by Jake Aaron
“It may not mean much to you, but your mom and I were there for your graduations — yours and Gunnar’s — from high school and college — in disguise. We weren’t allowed closer to you than one hundred feet away. Likewise, we were in the background at Gunnar’s funeral.
“Second, the only reason I’m here now is that Glen asked me to persuade you to commit to his project if you resisted. I told him I would. I lied so that I could see you. Whatever you do, Alex, I want you to refuse Glen. Then, forget Glen ever asked you anything and forget you ever saw me. Okay?”
I was still frozen in place with disbelief. Finally, Dad hugged me. Typical reunion of cerebral people. Words first, then emotion. I hugged him back with some reservation. My mind understood what had happened, but my emotions were still all over the place.
“Dad, how come …” I was interrupted by Glen reentering my apartment.
“I’d like to give you both more time, but we have to get going. Security is having a hissy fit.” Glen stepped between me and my dad.
A large athletic-looking man in a charcoal suit had followed Glen into my apartment. He smoothly but firmly steered my dad out the door. “Bye, Alex. I love you! Remember what I …” Dad uttered as he left.
“Alex,” Glen closed, “did your dad persuade you?” He tried to stay cool, but I could tell by the hint of tension in his face he felt pressure to get an answer before he left.
I surprised myself, as if my words were ahead of my thoughts. Gunnar’s inevitable river channels? “He did, Glen. I’m in.” I was shocked by my words.
“Alex, you’re doing the right thing. I want you to know that two million is what we would pay for an experienced person to do this. I represented you well in getting that price. I want you to know that. Details will follow. If you doubt anyone who contacts you, your challenge is ‘Do you have the time?’ The proper response from them is, ‘I have a pocketful with my watch.’ I have to go. Great to see you, Alex!”
I had to sit down. I was feeling faint. Classical sign of shock. My mind could try to will my body out of it, but I was running into the iron laws of biology. There is only so much surprise a body can take. I realized that I was now angry at my dad. Not angry that he and mom were alive. I was angry at him for deceiving Gunnar, Aunt Cece, Uncle Walt, and me — even if to save our lives. It was not rational. It was emotional. I was also angry at a world that required their disappearance. I needed to channel that anger.
I went from a chair to the floor. I needed blood flow to my head. As I waited to feel normal, I lapsed into an old habit. I picked out shapes in the plaster on the ceiling. This was a deer. That was a sailing ship. Over there was Mr. Magoo. No doubt about it.
Glen knew me. He was as clever as I. He had me at my tipping point. He knew what my dad would do. He knew I would react to my dad’s advice negatively. And the skids were greased with my unmitigated rage over my brothers death. Amidst all the flotsam and jetsam of my bubbling thoughts, I realized that resolving to take action on my part made me feel better — better than I’d felt for days. In spite of my anger.
I sat down to make of list of things to do. The most important action was to communicate with Uncle Walt and Aunt Cece. I decided I would write to Aunt Cece at her business address at Holloman AFB. I would tell her I needed to drop out of medical school and travel to overcome my grief. I urgently needed to let my medical school know as well. Whether the faculty would take me back in the future was an imponderable. If nothing else, Glen could get me back in. Then I needed to give notice on my apartment. I didn’t have much in the way of worldly possessions to worry about. Normally, I would have worried about my many expensive medical texts, but two million dollars would buy me a lot of those in the future.
My subconscious gave me another task for the following day: Get worldwide vaccinations. I was up-to-date for the United States for any hospital work. I needed to get typhoid, typhus, and gamma globulin if my memory served me correctly. Shots, just in case — of something.
PRESENT
Dallas
Here I am at the Texas School Book Depository. My short-term memory replays the last twenty minutes. “Joe” is our inside contact. He told me not to use his name when talking to him, then escorted me into the building. I carried a clipboard walking up the stairs as he asked me — like an auditor or efficiency expert. He apparently works here. He introduced me to “Lee” — probably not his real name.
Joe was just a little jittery, eager for the whole situation to be over but still in control. He briefed me, “I’m supposed to tell you there may be other shooters. Don’t be distracted. It’s somewhat like the old firing squad theory of many shooters — no sure blame. If any shooter is caught, he won’t register positive under a lie detector test when asked, ‘Did you kill …?’
“Okay, you both know what you’re supposed to do. I’m stepping outside the door. I’ll keep any would-be intruders from opening the door. Lee, you have the alcohol and cloth?”
Nodding, Lee produced them from his side pockets.
“Good. Lee, you will wipe fingerprints from the rifle. Leave the rifle. Then, you’ll open the door. That will be my cue to start down the stairs. Lee, you will follow me down the steps. Give me a five-second lead time.” He pointed at me, “You will follow Lee after ten seconds. I will vouch for you two if necessary. Any questions?”
Lee and I shook our heads — no questions.
Out of view from the window, Lee and I waited. Lee would have been a terrible negotiator. The short silence made him start talking as if it had some permanent link to his tongue that made him fill the void, “You know, I should be the one shooting.” I sighed at his bloviating. He continued, “I was an expert marksman in the Marines. In fact, I was the best shooter in the history of the Corps. They had even more important things for me …”
“Lee,” I interrupted, “looks like the first vehicle.” I saw the lead Secret Service vehicle enter my line of sight around the southwest corner of the County Criminal Courts Building on Main Street.
Lee directed, “Step back!” as he dramatically aimed his open right palm in my direction. “Let me check this out.” He picked up the 6.5 mm Carcano rifle and ported it, stopping one foot from the window, looking at the presidential motorcade now on Houston Street. It will turn to its left on Elm Street from Houston Street.”
I stepped to my right to see around Lee, who was eclipsing my view. He was probably already seen at the window with the rifle in his hands. I saw him in his delusional grandiosity looking through the rifle’s telescope as if to fire. A rookie? Did anyone prepare this guy?
This was no time for his dreams of glory. I feared he would take a shot and blow the entire operation. Or have I been set up as a patsy? No, Glen wouldn’t let that happen. I tried to stay calm. “Lee, you need to step back from the window. Now!” I commanded. He didn’t know that Gunnar and I used to pretend fighting with mock blows to body pressure points. He could have been in for a world of hurt.
Ignoring me and still trying to pretend he was in control, Lee said in a strained voice, “I see them. Better get ready!” He backed away from the window to get out of my way. About time!
*****
You remember my taking the rifle from him.
*****
The nanosecond of recollection is over.
Now at the window, I size up the situation. The procession will be moving left to right from my perspective. Where flying the remote control model aircraft reminded me of firing a rifle, now firing the rifle reminded me of flying the RC airplane toward me: The motorcade’s left turn will become my right.
Nervous Lee paces behind me to release his tension. That would agitate most shooters. In contrast, I laugh at this man who is in way over his head. I ignore my natural response and concentrate on the wind direction, the target, its speed, and distance the bullet will travel. One shot only, Glen said. I concentrate on what I can control. My marksmanship is almost total instinct at this stage of my life. The only thing I ne
ed to control is my breathing. I slow my diaphragm, consciously moving more air in and out. My navel moves far more than my chest. I breathe deeply.
*****
I get the best shot framed in my scope. The target distance is unchallenging, inside of 100 meters. I have done this over 10,000 times. The feedback from my grip on the rifle recalls my first shot in Rifle Club back in Albuquerque — a bull’s-eye. I feel an overall pleasant feeling in my body from hormone release. I am in flow. Edgy Lee and time do not exist — only my target. I gently put pressure on the rifle’s trigger. Boom! The recoil energy of the 6.5 mm Carcano also surprises me in spite of its inevitability. I’ve trained myself not to anticipate it and the boom. The bullet exits the barrel at 625 meters per second — 1398 miles per hour, almost twice the speed of sound.
I really don’t even need to look, but I do. It’s a head shot, right where I aimed. I knew that when my index finger began to apply pressure on the trigger. Sometimes I feel that the bullet hits its mark even before I pull the trigger. That’s how connected the seamless event is to me.
You know I never miss. With internal professional satisfaction but no outward display of emotion, I turn to hand the rifle to Lee. Lee? I realize we’re now off script. Lee has bolted.
Through the open door I hear Joe mutter, “What the hell, Lee?” Joe disappears, apparently following Lee down the stairs. As Glen often quoted German military strategist Helmuth von Moltke, “No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.”
When I had asked Glen the details of the plan, he said, “Don’t worry; the Company will take care of it. I fend off my neurotic demons that want me to dwell on that irony and paralyze appropriate action.
I improvise. I police the empty cartridge from the shot. I find a cleaning rag to wipe my fingerprints from the rifle. If examined, I will flunk a paraffin test; thanks, Lee. I pick up five new books from an open box and carry them downstairs with both hands. I want to look like an employee going down the stairs. I again don my non-magnifying, non-compensating eyeglasses in a large black frame. I look very bookish — convincingly administrative.
Joe comes through the open door and directs in a hushed voice, “Let’s go, now!” From a handkerchief, he tosses two empty cartridges to the floor. He asks me, “Where’s your cartridge? I’ll take that!” He takes it with his handkerchief and throws it to the floor.”
“What’s up with that?” I ask Joe.
“Don’t worry; the Company will take care of it,” he answers.
I follow him at several paces, letting him outdistance me. Halfway down, from the third floor, I see trouble. On the second floor, a uniformed policeman is questioning Lee. The officer catches me coming down the stairs out of the corner of his eye.
Many steps below me on the stairs, Joe thinks quickly. He turns and points at me, authoritatively bellowing, “We need those books on the first floor right now!”
The policeman discounts me as I pass. Soon to be a face in the crowd, I place the books on a vacant desk on the first floor and exit the building. I exchange my clear eyeglasses for a pair of large-lens sunglasses from my small purse to hide my face. I have done my job. The chaos in the streets around me does not upset me. Even if I had a desire to run, my three-inch heels would put a damper on that.
Throughout my life, boys have been attracted to me, whether I wanted their attention or not. Today I went out of my way to look dowdy. I wear an out-of-style, subdued work dress. It is loose fitting. I have a dishwater-blond wig on over my brunette hair. I have very subdued lipstick — no mascara. I want no extra attention.
As I blend into the throngs on the sidewalk, I am exceedingly pleased I decided not to drive the rental car to the airport and fly out as planned by my handlers. Glen’s group had given me the rental under a false ID they provided and appropriate airline tickets to the West Coast. Based on the way Lee performed, I think I’d rather trust myself than an unseen puppet master.
Threading through sidewalk traffic, several times I hear topical remarks, voices that keep bouncing around in my head: “How could anyone shoot Kennedy?,” “Why would anybody kill the president?”, “What reason could any person have to shoot JFK?” I mentally respond every time to the recycling voices, “He killed my brother!” An eye for an eye. I am strong. I am resourceful.
Four blocks away from Dealey Plaza, I catch a cab to the bus depot. There I retrieve the small bag I had left in a rental locker. I buy a ticket on a Greyhound bus under an identity I created. I begin my trip to San Francisco.
Dallas Plus One Day
The Greyhound trip is as good as it can be. The bus is new and clean. I pretend to sleep with a blanket covering most of my face. I avoid eye-to-eye contact and conversation. When we stop along the way, I let everyone else get off the bus first before I get out to stretch. I buy quick takeout from a nearby cafe and am third in line to reboard the bus. First in line is too memorable to the bus driver taking tickets. Along the route, I pick up newspapers that indicate JFK has died, authorities have arrested Lee Oswald as the suspected assassin, and Lyndon Baines Johnson has been sworn in as president. Oswald’s picture tells me he was the Lee in the Texas Book Depository with me. Why would he be allowed to use his real name during the op?
*****
I read newspapers left on the bus. For now, I bury my face in them. Hot off the mission, I’m still leery of too much exposure if someone happens to snap a photo of me coming out of the book depository. I read about the neutron bomb, designed to stop a presumed Soviet tank attack in its tracks — only human casualties. For some reason the concept of a thermonuclear weapon emitting mostly neutrons echoes in my head, giving me a sense of deja vu. Why does this concept seem so familiar? The concept has an accompanying feeling. Was it something I overheard in Dad’s discussions with Glen?
In the fuzzy meta-processing of the brain —-something inherited from our ancestors, I associate the feeling with that strange period of upheaval in Albuquerque. Dad and Mom were still alive. We were uprooted from our home to move on base. A security detail took us to and from school. Mom and Dad whispered to each other a lot. Was this the project that split my family in half? My brain demands answers to understand, to put it all together — as if this is the rosetta stone that will unlock all secrets to the past and heal all wounds. That’s my personality type! And I know Gunnar would have already worked it out and shouted, “QED,” the Latin abbreviation for which was to be proved.
I have a happy thought for a few seconds. I remember Gunnar overusing QED every time he made a point. That phase lasted at least six months after he learned the initials in advanced geometry at Alamogordo High.
*****
Using cash, I get a hotel room in San Francisco under my new identity. Lou Christies’ single hit, “Two Faces Have I,” flashes in my mind. Then it becomes the proverbial broken record that sticks in my head and refuses to leave. I really need to stretch out to recover from the feeling of being confined on the bus. Before I fall into a deep sleep, I applaud myself for going with my own devices. I also dwell on the events since the shooting. Indeed, there had to be one or more other shooters. Oswald is looking more like a patsy. Do the Feds have a bead on anyone besides Oswald? Could Oswald successfully keep it together when interrogated? I have my doubts. I must be careful.
How about that Glen as a talent scout? I still have some distrust of the man, but he knew what he was doing selecting me and backing me to his handlers — me, a no-name amateur. His choosing a female assassin — pure genius. I wasn’t given a second look departing Dealey Plaza, unless some guy was checking out my legs or breasts. It’s 1963; Rosie the Riveter has long since put down her gun and was a blip in the giant radar screen of time. The list of male assassins in the United States history is a long one, indeed. The list of female assassins, a short one. Although Mary Suratt was hanged in 1865 as a conspirator in the Lincoln assassination, she did not fire a shot — or did she? In 1958, Izzola Curry was judged unfit to be tried for her assault on Martin Lu
ther King with a letter opener. Was she unfit because she was female? She was confined to a psychiatric facility for life. I laugh: In Dallas, if I’d turned myself in and said I’d shot Kennedy, I can see some crusty old chauvinist detective scoffing, “No you didn’t, honey! Now just run along now, sweetie. Don’t waste my time.”
For sure, if there were a profile for a female assassin, I wouldn’t fit the bill. I’m petite and, despite being a good athlete, I look very feminine — perhaps even delicate. From grade school on, my parents were approached by professional photographers who wanted me as a model for commercials. They commented on my natural beauty, perfect nose, and strong presence. I’m not bragging because I didn’t earn those qualities. I’m just reflecting on how I got here.
I am so tired. I wish I could sleep. I nod off finally into deep sleep only to be startled awake by the dream of one of my imperious instructor’s back in medical school quoting the Hippocratic Oath: “First do no harm!” My pulse is racing, and I break into sweat. My rationalizations for taking the shot in Dallas apparently have not convinced my subconscious I was totally righteous.
Eventually, I sleep. When I awake in the morning, I’ll purchase tickets on Pan American from San Francisco International to Saigon, Vietnam. I have identification papers as a free lance journalist and a letter from a United States senator vouching for me. A generous donation, I guess, will buy just about anything. Being on the other side of the world out of sight seems like a good idea right now. My other thought is that I want to discover more about Gunnar’s death. My press credentials should pave the way.
