by Jim Bishop
Earlene went back to the television set in the living room. She knew that there was no Oswald. The cops said he was young—under thirty—slender and brown-haired. Sometimes the Johnsons had as many as seventeen roomers, and some of the transients had rooms in the cellar. A policeman said he would like to go down there and look around. All of them went to the back of the house.
“Let ’em look,” said Mr. Johnson. He sat on a couch watching the fascinating story of the shooting of a President. Earlene Roberts thought it was terrible and kept saying: “Oh, my. Oh, my,” but her eyes remained fastened to the screen. They were still looking, ten minutes later, when the policeman returned with the search warrant. A. C. Johnson wasn’t interested in studying it. He would take the policeman’s word.
The camera moved from the emergency entrance at the hospital to the big silent bird standing on the airfield. The commentator spoke of the shooting of Officer Tippit, and the camera switched to the third floor of police headquarters and a bedlam of photographers, policemen, and reporters. In the middle was a suspect who was shouting for his rights. Earlene Roberts and Mr. A. C. Johnson studied the face, and both stiffened in their chairs.
“Hey!” yelled Johnson over his shoulder. “It’s this fellow that lives in here!” He pointed to the little alcove bedroom. “That’s O. H. Lee,” Mrs. Roberts said. Mrs. Johnson, out back with the policemen, hurried into the house, but the television picture had changed to the empty tables at the Trade Mart. “Who?” one of the government men asked. “Who is it?” They said, “O. H. Lee,” and Mrs. Johnson said: “Well, that’s why we didn’t know who you were looking for.” She displayed the register. “Here he is. O. H. Lee.” Mrs. Roberts was excited and she said that he had come home, right in the middle of the day, and he had gone into the little room and changed to a zipper jacket or something.
The police were in the small room, edging past each other to get around the bed. They appropriated almost everything Oswald had—his skimpy array of clothing, a wall map of Dallas with the Texas School Book Depository building marked off, a couple of books. They felt the walls, the surbases, rifled the little closet and turned the mattress and pillow over. They even took two pillowcases and a face cloth.
The picture of Oswald came on the television set and all hands shouted: “That’s him! That’s him! O. H. Lee!” Earlene shook her head. “I said to him, ‘What’s your hurry?’ and he never said a word. Just skipped out fast. I even saw him standing down the street at the bus stop.”
An apologetic breeze stirred at Love Field. Jesse Curry sat in his car, thinking his private thoughts, squinting up the road toward Mockingbird Lane. He kept half an ear on Channel Two, but the air traffic was dying off except for reports from the Book Depository and one or two from a house at North Beckley. He saw one car careening down the airport road toward his position and the chief of police knew, without asking, that this was Judge Sarah Hughes.
He met her at the gate and ran with her across the concrete to the plane. The door at the top was opened, and he went inside with her. At the door to the President’s stateroom, Mr. Johnson grasped the hand of Judge Hughes. He couldn’t summon a smile. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for coming, judge. We’ll be ready in a minute.”
It is difficult, even in the most adverse circumstances, to repress the surging joy which must be a concomitant to being sworn in as the Chief Executive of the most powerful nation on earth, but Johnson didn’t smile. His eyes were rheumy and searching. He stared a moment at Charles Roberts of Newsweek, as though trying to place the face. “If there is anybody else aboard who wants to see this,” the President said, “tell them to come in.” On the flight deck, General Godfrey McHugh demanded to know why the plane had not taken off, as he had ordered. The pilot, Colonel Swindal, had received orders and counterorders; he had asked for taxi instructions several times and had not taxied anywhere. The general made it plain that, as a brigadier general, he ranked the colonel, and he demanded that Air Force One start at once. Malcolm Kilduff, passing the communications shack, heard the voices and told Swindal not to take off. The colonel hit the starter switch for the number three engine. It caught fire and emitted a dismal whine. With number three going, he could dismiss the generator truck below the nose and start the remaining three engines on power from number three. Then, if these government officials in the back could agree on one premise—to leave or not to leave—the colonel was prepared to obey.
Someone told Kilduff that the plane must leave at once. With extended patience he said, “Why?” He was told that Kenneth O’Donnell had ordered the plane to leave. Holding his temper in check, Kilduff said: “He may want to take off, but he isn’t in charge anymore. Johnson is now President.” The word filtered quickly to the aft section and it was interpreted as another indication of Lyndon Johnson’s merciless grab for power. It was O’Donnell who kept goading McHugh to go forward and “get this plane out of here,” although O’Donnell had heard from the President that he was going to be sworn in before takeoff.
The stateroom began to fill. Mr. Johnson told Lawrence O’Brien that someone should ask Mrs. Kennedy if she would stand beside him during the ceremony. He said he would like her to stand at his side and the oath-taking would be of short duration. The President said he would also need a Bible. There must be one somewhere on the plane. David Powers came up into the stateroom. So did Admiral Burkley and Major-General Clifton. They were followed by O’Brien and the busy Malcolm Kilduff. The Texas congressmen were already present. So were the three newspapermen.
O’Donnell came in. Photographer Stoughton was leaning against a bulkhead. “Mr. President,” he said, “if you are squeezed any closer, I won’t be able to make the picture.” He tried one shot and the flash didn’t go off. There was a second try, and the small room was struck by the silent lightning. Mrs. Johnson, still wearing the half-frozen smile of shock, looked small beside her husband. The president fidgeted with his shirt cuffs, and Judge Hughes, sixty-seven years old and cheerful, smiled patiently.
O’Brien found that Mrs. Kennedy was not in the breakfast nook beside the casket. He knocked on the bedroom door, and, getting no response, turned the knob and entered. The room was empty. He tried the knob to the lavatory and found it locked. Mrs. Kennedy was inside, alone. Whether she knew what was expected of her and was trying to avoid it, or whether the depression of spirit led to nausea, no one knows. O’Brien left and asked Evelyn Lincoln, Kennedy’s personal secretary, to see if she could get Mrs. Kennedy’s attention. She said she would try.
Looking around the room, O’Brien found a small gift box. Inside was what he thought was a Bible. It was a missal—the prayers of the Roman Catholic Mass in both Latin and English. He carried it out and gave it to the judge. The abnormal heat of the President’s stateroom was worse. There were twenty-six humans jammed into a space no bigger than fifteen feet by seventeen. Each one’s body heat generated the power of a one hundred-watt bulb. They waited for Mrs. Kennedy.
Kilduff couldn’t find a tape recorder, so he used an electric dictating machine and put a cartridge in it. Then he placed the microphone between the judge and the President. Marie Fehmer handed the judge a sheet of Air Force One letterhead with the proper words typed. Mrs. Kennedy stepped timidly into the room. The President grasped both her hands in his and whispered, “Thank you.” He nodded for the ceremony to start. Mrs. Johnson was on one side of the President; Mrs. Kennedy, still in bloody gloves and garments, the face still stunned and expressionless, was on the other. Witnesses, tiptoeing to see her, seemed to stop breathing. The overwhelming emotional bath, endured by all two hours ago, was renewed. Some averted their gaze.
Kilduff switched the Dictaphone set on. Judge Hughes held out the missal. The President looked down at his wife and placed his left hand on the book. The right hand moved up slowly, almost reluctantly. The twangy Texas voice of the jurist said: “Now repeat after me . . .” The words required but twenty-eight seconds. Johnson said loudly: “. . . so help me G
od.” The thirty-sixth President, who now had the power to implement his decisions, turned to Lady Bird, grabbed her by both shoulders and kissed her. Then he turned to Mrs. Kennedy, put an arm around her, and pecked at her cheek.
Some rushed forward and tried to give him a hearty handshake and a congratulatory grin. President Johnson turned a stern expression on them, and the bud of conviviality was crushed. He was tall enough to look over the heads of the others, and his eyes sought Malcolm Kilduff. The press secretary was lifting the sound cartridge from the dictating machine. He gave it to Stoughton and told him to get off the plane and give the pictures to the press. The sound, too.
Mrs. Kennedy seemed unaware of what to do. She stood near the door with the President’s seal emblazoned on it, and looked blankly ahead. Mrs. Johnson grasped her hand and said: “The whole nation mourns your husband.” There was no response. Police Chief Curry tried to grasp Mrs. Kennedy’s hand. His voice cracked with sobs. “We did our best,” he croaked. “We tried hard, Mrs. Kennedy.” She glanced at him, a small man with cross-hatched wrinkles on his chin, the spectacles gleaming in the dull cabin light. She nodded.
The chief shook his head. He took Judge Sarah Hughes by the arm. “God bless you, little lady,” he said to Mrs. Kennedy, “but you ought to go back and lie down.” Mrs. Kennedy summoned a smile. “No thanks,” she said. “I’m fine.” The President said: “Let’s get airborne,” and Chief Curry hurried forward with the judge to disembark. Sid Davis of the Westinghouse Broadcasting Company completed his succinct notes on the ceremony and left. A congressman got off. Valenti and Moyers, the O’Donnells of the new administration, sat slumped deep in seats.
The President phoned the White House.
The one “at-large” Secret Service man, Forrest V. Sorrels, left the Depository building and returned to police headquarters. It didn’t require much acumen to find that the building seethed with excitement, that the Dallas Police Department felt that, in Lee Harvey Oswald, it had a good catch. Sorrels got to the third floor, determined to find out who the prisoner was and whether he had had the opportunity and motive to assassinate the President.
“Captain,” he said to Fritz, “I would like to talk to this man when there is an opportunity.” The police officer had completed his preliminary round of questions. “You can talk to him right now.” The party moved to an enclosure adjacent to the captain’s private office and when Sorrels opened by asking him who he was, Oswald switched to his arrogant mood. “I don’t know who you fellows are—a bunch of cops.”
The Secret Service agent decided on the open approach. “I’ll tell you who I am,” he said. He reached into his pocket and brought out an identification card. “My name is Sorrels and I am with the United States Secret Service.” Oswald turned his face away. “I don’t want to look at it.” He glanced at the man from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Secret Service man, and the two Dallas detectives. “What am I going to be charged with?” he said. “Why am I being held here? Isn’t someone supposed to tell me what my rights are?”
The interrogated had begun to interrogate the interrogators. “I will tell you what your rights are,” Mr. Sorrels said. “Your rights are the same as any other American. You do not have to make a statement unless you want to. You have the right to get an attorney.”
“Aren’t you supposed to get me an attorney?” Sorrels shook his head negatively. “No, I am not supposed to get you an attorney.” Oswald could not believe it. He seemed to feel that the state owed him the services of counsel. “Aren’t you supposed to get me an attorney?” “No,” said Sorrels, “I am not supposed to get you an attorney because if I got you an attorney they would say that I was probably getting a rake-off on the fee.” Sorrels smiled at his man. He hoped the little joke would crack the stiffness. It didn’t. The pale agate eyes stared. Lee Oswald was in a mood to confuse, confound, and bend the law to his wishes. With the press out in the hall, he knew that he could play the martyr plaintively. If, at his side, he could have smart counsel like John Abt of New York, it is possible that he could have turned the law off as one might shut a leaky faucet.
“You can have the telephone book and you can call anybody you want,” Sorrels said. “I just want to ask some questions. I am in on this investigation and I just want to ask some questions.” Oswald studied his adversary. He could have refused to make any statement, but the fact that he responded to some questions proves that he thought he could handle Mr. Sorrels.
The Secret Service man took him over the same route he had just traversed with Captain Fritz. Name, place of employment, domicile, reason for living apart from wife, the daily routine of working on many floors, travel in Europe, and the Soviet Union. All of these and a few more had been answered. Suddenly Oswald tired of the game and said: “I don’t care to answer any more questions.”
Captain Fritz walked into the room. He had been on the phone. His manner was still heavy-footed and bland. “That room on Beckley,” he said. “Why were you registered under the name of O. H. Lee?” Oswald shrugged as though it was of no consequence. “The lady didn’t understand my name. She put it down the wrong way.” Fritz nodded and returned to his office. He might have asked the prisoner why he had signed the register “O. H. Lee.”
All the engines were shrieking. Swindal’s first officer filed a flight plan asking for 25,000 feet out of Love Field. The handoffs would occur at Fort Worth Center; Little Rock, Arkansas; Nashville, Tennessee; and Charleston, West Virginia. Estimated time of arrival at Andrews Air Force Base, Washington, D.C., would be 1803 local time. The plane received an “all clear” from Gate 24, and Swindal moved the throttle settings up a notch. The big plane moved forward, rocking a little on the concrete.
She made the crossovers and moved up to the head of Runway 31. Her back was to Mockingbird Lane, the scene of the final triumph. A commercial airliner, about to turn in on final, was requested by Jack Jove to turn away on a 180-degree course and then make another one and come into the airport. Swindal was given approval for takeoff. He spent another minute, running down the check list with his first officer and flight engineer. At 2:47 P.M. the throttle settings were boosted and the four fan-jet engines howled their grief as 26000 rumbled down the strip, jostling the casket as Mrs. Kennedy watched it, shaking the shoulders of the new President as he returned to the phone, Roberts and Smith—the press pool—trying to find seats, Kenny O’Donnell sitting opposite Mrs. Kennedy, feeling relieved to shake the dust of Dallas, typists like Marie Fehmer afraid to touch a key for fear of shattering the sacred silence.
The first officer called V-1 and rotating speed. Swindal pulled the yoke back gently and lifted off. He was well out between Walnut Hills and Letot before permission was granted to turn the plane northeast for Washington. The ugly rubber legs were tucked up. The big ship climbed as it always did, without strain. The colonel was not content with 25,000 feet. He asked for 41,000. The weather chart showed a high-flying jet stream moving slowly northeast. It was close to the absolute ceiling for a Boeing 707. The picture on the television set began to scatter. The communications shack was in touch with Andrews, in touch with Dallas, arranging phone calls, picking up incoming messages. AF-1 kept climbing for a half hour. The patchwork quilt of farms below assumed almost stationary figures. The sun on the portside became brazen, and the shades remained drawn. The color of the Texas sky changed from pale blue to baby blue to midnight blue. The sky became darker and darker and the plane seemed to be slower and slower. At 625 statute miles per hour, it looked like a piece of confetti pinned to the heavens.
One of the stewards thought: “How strange. For the first time in history, we have two Presidents aboard.” On the radio, the first officer heard an announcement from a plane still at Love Field: “This is Air Force Two. Our designation has been changed to SAM nine seven zero. We will depart for Washington, under present instructions, at 1514 local time.”
The “poor dumb cop” wore a tag on his big toe. Dr. Paul Moellenhoff of the Methodist
Hospital took a bullet from the body and showed it to Patrolman R. A. Davenport, who guarded the dead officer. Davenport marked it and put it in his pocket. The body was about ready. Blood had been washed away from the wounds of J. D. Tippit. There was a sizeable hole in the forehead and a smaller one in the temple; one of the chest wounds was small. The other, the one which had hit a uniform button and had carried it into the chest, was big and ugly.
Dr. Moellenhoff could do no more. He looked at the nude, well-nourished male on the slab and shrugged his shoulders. The goods guys do not always win the gun battles. The solemn words “in line of duty” have never exhilarated a widow nor fed a child. The doctor covered him and called for an ambulance. “The body will be taken to Parkland Memorial for an autopsy,” he said. “Doctor Earl Rose will be waiting.” So would Mrs. Tippit.
The wellsprings of sorrow and guilt, shock and confusion, the aimless litany of repeating: “The President of the United States was shot in Dallas today” made November 22, 1963, seem to go on forever. Psychologically, the entire nation was trying to face it and admit it. But the brain teetered on the edge of truth and pulled back. In Dallas shops, clerks and customers discussing merchandise stared at each other once too often and burst into tears. An emotional cripple named Jack Ruby, who didn’t really care at all, unexpectedly phoned a boyhood friend named Alex Gruber, who now lived in Los Angeles. Ruby prattled about a dog he had promised to send Alex, a car wash business, and the assassination. The nightclub owner lapsed into uncontrollable sobs and hung up.
Nor was it less emotional in the basement of the police department. In the vast underground parking lot, policemen got into cars and couldn’t remember where they were to go or what they were to do. Others, arriving, stood beside police cars talking with other officers about the assassination, as though by conversational repetition it would become understandable. Lieutenant Jack Revill returned from the Depository with three policemen. He saw FBI Special Agent James Hosty and they discussed the case with disbelief.
