by Jim Bishop
The Secretary General of the United Nations made the solemn announcement in New York and asked the General Assembly to stand and observe one minute of silence. The American Ambassador, Adlai Stevenson, said, “We will bear the grief of his death until the day of ours.”
At Fort Myers in Virginia, Captain Richard C. Cloy had his state funeral section pretending to lift an American flag from a casket, folding it properly, and tendering it in triangular form to the next of kin. For a week, Cloy’s spit-and-polish group had been rehearsing a state funeral with caisson and three teams of horses. Until now, the rehearsals had been for ex-President Herbert Hoover, who was reputedly near death.* Within an hour of the tragedy in Dallas, Cloy’s ramrod-straight outfit was undergoing serious funeral rehearsals, this time for Kennedy.
There was a basket of baby clothes and they had to be hung. Marina Oswald was in the back yard at 2515 West Fifth Street, working with clothespins in her mouth. Mrs. Paine came out and used a second clothesline for her wash. “Kennedy is dead,” she said. There was no response from Marina. Mrs. Paine said that a television commentator said that the shots came from the School Book Depository on Elm Street. Ruth said she hadn’t known they had a place on Elm; she thought that Lee worked in the warehouse. Mrs. Oswald said nothing; she had been out in the garage and was satisfied that the rifle her husband owned was still inside the blanket. “It was not my crazy one.”
The district attorney of Dallas County hurried back to his office. Henry Wade was a big tough Texan who was never known to miss much except his office spittoon. He sat at his disorderly desk, thumbing through law books. His graying hair was damp as he studied precedents in the murder of federal officers. He was shocked to learn that, while it was a federal offense to threaten a President of the United States, it was not a federal offense to kill one. And yet, in the hope of ridding himself of all the complexities of the case, Wade phoned his friend, United States Attorney H. Barefoot Sanders, and said solemnly: “It’s your baby. . . .”
The flash had been filed. Now the press demanded the story. At Parkland Hospital they asked Wayne Hawkes and Steve Landrigan to summon the doctors who had attended the President. All over the United States and Europe, editors were calling airlines, booking seats for reporters and photographers who were headed for Dallas. Phone calls to the hospital, to police headquarters, to the White House, to District Attorney Henry Wade, to Love Field, to the Texas School Book Depository were coming in from all over the world, tumbling in their urgency so that operators from Australia were asking operators from Berlin to please get off the line. A communications mob scene began at 1:40 P.M. Central Standard Time and it would last for fifty hours.
On the stage in the nurses’ classroom stood Dr. Kemp Clark, Dr. Malcolm Perry, Dr. Charles Baxter, and Dr. McClelland. One hundred journalists with deadlines and no time for tact began firing questions. It was agreed that they would be answered by Dr. Clark and Dr. Perry. Neither had experience in these matters; neither had turned the body of the President over to examine it for wounds; neither had autopsy experience. The questions flashed from scores of strange faces; sometimes two or three were in air as the doctors tried to respond to one.
Clark and Perry at once began to sound poorly equipped. “Where did the bullets come from, doc?” “We don’t know.” “How many bullets?” “It is possible that there were one or two, or more.” “Could it have been one bullet?” “Yes, it’s possible.” The doctors began to talk about a wound in the neck and a massive one in the back of the skull. The reporters wanted to know how they could accommodate the one bullet theory if there was a hole in the front of the neck and one in the back of the skull? Well, a bullet could possibly have been fired through the front of the neck, hit the spinal column in back, and deviated—or caromed upward—through the back of the skull. This would make the neck wound an entrance wound, which would mean that at least one assassin was in front of the President. If Governor Connally, as Bill Hinson had explained, had been shot in the back, the hypothesis lent itself to two assassins—at least.
Some of the writers began to ignore the word “possible.” Television blinded the doctors with big white lights. Tape recorders were thrust before the team of physicians at the nursing desk. The faces beyond the light beams appeared to be bathed in talcum. The questions were being fired like Roman candles; Clark and Perry were trying to respond to one, or two, when questions three and four and five were coming at them.*
Outside of Trauma One, Roy Kellerman waited for the death certificate. He wanted to get the body on Air Force One as quickly as possible. Mrs. Kennedy was still inside, leaning her face, or her hand, against the side of the bronze casket. A man of professional appearance approached Agent Kellerman. He introduced himself as Doctor Earl Rose. “There has been a homicide here,” he said. “You won’t be able to remove the body. We will take it down to the mortuary for an autopsy.”
Kellerman, tall and dark and often humorless, looked down at the officious man and said: “No, we are not.” The doctor acted as though he had expected this attitude. “We have a law here,” he said, “and you have to comply with it.” At this moment, Admiral Burkley approached, and Kellerman said: “Doctor, this man is from some health unit in town. He tells me we can’t remove this body.” Burkley, who had been losing patience with Dallas, became enraged and shouted: “We are removing it!”
Dr. Rose tried to say something, and Burkley, his voice rising, said: “This is the President of the United States; you can waive your local laws.” Rose kept shaking his head negatively as he listened. “This happened in Dallas County,” he said. “We have our laws, just as you have yours. Under the law, an autopsy must be performed.” Kellerman, who felt himself to be in a position of strength with all his Secret Service agents up and down the corridors, said quietly: “Doc, you are going to have to come up with something a little stronger than yourself to give me the law that this body can’t be removed.”
The shouting started. Kellerman did not know that Burkley had the signed death certificate in his pocket. The strident voices could be heard in the halls. Any passing personnel whom Earl Rose called to bear witness that, in a death by violence, an autopsy is mandatory, said: “Yes, that’s the law.” O’Donnell, O’Brien, and Powers heard the call to battle and they tried to tell Rose that, no matter what the law, Mrs. Kennedy was not going to wait one more minute to claim her dead husband. It was as simple as that. Kellerman kept saying: “I’m going to need somebody bigger than you . . .”
Rose said he would get someone “bigger.” He began to call justices of the peace. In some areas of the United States, a person with that title is an elected official of consequence. In others, it is a small and appointive post with few prerogatives beyond the power to conduct a marriage ceremony. A justice of the peace, in Dallas, is a fully empowered judge. The men of the President’s entourage did not know this. Earl Rose left the area for whatever reinforcements he could find. General McHugh joined the Kellerman forces at a momentary reduction in rank.
Bill Greer, the driver, was walking back and forth with two bags laden with the clothing of the dead President. O’Donnell nodded his head. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
The car turned in off Main Street, braking down to a walk, and then dove into the narrow ramp under the gray eminence of Dallas Police Headquarters. Sergeant Hill turned in the front seat and told Oswald that there would probably be some reporters and photographers waiting in the basement. “We can hold you so that they can’t get a picture, if you want. Also, you don’t have to answer any of these guys if you don’t want to.”
There was no response from Oswald. He was leaning forward to ease the ache of the handcuffs behind his back. It also gave him his first good look at the basement of Police Headquarters. The policemen got out of the car in the southeast corner and formed a wedge around the prisoner. The sergeant saw local reporters and photographers and he knew that the word was out that this man was being taken in for questioning in the Tippit mur
der.
“You can keep your head down,” the sergeant said. If Hill only knew how long this unhappy young man had been forced to keep his head down . . . “Why should I hide my face?” he said loudly. “I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.” Hill nodded for his men to proceed and they formed a wedge and almost half-ran their man across the basement and up the step* into the jail office.
2 p.m.
The Kennedy people had marshaled their forces but no one moved. Dr. Earl Rose had returned with a justice of the peace. “This is Theron Ward,” he said. “He is a judge here in Dallas.” Roy Kellerman looked at a small, thin person who could not have been over twenty-three years of age. “Your honor,” he said meekly, “we’re asking for a waiver here because—” Rose snapped: “He will tell you whether you can remove this body or not.” “It doesn’t make any difference,” Kellerman said wearily, “we are going to move it. Judge, do you know who I am?”
The Secret Service agent drew his I.D. card and displayed it. The young man nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.” The O’Briens and Greers and Powers began to edge up belligerently, but Roy Kellerman waved them away. He had decided on an appeal to this boy’s patriotism. “There must be something in your thinking that we don’t have to go through with this agony,” he said. “The family doesn’t have to go through this. We will take care of the matter when we get back to Washington.” Judge Theron Ward was wavering. “I know who you are,” he said sadly. “I can’t help you out.”
“You can’t break the chain of evidence,” Dr. Rose said with finality. Kellerman suggested that perhaps Dr. Rose would like to come along to Washington, watching the casket all the way to make certain that the chain of evidence was not broken. “There is nothing,” shouted Rose, “that would allow me to do it under our law. The autopsy will be performed here.” “All right,” said Kellerman, waving his hands for the argument to subside. “All right.” Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen the door of Trauma One open, and Vernon Oneal and his two assistants were pushing the casket into the corridor.
The medical examiner saw it. He jumped ahead of it, standing in a doorway, shouting: “We can’t release it! A violent death requires a postmortem!” The tragic figure of Mrs. Kennedy began to emerge from Trauma One, and Dave Powers pushed her back inside. The cruelty inflicted on her passed all bounds. The early-morning statement: “Campaigning can be such fun when you’re President!” had degenerated into sudden explosions which had taken his life and crushed hers; it was succeeded by a nightmare ride and shrieking sirens, a dead husband on her lap as pedestrians waved and shouted, “Hi, Jackie!”; the fruitless, witless separation of husband and wife at the hospital, where men of science in white masks went through the motions of preserving a life already gone; where women who had lost nothing wept and she did not; the vigil of congealed blood; the high-speed mental motion picture of marriage and children and the towering climb to the top of the world of society where, in the vacuum of a clear blue sky, came the triple clap of thunder and the end of the world.
It was a repeating motion picture, full of prayer and priests and the strong brown head broken on a bed of roses; the surprised “O” of the mouth; the fixed, open eyes rocking with the speed of the car; the officious nurses with no good word; the running doctors silent in sneakers; the lifeblood in floor puddles; the cooling skin under the sheet; the brown brimming eyes staring at what was left of love—and now an angry shouting man who held his hand up like a policeman stopping the traffic of caskets to say: “We have a law . . .”
She went back into the room. The casket moved and stopped. Moved a foot more, stopped. A policeman wearing a helmet and a revolver now stood at Dr. Rose’s side. The youngster, Judge Theron Ward, decided not to buck the local establishment. “It’s just another homicide case,” he said. The Secret Service men began to form in front of the casket and down the sides. The men who were not permitted to protect the President’s body with theirs in life stood as close to his clay as they pleased. The showdown began to approach physical violence, backed by guns.
The policeman assumed his high-noon expression. “These people say you can’t go,” he said. “One side,” said Larry O’Brien. Ken O’Donnell said: “We’re leaving.” The ultimatum had been rejected. Greer, swinging the bags of laundry, stood in front of the casket and stepped off to walk through the cop and medical examiner. Theron Ward phoned District Attorney Wade. Dr. Rose stood his ground. So did the policeman. It seemed as though they would be run over by a casket.
Kellerman ran back and beckoned David Powers to bring Mrs. Kennedy out. She saw the casket ahead, watched it break bluntly through the blockers, and trotted to put her hand on the gleaming metal. She was on the left side, almost running down the corridor, hair bobbing in one eye, the fingertips of the right hand in contact with the lid. In the nurses’ station, Judge Theron Ward was stunned to hear the deep, heavy voice of District Attorney Wade state that he had no objection whatever to the removal of the President’s body. None at all.
Mr. Oswald looked offended. He got off the elevator on the third floor of police headquarters flanked by detectives in pale Texas cowboy hats. Ahead of him, reporters and photographers ran a few feet to turn and shoot. Microphones were held under his nose. He shouted that he had done nothing wrong except to carry a gun in a movie house. “I want a lawyer,” he said to a television camera. The press asked him his name and he permitted himself to be led, silently, into the Robbery and Homicide office, a third of the way down the middle corridor from the press room.
Almost all of the offices were glassy rabbit warrens, poorly designed and leading through an endless series of doors from one office to another. A policeman motioned for Oswald to sit. From the hall he could be seen through the half walls, staring at his shoes. Detective Richard Stovall, who had been taking affidavits from Texas School Book Depository employees, asked Oswald his name. “Lee Oswald,” he said, without looking up. A moment later, Stovall’s partner, Guy Rose, asked Oswald his name. “Alex Hidell,” the prisoner said. The detectives began to go through the billfold, saw the two names, and asked which one was bona fide. “You find out,” he said. They asked his address. Oswald said: “You just find out.”
Sergeant Jerry Hill stood guarding his man. Reporters in the hall asked to see the pistol which allegedly killed Officer Tippit. Hill held it up by the butt as photographic flashbulbs lit the scene. He asked Detective T. L. Baker if he wanted to take the gun; Baker said: “No. Hold onto it until later.” Hill said that this was the suspect in the Tippit shooting and did Baker want Hill to make up the arrest sheet or would the Detective Bureau do it.
Captain Will Fritz walked in and said to Rose and Stovall: “Get a search warrant and go out to 2515 Fifth Street in Irving. Pick up a man named Lee Oswald.” Sergeant Hill said: “Captain, why do you want him?” Fritz was a man of lean words and few interruptions. He stared at the sergeant through his glasses and said: “He’s employed at the Book Depository and he was missing from a roll call of employees.” Hill pointed to the prisoner: “We can save you a trip,” he said. “There he sits.”
Fritz looked at the quarry and was unimpressed. It required a moment to comprehend that this young fellow was a possibility as the man responsible for Tippit’s murder and the President’s, too. This was going to be an interesting afternoon. In another office Charles Givens, a Book Depository employee, was staring through the walls of glass and said: “Hey, there’s Lee Oswald.” A friendly policeman leaned out in the hall where reporters were waiting and said: “He’s Lee Oswald, a suspect in the Tippit murder.”
There were venetian blinds in the office of Captain Fritz. They were lowered. The big man glanced at the messages and reports on his desk. There was nothing that couldn’t wait. He asked for the prisoner to be brought in. He ordered Detectives R. M. Sims and E. L. Boyd to remain with him until the Oswald matter was cleared up. Oswald came in and complained about the handcuffs. “Fix them in front of him,” Captain Fritz said. Oswald sat on
a chair at the corner of the desk, the shackled hands now on top.
Someone was drawing up a list of items found in the prisoner’s pockets, so Captain Fritz took his time with the young man. When he got the list, his eyes ran down it slowly:
1. Membership card of the Fair Play for Cuba Committee, New Orleans, Louisiana, in the name of L. H. Oswald, issued June 15th, 1963, signed A. J. Hidell, chapter president.
2. Membership card of the Fair Play for Cuba Committee, 799 Broadway, New York 3, New York. Oregon 4—8295, in the name of Lee H. Oswald, issued May 28th, 1963, signed V. T. Lee, executive secretary.
3. Front and back of Certificate of Service, Armed Forces of the United States Marine Corps in name of Lee Harvey Oswald, 1653230.
4. Front and back of Department of Defense identification card #4,271,617 in the name of Lee H. Oswald, reflecting service status as MCR/inact, service 1653230, bearing photograph of Lee Harvey Oswald and signed LEE H. OSWALD, expiration date December 7, 1962.
5. Front and back of Dallas Public Library identification card in the name of Lee Harvey Oswald, 602 Elsbeth, Dallas.
6. Snapshot of Lee Harvey Oswald in Marine uniform.
7. Snapshot of small baby in white cap.
8. Social Security card #433-54-3937 in name of Lee Harvey Oswald.
9. U.S. Forces, Japan, identification card in name of Lee H. Oswald.
10. Photograph marked Mrs. Lee Harvey Oswald.
11. Street map of Dallas, compliments of Ga-Jo Enkanko Hotel.
12. Selective Service System card in name of Alek James Hidell which bears photograph of Lee Harvey Oswald and signature “Alex J. Hidell.”
13. Certificate of Service, U.S. Marine Corps, in name of Alex Hidell.
14. Selective Service System notice of classification, in name of Lee Harvey Oswald, SSN 41-114-532, dated Feb. 2, 1960.
