I Shot JFK

by Jake Aaron

  Saigon

  Getting off the Boeing 707 in Saigon is a shock to my system. Exiting the air-conditioned craft, I feel the steam-bath atmosphere of the Mekong Delta. It’s easily 90 degrees Fahrenheit and muggy as I walk across the tarmac. I have a distinct scent in my nostrils unlike I have ever experienced before. It brings to mind what Gunnar had noted in his travels, “I swear, Alex, blindfold me, and I can tell you where I am by the smell of the unique molds and mildews around the world — if I’ve been there before.” I pay a guide at the airport to get me to a good place to stay. He takes my luggage to a taxi. I check into the Caravelle Hotel, which my guide says has air conditioning and a private generator. I like the Italian marble accents and bullet-proof glass. It is also the site of the Australian Embassy.

  When I go for a walk, I am struck at the bustle of Saigon. The colorful ao dai dresses the women wear remind me I am 9000 miles from Alamogordo. The petite Asian women look great in the form-fitting silk tunic with pants. I am not sure a full-figured Occidental would appear as attractive, although I think I would look fine in one. After dark, I notice hundreds of Vietnamese driving mopeds on the busy streets — often two on a bike. I am told they drive with their lights off to save fuel. I think the next time I’m pulled over for driving without my lights on in the States, I’ll tell the highway patrolman, “I’m saving gasoline.”

  It is interesting to catch up with ‘other’ members of the press who are at the fine hotel. The three major television networks of the United States have bureaus in the hotel. I am concerned about my cover story coming apart as I talk with seasoned foreign correspondents. But I also see having drinks with them at the bar as an opportunity to learn and practice my story. As it turns out, this is a great idea. As Dale Carnegie would guess, to a person, each reporter is so concerned with his own self that he barely notices me. I learn a lot from them about what is happening, where to go, and how to get there.

  The assassination of President Kennedy is on everyone’s mind. There are all kinds of conspiracy theories being floated. Several news people recount how news of Jack Ruby’s killing of Lee Harvey Oswald on Nov 24 struck them. Now, the rumors of the assassination being an inside job hit a high. However, most of the reporters I talk with are more worried that the assassination coverage is overshadowing the news they are covering in Vietnam. I congratulate myself on hiding on the other side of the world.

  Later, I struggle to fall asleep. Is it the result of crossing so many time zones to get here? Or is it that Lee Harvey may have given up his accomplices?

  *****

  The next day I walk confidently into MACV Headquarters, the military center of operations for Vietnam. There is a lot of activity. I try to match the tempo. As I ask around, Catch 22 works for me. “Do you have written authorization to be here?” the sergeant asks.

  “Would you like to see it?” I reach for my satchel.

  “That’s fine,” the sergeant says, holding up his hand telling me he doesn’t want to see it. Presumably, if you have it, you don’t have to show it.

  It appears the military has been well briefed on not telling too much to the press. By the time that filters down to the corporals, it becomes, “Just don’t talk to newsmen at all.”

  However, I find a way around that. I quickly discover that I have an advantage my fellow newsmen do not have. I have no deadline, so I am more laid back. I am more sincerely interested in the people I am interviewing. I just chat. The information I seek flows like sap from a maple tree, 90 drips per minute. When I run into a roadblock, the promise of a bottle of Jack Daniels has ten times its cost in value to the promisee. And when I return later with the bottle and stealthily award it, I always get another favor — without charge.

  Life goes on after JFK is interred.

  *****

  The next morning I don my freshly-issued fatigues. My military contacts even provide me a jeep ride to Tan Son Nhut Air Base. On the way, the Army spec 4 driver tells me the occasional overwhelming putrid smell comes from nearing the legacy open-cover French sewers. I see Vietnamese fishing in these canals. I am repulsed by the idea of what they will eat for supper.

  From the base, I catch a flight on an Air Force C-123 Provider aircraft. The two-engine, propeller driven aircraft was designed as an assault glider, the pilot tells me. Later, engines were hung on it. The fuel tanks suspended below the engines are “pickleable” — jettisonable in case of fire. Did I really need to hear that?

  As a female, I am getting a lot of attention. I take advantage of the situation. The crew makes an unscheduled stop at a dirt landing strip for me. There I try to persuade an Army Huey helicopter pilot to fly me to the hamlet where Gunnar died. He shows me a map of the area. Intelligence tells him the area is still controlled by the Viet Cong — the VC. He says he will circle around it but will not directly overfly it. I have to wait until the afternoon when he has a mission going near it.

  After we skirt the outer perimeter of the hamlet, I ask, “How long until we retake this area?”

  “My guess,” he replies, “weeks. Then the VC will take it back from us, and so on ad infinitum.”

  “Good words, Mr. McKay! It all sounds so frustrating.” I reply to the warrant officer pilot.

  “I was at Dartmouth. Felt I needed some FTA — fun, travel, and adventure. I enjoy the flying. I ignore the big picture. That will drive you insane. We have a reluctant client in South Vietnam, and it feels like they’re using a ouija board back in DC to wage this war. I can’t wait to get back to Dartmouth.”

  As I look out of the Huey’s plexiglass windshield, I sense Gunnar’s spirit. I do indeed feel closer to him. I hold back my tears. The muscles around my tear ducts start to ache. I use another technique; I pinch my forearm. No tears!

  I don’t converse much more with him in the air because, even on headsets, the whop-whop-whop of the helicopter blade makes communication difficult. I remain silent flying back to the remote airfield. I am overwhelming sad.

  I spend the night on a cot in a hootch shared with a “Donut Dolly” — a female Red Cross volunteer. For a few moments, her friendliness lifts my mood. Then, I struggle to sleep at night. I don’t think it is the heat keeping me awake but my simmering anger at Gunnar’s death. I had hoped to find some acceptable rationale for his death — perhaps a now-peaceful democratic village, progress in the new war, something positive. I find none of that.

  Without warning, a dark, black wave of depression sweeps over me. If my frame of mind is a song title, it is “Blue on Blue.” I had felt that same degree of despair one snowy winter day in the Lincoln National Forest surrounding Ruidoso, NM. Then, the trigger was my dad’s birthday years after his “death.” Now, the catalyst was being near where Gunnar had died — needlessly.

  My unresolved anger pushes the despondency away. After that, McKay’s report on the dismal conduct of the war echoes in my mind. I had hoped LBJ would recognize JFK’s mistake. The continuing poor conduct of the war does not mitigate any guilt I have over firing that bullet. It appears that I have not changed the policy here. The authors of foreign intervention bear responsibility for their actions. I seethe with anger over my loss.

  The next morning the same C-123 crew lands and off-loads passengers, food, and ammunition. They pick up five passengers, including me. I ride back toward Tan Son Nhut sitting on side-facing ribbed-canvas seats. On a pallet in front of me is a thick black plastic, zippered bodybag with the partial remains of an American soldier. Sobering, gruesome, morbid, sad — all pertain. JFK should have seen what I see.

  *****

  Back at the Caravelle Hotel, I ponder my situation. I still have most of a million left. The other million was to be deposited in an off-shore account. At this point, I am reluctant to access that account. The elimination of Lee Harvey Oswald makes me wonder whether I will be next. Just another loose end?

  With my new identity papers, I can lie low in places I’ve always wanted to visit. Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok, the country of New Z
ealand, and the continent of Australia — all come to mind. I’m not really in a holiday mood. Possibly a change of scenery can improve my mood?

  Rest for the Wicked

  I travel abroad for two months. During that time I learn that President Lyndon Johnson is establishing the Warren Commission to investigate the assassination of the former president. I think about whether I can safely seek Glen out for advice. I know untoward contact with him can be dangerous for both of us. He had, however, routinely contacted the family through the years. Minimal contact should be expected. No contact over a long period would actually be an outlier that could trigger alarm. That was it. I would seek Glen out. Using good deception, I return to the United States.

  I try to call Glen’s Georgetown townhouse from Dulles Airport . There is no answer. I rent a car. I drive by his place and see no activity. I take down neighboring addresses and head to the nearest library. With a cross-referencing Cole’s Directory, I get names and phone numbers of neighbors. After several calls from public pay phones, I reach a neighbor at home during the week. I claim to be Glen’s niece passing through town.

  “I’m so sorry to have to tell you,” the neighbor consoles. “Your uncle died three weeks ago. It was such a tragic accident. He accidentally shot himself cleaning a pistol,” the somber voice says.

  I feel cold chills. I have goosebumps on my arms. Then I feel icy cold. No way — no way did Glen accidentally shoot himself. Besides being an expert on pistols and rifles, he was also very situationally aware. I hear his voice from the grave, “They’re coming for you next!”

  My reaction surprises me. I have been so depressed over Gunnar’s death, I am shocked that I care so much about surviving. Maybe biology trumps psychology.

  The out-of-the-blue death of Lee Harvey Oswald, now the “accidental” death of Glen. Do I need to draw a line through those data points for you to predict what is next for me? The message is clear. I am expendable. I need a plan. It’s funny. Yesterday I was planning to get Glen’s help to get back into medical school and pondering which residency I should go after. Surgical residency or surgical residency, a tough choice — my only humor for today. Now I am trying to just stay alive. I pat myself on the back for cautious behavior in the past: leaving Dallas under a new identity, disappearing into the vast overseas chasm, calling anonymously from public phones, and not knocking on Glen’s townhouse door.

  Writing Aunt Cece at her work to let her know of my pending “vacation” was also pretty smart, thank you. Oh yeah, if I’d tried to tap that overseas account for the second million dollars, I bet someone would have tapped me!

  *****

  I fly first class to Dallas under an alias. Yes, I might be needing my money for more pressing things in the future, but I figure one of two options will prevail. One, I’ll go back to medical school where I won’t have time or inclination to spend much money. Two, I’ll be on the run with my head down — somewhere that offers no opportunity to enjoy the money. Meanwhile, I luxuriate in first class. I have a double scotch of American Airlines’ finest. I toast Gunnar. External pampering, internal churning.

  I wonder whether Joe at the Texas Book Depository is still alive. I want to make decision trees on the small airline napkins as I think of different courses of action if this or that happens. I decide I should not write anything down that could betray me.

  Rather, I keep my notes in my head. If Joe is alive, that would be a good sign. Maybe the cabal running the operation is not eliminating all the loose ends. It is interesting that the human brain loves a possibility that requires minimal action or exertion — the law of least effort. Maybe the participants were screened well enough to know we can keep a secret. How long will that trust last?

  If Joe is dead, that is very bad. We will be way beyond the probability of death by natural causes. The deaths of Lee Harvey and Glen are already a double alarm. Joe’s death would mean I definitely need to vanish until the threat subsides. That could be years.

  Then it hits me. I might be looking at only a leg of the elephant. I didn’t know the length, width, or breadth of the elephant. There clearly were other shooters. I don’t know anything about them — who they were or who paid them. I will have no insight into whether these expendables have been eliminated.

  My window of opportunity to go back to my life as second-year medical school student Alex Olson seemed to be closing rapidly, and I haven’t even reached Dallas.

  *****

  I check into my hotel room in Dallas in the early afternoon. I conjure up all sorts of ways to investigate Joe at the depository. I have already ruled out walking into the building. That could go wrong in any number of ways.

  I settle on calling from a pay phone blocks away from the hotel. I stop chastising myself for flying here in the first place. I need to be here. Calling from a long-distance number sticks out in records; a local call does not. What to say is the next challenge. If I ask whether Joe has died right off the bat, that will be a trigger if the FBI is listening. Asking for Joe could go a lot of different ways. “Which Joe?” “We don’t have anyone by that name?” “Can we have him call you back?” Or, “Joe is dead.”

  I settle on an opening, “I’m returning Joe’s call. I’m just back from vacation. I’ve been out of the office for a lengthy stretch. He left me a message — I’m looking for the message to get the date for our upcoming appointment. Where is that sucker?” I practice role playing several times with myself.

  When I place the actual call, the reply leaves me in the twilight zone: “We haven’t had a Joe here for two years. He retired.”

  I head for a local restaurant. I might not have much access to a combination platter of tacos, enchiladas, refried beans, rice, and tortillas in my future. Enjoy it while I can. Iced tea, lemon wedge, no sugar.

  *****

  I spend the evening at a local library. I study virtually all the obituaries in the Dallas area over the last several months. I grow weary of looking at old pictures of young men and projecting their faces into the present. I am about to quit when I find Donald Joseph MacKenzie, a recent decedent. His face was vaguely familiar. Yes, he had worked at the Texas Book Depository for a number of years. Donald was “Joe.” Cause of death: heart attack. Age: 34. My pulse rate leaps, and my brow dampens.

  I need to leave the United States yesterday. I start investigating where to go. I use the “Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature” to find good articles on places to retire abroad, to live cheaply overseas, and to vacation around the world. From the various magazine articles, I build a list of potential hideaway locations for myself. I screen for no extradition treaty, favorable money and banking, and out of the mainstream. I settle on Vanuatu, population around 71,000. The many islands there will easily support my keeping a low profile.

  My body and mind prematurely give me a cold, sickening sense of homesickness. To take a lesson from Gunnar, that feeling is life. I need to push against it. It is a condition I am responsible for. I have unwittingly chosen this path. I need to learn to live with the consequences of my action. Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” comes to mind and haunts me. I did fall “into a burnin’ ring of fire.”

  Waves of regret persist despite my intellectualizations. Why had I been so willing to give up a guaranteed future when I graduate from a preeminent medical school? Why had I taken a course that cut off contact with my aunt and uncle? I had hurt so much from the loss of my parents and Gunnar, I suppose, that I made a bad choice for myself. I had experienced the loss of the three most important people in my life. My soul had been trampled, pounded, and crushed. I still blame Kennedy for the death of my brother. In that respect, I have no regret for firing the shot.

  More importantly, why do I periodically indulge in self-recrimination and rumination? The self-talk stops when I name the thought. It’s a neurosis that keeps me from moving ahead in life. I can only change the here and now, so that’s what I will do.

  *****

  In Los Angeles, I have some hyp
othetical discussions with a law firm. An attorney here sends me to a private investigator who requires several days to give me what I need — credentials as a recent graduate of medical school. I look too young to have completed a residency. I also ask him for plausible details to support the story. He is expensive, but I have no choice. Frankly, I think I can pass as a doctor in a rural setting. I have completed my basic sciences studies. I have worked with chimpanzees. I have worked around human emergency medicine. And I’ve exposed myself to medical protocols for years.

  The standard for practicing medicine is different in second and third-world settings. Without all the modern equipment in a United States hospital, without all the latest medicines, doctors do a lot of improvising. A lot of unconventional happens when it has to. I know my dental hygienist is not allowed to pull teeth in Alamogordo, but she does so routinely when on a humanitarian mission in the jungles of South America.

  I busy myself with enjoying Southern California in late winter while I wait for papers to meet my specifications. Just walking on the beach is heavenly. When I tire of that, I spend a day at Disneyland. I tour Knot’s Berry Farm the next day. And the day after that, I enjoy the quirkiness of Venice, California. Finally, there’s a coded note waiting for me at the hotel that my papers are ready.

  The next day, I meet the PI for breakfast at a secluded cafe where we can talk — when the waitress is not refilling our coffee. Between bites he tells me,“You are going to be Joan Smith. Not a joke. This identity is backstopped — has a real address. She is an orphan. She finished her doctorate in osteopathy last May. She volunteered to do unsponsored missionary work in New Guinea soon thereafter. A tropical cyclone hit there three months ago — a lot of flooding and mud slides. She hasn’t been seen since. No one looking to declare her dead. I can have the papers for you tonight, to include a passport that shows an itinerary to New Guinea and then Vanuatu.”