“In the morning, Oswald dutifully brought his silly rifle in his homemade paper sack. The plan called for him to shoot from the second-floor window, from which he had an easier escape route. Just after he arrived, however, Carrera walked in and told him that the plan had been canceled, that the FBI had become suspicious of him, and that he was to hide his rifle on the sixth floor behind some cartons, lie low, and await orders.”
“He bought that?”
“Oh, yes. He was already nervous from his earlier contretemps with Agent Hosty. It was plausible.”
“Not to mention that he was basically a paranoid maniac to begin with,” added Marlene.
“How true,” said Blaine. “In any case he did as he was told. Carrera stayed on the second floor and went to the window.”
“Nobody noticed him?” asked Karp.
“Another Latino man in work clothes in a book warehouse? This was not the Federal Reserve, Mr. Karp; people were coming in and out with deliveries all the time. Caballo came in about eleven and went to the sixth floor. He talked to no one, but several of Oswald’s co-workers saw him and accepted him as Oswald. He removed Oswald’s rifle from its bag and arranged the bag and rifle artistically in the places where they were to be found by the police. He placed three spent cartridges from Oswald’s rifle, brass that he’d secured at the firing range, on the floor.”
“Why three?” asked Karp.
Blaine shrugged. “I have no idea. He was improvising by then. Perhaps he and Carrera agreed that they would only need three shots. Now to the event: the motorcade arrived and made the turn onto Elm Street. Carrera fired first, striking Kennedy in the upper back. Kennedy moved in reaction to that shot, and that threw Caballo’s aim off and he hit Governor Connally instead. A few seconds after that, he fired again and hit Kennedy in the back of the head. Carrera folded his weapon, stuck it under his jacket, and walked out the back. He went one street over, where Guel was waiting for him in a station wagon. Caballo picked up his own spent cases and walked down the stairs and out the back too, with the weapon under his jacket. Unfortunately he was seen doing it, which made for some confusion afterward, since Oswald was at that time having his famous Coke in the second-floor lunchroom. Of course, as soon as Oswald learned that the president—not Castro—had really been shot, he realized that something was desperately wrong. He simply left and went home, without even trying to take his rifle. Naturally, Bishop, who had excellent connections with the Dallas Police Force, was able to leak Oswald’s description and address to them. Unfortunately, they dispatched Officer Tippet.”
“Why unfortunately,” Marlene asked.
“I mean unfortunately for Tippet. Tippet and Oswald knew each other. They were rather birds of a feather, in fact: tough-talking real men with guns. They used to meet at Jack Ruby’s place. Oswald had armed himself and was wandering aimlessly. He now must have understood that all his delusions had come to nothing; he was simply being set up as a fall guy for the assassination. When Tippet approached him, Oswald panicked and killed him.”
“So Tippet wasn’t sent to assassinate Oswald?” asked Karp.
“Not by us, at any rate. No, we had Ruby set up to do that from the beginning. I thought an assassin assassin, so to speak, with organized-crime connections, was a nice touch. The last little item was that Turm went up to Parkland and dropped the magic bullet on a stretcher lying in the hallway. That was, of course, one of the errors; he should have used a banged-up slug; he had plenty, from his target practice with Oswald’s rifle. The other error was the shot from the second floor. A proper autopsy would have recognized that this shot was angled upward and could not possibly have come from the sixth floor.”
“What about the autopsy?” Karp asked. “Did you fiddle with that too?”
“No, in fact, we simply trusted to the incompetence and confusion of the federal government, a never-failing friend. The Secret Service, the FBI, and of course, our own CIA had all been very derelict, which helped prove my theory. Once a plausible patsy was presented to them, moreover, one who had all the kaleidoscopic qualities of Lee Harvey Oswald, every responsible party would join in the effort to enhance evidence pointing to Oswald and suppress any which did not or which pointed back at the agency in question. And so it proved; as you should know, it is proving so yet.”
Blaine relaxed back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. He looked utterly spent. Karp and Marlene waited for him to resume, but instead a dark woman in a nurse’s uniform strode out onto the terrace, nodded at the two of them, smiled at Blaine, and said, “It’s time, Mr. Blaine.” She knelt and released the brakes on the bed, and switched on a motor. Blaine said, “I’m sorry I am unable to continue for the moment. I have to get my oil changed. Perhaps this would be a good time for you to have lunch.”
The mechanized bed rolled off, guided by the nurse. A Mexican in a white coat brought out a tray with an assortment of sandwiches and fruit and set it down on the little table.
They ate without much appetite, speaking little, as if the place were listening, as if Blaine were still there.
An hour passed. The nurse rolled Blaine back to the terrace. He asked how their lunch had been and whether they wanted anything. The treatment he had received seemed to have exhausted him even more. He was speaking very slowly now, with long pauses between thoughts.
“Where were we? Ruby, of course, did his part the following day. He had cancer, you know, and we took care of his family. By that time, the group had scattered. The Dallas police and the FBI combined to make a botch of the evidence. The seed was planted for a thousand conspiracies, of which our little impromptu would appear as just one. I must say, however, that you came as close as anyone to ferreting us out. Bishop was quite beside himself when he learned you had the film and were on to Mr. Mosca.”
Karp ignored the implied compliment. “What about the grassy knoll shot?” he demanded. “Who did that?”
“That? If there ever was such a shot, I’m as much in the dark about it as you. Have you ever seen a bullfight? No? Well, on occasion, people in the stands become so overwhelmed by the event that they leap out into the arena and try to work the bull themselves. They call them espontáneos. That’s what the Grassy Knoll shot was, I believe, an espontáneo, one of the many citizens of Dallas who wanted Kennedy dead. Perhaps it was another conspiracy; we certainly didn’t have any fake Secret Service men about. Or perhaps it was an actual lone nut.” He uttered a hacking chuckle. “Ironic, when you come to think of it. All that trouble, my precious PXK operation, the clever plans, and all we had to do was sit back and watch some idiot Birchers with a deer rifle do the job. In fact, if I were still hale, I could take you on a round of bars and barbecue joints in south Dallas and find half a dozen men who’d confess to being the trigger man on the grassy knoll. It’s a wonder that anyone in Dealey Plaza survived the day.”
Karp asked a few more questions, which Blaine answered with declining strength, about the murders committed as part of the cover-up. Blaine acknowledged them, but did not seem to know the details. He assumed they had been ordered by Bishop and carried out by Caballo.
“What about Gaiilov?” Marlene asked.
“Ah, yes. Very sad, and very coincidental. Do you know that just this morning poor Armand took his own life by means of a shotgun blast to the head?”
“Caballo again,” said Karp.
“Mmm, I rather doubt it. Armand liked the high life. He was a tire salesman and failing at it. Perhaps it was a genuine suicide. So many people die from violence in this country that our occasional additions to the toll are hardly noticed. Some coincidences really are coincidences, you know.”
As he listened, Karp found it oddly difficult to retain his interest: the crime of the century, one of the great mysteries of the ages, and it was starting to bore him. It was like being in a French chef’s kitchen without the possibility of getting a meal, or like sex without orgasm: why bother?
There was a pause, a silence, broken only by Blaine’s la
bored breathing. Then Marlene said, “Why? Why did you do it? I understand why Bishop and the Cubans did it, but what about you? Why did you want him dead?”
Blaine seemed to recover himself slightly. “Oh, that. He had to be eliminated, my dear. He was a Communist.”
“Oh, come on! Kennedy was, if anything, a right-of-center Democrat, probably to the right of Johnson if it comes to that.”
“Oh, no, I mean he was an actual Communist. A covert agent of the Soviet Union.”
“Wha-a-a-t!” Marlene cried.
“Yes, it was hard for me to believe too, at first. Gaiilov gave me the story in the late forties. He’d been one of Beria’s aides and the old monster boasted about it one night during the war. It didn’t mean much then—who could’ve imagined that this frail little degenerate playboy would become president of the United States some day? But Armand remembered it, and when his own people were after him, and I saved his life, he told me. They’d recruited Kennedy in Prague, in 1939. His father had sent him on a so-called fact-finding tour of Eastern Europe. Pissed the State Department boys off no end. The NKVD leaped at the chance to compromise the son of one of America’s most prominent rightists. They set a honey trap, not the hardest thing to do with JFK, and once he was in the hotel room, they drugged him and set up the cameras. An orgy scene, and not just with girls either. Once he got over his fright, he sort of warmed to the idea. It was a way of getting back at Dad, don’t you know. He hated the old bastard, as who wouldn’t? The Sovs let him sleep for a long time, of course. They had no idea he would become so prominent so quickly. He may even have imagined that with the war and all, the destruction, they might have forgotten. But when he was safely in the White House, they rang his bell. The Cuban sellout was the first payment. The Reds got a permanent base in the New World and the elimination of a bunch of missiles based in Turkey. And it was just the beginning.”
“So you’re saying it was simple patriotism!” said Marlene. “Why didn’t you go to the authorities, for God’s sake, way back then, if you knew?”
“Ah, but way back then, you’ll recall, I had made myself persona non grata with the authorities, because of Dick and the trial. And I had compromised Gaiilov totally. No one would’ve believed him. And, of course, the Prague film we did not have.”
“But Dick Dobbs was a spy and a traitor,” said Marlene. “For all practical purposes, what you did for him released a vastly more damaging agent, assuming for a minute that I believe your Kennedy story. This is patriotism?”
A look of intense pain passed over Blaine’s face, pain that was patently not of the body, pain against which morphine was impotent. “Yes. Quite correct. Of course I did stop what he was doing.”
“Ah, right,” Marlene exclaimed. “You must have turned the FBI onto Reltzin. He always wondered about that.”
“Yes, I did that. And then I broke their case against Dick. All I can say in justification is to quote Mr. Forster: ‘If I had to choose between betraying my friend and betraying my country, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.’ ” A long breath, a winning smile. “But, as you see, I made it right in the end.”
They didn’t speak at all during the ride back to the airport, not because the driver might have overheard, but because their minds had been thrown off track, and until they had done some thinking they lacked the ground for a meaningful conversation about what Harley Blaine had revealed. Marlene helped herself to several vodka tonics, but when she asked Karp whether he wanted a drink he shook his head and turned away, staring out at the darkening Texas sky.
In the airport lounge, Marlene finally broke the silence. “There are flaws, aren’t there? In what he told us.”
“Flaws? Flaws!” Karp expostulated. “Marlene, there are holes in that fucking story I could drive a tank through. JFK was a Communist spy? Give me a break! The guy’s a fucking maniac, an assassination buff, except instead of saying they did it, he’s saying we did it. Hey, you know what? This shit is enough to make anyone convert to the church of Warren. It’s so simple. One nut, three shots, case closed. But then you start thinking about the flaws in Warren and add on all the coincidences and the bitty little connections and before you know it you’re back at the Queen Ranch. Or in with the Mob, if that’s your fancy.”
“But all the evidence leads to Blaine,” Marlene persisted. “He knew about all the stuff you found, the chessmen … and it fits him, the clever lonely boy who never changed, who never got the girl… .”
“Marlene, cut the Psychology 101 crap! Do you honestly believe that John Kennedy was a conscious agent of the Soviet Union?”
For twenty seconds, Marlene tried hard to make herself believe it, if only for the poetic symmetry of the idea. Then she cursed and rolled her eye, and said, “No, hell, that’s too weird even for me. The interesting question is whether Harley Blaine believes it.”
“Why is that the interesting question?”
“Because this guy is the most fascinating character in the case. Him and Dobbs. Look, in 1950 they were on top of the world. Dobbs could’ve done what JFK did—House, Senate, Presidency. He was just as attractive, nearly as rich, had a better war record, and a lot more brains. Instead, he decided to screw it all up, and JFK walked off with the prize. And the fact that he was decent to Dobbs after the fall probably just added salt to the wound, from Blaine’s perspective. That’s one part of it. The other part is the crazy triangle with Selma—I don’t even want to get into that. So, late fifties—he lost his career, lost his hopes for his friend, lost his great love. What does he have left? Control, manipulation. He convinces himself that this spy gossip is true, about JFK. Hell, people have convinced themselves of crazier stuff. And think how satisfying it must have been when he heard it from Gaiilov! A new focus for his life. And Harley just happens to be sitting on a plan for a failsafe hit on a president. How can he not try it out, and on such a deserving target? The Bay of Pigs fiasco gave him the troops he needed—and the rest …”
“Is history. Yeah, and so what!” said Karp, and then, more vehemently, “I hate this. I hate what we just did, I can’t tell you how much. And I can see you sort of like it. Your clever plan worked, we got the whole story, assuming it wasn’t yet another level of Chinese box, or something a crazy old guy made up out of his head.” He slumped and looked away from her across the concourse. “And it’s something between us.”
“What? You wanted, we wanted to know the story.”
“No! Knowing the story is nothing. The process is what counts. The ritual, the oaths, the witnesses, the … I don’t know, the seeing that justice is done. We’re never going to have that, and that bastard knew that when he set this whole thing up. He’s a lawyer, maybe a great lawyer. Maybe only a really great lawyer could have arranged it so that whatever anybody ever learned about JFK, whatever the suspicions, there could never be closure, there could never be a case. The wound could never heal. That’s his real crime, Mr. Blaine. Christ! Even if we had a tape of what he just told us, what could we do with it?”
“We do have a tape,” said Marlene. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small Sony microrecorder. “A hundred and ten eighty-nine at People’s.”
Karp sighed. “That’s just what I mean. It’s just another story. It’s got no evidentiary context. If I played that thing to Wilkey, he’d laugh me out of his office. Shit, if somebody played it for me, I’d do the same. A sick old guy claiming JFK was KGB? Get out of here!”
“It’d be funny, though, if it were true,” said Marlene. “Dick Dobbs and Jack Kennedy, birds of a feather, sort of like Burgess and McLean, gentlemen traitors.”
Karp welcomed the chance to leave the subject of the assassination. Lately it had started to produce nausea and headache whenever he tried to roll it around in his mind, and he was now fighting a particularly strong attack. He asked, “And so why do you think old Dick did it?”
“Oh, that! Well, maybe he had a crackpot notion that the U.S. shouldn’t get too far ahead of the Sovs
in nuclear sub design. A lot of the old atom scientists felt that way, especially during the war. But the main reason, the psychological reason, you should excuse the expression, I think, was to spit in the world’s eye, and maybe in the eye of his best friend, who he’d just found out was fucking his wife. Everybody thought Dick Dobbs was perfect and he couldn’t stand it, so he became a traitor. Perfection’s an unbearable burden, when you think about it.”
“Oh, it’s not so heavy,” said Karp. “I do all right with it.”
She laughed and punched his arm, then leaned against his shoulder and said, “And then there’s Hank Dobbs, betraying his trust, his oath too, to protect his father’s friend.”
“Corruption of blood,” said Karp.
“Say what?”
“Corruption of blood. It’s in the Constitution. In cases of treason, corruption of blood means any kind of civil disability imposed on a family of a traitor. The Constitution says it can only last as long as the life of the person convicted of treason—after that his family is just like everyone else.”
“How little they knew,” said Marlene.
Driving home from National Airport, Marlene asked, “Feeling better?”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Karp, eyes on the road. “I’m resigned to leaving it to the judgment of history. What if we took all our stuff and just buried it in some library? Just a mass of anonymous evidence, everything we learned.”
Corruption of Blood Page 40
