by R. G. Belsky
Shortly after that, Eric disappeared from his job at the museum—taking a lot of Lee Harvey Oswald historical material with him.
So what did it all mean? Well, I wouldn’t know for sure until I tracked down Eric. But there was a pretty clear pattern here that was hard to ignore. The circumstantial evidence was definitely starting to build up. Lee Mathis aka Lee Harvey Oswald Jr. wrote a book about the injustice he believed was done to his father. Two people in New York were shot dead by some Kennedy assassination–obsessed killer. And Oswald Jr.’s apparently Kennedy assassination–obsessed son had disappeared suddenly from his job at the time of the murders.
Was Eric Mathis in New York City right now killing people?
Leaving a Kennedy half-dollar behind with his victims as some kind of a bizarre calling card?
Threatening to blow up Kennedy Airport simply because of the name?
And, if all this were true, there was another question still unanswered.
Why?
The woman at the Kennedy museum, whose name was Janet Gooding, turned out to be very helpful after I told her who I was and about the story I was working on.
I didn’t tell her anything about the murders. Or even about the Oswald connection. Just that I was doing a story on a book written by Eric’s father about the Kennedy assassination and would like to talk to him to get his input too.
She went through Eric’s desk with me. There was a typewritten list that contained a series of Lee Harvey Oswald items and artifacts at the museum. These included various tapes and accounts of the shooting of Oswald; Oswald’s police mug shot; a copy of his arrest warrant; a receipt for the mail-order rifle he’d bought, which authorities declared to be the murder weapon; a picture of him holding the rifle in his backyard from several months earlier, which Oswald always claimed was a phony; and the transcript of what Oswald said to police during the forty-eight hours he was held in custody before being gunned down.
Gooding said all of these items were now missing from the museum. Damn! I was on the trail of a hot story here. Eric Mathis was the key. He was the one who could give me the answers I was looking for. All I had to do now was find him.
Before I left the museum, Janet Gooding—after some prodding—gave me Eric’s home address.
“I don’t think he’s there, though,” she said. “I tried to call him a number of times when he didn’t show up for work, but there was no answer.”
“Maybe he’s sick or something,” I said, even though I didn’t really believe that. “I’ll go over there and check it out.”
“If you do find him,” she said, “please ask him to return the documents and materials he took. Those things are invaluable to us at the museum, and they are irreplaceable as historical artifacts. Otherwise, I’ll have to report him to officials of the museum and to authorities. He could get in a lot of trouble. Tell him that, will you, Mr. Malloy?”
I thanked her for her help, took his address, and left. I didn’t tell her that Eric Mathis was probably already in trouble.
Big trouble.
Bigger trouble than Janet Gooding could ever imagine.
Mathis had lived on the ground floor of a two-family house on a quiet street about a fifteen-minute drive from the museum.
I rang the front doorbell even though I didn’t expect anyone to answer. Like Janet Gooding, I was pretty sure he wasn’t there. But you never know. I rang it a second time and then a third. Still nobody. I turned the doorknob. Unlocked.
I looked around at the street behind me. It was all quiet. No cars. No neighbors outside. No one looking at me out windows that I could see.
There are all sorts of rules and guidelines about what a journalist is supposed to do or not do. Some are clear-cut and inflexible no matter how much you try or want to bend them. Others . . . well, sometimes it’s not so clear-cut. There are lines that all journalists cross sometimes in the pursuit of a story. Some journalists cross those lines more than others. Me, I was always willing to push the envelope if doing so could get me an exclusive. I took one more look behind me to make sure no one was watching. Then I pushed open the door and went inside.
The place consisted of a living room, kitchen, and two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms had been converted into some kind of a study. Wherever the Mathis kid had gone, it looked like he had left in a hurry. Newspapers and magazines were scattered around the living room, unwashed dishes filled the sink, an unfinished TV dinner sat on the kitchen counter, and clothes were strewn around the bedroom, where the bed was unmade.
The study was more interesting. If there was any question about Eric Mathis’s obsession with his Oswald family background, it was answered by the wealth of Oswald stuff there. Pictures on the wall of the JFK assassination. Newspaper clippings about Oswald on a bulletin board next to the desk. A huge poster for the movie JFK, which is, of course, all about Oswald not being the lone assassin. Stacks of videos and books about conspiracy theories and a second (and third) gunman and every other imaginable scenario of what happened that day in Dallas.
I also found, on top of the desk and scattered in other places around the study and the rest of the apartment, some of the Lee Harvey Oswald items that Eric Mathis had taken from the museum. Wherever he had gone, he left in so much of a hurry that he didn’t even bother to take them all with him.
I looked through a lot of other material in the room too. Things in the drawers of the desk and in a filing cabinet next to it. Everything was about Lee Harvey Oswald and the assassination. Particularly a detailed account of what Oswald was doing in New Orleans that summer before the assassination. And about his potential connections with Cuban radicals and mobsters and even renegade elements of the U.S. intelligence community who might have drawn Oswald into something so far over his head that he didn’t realize how much trouble he was in until it was too late.
It was pretty clear what Eric Mathis was trying to do. He desperately wanted to find out if Lee Harvey Oswald—the man he now knew to be his biological grandfather—really was the lone assassin of President John F. Kennedy or whether history had done Oswald a horrible wrong.
No question about it, he was obsessed.
Whatever his father had set in motion by telling his son about his own father being Lee Harvey Oswald had culminated in this obsession. An obsession that I now believed led the son for some reason into a murderous rage on the streets of New York City, where his father now lived. It was the only logical explanation.
I found notes Eric had written to himself. Extensive details about the assassination and Oswald and everything that happened that day in Dallas. There were also notes he had clearly made to himself after reading his father’s manuscript. Things about Emily Springer and the birth certificate for his father at the New Orleans hospital and even the strip club where Emily Springer had met Oswald.
The most recent entry seemed to be on a yellow legal pad left on top of his desk with a pen next to it—as if it might have been the last thing he was doing before he left.
There was a name and an address written at the bottom of the top sheet.
The name was Howard Crenshaw.
Underneath that was “New Orleans.”
Howard Crenshaw could have been anyone, of course. A friend or a family member or someone else Eric Mathis knew from growing up in New Orleans. But New Orleans was clearly the key to all this. New Orleans was the city where Lee Harvey Oswald had been born and lived much of his short life until coming to Dallas. Where he spent the summer of 1963 before the assassination. Where Oswald had impregnated Emily Springer with the baby that would become Lee Harvey Oswald Jr. According to Lee Mathis’s book, Oswald had actually been in New Orleans on the day of the assassination, eagerly making plans for a new life with Emily Springer.
There are various degrees of crossing the line for a reporter.
Sometimes what you do is pretty much in a gray area in terms o
f following the letter of the law and rules; other times it goes beyond that. I’d crossed the line when I entered—and then searched—Eric Mathis’s home. That was clear without a doubt. So was what I did next. Now that I was already across that line of right and wrong, I decided to hurtle over it with both feet. I scooped up as much of the material about Oswald and Kennedy and Dallas as I could find, stuffed it all into the luggage I’d been carrying around with me all day, and made my way out of there.
I still hadn’t checked into my hotel.
But it was too late for that now.
I called the hotel, canceled my reservation, and boarded the first flight I could get to New Orleans.
Chapter 23
HOWARD CRENSHAW turned out to be an attorney. I found that out when I Googled his name and address and other information before the flight to New Orleans. There was a website with a bio and specific directions on how to get to his office.
The bio said the law firm had been started by his father, Benjamin Crenshaw, in 1958. His father had taken him on as a partner when he graduated from law school in 1986. Howard Crenshaw had taken over the business when his father retired in 1999. There was a long list of legal honors and civic awards he had won. A picture of him and his family too. But what I found the most interesting was the type of law he practiced. His specialty was adoption law. He worked with families looking for children and facilitated adoptions with individuals and agencies trying to find children homes.
It was evening by the time my plane touched down in New Orleans. I called the number listed on Crenshaw’s website and got a voice mail telling me his office hours were from nine to five. I left a message asking for an appointment in the morning.
I checked into my hotel before doing anything else this time. I’d never been to New Orleans before. To be honest, my image of it mostly came from the devastation I’d seen on TV after Hurricane Katrina, and also the scenes I’d watched on the HBO series Treme. But people who had been there always told me what a great city it was. The Cajun food. The jazz clubs and the music.
But it had been a long day, starting with my waking up at four in the morning to catch the early flight out of New York to Dallas, and I just wanted to get some sleep. I sat down on the bed for a second to review my notes from the day. That was the last thing I remembered until I woke up to the sound of my cell phone ringing.
I sleepily looked over at the clock. It said 11 p.m. I picked up the cell phone to see who was calling. The number was blocked. That meant it wasn’t the office or Carrie or anyone else I could think of. I thought for a second about letting it go to voice mail but decided to answer it.
“Who is this?” I asked.
There was a long silence on the other end.
“Hello, who’s there?” I said.
Finally a voice came on. A low, husky, almost gravelly voice. It sounded like a voice someone was using to disguise who he was.
“Get off this story, Malloy,” the voice said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“John F. Kennedy is dead. He’s been dead for fifty years. Just let him rest in peace. Let us all rest in peace. Leave it alone.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because it would be healthy for you, Malloy.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“A lot of people who asked too many questions—or knew too much—about the Kennedy assassination have died. But then you already know that, don’t you, Malloy. So just make sure you’re not one of them.”
Then the phone went dead.
I was getting deeper and deeper into something I didn’t completely understand. Someone out there knew it, and he wanted to stop me. Maybe it was Eric Mathis. Maybe it was his father, even though that didn’t make a lot of sense to me. Or maybe it was someone else I didn’t know about yet but who knew about me.
I realized I was probably just being paranoid, but I suddenly had this fear that someone was watching me right now. I walked over to the window and pulled the blinds shut. Then I made sure the door was locked and the chain bolt on. Whoever was out there wanted to scare me. Scare me enough so that I got on a plane and went back to New York. I was scared, I’ll admit that. But not quite that scared. After a while, the paranoia passed and I realized that no one was going to come after me in my locked hotel room that night. I watched TV, and then fell back asleep.
At eleven the next morning, I was sitting across from Howard Crenshaw at the desk in his office.
“I understand you’re interested in having me help you with an adoption,” Crenshaw said.
“Actually, I’m not here to talk to you about adopting a child.”
“But my secretary said you told her—”
“I lied to your secretary,”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I needed to get in here. I needed to see you. And I figured lying was the best way to do that since I probably couldn’t have gotten the appointment if I told the truth.”
“So why are you here?”
“To ask you about a previous adoption. One from a long time ago. I think someone at this firm—probably your father—handled it. And I’m pretty sure you had another visitor recently asking you about it too. Eric Mathis.”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “but I can’t discuss the details of any adoption case. Those facts are confidential and privileged.”
Crenshaw was about as nondescript-looking a lawyer as one could imagine. I was used to New York lawyers. Charismatic, colorful, oversized egos, always looking to outsmart you somehow. Crenshaw was a plain-looking middle-aged guy of about fifty, with thinning hair, a slight but noticeable paunch, and wearing a conservative, and not very expensive-looking, blue serge suit. I’m pretty good at reading people. I read him to be a guy who didn’t have a lot of ambition, wasn’t looking to get rich—he just wanted to run a nice quiet business like his father had done before him. I was more comfortable with the loud, flashy New York lawyers. Them, I understood. I had a plan to get this guy to tell me what I wanted to know; I just hoped it would work on him.
I showed him my press credentials. Then I told him about the story I was doing and why I was interested in finding out if Eric Mathis had indeed been in contact with him and what he wanted to know.
“As I said, Mr. Malloy,” he told me when I was finished, “I cannot discuss the details of any adoption business with anyone else, including you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a long day ahead of me so—”
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a newspaper reporter, Mr. Crenshaw. A good newspaper reporter doesn’t take no for an answer on a story. Not in New York. And not in New Orleans either.”
Crenshaw shrugged. “I don’t care about that. The fact that you’re a newspaper reporter means nothing to me. You still have no legal right to such confidential information.”
“I’m not talking about legal here,” I said.
He shook his head. Confused.
“What are you talking about?”
“A quid pro quo.”
“Quid pro quo?”
“It means you give something to me, and in return I give something to you.”
“I know what a quid pro quo is, Mr. Malloy. And I certainly know what it is you want from me. But what is it you have to give me in return? Because if you’re talking about offering me money, I must remind you that I’m a member of the bar and I adhere to all ethical guidelines.”
“I’m not talking about money.”
“What else do you have that could persuade me to talk to you about this matter?”
“The power of the press. I work for the New York Daily News. One of the biggest newspapers in the country. This is a big story. A story with national implications. It’s already gotten coverage from me
dia outlets across the country. This story’s only going to get bigger. And I’m the reporter for the Daily News working on the story. Ergo, the power of the press.”
Crenshaw stared at me over the desk. The moment of truth. I still wasn’t sure whether this was going to work or not.
“What you’re saying is if I cooperate with you, you can make me into some kind of a star lawyer. Write about me, play me up in your article and make me a national figure. Fame, not fortune, that’s what you’re offering me, huh?”
“It’s one option you have,” I said.
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. But that sort of thing has never been very important to me. In fact, I go out of my way to avoid publicity. I’ve had opportunities in the past to be a much higher-profile lawyer than I am, but I stay out of the spotlight. Maybe this kind of I’ll-make-you-a-star approach works on lawyers back in New York City. But I’m very happy with my law practice and my life here the way it is. So you can take your offer to write about me in your story . . . and get out of here.”
“No,” I said, “the offer is that I not write about you in the story.”
That stopped him for a second.
“Look, Mr. Crenshaw,” I said, “a long time ago your father handled an adoption for a woman here whose sister had died. He may not have even known who the biological father of the child was at the time, probably didn’t. It was just another adoption case to him. But it wasn’t. Because the biological father was Lee Harvey Oswald, still one of the most reviled and hated people in U.S. history. If I write that your father—and your firm—handled the adoption fifty years ago, your entire little world—your quiet life here—is going to come crashing down. TV crews will be parked outside your door. Reporters like me will be clamoring for interviews with you. Crazy people, conspiracy theorists, quick-buck artists—they’ll all want to talk to you too. Some people will blame you for what happened, that’s how nuts this kind of thing can get. Do you really want the world to know you are linked to Lee Harvey Oswald’s son like that? Do you want your father’s life—his entire legacy—to be remembered by this? I don’t know if your father is still alive, Mr. Crenshaw, but even if it’s just for his memory—”
