Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

  Dmitriy explained how Kon’s ineptitude had resulted in their capture, as well as the death of the cell leader himself. He had begun to outline each mistake, when Leonid caustically interrupted.

  The commanding officer challenged him to explain how the Americans had bested his elite squad.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1963

  5:30 PM – CST

  6:30 PM – EST

  Aman in a crisp suit entered the vacant office at the Department of Justice where Dee, Jay, and Bick were loitering. Dee thrummed her fingers on the table.

  “Clyde Tolson, associate director of the FBI.” He spoke in a nasally whine.

  Dee jumped up. “What’s the meaning of this, making us wait for an hour and a half? You have a lot of nerve.”

  “Listen, Miss.” He emphasized the title scornfully. “You are extremely fortunate I didn’t have you arrested for disturbing the peace after that stunt you pulled. And luckier still that the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation is going to meet with you at all, for reasons I can’t fathom. Evidently, you have piqued J. Edgar’s curiosity. Don’t waste his time. You have five minutes.” Tolson turned and flounced out of the room.

  Momentarily flummoxed, it took them a second to realize that he meant for them to follow. The three troublemakers hoofed down the deserted corridor after Tolson.

  On the way, Bick gave quiet instructions. He felt that he should take the lead with Hoover, given the culture of the early sixties in which an older man might engender more respect than a younger woman. Dee glowered; however, she resisted comment.

  Upon arrival at the director’s cavernous office, Bick expected a polite greeting, but instead Hoover’s consummate indifference to their presence bowled him over. Unbelievable. The G-man was studying a sheaf of papers behind an immaculate desk so massive you could land a modern day Navy F-25 on the surface.

  When Tolson ushered them to a conference table and told them to sit, Bick reluctantly acquiesced. The puny table had low wooden seats, like a separate kids’ section at Thanksgiving dinner. The FBI leader apparently intended to demonstrate the pecking order in the room. Bick caught the familiar whiff of lemon-scented furniture polish. This fellow was a clean freak.

  As the clock on the wall advanced, Dee cleared her throat in an unveiled effort to expedite the proceedings. It didn’t work.

  Finished with his documents, Hoover calmly filed them in folders. Then he raised his bug eyes. “What is so pressing that it caused you folks to create a scene?”

  Dee perched on the edge of her seat and brazenly disregarded Bick’s advice. “Mr. Hoover, my name is Dee Doherty, and these are my colleagues, Bickford Haycock and Jay Harding. We need to speak with you about a serious matter of national security. We thought it was urgent enough to enlist Bobby Kennedy, but Jay said we probably couldn’t gain access to the White House, so, um . . .” she hesitated at his venomous glare “. . . we’re here.”

  Bick clamped a hand over his eyes. Why wouldn’t she listen?

  Sensing the hostile vibe, Jay intervened. “Well, what Dee is trying to say is that we came to you because you are a powerful man, a man with tremendous influence who fights to protect the citizens of these United States of America. We implore you, as the only person in the country who can prevent a catastrophe of mammoth proportions, to help. I mean, you wouldn’t believe the enormity of the impending doom. The repercussions will be beyond comprehension.”

  Hoover’s mouth twisted.

  “Thank you, Jay.” Bick cocked his head to one side, attempting to present himself as the sane, intelligent member of the group. “Mr. Hoover, you are no doubt busy, so we will get right to the point.”

  “In that case”—Hoover tipped his chair back and propped his feet on the desk—“spit it out.”

  “It’s the president.” Bick stood up to build suspense. “His life is in grave danger.”

  “I’m certain you are mistaken, sir.” Hoover clasped his hands across his burgeoning gut. “Kennedy is the most well-protected man in the free world.”

  “That may be true in theory.” Bick shook his head. “But in practice . . .”

  Dee barreled forth. “The trespassers—”

  “Hut!” Bick lifted his index finger to hush her.

  “But they’re KG—”

  “Hut!”

  “Yes, I heard about your paranoid fascination with those two men. I assure you it is a wasted effort. Trust me, they are nobodies.”

  Jay flung his arms out wide. “They’re not nobodies! They’re—”

  “Hut!” Bick muted Jay. “Please forgive my associates. They are a bit overexcited about the evidence we have to share with you.”

  “Evidence?”

  “J. Edgar!” Tolson’s irritating voice interjected like a shrill cat. “We’re getting nowhere with this nonsense. Allow me to escort them to a holding cell.”

  “Wait!” Bick bet all his chips at once. “You can hold us or arrest us or whatever you want. However, first we request one minute to show you what will transpire. Dee?”

  She dug into her shoulder tote and plucked out her trump card—an eight-millimeter spool of film. She licked her lips and smiled. “Do you happen to have a movie projector?”

  9:00 PM – CST

  Mrs. Paine was at loose ends. Silence engulfed the residence at 2515 West Fifth Street in Irving. Both the Paine and Oswald children had been put to bed. Marina was puttering about, folding laundry. The visiting Lee Harvey Oswald had retired early, unusual for the night owl who tended to stay up late watching movies on television.

  Despite the peaceful calm, Mrs. Paine could find no solace. She ambled through the kitchen to the door leading to the garage. Funny, the single bulb hanging from the ceiling was glowing. Lee must have left the light on. Mrs. Paine sighed.

  With limited space in the cozy ranch home, the garage had become more of a storage room than a vehicle parking spot. She threaded her way past a table saw and drill press left behind by her estranged husband. Various boxes of her boarder’s possessions littered the concrete floor.

  Mrs. Paine stepped over a rolled-up green and brown blanket on the floor, ostensibly belonging to the Oswalds. Sitting down in front of a squat freezer unit, she gathered up the chunks of wood she’d cut into cubes. She dipped a brush into a pot of shellac and began to paint, transforming them into alphabet blocks for Lynn and Christopher. She enjoyed crafting toys with her own hands for the benefit of her kids.

  Mrs. Paine suppressed a shiver in the unheated garage. When the time travelers were finished with their task, they would be back to guard the house. An extra precaution, they said. She silently prayed the team would indeed be able to thwart the KGB again.

  Tonight would be a crucial juncture in the quest to save Jackie K.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1963

  9:30 PM – CST

  10:30 PM – EST

  “That went remarkably well.” At the Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge in DC, Bick fumbled with a bulky, diamond-shaped keychain and unlocked the door. He ushered Dee and Jay into room 419, one of two standard accommodations they had booked for the night. He gave his voice a wry inflection. “Considering.”

  Dee bounded in and tossed her carryall bag onto a chest of drawers, beaming. “I knew the Zapruder film would convince him we were telling the truth. And that we’re from the future. Did you see his expression when he realized he was witnessing an episode that hadn’t happened yet? His froggy eyes nearly popped out of his head.”

  “Yeah, you know in hindsight, maybe we should have tried the same tactic on Officer Tippit and Mrs. Paine.” Jay settled onto the cheesy flowered coverlet on one of the stock twin beds found in twentieth century motels. “But it might have been difficult to get J.D. to come with us to see a film clip. After all, he was working. And Mrs. Paine would have kicked us out immediately if we had arrived with an eight-millimeter projector. That would have been beyond weird.” He trac
ed the pattern of the mottled bedspread with an index finger. “In the end, I guess we’re lucky Hoover’s ego motivated him to meet with us. Further that he even listened to us after the way you insulted him.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dee paused from drawing the curtains, which according to some unwritten rule matched the floral print on the beds. “I was polite!”

  Bick snapped open his travel case. “As they say, sometimes you attract more bees with honey.”

  “I can’t imagine how you get your sources to reveal their secrets.” Jay stretched out lengthwise and winced at the cheap detergent odor wafting from the pillows. “Didn’t they teach you, um, diplomacy in journalism school?”

  Dee peered out the window. From their location at 2601 Virginia Avenue Northwest, the Washington Monument was down the street and sharply to the left, causing her to crane her neck. Her temper blazed. “I know what I’m doing. This entire scenario is beyond diplomacy. It’s life or death! We needed action and I got it.”

  “Well, no problem anymore. Mission accomplished.” Bick spoke evenly, trying to placate Dee. “Hoover’s on our side. A man in power has unlimited resources.” He stared, unfocused, at his sixties shaving kit and then shook himself. A shower and shave would be most welcome.

  “Darn right!” Dee’s anger evaporated, and she catapulted herself onto the second bed, bouncing its springs. “Jay, you told the others we’d be staying here, didn’t you?” She observed his emphatic nod. “Great! Then they’ll call us when they’re done. We’ve got our bases covered from both angles. I can’t wait to tell them we’ve enlisted J. Edgar Hoover to help.”

  11:30 PM – CST

  J.D. Tippit stood in front of a sturdy wooden door. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. He listened intently.

  Without trepidation, J.D. opened the door and entered. The floor instantly gave way. In freefall, he desperately jerked both arms and both legs to gain traction.

  He woke up flat on his back, panting. As he waited for his heart rate to return to normal, he looked to make sure his wife was still sleeping. Thank goodness.

  That was a helluva dream. He closed his eyes, trying to reconstruct the sequence. The realization dawned that the knocking sound persisted. Apparently, he’d worked the sound into his dream. He squinted at the nightstand clock. 11:30 pm. Full mental acuity resumed in a flash.

  J.D. had wanted to assist the time travelers as they dealt with the KGB, but he couldn’t abandon his police tour or family obligations. Maybe they had come with news. He donned clothes and hurried to the front door.

  Flinging it wide, he was stunned to see the Irving housewife, Mrs. Paine.

  “What’s going on? Why are you here?” The police officer stepped into the brisk November air and twisted from side to side, searching past her.

  “I’m frantic with worry.” Mrs. Paine jogged her hands up and down. “You know how they’ve been taking turns guarding my house? Well, they promised they’d be back to check on me when they finished. As a precaution, you see. They never came back.”

  “They were supposed to contact me, too.”

  “I fear something terrible has happened.”

  “I think y’all are right.” J.D. ran his fingers down his stubble. “I better find out what’s going on. You go home, and I’ll call you as soon as I learn something.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Mrs. Paine switched on her maternal chastising tone. “I’m coming with you.”

  11:45 PM – CST

  At his Pepsi client’s reception in Dallas, Richard M. Nixon bent over the bar and splashed more whiskey into his half-full crystal tumbler. He held up the decanter in an offering gesture to the gentleman standing next to him. The man declined.

  Nixon studied the teetotaler. They’d been introduced at the beginning of the party, but he couldn’t remember the name. Was he a Pepsi bigwig? Or a political backer?

  Ignoring the scrutiny, the man congratulated the former vice president on his decision to bow out of public service. It was the correct move for a statesman who’d lost two major elections in a row. After all, since losing the presidency to Kennedy in ’60, Nixon hadn’t even won the governorship of his home state of California in ’62. He admired a politician who knew when to quit.

  Nixon labored to process the information while shutting out the revelry of the other guests. The man smiled at him, but surely that was an insult. His mind fixated on the greater injustice. “Are you kidding me? I should have beat JFK! It was the narrowest margin in history, with a gap of barely a tenth of a percent. In fact, if they’d recounted the votes accurately after the court challenge, I would be president right now.” He stuck out his chin. “Show some respect.”

  The partygoer gazed at him quizzically.

  “And look what happened.” Nixon’s face flushed. “Kennedy is failing. His approval ratings continue to nosedive. Don’t you read the papers? The American people are not happy with their president.”

  The man countered that the electorate didn’t matter. What mattered were the men with power. Like the supporters of the military industrial complex mingling among them. They had gambled on Nixon in ’60 and lost. Now, they stood behind JFK and banked on the profit that would result from his increase in military spending. He pointed to the troops amassing in Vietnam—sixteen thousand and climbing. With that in Kennedy’s favor, his second term would be assured.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Nixon wobbled closer. “JFK doesn’t stand a chance in ’64. At this very moment, he’s trying to drum up votes here in Texas, taking advantage of Johnson’s birthplace legacy. But he has no loyalty. Come January, he’ll drop LBJ from the ticket like a sack of manure. He’ll sign on someone with more clout in more states. However, the strategy will backfire. Mark my words; the citizens will see right through him.”

  Endeavoring to focus on the man, Nixon paused for a reaction, but none was forthcoming. “He doesn’t deserve to be Commander in Chief. Think about it! What kind of a World War II Naval officer gets his PT Boat run over by a bumbering . . . I mean lumbering Japanese destroyer?” He shook his head at the insanity. “Lieutenant Kennedy’s boat sank in the Solomon Islands, and two servicemen died in the incident. He would have been court-martialed if not for his rich, bootlegging, politically influential father. He has no character.”

  Nixon swirled his drink, dismayed when a dollop sloshed onto the floor. He glanced up, hoping his companion hadn’t noticed. The man grinned. So what? Plenty of whiskey remained and he was making an important point. “The world would be better off without John F. Kennedy.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

  2:00 AM – CST

  “That’s it. They’re definitely being held captive.” From a recessed entrance halfway down Commerce Street, J.D. watched the bouncer lock the front door of the Carousel. “Closing time. 2:00 am. Our proof is that their cars are parked outside. I’m betting the Russians imprisoned them in the meeting room.” He didn’t vocalize his worst suspicions—that the KGB had already executed the team.

  Mrs. Paine got up from the stoop. She whisked her hands over the rear of her calf-length pants to swipe away the gravel and dirt. “Let’s go.” She took off.

  J.D. hastened to catch up. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Well, there’s only one way in now, right?”

  The cop huffed an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. But let me go first, will ya?”

  They wended their way to Field Street to access the dark alley behind the club. As soon as they arrived, the bold housewife burst into a sprint.

  “Hey!”

  She took a gazelle-like leap toward the fire escape, attempting to catch hold of the ladder. Falling short, she landed hard, stumbled, and almost crashed into the building.

  J.D. ran over and steadied her. “Are you crazy?”

  “No, I can do this.” Mrs. Paine was breathing heavily from exertion. “Why do you think I wore my pedal pushers?” She pointed at her tapered
pants.

  “Not on my watch. Step aside.” From a standing position beneath the ladder, the patrolman bent his legs and sprang up. Failing to grab hold, he tried again. And again.

  “I think you should—”

  “Quiet!” Although he cut her off, J.D. saw the wisdom in Mrs. Paine’s approach. He retreated and then raced forward, hoping momentum would improve his altitude. Triumph! He pulled the bar with him as he slammed down onto the pavement. The rusty pulleys squawked in protest.

  He glanced around to ensure nobody had heard. Satisfied, he turned to his partner in crime. “Thank you for your assistance, ma’am, but this is far enough. It’s best if you stay put.”

  She nodded with an uncharacteristic air of contriteness. “I understand what’s best, Officer.”

  Tippit grunted his acknowledgment and began to deftly climb. Reaching the landing, he drew a pocketknife from his trousers and wedged it between the window and the jam. He twisted and turned the instrument to create enough of a gap to accommodate his thick fingers. A few seconds later, the frame suddenly slid open.

  J.D. was scandalized to see a dainty hand pushing it up. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

  “And I told you I knew what was best.” Mrs. Paine smiled wickedly.

  “You’re just not equipped to take orders, are you? Come on.” J.D. hoisted himself over the sill into the men’s room and then guided her through. Ignoring the foul stench of stale urine, he crept to the door to assess the situation.

  Before he had a chance to crack it open, Mrs. Paine barged in front. “Follow my lead.”

  “Wait! They already murdered you once, remember?”

  She charged through the door into the hallway and headed toward the main venue—away from the meeting room.

  Cold terror flooded the lawman. Her action, although valiant, also qualified as foolhardy; she was going to get herself killed. He wielded his gun in a double-handed cop grip, preparing to defend her with his life.