I Shot JFK

by Jake Aaron

  I laugh at Gunnar’s enthusiasm and flourish. “I would call that a series of miracles.”

  “Whatever, Alex, let’s celebrate at the Officers’ Club. You’re buying, rich lady.”

  “I’m in, after you show me how to connect with big money wanting professional hits. I bought the three magazines you suggested. They’re all current issues.”

  Gunnar proceeds to show me the latest method for a mercenary to find work. He shows me the key to unscramble the cipher, a stylized movement between three magazines. At the end of the process is a phone number to initiate a contact. He counsels that the cipher methodology will change over time for obvious reasons. Each magazine must be no more than fourteen days from publication. A resulting series of all zeroes indicates no current target. I should call him about any glitch referring to “enigma.” He concludes, “I have no doubt you can be the best hitman in the world. I also think you’d be an even better surgeon. I love you, Alex.”

  I squeeze his hand, “I know, brother. I love you, too. Now, let’s go celebrate!”

  Mainland, USA

  I rent a luxury cabin on the outskirts of Taos, NM. I love the semi-arid climate of the almost 7000-foot-high area. I originally wanted to hang out in high-altitude Cloudcroft, NM, nearer Alamogordo. I am sure I would have run into too many classmates from Alamogordo High, not that I was popular there. I was well-known. I still am guarded about my identity.

  I keep proficient using the stylized key to decipher a contact number for a hit, as Gunnar taught me. I do not make the call. As I consider several possibilities for my future, I let the thought of being a professional hitman percolate. I realize that it’s not like signing up for a thirty-year career with General Motors. I can quit whenever I want. For that matter, I can start whenever I want. I don’t want to think about the severance package.

  In the interim, I stew over the prospect — very pleasantly reading novels, hiking, and, of course, shooting. When my vacation becomes a routine, I finally decide to apply the key to the three magazines, each in print under fourteen days. I run the algorithm three times, producing the same resulting phone number. I use a public phone to make contact. I am told to pick up an envelope at a Hilton in San Francisco.

  I fly to San Francisco. I hire a private investigator to make the pick up. I do not see him get followed. In turn, the contents of the envelope direct me to a baggage locker at the airport. I have a partner of the investigator do that pick-up. We meet up after he has shaken someone trying to follow him.

  I check the cash immediately. One million — not half now, half later. I have a sick feeling in my gut. It seems too good. Almost every sane person senses danger when something is too good. I am no different. I open the sealed envelope to check the target. My misgivings are justified. I have two weeks to complete the mission. Two weeks or what?

  Vanuatu

  I am back in my old stomping grounds, in disguise, of course. I arrange a meeting this night. Meanwhile, I enjoy driving around the island thinking about what could have been. I visit my old haunts without drawing attention. I have an urge to visit Tani. I don’t; only Gunnar could pull that off.

  After nightfall, I arrive at my old clinic. I knock lightly on a backdoor. I am glad I called in advance.

  Dr. Aurand hugs me, “Joan, I am so glad you are alive!” Monique follows.

  I start to explain that I had to disappear. Dr. Aurand cuts me off, “Joan, no need to explain. I could read it in your eyes the day before you had to leave. I told Monique. As I said before, we all have secrets here.”

  We spend half an hour catching up. I deflect their questions about me back to them and the clinic. I am definitely missed here.

  Then I begin, “I apologize for jumping to business so quickly, but I must. Dr. Aurand, someone has put out a hit on you. I don’t know who it is or why. That’s why I am here: to warn you and find out who.”

  Dr. Aurand quickly asks, “How could you possibly know this?” It is more rhetorical than probative.

  I answer, “You both know from the treatment of the secret patient in the garage that I have contacts who know such things.”

  Monique interjects, “I know who would put out a hit. My husband Philippe Boutin. He is a moody psychopath. I came to recognize that and his illegal operations after our whirlwind romance and wedding. Dr. Aurand treated me for some of Philippe’s physical abuse — several times. Maurice and I ran away together and figured we were safe here. Philippe probably had some time to think and brood over imagined wrongs. He concentrates on work most of the time, running arms and drugs. When he relaxes, he thinks of revenge. I think it is Philippe.”

  “To be safe, I think it would be wise for both of you to disappear for a while, leaving no tracks. You both deserve a good vacation anyway. I just need to know how to contact you. I’ll help you with that. Meanwhile, Monique, do you know where I can find Philippe?”

  Monique is on edge. She answers, “He has a villa in Sicily where he spends most of his time. He is seldom home in France. I will draw you a map and give you an address. What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to see whether my friends can eliminate the problem — if he is the problem. Do either of you object to that?” I know they understand what I mean, and I see no revulsion in their faces.

  Monique explodes in anger, “I should have killed him myself! He is pure evil.”

  Dr. Aurand puts his arm around her. “Some men need to be shot,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “Well, then, let’s talk about how and where you’ll hide out,” I start.

  Dr. Aurand interrupts, looking in Monique’s eyes. “I think Dr. Tarivuti from the hospital will spell me at the clinic. He owes me for covering for him while Joan was here.” Talking details is soothing to a spirit troubled by bigger issues.

  “And his wife-nurse Angela,” Monique nods.

  “So,” I continue, “it looks as if we’re beginning a solid plan. I’ll check my sources to see whether Philippe ordered the hit. I think we should proceed in an orderly fashion, but get you out of here as soon as possible …”

  *****

  I love the French. We spend 30 minutes talking strategy, break out the wine, and reminisce for two more hours. I stop at a phone booth on the way to the hotel. I leave a message for Gunnar to call me at a phone booth number at 8 AM my time tomorrow.

  *****

  When Gunnar calls, he is very receptive to investigating the situation. He says it would normally take hours to answer the question; but with a bad actor like Philippe, he thinks he’ll have an answer in an hour.

  I savor some great espresso in Port Vila, luxuriate in reading the newspaper, and head back to the phone booth. Gunnar calls right on time. I know in advance that neither of us will waste time on small talk. Our closeness will be unspoken.

  As I expect, Gunnar is all business, “This Philippe needs to go. He placed the hit. The world will be a better place without him. INTERPOL and the Agency want him gone. He’s into gun running, white slavery, drug dealing — you name it. He is in Sicily now …”

  Italy

  I outfit my green and white Volkswagen van in Naples with all I will need. My rifle case is stowed in the floorboard. I take a ferry to Palermo, Sicily. I remember Gunnar’s advice to enjoy the journey. He knows I tend to get target fixation, pardon the circular pun.

  I find a nice bed and breakfast in Palermo that allows me easy coming and going from a stand-alone cottage. I love the climate and scenery.

  From my visit to a library in Naples, I know the location of Philippe’s villa near Trapani. I drive there in the afternoon. I park well away from the compound and scout out the periphery of Philippe’s property. The setup looks ideal for a kill. I observe a tall, stocky man who is always in photos of Philippe. I conclude he is Philippe’s right-hand man. He exits a French door in the rear of the house several times to smoke cigarettes. I smell the Turkish tobacco 500 yards away. I need binoculars for my eyes to see distant details, but unaided my nost
rils reel at a few pungent molecules of far-away cigarette smoke.

  I hear Gunnar’s voice in my head, “If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. If life gives you lemonade, think twice before you swallow.” Everything is too easy. I can get a perfect shot off from my position. I can see Philippe in his office. I can escape before anyone can catch me. The lemonade gives me pause.

  I return to my tucked-away van and exchange my binoculars for a gun case that looks like a guitar carrier. I return to my previous perch. Everything is a go, but …

  What am I missing, I ask myself as I set up to shoot. I smile at Gunnar’s brotherly advice. The lemonade is too sweet. If I shoot now, the setting sun will give off a glint of light that will expose me ala David in Vanuatu. I will never get the shot, and I will be caught. I learned from flying the remote control aircraft as a kid: Visualize from on high, not from the ground.

  I am amped for the shoot, so I have to pull tautly on my system’s reins to control my desire to get the job done. I fight that compulsion with the promise to reward my discretion with self-applause and a great bottle of wine tonight. Another Gunnarism: You have to reward yourself for doing the right thing, especially when it goes against your nature. Nevertheless, the undone task haunts me. To leave something undone goes against every fiber of an Olson.

  *****

  The next day I eat an early breakfast and counsel myself to act like a tourist. I once again don a wig and wear a dress one size too large to achieve a frumpy look. I mix in with crowds in Trapani. I drive by Philippe’s villa. I enjoy panoramic views of the Trapani Coast. I smile to myself, I am doing this on Philippe’s dime. I love my job!

  I use some of my high school Italian to schmooze with the locals. That my dialect is bad and my cadence is off, the locals find endearing. I learn tidbits about Philippe’s villa, his business, and his staff. I learn where Philippe eats, gets a haircut, sees a tailor, drives his Lamborghini, and where he drinks.

  At a sidewalk cafe in Trapani in early afternoon, I scout the barbershop Philippe uses. I scope out adjacent and opposing buildings. From across the street, at an obtuse angle from the barbershop, I can possibly eke out a kill shot. I walk the street and then sit to drink coffee as I survey the setting. I pretend to take photos when I am actually doing intense reconnaissance. I study back streets and alleys. I know how to get to a good perch with my “guitar” and how to exit.

  I have a light lunch at a sidewalk cafe and run details through my mind. I realize I’ve never been this thorough before. Minutes later when I am in place at the perch, I kick myself over the obtuse shot angle. One advantage it does give is no bad reflection through the barber shop’s window glass.

  On schedule, the new black Mercedes sedan arrives. Philippe’s right-hand man chauffeurs him in the German limousine. I dub him Turk, for the cigarettes he smokes. Turk parks in front of the barbershop. A bodyguard in the shotgun seat of the vehicle opens the rear curbside door for Philippe. Turk opens the barbershop door for Philippe. Turk turns and excuses the guard to get an espresso. Turk is packing.

  My breathing is faster than normal. I realize that I feel I’m forcing the shot. The angle is not right, and I have two additional targets. I know I can do this. The words, Don’t worry; the Company will take care of it, mock me; I am my only support here. I hear Gunnar’s wisdom again: Reward yourself for doing the right thing. It’s a great night for another bottle of red. I put my “guitar” away.

  When the “guitar” is back in the VW, I walk along the street and view Philippe in the barber chair, thoroughly relaxed with a hot towel over his face. Out of view, I use kleenex to pick up a butt of a cigarette Turk has discarded on the sidewalk near the Mercedes. I get coffee across the street and sit at a table next to Philippe’s bodyguard. This is your lucky day, pal! Today you get to live.

  I pretend to enjoy the spectacle of the street, but I am really surveilling Philippe and crew. I notice Philippe is left-handed. Turk towers over him and has a slight limp. He wears an elevator shoe on his left foot to compensate for that leg’s shorter length. Turk carries a pistol inside the left breast of his sport coat. The bodyguard hides his pistol in the small of his back, underneath his sport coat. I order another espresso to sip while the entourage departs.

  I make a few purchases in town before enjoying my liquid reward. I just hope I am not losing my nerve and rationalizing to cover it. Self-analysis is worth what you pay for it, I suppose.

  *****

  The next morning I sit alone on a hill south of Palermo. I have a wicker basket filled with a picnic lunch, bread, and a bottle of Chianti. While I expect no one, I am prepared to disassemble my rifle and hide it in a nearby gulley before anyone can get near me. No reason to expect the Polizia. I am just a pitiful American tourist stood up by a beguiling Italian rake. I am prepared to unleash a torrent of tears, if need be.

  In the meantime, I lie prone on a wool blanket whose colors blend artistically with the surroundings. I use high-powered binoculars to survey the road that Philippe likes to drive in his red Lamborghini. I am out of view on a hill south of Palermo, 400 yards from a hairpin turn that will slow Philippe.

  I don’t have a checklist for my operations — yet. I need to have a protocol. Instead, I rely on my eclectic style of medical decision making. I feel good about my perch. Even though Philippe will double clutch to speed through the turn, I will have a good shot. There are no witnesses. Best of all, the angle is very favorable. I plan for the steady 10 mph west wind. My pulse is normal at 50 beats per minute, slow for most people.

  After an hour and a half, I see the bright red car coming. Then I hear the patentable Lamborghini 350GT sound, its twelve cylinders performing like the Rockettes on amphetamine. I see Philippe’s otherwise perfectly coiffed hair whipped by the wind from the open driver window. Positive ID. He is racing the car, the only time he is alone. He tries to speed through the turn, but not enough. My ecstasy has already begun. Every feeling I have is beyond — beyond good, beyond happy, beyond content, beyond earth. I squeeze off the most magnificent shot of my life. I never miss. The experience is transcendent. Still in flow, I realize instantly that I can get off a second shot.

  I fire at the gas tank. Boom — there is an immense explosion. Apparently the gas tank was nearly empty. My instinct was exceptional. Now there is less evidence for investigators to process.

  I disassemble the rifle and encase it. I erase any evidence of my being there. Just in case, I leave a carton of Turk’s cigarettes and the butt he smoked. I put on some shoes that match Turk’s. I leave distinctive footprints in nearby soft dirt, making each left shoe impression deeper than the right to mimic Turk’s limp. I return to my cottage to enjoy more red wine. The Pavlov’s dog in my psyche is confused: No shot, fine wine; no shot, fine wine; good shot, fine wine?

  The next few days I enjoy touring Sicily. No need to run; that’s what the police would expect.

  I want to contact Dr. Aurand and Monique and effusively tell them they are safe. I decide to wait. First, I will let them hear the international news. Then, I will discuss with them any potential danger they may face. I know they may not be safe: A man crazy enough to pay the full amount of a hit in advance might have contracted multiple hitters. I do what doctors do. When it’s a tough call, they explain the facts as they know them, then they put the onus to make a decision on the patient.

  I cannot describe how good I feel. I sense connection to family, generalized euphoria, and a great feeling of helping out my friends. As my emotions bubble over, I make a call to Gunnar.

  West Coast

  My lawyer and I have an appointment at 9 AM with the female dean of my former medical school in my attorney’s conference room. The dean comes with the school’s attorney. The dean is a charming doctor. The school’s attorney leads off. I read frustration in the dean’s face. She interrupts his pro forma monologue. She puts her right hand firmly on his wrists as if to physically restrain him. The school attorney sighs.

  The dean s
tarts, “First, Ms. Olson, let me apologize on behalf of the entire staff and administration of the school. I am appalled that any incident occurred in the first place. Our conduct in not readmitting you when you were ready to return to school was callous and unforgivable. You also have my heartfelt condolences on the loss of your twin brother. It goes without saying that we should have been more compassionate after the assault. I am truly sorry.

  “I’m sure your counsel has informed you that we will make every accommodation to bring you back into the medical student body. We will tailor your program to suit your needs and requirements. With the skills you picked up on your own and some accelerated learning, we can possibly catch you back up with your initial peers. You pick the pace you want. I’m sure with your strong record, we will make this a major success for you and the school.”

  I’m always ready to fight. Gunnar would say, “Don’t trip over your tongue!” He would be right. Everything is going my way. I need to be gracious, but punching her would have felt so good. My attorney sees my body language. He is about to restrain me when my dagger-like stare persuades him not to.

  I use discretion. “Dean, may I start next Monday? I want to give the school time to adjust accordingly.” I really need a few days to find a place to live.

  She, of course, agrees and goes on and on with another banal apology.

  The school’s counsel closes, “Just a reminder of the nondisclosure agreement you signed, Ms. Olson. The school will expect you to adhere to that.”

  I perfunctorily agree and shake the hands of the dean and her attorney on the nod of my attorney.

  *****

  My attorney is in good spirits. He takes me to a very expensive lunch. While we wait for our food, he light-heartedly muses, “I always ask my winning clients what they would have done if they lost. So, what if the dean didn’t come across?”