I Shot JFK

by Jake Aaron

  “Given that, a clean-up crew probably swapped out his body with a corpse that also got a .22 double tap. The detail got forced into non-disclosure agreements — even if they hated Higgins. The tear gas erased any good eyewitness accounts. Yep, it could be done.”

  I nodded. “Gunnar, that’s pretty much what I think happened in Dallas. Two or more shooter teams. Compartmentalized information all the way. Forced non-disclosure agreements here and there. Intimidation of witnesses with credible threats. Elimination of any loose ends. Finally, spinning of the story. Frankly, I was somewhat shocked to actually find the second half of my Dallas money in the off-shore account.”

  A concerned Gunnar counsels, “You know how risky the assassination business is. It’s a roulette wheel that can catch up with you no matter how good you are.”

  I am getting a mild, but well-meaning lecture. I can see he doesn’t like my ventures into being a hired gun. “Roger that, brother.” I picked up some military lingo on my flights. “I know: I need to be careful. I’ve been very lucky. I know I can’t always count on unforeseeable government cover-ups to protect me,” I reply with forced laughter. “I know you care. I just feel my options have narrowed.”

  “Be careful, sis.” There is a long pause. “How about another Coca Cola?”

  “I’ll take one,” I say more cheerily than I feel right now. “How’s your love life — as if that’s any of my business?” Where did that come from, I ask myself as I’m saying it.

  “Hah, you’re the only one I’d take that from, Alex.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been seeing Eileen, a nurse I met at Clark AB. She’s Agency, too. She’s working in Southeast Asia. She’s got a couple of years on me.”

  “You have good taste, Gunnar. I bet she’s beautiful, smart, and poised.” I decide to tease him, “But already I can tell she’s not good enough for you. Get a prenup!”

  “She’s actually very unique — and very different from Emily. I picked up on her being Agency when she tried stealthy probes on my cover story. I knew she was more than my nurse. What do you think it is: genetics or our early exposure to the world of secrets that gives us that sixth sense? Maybe we’re both destined to live a covert life.”

  “Gunnar, I’ll go with both — nature and nurture.”

  Gunnar laughs, “And I thought you and I would, once and for all time, answer the nature or nurture question. Eileen hasn’t asked me to marry her — yet.” More Gunnar humor. He clearly wants to end discussion of this topic, “And how’s your love life? It must be pretty difficult to have any relationships on the run.”

  I, too, would have balked at that, but I opened the door and it was Gunnar asking. “I really haven’t wanted much male company since an incident three weeks before I heard you were dead …” I just said more than I wanted to. I have become too relaxed.

  “What happened?” Gunnar demands.

  I hesitate to answer at first, but this is Gunnar asking. “Well, it was 2 AM in the hospital. I went into the medical closet. Michael, a fellow student, entered behind me and closed the door. I turned to see who it was. The 6-foot-three, 220 pound athlete pinned my arms behind me. I did what you taught me. I raked my two-inch heel down his shin. He had pretty good reactions, so I missed his ankle but got his toes. I kneed him in the groin, also as you taught me. He released my wrists. I boxed his ears and then shoved my right palm into his nose. Slowed by the pain, he swung his right fist at my face. I ducked under him and delivered a swift side kick to his left knee. I fled,” I spoke with detachment.

  “Damn, that’s horrible. I wish I’d been there. Were you hurt — physically?” Gunnar was visibly upset. He gently touched my shoulder.

  “I had bruises on my forearms the next day. I insisted on pictures being taken of them in case we ever caught Michael. After the attack, I brought my attending and another student back with me to the medical closet. Security guards followed. Michael had fled. There was blood on the wall and all over the floor of the room. He apparently punched into several boxes of scalpels when he aimed for me and missed. We followed the trail of blood. It appeared Michael needed a wheelchair to escape — all that loss of blood.”

  “When did they catch him?” Gunnar asks.

  “They didn’t. He comes from money, so he had the means to evade capture His dad is a plastic surgeon. Michael wanted to follow in daddy’s footsteps. I’d say that’s unlikely now. The attending, who had a low opinion of Michael anyway, remarked that the punch had likely done irreparable damage to nerves and tendons in the bastard’s cutting hand. I’m sure he’s hiding out somewhere. I didn’t do anything to provoke him …”

  “I’m sure you didn’t, sis,” Gunnar reassures.

  “Anyway, I needed to talk to someone. I called Glen. I didn’t want Uncle Walt and Aunt Cece worrying. In minutes after I hung up, I had a guard at my door as Glen promised. By mid-morning the next day, Glen was with me. He flew in on the first available flight. He stayed in my apartment . Whenever I slept, he sat up awake on the couch with a 12 gauge Remington shotgun. He walked me to and from the hospital for a week. He was called back to Washington on urgent business. After that, he had a guard following me to class all the time, including on the floor of the hospital up until the Dallas operation.”

  “Good ole Glen. He always said he’d be there for us,” Gunnar adds.

  “It was good of him,” I say. “This will be a shock, but Glen is dead. He recruited me for the Dallas operation. I went to check on him days later. My theory is that he was one of those loose ends that had to be eliminated.”

  “Alex, just for my information, what were you doing at the hospital? I thought second year was still medical studies.”

  “It was, Gunnar, but we had a pilot program giving us periodic clinical experience to connect us with what we were studying.”

  “Wow, Alex, any more surprises you have for me?” Gunnar shakes his head.

  “Yes!” I reply and pause to let Gunnar prepare himself.

  “Please, I’m braced,” Gunnar sighs.

  “Well, there hasn’t been a good time to tell you before this. Dad and Mom are alive. At least they were at the time Glen recruited me for Dallas …” I didn’t get to finish my words.

  “What the …” Gunnar begins. The blood drains from my normally unshakable brother’s face.

  I hold up my hand. “Let me explain. Dad was working on some super-secret project that put us all in danger. Foreign governments were targeting our family. Remember when we moved on base in Albuquerque. That apparently was the beginning. The decision was made that the only way to protect Dad and his knowledge was to fake the death off Mom and him. You can guess the details.

  “Remember Dad working in the phrase, Things aren’t always what they seem, before he and Mom ‘died?’ I distinctly remember those words on many occasions. Maybe his subconscious was trying to tell us something.

  “So Dad was in the equivalent of witness protection. He told Glen he could push me over the edge for agreeing to shoot Kennedy if I initially resisted Glen’s proposal. Actually, Dad wanted to let us know he and Mom were alive. When I resisted shooting the president, Glen produced Dad. Out of Glen’s earshot, Dad told me not to have any part in the assassination. I was consumed with rage. Foremost, I was angry at Kennedy for getting you killed in Vietnam. On reflection in the solitude of the beaches of Efate, I realized that I was actually angrier at myself for letting my loyalties be drawn in by Kennedy’s campaign rhetoric. My disillusionment returned the boomerang of hollow promises with fiery vengeance. On top of that I was irate at Dad for faking his own death, so Glen got my services. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner.”

  Gunnar is speechless. He leans his head back to take a large swig of coke. He silently rises. He takes in a deep breath. He stretches and rolls his head around his neck. He sits back down.

  I take the opening to go on a rant. “Tell me about law and justice. Whose law? Whose justice? Might makes right, doesn’t it? An eye for an eye. You kill my twin
, I kill you. I know the American public thinks I should feel bad about shooting the king of Camelot. I don’t. Thou shall not kill, my eye! Kings and presidents order assassinations every other day. They aren’t accountable for those or the millions they kill with their selfish ambitions played out in ‘justifiable’ wars. Contrast that with the slave morality I’m supposed to be held to ….”

  Gunnar is the wise old man, not yet in his late twenties. “I appreciate you trying to balance the stresses in my life by not telling me about you meeting Dad. That’s sincere. I’m not sure I can change anything about our situation with Mom and Dad, much as I’d like to. I now have all kinds of connections for getting information, but I have great doubts I can find out more than you know, and much less, contact our parents. I am relieved that they’re alive. It’s hard to process.”

  In spite of all the shocking news he had just experienced, my old debate partner manages, “And I’m sure your being assaulted three weeks before your decision to help Glen played into that. You have dealt with a lot!” Always ready to defend me, he was.

  The man has survived an air strike on his position, months in the jungle alone, and captivity. Clearly, I do not know what it would take to really shake him. Maybe telling him I shot JFK or the deputy director of the CIA? Humor I have learned from Gunnar keeps me sane.

  Gunnar goes analytical again, “One of my roommates at West Point was an Air Force general’s son. He and I put two and two together to get five. We concluded our dad’s were working on the neutron bomb. I think that was the ultra-secret project. Even though it’s been officially cancelled, that doesn’t mean it was. And even if it was, it becomes a matter of the government wanting to keep its methods classified. It doesn’t want our enemies to know how we mislead them or when. Further, it doesn’t want the same enemies now starting their own programs by kidnapping Dad. Not much we can do to see our parents.”

  I breathe the ultimate sigh of relief. Gunnar has not rejected me. That was my fear. My twin’s unconditional love still accepts me after I have killed the president of the United States, lied to him, and withheld the truth about our parents being alive. I value that love more than my gun euphorias or being the world’s best surgeon.

  Gunnar takes a deep breath, he changes the subject, “Alex, I’m worried about you,” Gunnar says in a very measured fashion. “This attack in the hospital — have you seen a counselor about it. There’s no shame in that. I know you’re tough, but you’ve been through a lot.”

  “Gunnar, there really hasn’t been a good time. I guess that, in itself, is a good joke. It would have to be compartmentalized in therapy. I couldn’t possibly trust the privacy of several of my secrets to anyone but you.”

  “So your argument is that, without full disclosure, there cannot be total healing. That may be valid. Just discussion about that incident might be helpful, no?” Gunnar is in full persuasive mode, where he is deadly.

  “Don’t forget I was your old debate partner. I know your tricks of argumentation,” I remind him with a small smile. He involuntarily returns it for an instant.

  Ignoring my protest, he pleads, “Think about it, Alex, please. You’ve helped me realize what a ball of traumas I’m carrying around. I have lots of nightmares. Everyone thinks I’m some kind of tough guy. I want to be, but my recurring episodes of hypervigilance show I’m still somewhat fragile. I hate it, but that’s the way it is. If I can’t talk away the damage to my psyche, I’ll get counseling. If talking with you and Eileen is not enough, I’m going to see one of the Agency shrinks. My compadres won’t do that. I can. If my employer declares me unfit, I’m young enough to start some other career. Actually, the Company hired me knowing those issues.”

  Friendly persuasion. Gunnar at his best. He goes on, “I’m sure you thought of this. That attack may be your ticket back into medical school. Did you use that with the readmission committee? After all, it occurred on their campus. Compounded with losing your brother, I think you’ve got a compelling case.”

  “I guess I’d blocked that out. I didn’t bring it up. And, Mr. Persuader, I get it that you have just shown a prima facie case for seeking counseling!”

  “I wasn’t going to mention that …” His voice trailed off.

  The hell you weren’t, I think. I may be able to beat Gunnar on an IQ test, but he’s the total package. He is one formidable dude. He is right. The trauma hid behind a blindspot that protected me from too much immediate stress.

  “Alex, you and I were brought up to be self-reliant, but sometimes I think it’s good to call in the great intimidators — lawyers. If you decide to get back into your med school, which I’m sure you can, I’ll get you the name of a first-class law firm. I suspect there’s a large cash sum the school will gladly put up, as well. You were attacked on its property. You were wrongly denied readmission. And the school will want to protect its name.”

  This is where I normally take out a mental scalpel and go after myself for not thinking of this obvious angle that my twin has pointed so eloquently out. My head is spinning with the strong possibility of getting back on track with my dream of being a surgeon. The direction and outcome of the conversation today shock me. I rethink my life’s purpose. Every time I think I have lost my tie to becoming a surgeon, the well-worn dream comes back. Even though now I could have a very comfortable life without doing anything, there is a longing to complete that dream. Part of that pull, I remind myself, is the comfort of momentum. I had grown up with the expectation of those around me that one should always be moving toward a larger goal. Of course, that leaves unanswered what one does when she gets there, other than setting another distant, challenging goal.

  Gunnar seals his rapport with me, “For what it’s worth, last night I dreamed I had studied the wrong material for a school test.” That was one of my old nightmares. He remembers. Of course, he does.

  “So, we really are twins, eh, brother?” I reply. He chuckles.

  As the sun sets, Gunnar and I pack up our gear. “Gunnar, I’m emotionally worn out from the day. What’s next?”

  “Alex, I need to take you to the cafeteria at the air terminal. The Guam Bomb is on the menu. It’s two hamburger patties end-to-end on a large hoagie roll, then topped with chili. The name is better than the taste. It’s a rite of passage: You’ve got try one when you’re here. After that, we can turn in early. I’d like to cook breakfast for you at dawn tomorrow on some exotic beach on a remote island.”

  *****

  We rise at 4:00 AM to drive back down to Tarague Beach. On the way our car runs over numerous giant cane toads in the road. You see them in the headlights, but too late to swerve to miss them. Pop! Pop! Pop! They explode like leather balloons. We see two small Philippine deer on the side of the road. “At least there aren’t any snakes!” Gunnar declares. Then softly he says, “No snakes … except the brown tree snake that hitchhiked in on military aircraft.’

  We drive past the turnoff to Tarague Beach and head north about a mile on a dirt road that the jungle is trying to reclaim. There are no other headlights visible on the road. We stop at the Boy Scout camp for Andersen AFB. An intelligence officer from the base has arranged for us to use the area. He emerges from his jeep drinking thermos coffee. He has set up a fire on the beach. He brought cooking utensils, a frying pan, and an ice cooler. The cooler contains fresh eggs, butter, fruit, doughnuts, serrano peppers, fruit, and cold drinks. He hands Gunnar a full thermos of hot coffee with two mugs and politely declines to join us.

  I hear rustling in the nearby jungle and ask the man about it.

  “There are wild boars that come out at night and maybe some large iguanas. I’ll leave you with my 9 mm pistol, a machete, and an entrenching tool, just in case. Good to stay on the beach,” he advises. “You can easily get lost in the boonies or step on unexploded ordnance from World War II.”

  Gunnar and I enjoy a good breakfast. The only remnants of the fire are the bright orange coals. The sound of the waves crashing on the reef several hund
red feet out from the beach is hypnotic. The small waves that make it over the reef and lap on the beach luminesce in the fading darkness. Then we enjoy the sunrise. It is a dramatic as the Japanese flag depicts, with distinct rays emanating from the fiery rising orb. We exchange mutual smiles, in spite of what we have been through.

  Gunnar and I exchange stories and jokes while taking turns hacking at stubborn ripe coconuts. “It’s a long way from …”

  “Alamogordo!” I finish Gunnar’s refrain and laugh.” We always could complete each other’s thoughts. “Gunnar, whats’s with your friendly contacts in the Air Force?”

  “Technically beyond the scope of my job. I have decided to cultivate relationships with as many intelligence officers in this area of operations as I can. I expected long-term results, but the dividends have been immediate. Everybody knows more of what is going on. Everyone gets benefits It is a lot of fun,” Gunnar explains.

  I had always worried that the Army would not fully use Gunnar’s gifts. So many government jobs wind up being bureaucratic. I knew Gunnar’s talents exceeded being a cog in the wheel, a paper shuffler. He needed real challenges and accomplishments; otherwise, he would at some point know he was wasting his life. I was especially concerned about the CIA not being able to provide those. I was wrong. His creativity, intelligence, and charisma always shine through.

  “I suppose the guy we just met is naming his first-born after you?” I joke.

  Gunnar laughs at my comment, “As a matter of fact, that’s true. It’s doubly funny to you and me because the baby will be John.”

  “Gunnar, you’re a living legend!” I exclaim. Again, he makes me laugh. Can you be surprised by someone who always does the unexpected?