by Jim Bishop
Lewis asked more questions. He needed them as controls. Captain Dowdy beckoned for Frazier to be brought in. The test was explained to him. The first order of business was to sit in that chair and try to relax. He would find that it wasn’t as easy as it looked. The best way to relax, he was told, would be to keep reminding oneself that you are going to tell the truth, no matter whom it hurts.
The boy sat. The cuff was wrapped around his arm, and his sleeve was shoved high. He was told to stare at the wall and try to think of nothing. Lewis, at his desk, studied the pulsing of the needle. He was getting steady vertical tracings. The beats were fast; that was nervousness. He waved the others back out of sight and began the test.
It took time to get the control questions and the placidity of the victim juxtaposed so that, on simple interrogations such as: “Do you live with your sister?” the needle would not jump. “Ever fire a gun?” induced a spasm peak. There was nothing incriminating in either question or answer (“Yes”), but Frazier, judging by the needle, bordered on controlled hysteria.
Officer Lewis reassured him several times, told him he was doing fine and not to worry about explanations when responding. If a question could be answered with “Yes” or “No,” use the single word. Also, when a question was asked which involved Lee Harvey Oswald, the answer would not necessarily involve Wesley. He might be asked if Oswald worked at the Texas School Book Depository building and the answer should be “Yes” without excitement.
Lewis realized that it would be a lengthy test, but he was a patient man. He expected a jump on the needle when he asked a control question such as: “Ever do anything you’re ashamed of?” or “When you were little, did you ever lie to your mother?” There were five police officers in the room and the doorway, and there wasn’t one who expected to learn anything from Wesley Buell Frazier. All they had managed to do was to scare the wits out of him.
The charge of murder was complete. It was studied by Assistant District Attorney William Alexander. As he stood beside Wade, they made an imposingly tall team. In the courts, Alexander was known as a vengeful prosecutor, a remorseless examiner, an old-time hanging district attorney. He told Sims to call Fritz out. The captain looked at the document, swore that he was the complainant in this case, and signed it. Henry Wade took it, waved the signature dry, and said: “Well, he’s filed on.”
Oswald wasn’t. The charge had no validity until a bail hearing was held by a “magistrate”—a justice of the peace—and signed by him. The young J.P. was down in the assembly room, sharing excitement with the press. David Johnston was thirty-six years of age, and he had never participated in anything as important as this case. The defendant in the action had yet to be notified.
The document was dubbed F-154 and it announced the contending parties as the state of Texas versus Lee Harvey Oswald. The charge was murder; the defendant’s address was listed as “City Jail.” Inside the flap, the stereotyped words stated that J. W. Fritz had “personally appeared before me” and being “duly sworn,” says he has good reason to believe “and does believe” that one Lee Harvey Oswald, on or about the 22nd day of November A.D. 1963 in the county of Dallas and state of Texas, “did then and there unlawfully, voluntarily, and with malice aforethought kill John F. Kennedy by shooting him with a gun against the peace and dignity of the state.” To the left of Fritz’s signature, Henry Wade signed.
Except for brief cutaway shots, the television story of the assassination had slowed to an embarrassed repetition. On the streets in some cities, men with microphones asked pedestrians what they thought of the death of the President, and the faces moved up to fill the screen with features which, a moment ago, had betrayed pleasant smiles and which rearranged themselves into grim expressions or open-mouthed horror: “Well, I was just plain shocked . . .” “I mean, he was a family man and I don’t know much about politics, but. . .” “I was having a sandwich on the job and this guy walks over and tells me the President is shot and I said: ‘This a joke?’” “I called my husband and I said: ‘What kind of a place is this Dallas?’” “Did they find out who did it yet?”
The President watched the set on the other side of the bedroom with heavy-lidded eyes, half listening, half nodding to suggestions made by his three young assistants. He held up both hands for quiet. “. . . and now,” a commentator said, “we return you to Washington.” The vision of faces faded, and Andrews Air Force Base came on screen like a well-lighted insect trap surrounded by darkness. A big glistening plane was rocking its way into the patch of light and an announcer said: “. . . just arriving from Honolulu. This is the plane which carried Secretary of State Dean Rusk and other members of the Cabinet, who were on their way to Tokyo. The tragic news reached them out over the Pacific, and Mr. Rusk ordered the plane to return to Washington.”
Mr. Johnson heard the dying whine of the jet engines. The Boeing 707 stopped and a ramp was wheeled to the front of the plane. A large percentage of his government was on this aircraft. The men around the President’s bed turned to watch. Valenti turned the dials of the set to get a better picture and better sound. The lugged door swung back and men began to file out, squinting in the light.
Herb Kaplow of the National Broadcasting Company said: “Secretary of State Dean Rusk is first off the plane, followed by Secretary of Commerce Luther Hodges, Secretary of the Interior Stewart Udall, Secretary of Agriculture Orville Freeman [the gentlemen of the Cabinet began to collect at the foot of the ramp, around Rusk], Secretary of the Treasury Douglas Dillon, Secretary of Labor Willard Wirtz, and presidential secretary Pierre Salinger.
“They are being met at the plane by Protocol Chief Angier Biddle Duke and Assistant Secretary of the Navy Franklin D. Roosevelt, Jr. The party is moving to the microphones. Dean Rusk will speak for the Cabinet.” Mr. Rusk, a man with a voice like dry breakfast cereal, had no intention of making a mistake. The flight had been long and fatiguing, and there was a new “boss.” As the landing gear of the plane thumped downward in air, he had walked down the aisle advising the passengers that he, Dean Rusk, would lead the government officials off. He expected the Cabinet members to follow. If there was any speaking to be done, he would do it.
The Secretary of State saw his deputy, George Ball, in the circle of light and nodded. At the collection of black-fingered microphones, Rusk glanced at a curled sheet of paper in his hand and said: “We have fully shared the deep sense of shock at the grievous loss the nation has suffered. Those of us who have had the honor of serving President Kennedy value the gallantry and wisdom he brought to the grave, awesome, and lonely office of the presidency.” Mr. Rusk looked up into the lights. “President Johnson needs and deserves our fullest support,” he said.
It was the right thing. The words made an adieu to a departed chieftain and offered an unfettered hand to the new one. The President fluffed the pillows behind his head and returned to the “grave and awesome” tasks at hand. He interrupted the conversation to ask what had become of his daughter Luci. She had retired. Mr. Johnson was a kissing husband and father. He could not believe that he had permitted her to go to bed without a goodnight kiss. It was Luci who had reminded herself that her father was now President of the United States and should not be disturbed on this, the most terrifying night of their lives. Luci planned to spend time reciting some prayers for the repose of the soul of John F. Kennedy.
“You’ll get it all back tomorrow,” Henry Wade said. The district attorney was ready to defend the Dallas Police Department’s paramount right to the evidence, but he could see far beyond the confines of the city and county and he knew that the assassination had federal aspects which ought not to be ignored. Chief Curry listened sulkily. His department, he felt, was doing well. It did not require the expensive equipment of the Federal Bureau of Investigation nor interrogations of the Secret Service. Besides, what could they find out about the evidence which Will Fritz and Lieutenant Day had not already ascertained?
With a big trial coming up, it was not proper to
permit the chain of evidence to be broken by flights to Washington. In a sense, everybody in the department was walking on tiptoe to make certain that they had a good case against Oswald, an airtight case. Phone calls had been coming to Curry’s office all evening asking him to release the gun, the blanket, the empty shells, the works. The calls came from Wade’s office, from the Texas attorney general, Waggoner Carr, from ranking officials. Curry didn’t care, really, what Lyndon Johnson had to say about putting the FBI in charge of the investigation. This was still a Dallas County case. If the amassing of evidence proceeded properly, it was the Dallas Police Department which would do it; if it failed, the blame would fall on him.
The big D.A. nodded. As they walked down the hall to Curry’s office, he reminded the chief that the case could not and would not be taken away from Dallas County. He would have to prosecute Lee Harvey Oswald, not the FBI. There was no percentage in spurning federal assistance. The FBI had offices in places like New Orleans, where Oswald had lived. They had a big network which could trace guns, find people who employed Oswald, or knew him in the Free Cuba movement; they could add to all that Curry now had in his hands.
The chief surrendered. He said that he would order Fritz and Day to hand the stuff over to Washington right away. It must be clearly understood that the FBI would sign a receipt for each item, they would photograph it and send copies to the Dallas Police Department, they would fly it up to Washington tonight, run it through their mill, and have it back in police headquarters tomorrow night. In the name of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Vincent Drain, the big smiler, agreed. He phoned Gordon Shanklin, still in his office down the street, that Jesse Curry had agreed to the lending of the evidence.
Lieutenant Day was working on the Mannlicher-Carcano rifle when he received the order. He gave it to Drain reluctantly, along with the other material. After telling Drain that a palm print of Lee Harvey Oswald had been located on the stock of the gun, Day forgot to explain that it was no longer there. He had lifted it off in toto with adhesive paper.
Shanklin phoned Washington and gave the news to Belmont. “We’ll be waiting,” he said. The head of the Dallas office then phoned the office of the commanding general at Carswell Air Force Base. “One of our agents,” said Shanklin, “is taking evidence in the assassination to Washington. We have a directive that you will help us fly it up and wait for it to come back.” Ten minutes later, a K-135 jet tanker on the hardstand cut in pod number three, and a blast of heat thrust the cool night of Fort Worth back and away.
The White House Press Office was quiet. Malcolm Kilduff sat at a desk. The dark hair framed the strong face. This was the hive of government on most days. The press should have been clamoring outside the outer office where Helen Ganss sat. This, of all nights, should have been one of statements and releases, of jangling phones and news tickers noisily walking their black feet across white paper. There was no sound except the sobbing of Christine Camp and Sue Vogelsinger. Andrew Hatcher was in another office.
Down the hall thirty feet was the President’s office, It, too, was empty. No highly placed statesmen gathered to debate a decision. No bill was ready for signature, the array of pens standing in a holder like asparagus. The sixteen buttons on the scrambler phone were dark. And, between them, the Fish Room was empty; so was the office of the appointments secretary.
Kilduff, assistant press secretary, made a few phone calls. No one asked him to run down to Ralph Dungan’s office and think of names important enough to be invited to a funeral. No one asked his knowledge of Lincoln’s funeral. He could, if he chose, straighten a few paper clips, or he could go home. There was no self-pity in his makeup. Mr. Kilduff was at his shiniest when he was fighting for something or against something.
As with so many others in government service, he had been a Kennedy man. Malcolm Kilduff had a weakness: he could not work for someone he did not admire. It was fortunate that in John F. Kennedy he saw the bright idealist, the tough politician, the decision maker, the charisma of eternal youth. The man, the job, the future had exploded today and Kilduff sat in the press office, glancing now and then at the big color photos of Kennedy—the handsome, grinning, we-own-the-world face—telling himself that it was all shattered and the pictures would start to come down tomorrow.
He had made the solemn announcement of the death of a President. It was his function. The press secretary, Pierre Salinger, had been winging to Japan when it happened. Andrew Hatcher, the other assistant press secretary, had not been assigned. The trip to Texas had been Kilduff’s first as acting press secretary. Before he left with the President, he knew that, for him, it would be the last. He had been fired.
The word had come down from Kenneth O’Donnell to Salinger to Kilduff. He was offered a position in another government agency. It was a good, dull post, far enough removed from the excitement of the White House to placate O’Donnell. The matter was placed on a lofty plane: we have to get rid of one assistant press secretary and it cannot be Andy Hatcher because he’s a Negro. You are the one.
Kilduff had been offered a “better” post with a skillfully disguised ultimatum: the job would be open three days. The man who sat in the press office alone on this long sad night felt that perhaps the President did not know that Kilduff had been fired. In spite of the proximity of their offices, there was no way that Mac Kilduff could get to see Kennedy without the approval of Mr. O’Donnell. Kenny was the appointments secretary and more. He was the captain of the palace guard; the watchman; hatchetman; keeper of the privy seals.
No one got into the President’s office, even casually, without Mr. O’Donnell’s knowledge, if not his approval. Kilduff, the fighter and brooder, had to find a way. One morning he walked into the office of Mrs. Lincoln, personal secretary to the President, a dark slender woman who kept fancy dishes of candy on her desk. There was no harm in chatting with Mrs. Lincoln. She kept the door between her office and that of the President ajar about thirty degrees.
Kilduff gave her a hearty greeting and partook of the candy. He chatted loudly near the door. He and Mrs. Lincoln heard the voice of the President, alone and at work, say: “Is that you, Mac? Come on in.” The assistant press secretary, who had accompanied Kennedy on his trip to Ireland, walked inside almost apologetically and told the President that he was being offered a “better” job. The smile on Kennedy’s face faded.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “Aren’t you happy here?” Kilduff said that indeed he was; he would like nothing better than to continue serving the President, but he had been told that one man had to be cut from the roster. “Forget it,” the President said. “I’ll take care of this when we get back from Texas.”
Kilduff sat at his desk wondering who had won this tiny political battle in a world of politics. Kennedy was gone and so, except for the sufferance of Lyndon Baines Johnson, was everyone else. On the plane this afternoon, Malcolm Kilduff had tried to bridge the gap between the rancorous Kennedys and the bustling Johnsons. He had run the errands faithfully, delivering messages and responses to messages.
At one point, he had paused beside the seat of Kenneth O’Donnell. A few feet away was the casket containing Kennedy. The appointments secretary had taken Kilduff by the arm and pointed to the broad back of Lyndon Johnson. “He’s got what he wants now,” O’Donnell murmured. “We take it back in ’68.”
The office lights remained on. No reporter buzzed Kilduff or asked for an anecdote to sweeten a bitter story. There was nothing to say and no one to whom to say it. Kilduff got his jacket from a rack and put it on. He glanced at one of those smiling photos and said a silent “Good-bye.”
* * *
The Midnight Hours
12 midnight
The room was twice as long as it was wide and, when the lights went on and the two doors were flung open, it was as though sluice gates had been lifted. A swirling foam of faces poured in. The tide knocked over chairs. A small table was slammed into an abutment. A one-way screen, behind which witnesses
might study a suspect, was rolled to one side and came to rest against a wall. Uniformed policemen walked backward before the wave yelling: “Take it easy! Take it easy!” Men with still cameras took positions along the side walls or down front. A television camera in the rear lifted one large dark eye above the crowd.
The voices became a bedlam. The demands and complaints blended into a solid roar of incomprehensible sound. The police assembly room was filled in a minute and the wave seemed to curl backward, shoving those at the doors out into the hall. There was a rostrum up front and Assistant Chief Charles Batchelor stood on the low platform and shouted for order. He could not be heard. In the hall Lieutenant T. B. Leonard, leaving for home with Lieutenant George Butler, stood on tiptoe. Batchelor saw them and motioned wildly for them to come in and assist him. Jack Ruby, pressed against the little table at the abutment, climbed on it and crouched with his back to the wall. He could see over the heads, and he was only eleven feet from the rostrum. The sound was deafening, and the press shouted to itself to keep quiet.
On the third floor Fritz said he wanted all of his men in that room, and they dropped their assignments to hurry down. Chief Curry was worried, tossed between duty and a public image. He sensed that the two were not compatible. The dour expression was on the little man. He saw Detectives Sims and Boyd flanking Oswald, and the chief said: “Don’t let anybody get near him or touch him. If anyone tries to, I want you fellows to get him out of there immediately.” Curry laid good groundwork for his defense. In the third-floor hall twenty minutes ago, when the press conference had been suggested, he had asked Wade: “Do you think this is all right?” The district attorney had shrugged and said: “I don’t see anything wrong with it.” Curry had held up both hands for the press to be quiet, and he had said: “——anything goes wrong with his being down there—if there’s a rush, he’s immediately going out and that’s it. Now, do we understand each other?” The reporters shouted: “Right! Yes! Right!” One more thing: the chief did not want the prisoner to stand up on the rostrum. “Put him down in front of it, on the floor, and put a guard of men around him.”
