FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963
1:22 PM – CST
Ted Callaway, the used-car salesman, arrived at Tenth and Patton a few minutes after the shooting, but chaos had overtaken the scene of the crime. Witnesses and curious bystanders milled about in confusion, speaking over each other to be heard.
Callaway had seen the officer lying motionless in the road, and realized he’d been shot in the head. Not knowing if anybody had reported it, he hustled over to the squad car and got on the police radio. He felt honor-bound to call them and let them know a policeman had been shot and he might be dead.
At that moment, William Scoggins ran over to the intersection from his cab as sirens wailed from an approaching ambulance. It had taken some doing to get through to his garage and tell them about the shooting. He’d had to holler three or four times to get his dispatcher’s attention before they went to talking to him. He sure didn’t have any way of knowing if the ambulance came as a result of his call.
Scoggins listened to Callaway—a person he had never met—shouting on the police radio that a patrolman had been shot, as a number of people come running over from everywhere. He saw Callaway pick up the officer’s service revolver resting partly underneath the body; the cop had apparently reached for it to defend himself before he fell. The stranger placed the gun on the hood of the blue and white cruiser and then helped carry the stretcher bearing the lifeless lawman to the waiting ambulance. The taxi driver came to a hasty conclusion. This guy must be a kind of police. Secret Service or something. He had to be connected with the Police Department in some way.
Finished assisting the emergency workers with the body, Callaway seethed with anger that an officer of the law had been mercilessly gunned down in his own neighborhood. He could not sit still while an assassin ran amok in Dallas. He retrieved the officer’s weapon and turned to the cabbie. “You saw the guy, didn’t you?”
A thrill of mixed-up excitement pulsed through Scoggins. “Yes.”
“If he is going up Jefferson, he can’t be very far. Let’s see if we can find him.”
The two strangers hopped into Scoggins’s nearby taxi and took off in a futile attempt to pursue the cop killer.
1:35 PM – CST
Inside Hardy’s Shoe Store at 213 West Jefferson Boulevard, twenty-two-year-old manager Johnny Calvin Brewer had been listening to a transistor radio when they broke in with the bulletin that the president had been shot. Horror struck, Johnny turned up the volume as the broadcasters kept reconstructing what had happened and what they had heard. They didn’t have all the facts, but kept repeating them mostly. One of the Secret Service men said the president had died, but the press admitted it was just a rumor. Then came the shocking news that a patrolman had also been shot in Oak Cliff, in the vicinity of the store. As if on cue, a police siren squealed along East Jefferson coming toward West Jefferson.
Agitated by the disturbing story, Johnny straightened his narrow tie and smoothed his dark blue suit lapels. From behind the counter, he peered out of the solid glass doors and saw a man step into the vestibule in front of the store. It was a recessed expanse of terrazzo extending fifteen feet between the sidewalk and the front door, surrounded on both sides by show windows filled with shoes. A little guy in comparison to Johnny’s six-foot, three-inch frame, the brown-haired suspect wore a brown sports shirt with a couple of buttons undone and the tail hanging out. He stood there staring with his back to the street as the sirens grew louder. He looked funny. His hair was sort of messed up, and he looked like he’d been running. He looked scared. What was he afraid of?
The man lurking in front of Hardy’s peeked over his shoulder back toward the street. He sure acted like he was hiding from the cops. Johnny didn’t like this; not one bit.
1:36 PM – CST
Iggy and Dee watched helplessly as a squad car abruptly made a U-turn at Zang Boulevard and sped away, lights flashing and sirens blaring. With no chance to flag it down, their hope of salvation dissipated like a wisp of vapor.
Contrary to Iggy’s logic, Oswald had not followed them along Denver. He had gone straight down Patton Avenue and chased them west along Jefferson in a deadly game of cat and mouse. He’d mysteriously disappeared when the Dallas PD vehicle had approached.
“We have to get off this street before Oswald resurfaces.” Iggy desperately scrutinized the businesses along the wide thoroughfare.
Dee turned around. They were standing in front of a retail establishment called Thomsen Furniture Mart. “In here!”
Iggy glanced through the plate glass windows covered in Sale! signs. She observed a showroom filled with cheap dinettes and early American sofas. “No, we’d be too exposed in there. Let’s go next door.” She bobbed her head upward.
Dee trained her eyes on what she thought would be another storefront. Curving out in a half-moon from the upper facade were large blue letters in three-dimensional, red and yellow blocky stars spelling TEXAS. An angled marquis jutted out below, with bold red letters forming three rows of words: Cry of Battle / Van Heflin / War is Hell. The Texas Theater was playing a double feature with actor Van Heflin starring in the first film.
They hurried to the freestanding ticket booth within the inset entrance of the movie house. Iggy shoved a couple of dollar bills through the slot to pay the ninety-cent admission price each. “Two tickets, please.”
The cashier rooted out change from the drawer with excruciating slowness. “Y’all know the picture already started?”
“Yes, it’s fine.” Iggy wanted to wrest the tickets from her hand. “Hurry up!”
The woman glared as she doled out the passes with a couple of dimes. “Uh huh.”
Iggy and Dee dashed through the right-hand pair of twin double doors, praying they would be safe from the madman.
1:38 PM – CST
About an hour before, Mrs. Paine had been preparing lunch when the announcement came over the television that the president had been shot. The revelation blasted her senses like a bolt of lightning. What had happened to the time travelers after their late-night encounter?
Thinking JFK might need spiritual help, Mrs. Paine had gotten out some candles and lit them. Also upset, her little girl lit another.
Marina Oswald noticed her actions. “Is that a way of praying?”
Mrs. Paine had nodded. “Yes, it is, just in my own way.”
Now, Mrs. Paine and Marina huddled together on the sofa, eyes transfixed on the CBS broadcast from New York.
Venerated reporter, Walter Cronkite, somberly chronicled the events. He sat at his desk in a white shirt and dark tie, but without his usual suit jacket. At 1:38 pm, an editor handed him a bulletin from the newsroom’s Teletype machine. Cronkite read, “From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official. President Kennedy died”—Cronkite removed his black horn-rimmed glasses, signifying his respect—“at one pm Central Standard Time”—he studied the wall clock for confirmation—“two o’clock Eastern Standard Time, some thirty-eight minutes ago.”
Mrs. Paine put her hand over her mouth. My God, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen. Marina tugged at her sleeve, begging her to translate. Ruth held her housemate’s hand tightly, but did not reply.
On TV, the anchor replaced his glasses and paused, seemingly overcome with grief. He forged on, “Vice President Johnson has left the hospital in Dallas, but we do not know to where he has proceeded. Presumably, he will be taking the oath of office shortly and become the thirty-sixth president of the United States.”
Mrs. Paine cobbled together a sparse sentence in Russian, explaining what had happened.
Marina replied in her native tongue, “What a terrible thing this is for Mrs. Kennedy and for the two children. Now the two children will have to grow up without the father.”
Despondent over the twisted turn of events, Mrs. Paine began to cry. She spared a glimpse at her friend to commiserate. Marina didn’t seem to be any more upset than she would be upon hearing about any remarkable news item. Mrs. Paine felt a surge of anger as
she studied her reaction.
Marina did not actually cry, but she appeared to be physically ill.
1:40 PM – CST
Seated in the Texas Theater, Dee trembled as a burning sensation stung at the corner of her eyes. The tears came suddenly, sliding down her cheeks, one after the other. Granddad was gone. She couldn’t bear to let the enormity sink in; it was all her fault. On the silver screen at the front, a battle raged in the war-themed attraction. Engrossed in her thoughts, she hardly noticed the brutal images.
Iggy sat next to her on high alert, blotting out the gunfire and explosions coming from the elaborate sound system. The theater’s vintage décor exuded the elegant charm of the 1930s, rather than the plastic kitsch of the 1960s. With its vibrant designs, decorative wood railings, and star and cloud painted ceilings, one could imagine the venue in its heyday, with Clark Gable seducing starlets on the celluloid.
Three main aisles separated four sections of seating, which were sparsely populated in the middle of the afternoon. They had chosen a spot about halfway down the center right section, facing the stage. The aisles inclined directly into a lobby that doubled as a concession area, with no walls acting as barriers. Weighty black velvet curtains blocked any light that would have intruded from the other side.
Slouched low, Iggy swiveled back and forth to keep a vigilant watch over the three entranceways, making certain they hadn’t been followed. Hiding in the movie house had been an inspired idea, although it gave her ample opportunity to reflect. Thinking of their escalating failures, waves of regret rippled across Iggy from head to toe. She could offer little comfort to Dee, who wept silently beside her.
As Iggy continued her surveillance, she spied a man standing at the top of the right aisle. For a brief second he was backlit. But as he sidled in, bright footage from the film illuminated his face. Oswald. God help us!
The murderer sauntered over to the third row from the rear and took an aisle seat ten rows directly behind them.
Iggy hooked Dee’s elbow and yanked her down to the floor, easing up the theater-style retractable seat bottoms so they wouldn’t audibly snap closed.
Dee swiped at her wet cheeks, mouthing her words in a faint whisper. “Did he see us?”
“I’m not sure.” Iggy shrugged.
Thunk! Both women froze as a seat bottom popped up from Oswald’s direction—the very sound they had judiciously avoided. Without another word, they crawled toward their left, traversing across a filthy surface tacky from spilled soda pop and gritty from stray popcorn kernels.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963
1:43 PM – CST
Crouched low, Quin and Sera darted amongst the private aircraft at Love Field. When the limited cover ran out, they sprinted across the flat expanse to hide behind a cavernous maintenance hangar. Quin skidded to a stop and slammed his back against the outside wall.
Sera halted more gracefully and leaned her hands on her knees, panting. “Do you think they know we’re here?”
“Nah. The Ruskies figure they lost us, and they’re dead set on their great escape. Too bad they ain’t at that end of the airport.” He gestured toward the far side of the tarmac. Swarms of concerned citizens, reporters, and officials were loitering around Air Force One, waiting for the return of the presidential party, or what was left of it. “Dammit, but if it isn’t deserted down here.”
“At least nobody will notice us.” Sera considered the implications. She shook herself. “What are the subjects doing?”
Quin angled his head around the corner of the building. Kon and Viktor were hurrying forward with a purposeful gait, not bothering to conceal themselves. “Looks like they’re aiming for that painted-over Dakota.”
Sera crept up next to him to take a peek. “See? They’ve got to get out of town. I knew my hunch would pan out.” She gave him a dazzling smile.
Quin brightened. “Yes, one might even say it was . . .”
“Don’t!”
“Serendipity,” he finished with a grin.
Sera twisted up her heel and back-kicked him in the butt.
“Cut it out, will ya?” Quin’s playful laugh faded as he drew his Remington from the waistband of his jeans. “Come on. Let’s go get ‘em.”
“Who do you think you are? John Wayne? You want to swagger out there, guns ablazing?”
“We can’t give up now. We can’t let the bad guys go free!”
“I’m just saying if we waltz out there in the open, we’re nothing but target practice.”
“We’ll find a way. Never give up!” Quin planted his left leg out and pointed his revolver skyward in a hero pose. “Never surrender!”
1:44 PM – CST
On the Jefferson Avenue sidewalk, ticket seller Mrs. Julia Postal craned her neck west to see the squad car stopping up the street quite a ways. Something was about to bust. The police was racing back and forth. She turned around to find Johnny Brewer from the shoe store standing behind her.
“Mrs. Postal, did that man who was wearing a brown shirt buy a ticket from you?” Johnny politely asked the question, although he already knew the answer. He had followed the suspicious individual the sixty-yard distance from the shoe store, and would have seen the transaction.
“No, by golly, he didn’t!” Mrs. Postal remembered the man with a panicked look on his face who had come flying around the corner. He had scooted into the vestibule of the movie house with his shirttail kind of waving from the breeze. She turned toward the entrance, as if expecting to see the fellow. “He must have ducked in while I was facing the other way.”
“He hid down by Hardy’s, too.”
“Uh huh. Go in and see if you can see him. Isn’t too much people in there. Have Butch go with you and examine the exits and check real good. Check the lounges. I know he’s in there. Well, he just has to be.”
Johnny flung open the door and was hit with a blast of cool air and the stench of stale popcorn. He rushed inside to check with usher Warren Burroughs, known as Butch, who ran the concession stand in addition to tearing tickets.
Mrs. Postal stayed outside, wondering what it meant. She had worked in entertainment for most of her adult life, as a cashier and an office worker in connection with motion picture companies. This Sunday would mark eleven years at United Theaters, Inc. Previously, she’d even spent twelve years in California, employed by the famous ones: Paramount, Grauman’s, R.K.O., and the Wilshire. But she’d never seen the likes of a day like today, in her hometown.
A short time later, Johnny emerged to the sound of staccato machine-gun fire from the powerful movie speakers. He told Mrs. Postal they couldn’t locate the shifty man in the dark, but he couldn’t have escaped. He and Butch had checked the exit doors and found their rods snugly stuck in the floor. They both knew the rods could be reset only from the inside.
Mrs. Postal told Johnny the president had been assassinated. She commanded in a stern, maternal voice, “I don’t know if this is the man they want in there, but I summarize that he is running from them for some reason. I am going to call the police, and you and Butch go get on each of the exit doors and stay there.”
Impressed by her tone, Johnny complied.
The ticket lady picked up the phone receiver in her booth and squinted at an index card of emergency numbers. She quickly spun seven digits on the dial with the end of a pencil, and then twirled the cord around her finger while the phone rang. She hoped to be connected with the homicidal department.
“Yes, hello. My name is Julia Postal, and I am calling from the Texas Theater at 231 West Jefferson Boulevard. I know you men are very busy today, but I have a man in the theater who is running from you for some reason.”
She listened intently as the sergeant asked her why. “When the police drove by, he ducked into the theater.”
As the inquiry continued, she rolled her eyes. “No, he did not buy a ticket.” Why did everyone want to know that?
As he asked the next inane questio
n, her impatience mounted. “Uh huh. I know he’s in there because he couldn’t have gotten by me. Call it women’s intuition or whatever you like, but that man is in there. I heard on the radio that the president has been assassinated. I don’t know if this has anything to do with that or not, but he is running from you for something.”
The officer asked if the man fit the description of the suspect.
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard any description.” She sighed as she sensed his irritation. This youngster better not start in with the profuse language on her. After all, Mrs. Postal was only trying to help. “Let me tell you what he looks like and you take it from there. He has on this brown sports shirt and I can’t tell you what design it is, and medium height, ruddy-looking to me.”
She listened as the lawman said they’d be right over. “Uh huh.” She hung up, nodding in satisfaction.
1:46 PM – CST
The instant Viktor began boarding the retractable stairs to the nondescript aircraft, Sera and Quin circled around to approach from the tail section. They reasoned no one could see out of the back of a plane. They agreed on this strategy, although regarding the plan to deal with the KGB, they remained at an impasse.
The argument continued in strained whispers as they advanced on the Soviets’ getaway vehicle. Kon ascended the stairs directly behind Viktor.
“Don’t be an idiot, Quin. It’s the best solution. We slash the tires. Swish!” Sera swooped her hand through the air like a knife. “Simple. Easy. Effective. The authorities can sort it out later.”
“No! We gotta nail these guys. If we storm the plane now, we get ‘em by surprise.”
Sera shook her head vehemently. “You have no idea who’s in there or how many reinforcements they have. If we try an ambush . . .”
Kaboom! A gunshot resonated inside the fuselage, silencing her in mid-sentence.
Experiencing the same epiphany, both Sera and Quin bolted for the stairs, climbing two at a time, with Sera in the lead.
She catapulted through the open hatch, soaring into Kon and tackling him to the floor. A gun discharged. The bullet whizzed over their prone bodies.
Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy Page 35
