A Conspiracy Uncovered
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author's Forward
Forward
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Author's Note
About the Author
A Conspiracy Uncovered
Lindsay Downs
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental except where, for the sake of authenticity, certain historical figures have been incorporated. Their words, actions, and interactions, if any, with the characters in this book are derived purely from the author’s imagination. I tried to remain faithful to history but occasionally shift events around for dramatic license.
A Conspiracy Uncovered
Copyright © 2020 LINDSAY DOWNS
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DEDICATION
To the brave women and men of the United States Armed Forces.
AUTHOR’S FORWARD
In 1993 on the thirtieth anniversary of the assassination of the 35th President of the United State, John F. Kennedy, I was approached by Professor Richard Dean, Jr.
At first, I was a little apprehensive but as the following story started to unfold, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I requested permission to record everything he, and the others, were telling me. Much to my amazement he agreed.
What you are about to read isn’t my story but theirs told in their own words.
After the last interview was recorded and transcribed Professor Dean had one final request. He asked that I do not publish this story until the “principal” had died. Considering the great risk that individual could be in I reluctantly agreed. I have received word that person had died of natural causes.
So, here is their story…
FORWARD
Twelve years ago, I received my PhD in American History. My thesis was on the assassination of the 35th President of the United States. John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
I was able to debunk all the conspiracy theories and fill in the many holes in the REPORT OF THE PRESIDENT'S COMMISSION ON THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT KENNEDY, commonly referred to as the Warren Commission Report.
My advisor thought I was crazy to undertake such a huge and controversial subject. Prior to the first meeting with him I spent hundreds of hours researching the topic. Due to my connection with the Dean & Dean Detective Agency I was able to have access to all the physical evidence that had been collected during the process of the original investigation into the murder of the president.
During the ensuing years I have guest lectured on not only this subject but the assassinations of many other historical individuals. Even if the assassin isn’t caught, often I am able to name the person.
Of all the conspiracies into the death of President Kennedy what is on the following pages is without a doubt the most convincing and accurate account.
With my wife, Dr. Nancy Dean, who teaches Criminal Justice, we undertook the task to prove or disprove what we were told and shown. What we found will amaze you.
Signed
Dr. Richard Dean, Jr.
CHAPTER ONE
November 22, 1983
Today is like any other day for a tenured professor at a California university except for two things. Ten years ago, I married the love of my life. Nancy. The next, twenty years ago to the day, at twelve thirty in the afternoon, Dallas, Texas time, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.
Casually strolling down the hall of the History Department I nod to the students and fellow professors enroute to my office. I stopped to read the warning my secretary had taped to the door.
“The Professor is not in. All papers are due no later than Monday, November 28. No excuses for later hand ins.”
Got to love that woman. I stepped inside. “Good morning, Delilah. Love the warning.”
“Morning to you, Professor Dean. Congratulations on your and Professor Dean’s anniversary.”
“Thank you. I’ll pass that along to the Mrs. Since I don’t have any classes tomorrow go ahead and take the day off. Speaking of such, you can leave at noon today if you want. I have one class to teach this morning, afterward I plan to spend the rest of the day grading papers.”
“Thank you. Your mail and a package are on your desk. And as you can smell, the coffee is ready.”
I was curious what I could have received since I had already gotten my wife her anniversary gift, which I planned to give her tonight over dinner. As for packages, I never have anything sent here but rather to our home at the Dean compound.
“Can I get you a mug?”
“Please.” I went into my adjoining office.
On my desk were the letters and the box Delilah referred to. I lifted the parcel which was about the size of the ones I receive when I order shirts from Bullock’s Wilshire.
Taking a seat, I first rifled through the letters. Finding nothing of interest, they ended up in the circular file. I turned my attention back to the package and examined the handwriting on the shipping label. The writing was very precise in how the letters were formed, including the spacing between the words. I’d say the sender was not only meticulous but possibly had a touch of obsessive compulsive disorder. There wasn’t a name, only the city, state, and zip code. Lavina, Montana, 59046. I had never heard of the place which is no surprise.
Delilah placed my cup of coffee on the desk then hurried to answer the phone. I sipped the delicious brew, savoring the unique taste. I have tried over the years to learn the secret ingredient but have failed. I had learned recently that the recipe was shared with the Dean women and a few others, such as my secretary. I set the cup aside, took out my pocketknife and carefully slit the packing tape. The top popped open and I looked to see what was inside.
I widened my eyes as I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The last time I had seen this item had been at the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, DC when I was researching my PhD dissertation. Now I am looking at the same shirt, along with a pair of vinyl gloves, both protected by a clear plastic bag. On top was a letter penned in the same precise handwriting as the shipping label. I leaned closer, not wanting to touch anything until I knew for sure what I was seeing.
November 19, 1983
Professor Richard Dean, Jr.,
Sir, you do not know me from Adam, but I know who you are. The foremost authority on the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.
I have read everything you have had published on the subject, but I am sorry to say you are wrong. Lee Harvey Oswald did not pull the trigger three times on the Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5mm, serial number C2766. I did. The shirt is an exact match, right down to the hole in the right sleeve, to the one Oswald wore that day.
If you test the material for gunpowder residue you will find some on the left sleeve from the rifle.
Also, in the bag, which is acid free to preserve the evidence, are the gloves I wore to hide my fingerprints while putting Oswald’s on different places in the depository. That included the boxes used to hide me from anyone and to rest the rifle on.
By now you are wondering why, after all these years, I am sending these at risk of being caught. The answer is simple. I am dying from pancreatic cancer. The doctor has given me four weeks to live and I would like to die with a clear conscious.
If you would like to hear the full story, I ask that you come to Lavina, Montana. Take a room at the Autumn’s Inn in Roundup and I will contact you. Your wife is welcome to join you, if she wishes.
Sincerely
Mr. X
Over the years I had received letters from many people all claiming they knew who the shooter was. None of them ever panned out. Whereas, this one is offering me physical evidence. Could he be telling the truth?
There was only one way to find out.
I grabbed my briefcase and the box then marched out to Delilah.
“Call my wife and tell her I’m on my way over to get her. Then contact my teaching assistant and let him know he’s teaching the class this morning.”
“Yes, sir. What do I say to Professor Dean if she asks why?”
“Tell her November 22, 1963. She’ll understand.”
Not waiting for the secretary’s reply I rushed out of the office and practically ran to my car, my father’s 1939 Packard coupe that I had rebuilt from the ground up. I put the package safely on the passenger side floor then drove over to get my wife.
When I got to the building, she was waiting for me on the sidewalk. She climbed in then picked up the box from the floor all the while staring at me.
“Okay, what’s up and what’s in the carton?”
“Take a look but be careful what you touch. We’re going to the agency. I want everything dusted for prints.”
I put the car into gear and steered toward the Dean & Dean Detective Agency. Nancy was already reading the letter from the stranger.
After a few minutes she placed the box back onto the floor. “Richard, do you believe this person? Granted, he did give you possible evidence unlike all the other false leads you’ve gotten over the years.”
“I think so. I’m going to keep an open mind though and consider this a case. Even though I know very little about being a private detective I’ll be relying on the family, and you, to help me.”
“When we get to the office do you want me to call my brother over at the Federal Building? He can help with getting the fingerprint card through the FBI database.”
“Yes, but without a name he’ll have to use the fingerprints to find out if this person has a criminal record. The same with the military? This individual might have served but I don’t even want to guess which branch.”
“That’s a good point. Chances are, if he’s for real, then whomever hired him would have made sure he’d never been arrested.”
“I agree. Here we are.” I pulled along the curb in front of 10 Watson Street.
On the glass front door was painted Dean & Dean Detective Agency. In 1968 when Thomas and I turned eighteen mom and dad signed the building over to my sister, two brothers and me. As the detective agency grew so did the need to expand. When tenants moved away the different offices had been renovated to suit the purposes of the business.
We have our own film developing suite for still pictures and movies as well. That also includes infrared. Several offices had been converted for research thereby saving trips to the library or newspaper. I know this because I had used those particular rooms in the past for research. The room that didn’t change but was upgraded periodically was the first door on the left on the ground floor. That was still occupied by the resident superintendent. We always have a retired LAPD officer guarding the property.
With the box in hand, Nancy and I took the elevator, another improvement, to the first floor and the main office of the agency. One of the few things that hasn’t been altered over the years is the names on the door leading from the hall into where Edward and Sally have their offices. When dad opened the agency in 1937 the door was frosted glass with just one name. In 1940, he married mom and her name was added. To this day that has never changed and most likely never will.
Even though Nancy and I aren’t private detectives, out of curtesy we have a room, which used to be the kitchen, to use if and whenever needed. Nancy veered off and went to our office to call her brother.
“Well, stranger, what brings you to this side of the tracks?” Edward, my older brother, teased.
I set the box on his desk and Sally, his wife, came over to join us. “This came in the mail at my university office. I know this is going to sound strange, but this is a perfect match to the shirt Lee Harvey Oswald wore the day he was suspected of killing President Kennedy.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me? Right?” Edward’s voice cracked.
“I wish. Neither Nancy or I have touched anything except the outside of the carton. I don’t know how this is done, but can the plastic bag and letter be tested for prints? Also, is there any way to find out if the sleeves have gunpowder residue on them?”
“Junior, if anyone other than you came in and told me what you just said I’d say they were crazy. You on the other hand, that’s a completely different story. Sally and I watched you for several years run your own investigation into the assassination, from a scholarly point of view. Now you are presented with possibly new evidence which, if everything checks out to the positive, could completely debunk your PhD. thesis. At times we thought you were obsessing but, in the end, when you gave your dissertation and were granted your PhD, we knew you were right. I don’t think you left a stone unturned, even pointing out holes in the Warren Commission Report proving that a person could drive an A1 Abrams main battle tank through without scraping paint off the sides. So, yes, I’ll personally dust everything then send the cards over to Detective William Hall.”
“Make two sets. One for Nancy’s brother too,” Sally said.
“That’s right, I forgot he’s a special agent with the FBI.”
“If nothing turns up in their database, he’ll forward the cards to the Military Personnel Records Center in St. Louis, Missouri. As Richard and I were discussing on the way over here, the chances of this Mr. X having a criminal record are slim to none, but he could have been in the military. The question is, which branch?” Nancy explained.
“You might also want to consider European military. Reading over this letter I couldn’t help but notice the writer isn’t using contractions like we do here,” Thomas added.
“That’s a good point Thomas, but who do we contact and where?”
“So, this is where everyone is? What’s going on? A family meeting that I didn’t know about because I’m a day early?” We all turned and saw our sister, Alice, standing in the doorway. “Did something happen?”
All discussion stopped as we gave her hugs and asked why she’d gotten here sooner than expected.
“Because of this,” she replied. I waited while she took an envelope wrapped in plastic out of her purse, then handed the package over to me. “By the way, not sure about the contents or importance I wore gloves.”
The handwriting was exactly like the one on the letter I had received. I accepted the proffered vinyl gloves from my brother and took the envelope out then the letter.
Miss Dean,
I know this is going to sound very strange, but I have only a short time left to live, and the truth must get out.
Over twenty years ago I had been contacted by a person who wanted me to perform a certain task. At the time I was hiding away in a comfortable village on the English Channel trying to forget what I had witnessed in the jungles of South Vietnam. I had served in the Australian military there in 1963.
I decided to take this person up on his offer without even knowing all the facts. Had I learned then what was going to be asked of me I might not have accepted the job. Not until much later did I learn the full scope of the mission. By then I knew there was no turning back.
I am sending your brother, Professor Richard Dean, Jr. certain items that will help confirm I was the person who assassinated American President John F. Kennedy in Dallas, Texas USA on November 22, 1963 at twelve-thirty in the afternoon.
I am writing you for two reasons. First and foremost, on September 1, 1963 your older brother, then Second Lieutenant Edward Dean, saved my life at the risk of his and that of the crew when he flew his Huey into a firefight to medevac me. Secondly, I know that you work for one of the best private detective agencies in the world and won’t rest until the case is solved. I have a friend and coconspirator living in Leeds, England. His life is in as much danger as mine. His name is James York. He can corroborate what I am saying. Or so I hope, if he is still alive.
Sincerely,
Mr. X
I handed the letter to Edward and waited for his reaction to the event of September 1, 1963.
CHAPTER TWO
A mixture of shock and amazement crossed on my brother’s face. I knew he recognized the writer even though the letter wasn’t formally signed. Edward set the letter down.