The Day Kennedy Was Shot

by Jim Bishop

  His eyes lingered on her face a moment. It was beautiful and empty of expression. It was the face he had missed when the motorcade went by. Father Huber stepped toward the body. The floor was slippery with blood. He peeled the sheet back from the head to the bottom of the nose. The eyelids were closed. For the first time he thought of the sheet covering the head, the closed eyelids, the doctors against the rear of the room. Father Huber had seen his first live President an hour ago. Now he was staring at his first dead one.

  The face appeared to be tan and peaceful. In Latin, Father Huber said: “I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” The priest lifted his eyes and saw that a large part of the back of the head was missing. The violence of it brought its own compensation: this man died instantly; he felt no pain. Roman Catholics have always concerned themselves with the rhetorical question of the soul leaving the body. Does it leave at the moment of death? Or does it remain a few minutes? What is death? Is it the moment the heart stops, even though other organs—liver, bladder, intestines, brain—may go on in reduced function until they stop?

  The Church maintains that the sacrament of Extreme Unction is not valid if the soul has departed. The thumb of the priest dipped into holy oil and traced the sign of the cross on John F. Kennedy’s forehead. “Through this holy anointing,” he said softly, “may God forgive you whatever sins you may have committed. Amen.” With the power he had, Father Huber gave the departed Chief of State a special blessing: “I,” he said, louder and in English, “by the faculty granted to me by the Apostolic See, grant to you a plenary indulgence and remission of all sins and I bless you. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” The priest remained standing because, had he knelt in the blood on the floor, the body on the cart would have been too high for him. Mrs. Kennedy and Admiral Burkley and Father Thompson stood, their voices repeating part of the prayers.

  Someone said, “Please pray, Father,” so he began to recite the prayers for the dying, although this was pointless. However, it gave the widow and some doctors an opportunity to respond in English, to be a party to the pious adieu, and so he went through the Lord’s Prayer, the Hail Mary, and the “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord . . .” Then he tapped the oily forehead with cotton, placed the sheet back over the head, and turned to leave, as depressed as he could remember. Mrs. Kennedy bent over the corpse, as though kissing her husband. She hurried after Father Huber and took his arm.

  “Father,” she said, obviously frightened, “do you think the sacraments had effect?” “Oh yes,” he said. “Yes indeed.” Out in the hall, where the brown metal chair still waited for her, the once dauntless spirit of the woman was crushed by the finality of death. “Father,” she implored, “please pray for Jack.” Father Huber agreed. He had already decided to have a Solemn Requiem Mass in his church that evening, before the President’s body could return to Washington.

  Two Secret Service men took the priest by the arms. “Father,” one of them said, “you don’t know anything.” He understood. No one pretended to know why the death had been kept secret this long, but he promised not to tell. As he and Father Thompson emerged into sunshine, walking toward their parked car, the reporters engulfed them. “Is he dead?” “What time did he die?” “Tell us what he looked like.” “Who was the doctor who took care of him?” “Did Mrs. Kennedy say anything?” Father Huber rubbed his mouth and begged God’s forgiveness. “He was unconscious,” he said, and hurried into the car.

  The voice on Channel One, that of Sergeant G. D. Henslee, carried an unusual pitch of excitement: “Attention all squads,” it said. “Attention all squads. At Elm and Houston reported to be an unknown white male, approximately thirty, slender build, height five feet ten inches, weight 165 pounds, reported to be armed with what is believed to be a thirty-caliber rifle. Attention all squads, the suspect is believed to be a white male . . .” Henslee repeated the description slowly. All over the city, men in prowl cars repeated it to themselves or took notes.

  “No further description or information at this time,” he said. “12:45 KKB-364, Dallas.” An unknown voice came on: “What is he wanted for?” Dispatcher Hulse replied: “Signal nineteen (shooting) involving the President.” A great deal had occurred within the span of fifteen minutes and Henslee’s announcement that there was a suspect lifted the morale of the men patrolling the far reaches of the city. A policeman can, in an emergency, move up closer to the scene. In Dallas, it is the custom not to report these moves because it would clutter the radio channel with men moving out of assigned areas.

  John Tippit, cruising the quiet streets of Fruitdale in area 78, swung his car northward to Area 109 and parked at Eighth Street and the Corinth Street viaduct. This was solid thinking on Tippit’s part because he had effectively sealed off one of the seven ways of getting out of downtown Dallas to the south. He remained at the last street in town before one crosses the Trinity River. Then, hearing no additional alarms, he turned west into the big Oak Cliff section. He was now in Patrol Area 109, which embraced Zangs, Beckley, and the Houston Street viaduct.

  He put his car into low gear and cruised the curbs.

  The hiatus arrived. The energies of the protagonists flagged. The fight was lost; the battle was over; there was time to think of next things next. In the little corridor between trauma rooms, William Greer stood guard over Mrs. Kennedy as Clint Hill phoned the White House. He held the wire open. The operator cut in. “The Attorney General’s office wants to speak to you.” A small, tense voice came on. “What happened, Clint?” “There has been an accident.” “How is the President?” Hill knew the President was dead. “The situation is bad,” he said, “we’ll get back to you.” Mrs. Kennedy sat again on the brown chair. Her grief was consumed in flames of bitterness. Doris Nelson asked her to wash, and Mrs. Kennedy said “No.” Someone else asked her, and she looked at the bloody gloves, the soaked skirt, the mixture of brain and blood on the stockings and said: “No. I want them to see what they have done.”

  Who is they? The world? The nation? The city of Dallas? A young man now walking back to a rooming house? Who is they? Within the grief, there was rancor. The Secret Service could have summoned a change of clothes from Air Force One. The hospital was less than two miles from the airport. She would not change, no matter who suggested it. The world was about to get a shocking view of the defenseless widow, bedraggled, bereft, bloodied all day and all night so that they could see what they had done.

  For a moment, she roused herself and looked at Mrs. Connally. The eyes of the two women met. Mrs. Kennedy asked softly how the Governor was doing. The hard stare was in the eyes of Mrs. Connally. “He’ll be all right.” Four words. No more. She did not ask how the President was—she knew. Nor was there any sympathy to offer, not even a hand clasp. “He’ll be all right.”

  In spite of the roars of pain, Governor John Connally did well. Dr. Jackie Hunt attended him; so did Dr. Duke; others hurried into Trauma Two and, on orders, some left quickly for additional equipment. The clothes were cut away and the work of restoring the patient from the ashen skin of shock to a pink of resistance began. The room was less disorderly than the other; the procedures were buttressed by optimism. This one was going to live.

  There were cutdowns and X-rays and sutures and the injection of intravenous fluids. The cries of the Governor were encouraging. He was neurologically alert; he could feel pain and could protest. The doctors agreed that, after the first emergency procedures, Governor Connally should be taken upstairs to an operating theatre. Dr. Giesecke made the arrangements and hurried back to help with the cart.

  The duty of all doctors in both trauma rooms was to determine the extent of injury and to repair and preserve life. None were detectives; none were acting as pathologists. Each, in his work, had his individual opinions of the wounds he saw, but they would have no weight in law. Most doctors who saw Kennedy’s head wound thought that it came from the rear. The s
ame doctors, studying the exit wound in the neck, thought the bullet came from the front. The Governor might have been hit at least twice: once through the back along the frame of the fifth rib, which was partially shattered; once in the wrist.

  The doctors at Parkland stuck to their primary province, the preservation of life and the restoration of health. Carrico and Clark remained in Trauma One for a few moments. Professionally, they had no right to feel depressed, but they had lost a President and they had seen the stricken face of his widow. They could have examined the body at their leisure, but as Carrico said: “No one had the heart.” The State of Texas, under law, must perform an autopsy in all homicides. They ordered Miss Hinchcliffe to clean up the body.

  The police herded the School Book Depository employees on the ground floor, back between the elevators and the order box. Roy Truly was at a trot, trying to assist by rounding them up and counting them off. Some police were on the roof and these men established that the wall was too high for anyone to fire over it and down. The pigeons, fatigued from taking wing as shots were fired and as police popped out onto the roof, were still circling the plaza. Other policemen were on other floors, looking up among the sprinkler pipes, delving between book cartons.

  Truly told the police to check off the name of Charles Givens. He was a Negro employee who was absent. The manager walked around, looking at faces, and he said: “Where is Lee?” Police were taking names and addresses, and no one turned when he asked the question. The foreman, William Shelley, was asked the question: “Have you seen Lee around lately?” and Shelley said no. The manager did not want to get an innocent employee in trouble, so he asked his boss, Mr. Campbell, about it. “I have a boy over here missing,” he said. “I don’t know whether to report it.” Campbell threw the question back at Truly. “What do you think?” he said. Truly picked up a phone and got the warehouse. He asked for the Oswald address and telephone number. The warehouse gave him Fifth Street in Irving and Mrs. Paine’s telephone number.

  The manager was aware that “Lee” might not be involved in any trouble, but he relayed the “missing” data to Deputy Chief Lumpkin, who took Truly upstairs to Captain Fritz. The Homicide division was fine-combing the sixth floor. Fritz, still wearing his cowboy hat, said: “What is it, Mr. Truly?” The name Lee Harvey Oswald was given to him as missing. “Thank you, Mr. Truly,” the captain said. “We will take care of it.”

  At the little house in Irving, Mrs. Paine was making lunch for the children while Mrs. Oswald sat in the living room facing the television set. Ruth could hear the commentary in the kitchen, and kept shouting brief Russian translations. When the shooting was related, Mrs. Paine wiped her hands and came into the living room. The news was as incredible as it was in homes all over the world. As soon as it was verified, Marina went into her bedroom and wept. The unexpected violence, the possible loss of a Chief of State so near home developed into an emotional wrench.

  A few minutes later, Marina came into the living room, wiping her eyes, holding the infant. “By the way,” Mrs. Paine said, translating as she listened, “they fired from the building where Lee works.” For a moment, Mrs. Oswald’s heart seemed to stop. Without a word, she put the baby on a couch and went through the kitchen into the garage. She switched on the overhead garage light and started to breathe again. The blanket roll where her husband kept his rifle was intact. She could see the contours of a long object inside. For Marina, it was a great relief.

  When she returned to the house, Mrs. Paine was placing candles on a table and lighting them. “Is that a way of praying?” Marina asked. Her friend nodded. “Yes,” she said. “My own way.” Did Mrs. Oswald think of FBI Agent James Hosty? She didn’t like this man; she felt that his sporadic visits to Irving were badgering. Her husband had done nothing wrong. Sometimes, when the FBI man arrived, Lee was not at home and Marina resented the sly questions coming from the calm man with the pencil and paper, then listening to Ruth’s translations, then replying curtly in Russian, and hearing Ruth retranslate to English and watching the man write something.

  Hosty was eating lunch downtown. He had watched the motorcade go by and had felt the pleasure of seeing an obviously delighted President. A waitress came to his table, scribbling the bill on a pad, and said: “Just came over the radio. The President and the Vice-President has been shot.” James Hosty didn’t wait for verification. He stopped eating, paid his check, and dogtrotted back to the Sante Fe Building, one block away.

  He was ordered out again, told to get in his car and listen for radio instructions. The seconds on the clock were both precious and hectic. Hosty was ordered to Parkland. As he arrived, the radio ordered him to return to the office at once. He was out of breath when his supervisor saw him come into the outer office. He was told to go over the Dallas files carefully and see if he could develop any possible leads in the assassination.

  Jim Hosty started on the file immediately. The name Oswald never came to mind.

  At Idlewild Airport, in New York, a group of reporters and photographers had been waiting for the American Airlines plane to come back off the landing ramp. It waddled back up the apron strip, whistling like a banshee, and, after some delay, pulled up to its blocks. The ramps were adjusted and passengers disembarked from Dallas. Among them was the briefcase-swinging former Vice-President of the United States, Richard Nixon.

  He had a lucrative law practice; he was an officer of a soft-drink corporation. He had been close to the seat of power in Washington once, and he was young enough to think that he would live down the narrow defeat by Kennedy in 1960 and try again. His personal plans were to assist the Republican Party in 1964 by assisting in the nomination of someone else—preferably Barry Goldwater of Arizona—to oppose Kennedy. At the same time, Nixon would run against Pat Brown of California for the post of Governor. If Nixon won his race and Kennedy won his against Goldwater, then Nixon would reach for the presidency again in 1968.

  His mood was to keep his political future alive, but not to the point of being nominated in 1964.* As he got off the plane, he thought that he would give “the boys” basically the same interview he had granted to the reporters in Dallas. He wore his smile of camaraderie, related a few facetious opinions about John F. Kennedy and the Kennedy administration, and closed on a note of division. “The President may have to drop Johnson as his running mate,” he said. “In the fight for civil rights, Lyndon Johnson has become a liability to the ticket. He may be more of a hindrance than an asset.”

  Nixon posed for a few pictures, then kept walking, the microphones under his nose. He walked out front, waved good-bye and got into a taxicab. He was barely out of the airport when one of the reporters got a message: “The President has been shot in Dallas.”

  President Kennedy’s death was a secret. It was known to a select few, such as Jerry Behn, in the White House fifteen hundred miles away. It was not known to Lyndon Johnson, thirty-five feet away. A brace of doctors and a few nurses knew it. The Secret Service agents whispered the information to each other. In the corridor, Chief Curry saw Stephen Landrigan and said bluntly: “Is he dead?” The press relations man said: “Yes, chief. He’s dead.”

  A few minutes before, Kenneth O’Donnell had peered inside the drapes of the small cubicle in which Lyndon Johnson and Mrs. Johnson huddled on orders of the Secret Service and said: “It looks bad. Perhaps fatal. I’ll keep you informed.” O’Donnell was issuing the orders. The chieftain had fallen; the palace guard took charge. O’Donnell saw Clint Hill. “Order a casket,” he whispered. “Find some place nearby. We want to take him back to Washington.”

  Clint Hill found Landrigan. He said he needed counsel on the matter of a casket for the President. The press man said that Oneal was reliable and nearby on Oak Lawn. They couldn’t get an outside line. In time, they went upstairs to the office of C. Jack Price, administrator of the hospital, and used his private line. Steve dialed LA 6–5221. He got Mr. Vernon B. Oneal Sr. and turned the phone over to Hill. “This is the Secret Service
calling from Parkland Hospital,” Mrs. Kennedy’s bodyguard said. “Please select the best casket you have and put it in a coach and arrange for police escort and get it here as quickly as you can.” He listened. “Yes,” Hill said, “it is for the President of the United States.”

  He handed the phone back to Landrigan, who talked to Mr. Oneal. “Wait a minute,” said the press agent. Hill was leaving the office. “He wants to know what kind of a casket you want.” Hill was still walking. “Tell him to send the best he has and to send it right away.” Landrigan relayed the information, and Mr. Oneal started to say he had a bronze casket for $3,900, but he was talking to a dead phone.

  Downstairs, Trauma One was a quiet room. Nurse Margaret Hinchcliffe was given a depressing assignment. She was told to wash the President’s body and prepare it for travel. Miss Hinchcliffe got the assistance of Nurse Bowron and Orderly David Sanders. All of the clothing, sheared off, was placed in a paper bag and given to the Secret Service. In the jacket pocket was a Mass card given by Monsignor Wolf in Fort Worth four hours ago. It was for the health of the President and his family. Nurse Bowron forgot to include the watch she had in her pocket.

  The body was sponged carefully, the legs and arms still pliant. The cart drapes on the right side were heavy with brain matter. This was cleaned up and the edges of the massive wound in the head were wiped. The brown hair was slicked back. The body was lifted off the carriage and white sheets were placed underneath. Enough loose material was allowed to hang off the left side so that, when the President was placed in the box, his head and neck wounds would not soil the white satin interior.

  In the hall outside, O’Donnell and the Secret Service and Mrs. Kennedy conferred. Malcolm Kilduff was told he would have to announce the death. He wanted to know the time, the exact time. Mrs. Kennedy and O’Donnell wanted to know what time it was now. It was a minute or two before 1 P.M. The widow wanted the time of death to come after the time the priest had given her husband conditional absolution. The heads began to nod. Dr. Malcolm Perry was called. He was asked if 1 P.M. would be all right. Yes, that would be all right. The death certificate would so state.