I Shot JFK

by Jake Aaron

  “I’d shoot her,” I say.

  He waits for me to indicate I am joking. The prolonged silence embarrasses him. “Ha, ha, ha!” He slaps his knee.

  I bat my eyelashes without speaking.

  “That’s a good one! I seldom have a client with a sense of humor as good as yours. And I guess if you had a losing attorney, he should worry, too?” he throws out tangentially. He laughs.

  “He should watch his back,” I reply with a slow smile.

  He laughs nervously. “Another good one!,” he forces a smile. “The settlement from the school is for $10 million. Even after my fees, you’ll hardly be like your indebted peers when you finish your medical training. What are you going to do to celebrate?”

  “I’m going to call a close relative overseas. Of course, I will give no details.” I lie to avert another lecture on disclosure. “Then, I’m going to a rifle range. Why don’t you join me? Want to bet you can outshoot a girl?”

  He thinks he’s a macho man. He must answer. “How much is the bet?”

  “All the legal fee — double or nothing!” I shoot back.

  END?

  Epilogue

  Hank asks me to his battalion’s picnic at Fort Ord, CA. I fly out of LAX to Monterrey’s regional airport and rent a car. I am taking a welcomed short break from my customized medical school program.

  I meet Hank at his apartment in Monterrey. It’s midmorning, and I’m surprised to smell alcohol on his breath. He seems different, not as full of life and spirit as I remember. He says everything is “fine.” We exchange pleasantries while readying for the picnic. My dislike of small talk forces Hank to speak. He is not “fine.”

  At the park, I sit at an A-frame picnic table with Hank and the other three platoon leaders in Hank’s company. Two have brought their wives. The third, a bachelor, has brought a girlfriend. The men discuss sports and work. I reluctantly make small talk with the ladies. I normally have little patience with small talk. Why waste your life?

  After a nice lunch of hamburgers, baked beans, potato salad, and watermelon, Captain Sherman comes over to introduce himself to the ladies. Hank has prepared me for egotist Company Commander Sherman. From my view, he is a little too friendly with all of the young ladies, standing a little too close and holding a shaken hand too long. I feel sorry for his wife who watches all this with a pained expression.

  I have a very bad feeling about Sherman. I politely excuse myself to talk with Mrs. Sandy Sherman at a nearby picnic table. She is salt of the earth. She has no children. She does have a broken arm that she got in a “fall.” She is very guarded about her personal life and wears a put-on smile. I sense she is a victim of Sherman.

  When I return to my table, Sherman is standing by a familiar figure. His fellow company commander is Oak Stick. Small world. At first, they seem to have a great camaraderie. They laugh loudly while they swill beer. They want everyone to know how powerful they are. They mark their territories with over-loud talk and domineering stares. Later, after too many beers, the two competitors have words and start shoving each other. They are close to fisticuffs. Everyone sees it. Pretending to be completely hammered, Hank cleverly breaks it up by offering more watermelon to them.

  *****

  That night at Hank’s apartment, we skip supper and turn in early. Hank is unable to perform. I say the obligatory things a compassionate woman should say: “It happens to everyone.” “Don’t worry about it; I just like being close.” “It happens to women all the time; you just can’t see it.”

  Hank is not consoled. He gets out of bed and opens a new bottle of 12-year-old scotch. I warn him that the hard liquor on top of this afternoon’s beers may be a regrettable choice. He reminds me that he can outdrink any man. He returns to bed.

  “You know, Alex, I’ve never been the same since we lost Gunny. He was the best friend — man — I’ve ever known. It means the world to me have you here with me!” His eyes tear up.

  I sip on a shot glass of water. “Hank, you know he feels the same way about you!” I slipped up in my tense. I do not correct myself because I can tell Hank does not notice. I remind Hank of our good times at West Point. He tells me more about his adventures and misadventures with Gunny.

  Eventually, the conversation turns to the picnic. “Hank, I don’t think I like your company commander. He gives off a bad vibe. It’s more than egotism. It’s more than being a control freak,” I offer.

  “Thanks! You just validated my feelings,” Hank begins. He shakes his head and speaks his mind, “He may be the death of my career. He has made it known to me that he hates ‘ring knockers’ who get a free ride from the ‘West Point Protective Association.’ He’s a Texas Aggie who sees a conspiracy of the Long Gray Line at every turn. Part of his issue with the other company commander today was over the other captain being a West Point grad. Privately, he has told me that he considers me unfit for the service and will rate me accordingly. That will be the end of my career — before it really starts. He’s not joking.”

  I now understand the change in Hank’s behavior. The carefree, derring-do man-among-men lives on a foundation called the US Army. It is his home, his future, the treasure at the end of his four-year gauntlet at West Point.

  “Alex, I feel as if everything is slipping away from me. I never felt like I belonged to anything until West Point. I don’t have any family. The Army is where I belong. I don’t see …”

  I thoughtlessly cut him off, “Hank, you’re a young accomplished, talented man. There are a dozen other promising opportunities out there for you. You don’t need an Army that treats you this way!”

  My reasoning was not registering. Hank pours himself another full shot glass. I sit on his lap and wrap my arms around him. “How are your numbers, Hank? I mean objective measures of how your platoon is performing,” I elaborate.

  “Best in the battalion. Tops in inspections, best range scores, highest tactical evals, and most re-ups.”

  “Keep those up, Hank. That’s what will matter in the long-run. Try not to focus on Sherman.” I want to add, “He won’t be a problem very long.” I don’t say that. I’m still sober.

  *****

  Hank keeps asking me up for weekends. I finally find a break in my schedule. I plan to fly back to Monterrey again this Friday. He says that is great, but he regrets that Sunday the company is going to the rifle range. He explains that Sherman is doing this to show off as a tough taskmaster to the battalion commander, which plays well in an Army ramping up for war in Vietnam. I suspect he also is letting his men know who is boss.

  I pull up to the Fort Ord Officers’ Club for Happy Hour in my airport rental. It’s hot and most cars in the parking lot have their windows down to keep them cooler. I swap my two-day visitor’s gate pass with one from another car that is good for three days.

  Inside the cool, dark barroom, Hank and his fellow platoon leaders are letting off steam, rolling dice for who pays for the next pitcher of beer. It’s good to see them again along with their significant others. We are having a good time until someone brings up the loss of Sunday as an off day. Saturday will be their first day off in a month. Good thing I couldn’t and didn’t come sooner.

  At Hank’s apartment, he begins drinking scotch again. I fix enchiladas and chile rellenos. Hank does not want to go out. We turn in early. Again Hank cannot perform. I spare him the platitudes, “Hank, I understand.” That’s all I say. Less is more.

  The next morning, I ask Hank how his platoon’s numbers are. He says they’re still all good. We go for a ten-mile run.

  “I’m glad you’re keeping the numbers up,” I tell him.

  “If you hadn’t pressed me, they would have fallen. I really haven’t felt like doing anything extra for a long time. I’ve had to force myself, Alex. Getting out bed is a struggle.”

  “I’m proud of you, Hank. Gunny would be, too. Remember that!” Glad I got my tenses right on Gunny this time. Hank is very sober, despite the double.

  *****

>   Saturday evening I drive myself to the airport. I sit in my first-class seat on the jet as we load. I see the procession of passengers heading to the back. I spot a young lady who could be my double in a movie. I give her time to be seated. I take my margarita in hand to the back where she sits.

  Bending to speak to her from the aisle, I speak in a low voice as I hand her the fresh drink. “This is for you. Would you mind swapping seats with me? Mine is in first class. Just use my name on the ticket if you’re asked. I’d like to be near the gentleman behind me if at all possible. We’re old friends.”

  While she basks in the privileges of first-class and is distracted, I exit the aircraft “to get the coat I forgot,” as I told the stewardess. I get my bags from an airport locker and head for a motel in Monterrey to get a good night’s rest. I need to be sharp for tomorrow.

  *****

  Sunday I am sprawled out on a camouflaged nylon poncho liner overlooking the rifle range at Fort Ord. I am uprange. Captain Sherman relishes the role of being in charge of the live-fire event as he barks out commands on an electronic bullhorn from a tower in the middle of the range. With my binoculars, I see Hank checking on his platoon readying to fire their rifles.

  Captain Sherman belts out, “Ready on the right? Ready on the left? Ready on the firing line. Commence firing!” Aiming down range from numerous abreast positions, soldiers begin to fire.

  As he overlooks his men, Sherman sees a reflection of sunlight hop nervously around his tower. As firing stops, he turns 180 degrees, away from the range, to find the source. When he does, I stop aiming my mirror at him. He scratches his head over the distraction.

  After his soldiers have locked and loaded their magazines, he again commands, “Ready on the right? Ready on the left? Ready on the firing line. Commence firing!”

  During the ongoing loud pops 800 meters from me, I watch Sherman in the telescope of my assembled rifle. Gripping the rifle while under pressure to act, summons the usual comforting hormones and memories. I am calm but euphoric. I realize my spirit soars to another crescendo. I flash the mirror’s rays at him again. While the live-fire is still going on, he turns to see what is going on. I stick the mirror in a piece of clay to keep its aim on him as he grabs binoculars to look toward the mirror. I regrip my rifle and squeeze off a deadly round to his forehead. He goes down. My shot and his tumble to the floor of the tower are masked by the continued live-fire.

  I never stop to admire my handiwork. I don’t waste precious seconds that way. Why should I? I never miss. Around my shooting perch, I leave men’s size 9 boot prints in the silty soil and, using a kleenex, a button from Oak Stick’s civilian coat from years ago. I don’t trouble myself with what is next at the scene of the crime. I have planned it. There will be confusion on the firing range as no commands come from the tower to direct firing. A platoon leader, probably Hank, will climb the ladder to the tower to find Captain Sherman fatally shot. Despite inner celebration, the platoon leader will feign anger and direct search parties to look downrange for the perpetrator. After all, the captain was shot in the head, and he would have been looking downrange.

  In the opposite direction, I am at the military crest of a nearby hill, one-third of the way down from the summit. My exit goes unnoticed. I drive by the officers’ housing area. When no one is looking, I leave the size 9 boots in Oak Stick’s garbage can, along with the spent bullet casing and a second button, again using a kleenex. I spend hours on the post, waiting for the gate guards to tire of searching vehicles leaving the gate. Several hours after a shift change of those guards, I begin my exit. A sentry stops my car. I give him my best come-on smile. He chats me up. I flirt. I ask for his phone number. He waves me through — without a vehicle inspection.

  I fly out of Monterrey on one of my aliases. Alex Olson flew out yesterday.

  *****

  In the early hours of Monday morning, I leave signs I was at the medical center Sunday when I was actually at Fort Ord — just in case. I find patient charts to initial that have gaps of coverage. I leave orders for missed tests. I have earned a reputation for coming in on time off. I walk out with the departing shift and make sure several colleagues see me.

  Later at my apartment, I am awakened by Hank’s call. “I have been trying to reach you! We had a real shocker yesterday. Someone shot Captain Sherman at the firing range. He’s dead …”

  I don’t need to explain how my busy hospital schedule kept Hank from reaching me, so I reply, “What a terrible accident!”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Alex. Someone shot him …”

  “You mean a soldier turned his rifle on Sherman?”

  “No, no, the bullet came from off the range,” Hank explains. “They’re still looking for the shooter. We, of course, cancelled training. Everyone is in shock …”

  “How is Sandy doing?” I ask.

  “Alex, she is holding up well. I went by to see her after the battalion commander and chaplain did death notification. The battalion wives have organized food for her for the next two weeks, and the company wives are spelling each other staying with her. I’m a bastard for saying so, but I don’t think she’ll miss him. Nor will anyone else …”

  “I didn’t tell you, Hank, but I did suspect wife abuse by him.”

  Hank does not respond to that. He pauses, then adds, “The battalion commander called me last night. He said he took an in-depth look at the company. He said my numbers really spoke to him — best platoon in the battalion. He wants me to be a company commander.”

  I gushed, “So you’ll be taking over your company!”

  “As good as that, Alex. The Army doesn’t like to have you a peer one day and the next a boss over your former peers. He’s moving me into one of the other companies in the battalion and having me take over that commander’s company. Shuffle duffel, we say.”

  “Hank, I’m so proud of you!”

  “Couldn’t have done it without you, Alex.” Little did he know. “Urging me to keep my numbers up was the best advice in the world. I’d like to come down to see you — even if it’s just to catch you at a coffee break …”

  After the call, I feel good about my gifts. My mentors in the medical program give me minor compliments, while offering none to my peers. It’s all relative, isn’t it? My shooting ability has given me great pleasure and solace. It has also just improved the world. I have protected Hank and Sandy from evil. I have implicated a sadistic bully in the shooting. I feel positively wonderful about life, except for the nagging doubt I fence off in my mind. Do I have a bloodlust that must be periodically sated with a muzzle blast? Am I like some anemic vampire who can behave until nature calls? I reflect on the arc of my life. The missile-mad teenage Gunnar would describe me as having the “wrong reentry angle.” He would say that’s why I bounce from goal to goal trying to recover on earth. Gunnar, on the other hand, had the right reentry angle. When the door on an Army career closed, he got the next return to life correctly.

  As a biologist, I hope that I am evolving, not revolving. Some might say the trajectory of my life is a search for redemption. I deny that. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve fought back at what life has thrown at me.

  Enough of that, Gunnar is alive. All is right in the world. Now I can get back to becoming a doctor.

  *****

  A month later, Gunnar flies in to the West Coast to meet with Alex. The rendezvous is in Las Vegas. Over room service food, the twins catch up. Despite Alex’s busy schedule, she looks extremely healthy and brims with enthusiasm. Gunnar learns how she saved Hank’s career. He hides his shock and appears to be totally accepting and nonjudgmental. Inside, he fears for Alex’s safety in her sideline as a hitman. This freelancing troubles him.

  Gunnar feels self-justification for setting up the unique three-magazine cipher just for her. As he told Joe Fresno, a coder at Langley, the cipher was for hits that pay a million dollars or more, and it needs to be kept up-to-date. Gunnar worked with Ted Lincoln at Langley to provide a contactin
g voice for the cipher’s phone number and a suitable target. Gunnar now reasons he had done as much as he can to protect Alex and yield acceptable results. He can’t keep her from doing hits but can perhaps control who pays her and whom she takes out.

  On another level, he is wistful for what might have been. The mention of Hank started the cascade of nostalgia. He misses his classmates from West Point and the life he planned. He also gets a cold chill thinking how the path that could have been, might have had a career-fatal minefield in it, as Hank nearly found. Whatever, it is a long way from Alamogordo.

  After several hours of reminiscing, he hugs his sister goodbye and soulfully asks her to take care. He closes, “I will be so proud when you get that MD. I’ve got to turn in. I’m on the first flight out to Dulles Airport.”

  *****

  At Langley, Gunnar enters the room of cryptographer Joe Fresno. After small talk, Gunnar gets down to business, “Joe, the cipher worked well. We took a key player from the other side off the table. Checkmate!” He meant Phillipe Boutin in Sicily. “I want to keep the cipher active for the foreseeable future. Can you do that?”

  “No problem, Harry. I’ll keep the grid active. I’m glad it worked out. What’s that you put on my desk?”

  “It’s nothing, really. Thanks for you help,” Gunnar says and nods.

  After Gunnar leaves, Joe unwraps the small box. A brand-new Pentax camera. That Harry, he thinks, is a class act. He remembers my hobby. I mentioned it once.

  *****

  Gunnar’s next stop at CIA headquarters is Ted Lincoln’s office. Gunnar can tell Ted is pressed for time so he cuts the small talk short.