and radios to news broadcasts. On the streets, many people gathered in front of appliance stores and watched the silent televisions on display behind plate-glass windows.

  Drivers stopped in traffic and got out of their cars to talk to other drivers. When newspapers started publishing special editions that afternoon, frantic customers snapped up the copies as soon as they were delivered to newsstands, drugstores, and other outlets. In Chicago, one man ripped an outdoor, red metal news box for the Chicago American right out of the ground and drove off with a stolen stack of papers announcing the assassination.

  In Nashville, Tennessee, the way that word of the assassination came to David Lipscomb High School was representative of how the news arrived at schools across the nation. A telephone rang in study hall. A teacher answered the call. She looked at her students, wondering what to do. “I don’t know whether I should tell you this or not,” she said. “I just don’t believe it . . . President Kennedy has just been shot in Texas.” A student shouted, “It couldn’t have happened!” Another said, “I don’t believe it.”

  Tommy Ingram, editor in chief of the school newspaper, the Pony Express, reacted fast to the breaking news. “By this time,” he wrote later, “the intercom was on and the horrible message was being heard by the entire student body as it was by the entire world.” In the corridors and classrooms, students spoke in hushed tones. Ingram deployed cub reporters to interview classmates and teachers. Randy McLean, a senior, said that he was “stunned” and that he couldn’t “believe that anyone as alive as Kennedy was, is dead.” Senior class president Bill Steensland confided, “I haven’t yet, but I’m going to go home and cry.” Patty Pettus, a junior, had several reactions: “Russia, Mrs. Kennedy, and the children. It’s like a dream. I couldn’t believe it.” Lola Sue Scobey, secretary of the student body said, “We don’t realize how historical this day is. Even if we were not a fan of Kennedy, it was still tragic . . . what will happen from this point on?”

  Principal Damon Daniel summoned his stunned students to an assembly program. “We consider ourselves free men, yet in this country of freedom of speech and freedom of worship,” he told them, “cruel tragedy still strikes.” He encouraged them too. “We will lie down and bleed a while, but then we will rise again and fight.” Until then, he continued, “a son, a brother, a father, and a husband has been lost, and it is our duty to weep with those that weep.” Ingram had one of his staffers take photographs in the halls and at the assembly, and those reaction shots captured weeping teachers and dazed students.

  The staff scrambled to get out an issue. On November 27, the day before Thanksgiving, the Pony Express published an ambitious, large-format, two-page extra headlined LIPSCOMB MOURNS KENNEDY. STUDENTS STUNNED AS NATION’S LEADER DIES.

  Later, the National Scholastic Press Association honored the Pony Express by giving the paper its coveted All-American rating and naming it a Medalist, the association’s highest award. “The extra edition of your paper covering the events of November 22, 1963, gave excellent, timely coverage of student reaction plus coverage of the assassination and events immediately following. Congratulations on mobilizing your staff.”

  Editor in chief Ingram also received a letter from the editor of the Nashville Tennessean, John Seigenthaler: “Dear Tommy: I have just read your Pony Express ‘Extra’ of Nov. 27 . . . it was a thoughtful and professional piece of journalism. You and your entire staff have my congratulations.” Tommy did not know it, but Seigenthaler was a friend of John and Robert Kennedy.

  In DALLAS, it was time to send for a casket. The Secret Service ordered one from a local funeral home. While it was on its way, hospital staffers washed the president’s body and wrapped his head in towels and sheets of plastic so his blood would not stain the silk lining of the coffin. Then they wrapped the entire body. Mrs. Kennedy did not watch this. When the coffin arrived, funeral-home workers wheeled it into the emergency room. They lifted Kennedy’s corpse from the table and laid it in the coffin. Then they closed the lid. The president was ready to go home.

  BACK IN Washington, a telephone in the office of Attorney General Robert Kennedy rang at 1:45 P.M. Eastern Standard Time. It was the direct line that linked the offices of the attorney general and the director of the FBI. Robert Kennedy had insisted on setting up the line so that J. Edgar Hoover could not avoid taking his calls. Hoover had great antipathy for all the Kennedys, but he disliked Bobby most of all. The director judged the Kennedys to be hypocrites and moral failures, and Hoover knew all about the president’s indiscretions with women, going back to the youn
g naval officer’s World War II affair with a probable Nazi spy, the beautiful Danish blond journalist Inga Arvad.

  The director, a veteran of decades of Washington intrigue and turf battles, bristled at the presence of the special phone on his desk. But the attorney general was his superior in rank, and Hoover had to submit to what he believed was a humiliation. But the phone worked both ways. This time, it was Hoover who called Kennedy. Robert Kennedy’s assistant, Angie Novello, picked up the receiver.

  “This is J. Edgar Hoover. Have you heard the news?”

  She had. The attorney general was not in his office. Novello knew what Hoover wanted her to do, but she could not bear it.

  “Yes, Mr. Hoover, but I’m not going to break it to him.”

  “The president has been shot,” Hoover said. “I’ll call him.”

  Robert Kennedy was in McLean, Virginia, having lunch at his expansive home, Hickory Hill, on the outskirts of Washington, less than a half-hour drive from the Department of Justice at Ninth and Pennsylvania Avenues. Bobby, his wife Ethel, and two Justice Department lawyers, United States Attorney Robert Morgenthau and his assistant, were sitting by the pool and eating sandwiches. Ethel walked away to answer the phone.

  A White House operator told her that J. Edgar Hoover was calling.

  Ethel tried to deflect the call. “The Attorney General is at lunch.” The operator told her it was urgent. Ethel told her husband, “It’s J. Edgar Hoover.”

  Bobby came to the phone.

  Hoover spoke. “I have news for you. The president has been shot.”

  Kennedy asked for details.

  “I think it’s serious,” Hoover said. “I am endeavoring to get details. I’ll call you back when I find out more.” Then he hung up.

  Horrified, Bobby cried out, “Jack’s been shot!”

  AT THE United States Capitol, press liaison Richard Riedel walked onto the floor of the Senate and said, “The president has been shot. The president—he’s been shot.” JFK’s brother, Senator Edward “Ted” Kennedy, happened to be presiding over the chamber. Whenever the president of the Senate—Vice President Lyndon Johnson—was absent, senators took turns wielding the authority of the gavel. Riedel approached the rostrum.

  “The most horrible thing has happened! It’s terrible, terrible!”

  “What is it?” Kennedy asked.

  “Your brother, the president. He’s been shot.”

  “How do you know?”

  Riedel told him, “It’s on the ticker. Just came in on the ticker.” Edward Kennedy fled the Senate chamber.

  AT HICKORY Hill, Robert Kennedy hurried to leave. He assumed he would be flying to Dallas to be with his brother. Then a call came from the White House. Bobby listened. Then he cried out.

  “Oh, he’s dead!”

  “He had the most wonderful life,” he told Ethel. Then he walked out to the pool and broke the news to his guests.

  “He died.”

  Soon the phone rang again. It was J. Edgar Hoover with more details. He did not know that Bobby had already heard what he was about to tell him.

  Bobby interrupted him. “It may interest you to know that the president is dead.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “I HAVEN’T SHOT ANYBODY”

  The Secret Service agents wanted to remove the president’s body from Parkland and take it to Air Force One. A local official had other ideas. Earl Rose, Dallas County medical examiner, told agent Roy Kellerman that the corpse could not be removed until after an autopsy was performed in Texas.

  Kellerman rebuffed him. “My friend, this is the body of the President of the United States, and we are going to take it back to Washington.”

  “No,” Rose said, “that’s not the way things are. When there’s a homicide, we must have an autopsy.”

  Forget it, Kellerman told him. “He is the President. He is going with us.”

  Rose would not back down. “The body stays.”

  The Secret Service agent was furious. “My friend, my name is Roy Kellerman. I am Special Agent in Charge of the White House Detail of the Secret Service. We are taking President Kennedy back to the capital.”

  Earl Rose was not impressed. “You’re not taking the body anywhere. There’s a law here. We’re going to enforce it.”

  Admiral George Burkley, the president’s physician, joined the argument, telling Rose that they could not keep Mrs. Kennedy waiting.

  Rose snapped at him. “The remains stay.”

  Burkley was now as angry as Kellerman. “It’s the President of the United States!”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Rose said. “You can’t lose the chain of evidence.”

  A justice of the peace, who had the authority to overrule Rose, showed up. He was not sympathetic. “It’s just another homicide, as far as I’m concerned.”

  That was the tipping point. Agent Kellerman cursed the official and announced that “we’re leaving.” Ken O’Donnell backed him up. “We’re leaving now. Wheel it out!”

  At 2:08 P.M. (CST), the agents began to roll the coffin through the emergency room to the white hearse waiting outside. They pushed aside Rose, the justice of the peace, and a local cop. The dispute almost broke out into a fistfight. As much as JFK’s Irish mafia, the agents on his detail had grown to love him. They would stand for no more delays. They marched right past the state officials, out the door, and to the hearse. John Kennedy’s loyalists had no way of knowing that they had made a serious mistake. Their obstructions and the resulting failure to conduct an autopsy in Dallas within a few hours of the murder would come to haunt the history of John Kennedy’s assassination for the next fifty years. The intense display of emotions by Kennedy’s grieving staff and Secret Service detail at Parkland Hospital, although understandable, served the nation poorly, and would, in time and for decades to come, create widespread suspicion and mistrust about the facts of the assassination and encourage many wild theories about the murder.

  WHEN LEE Oswald left his boardinghouse, he started walking. By coincidence, a Dallas policeman driving his car through the neighborhood spotted Oswald walking on the sidewalk. The police officer, J. D. Tippit, knew the president had been shot and had heard over his car radio at 12:45 P.M. (CST) a physical description of the suspect obtained from witnesses, especially Howard Brennan, who had seen the man in the Book Depository window. The radio transmission was brief: “Attention all squads, the suspect is reported to be a white male, approximately thirty, slender build, 5 feet 10 inches, weighs 165 pounds, reported to be armed with what is thought to be a thirty-caliber rifle. No further description at this time or information.”

  Oswald matched it in a general way, so Tippit decided to pull over to the curb and have a word with him. The thirty-nine-year-old policeman stopped the car and called out to Oswald through the open passenger-side window.

  Oswald stopped walking and approached the vehicle. In a casual way, he leaned on the top edge of the passenger door, looked inside, and conversed with Tippit. They spoke for less than a minute. No one knows what they discussed. Witnesses who saw the encounter were too far away to overhear the exchange. Whatever Oswald said, it must not have satisfied Tippit, because he swung open his car door and got out. When he stood up in the street, he did not reach for his holster and place his hand on the butt of his revolver. He must have concluded that Oswald was not dangerous. Tippit started to walk around the front hood of his car, toward the curb where Oswald waited for him.

  A moment later, at 1:15 P.M. (CST), Oswald pulled his revolver from his jacket pocket, aimed it at the policeman’s chest, and opened fire. He had taken Tippit by surprise and shot him three times before the policeman could even draw his own pistol. Tippit collapsed to the ground. Oswald paused, and then walked over to the wounded policeman. Disabled, helpless, Tippit was still alive. Then Oswald pointed his pistol at the helpless officer, took aim, shot him in the head, and killed him.

  This was a dirty killing. Yes, Oswald had already committed a horrible crime—he had mu
rdered the president of the United States. But he had done it from a distance. The rifle was an impersonal, antiseptic weapon that allowed Lee to remain detached from the ugly reality of his crime. Oswald did not have to look Kennedy in the face before he shot him. He did not see the wounds he inflicted on Kennedy and Connally. He did not have to look into the backseat of the car at the blood and brains. And he did not see the surprised, eyes-wide-open stare his third shot had frozen on the president’s face.

  But now, an hour later, Lee Harvey Oswald committed murder of another kind—up close and personal. He had spoken to J. D. Tippit. When he leaned on the top edge of the passenger side door, he had bent down and chatted with the officer; he was close enough to the policeman to smell him. Oswald had looked him in the face. Then, when Tippit stepped out of the car, Oswald had shot him at close range. Not just once, to disable Tippit and then flee. Not twice, to keep him down. Three times in the chest, to kill him. Oswald was close enough to hear Tippit’s reaction to being shot.

  But the policeman refused to die at once. As Tippit lay dying on a city street, his lungs emitted a gurgling sound. He could not speak or call out for help. He no longer had the strength to grasp his revolver, raise his arm, and shoot his assailant. Oswald stepped across the curb and into the street. He walked over to the fallen policeman. Half an hour ago, Tippit was home having lunch with his wife. Now he was bleeding to death on a Dallas street. But not quick enough for Oswald. The assassin was in a hurry. He could not wait for the cop to die.

  Now he did something truly depraved. Oswald stood over Tippit and contemplated his victim. He was at point-blank range. Oswald raised his arm and pointed the barrel of his revolver at Tippit’s head. For the fourth time—once more than he had needed to kill President Kennedy—he squeezed the trigger, and put a bullet through J. D. Tippit’s brain. He walked away, swung open the cylinder of his revolver, pulled out the four empty cartridges, and tossed them on the ground. It was more evidence against him for the police to recover later.