The Day Kennedy Was Shot

by Jim Bishop

  For one brief shining moment

  That was known as Camelot.

  He was moved by those words, and he would stare at his wife intently, smile, and pick up the pen. Mrs. Kennedy thought about it, this time with poignancy. “There will never be another Camelot,” she whispered. No one had to discipline Kenny O’Donnell’s emotions. The champ was up front under that rotating light. He was dead and would never be seen or heard again. For a man who exults in battle there is no solace behind a hearse. If Robert Kennedy was able to lift his thoughts higher than the grave, he realized that there was a future for the Kennedys. There were always graves for young Kennedys, and there was always the future borrowing a tinge of Rose over the next hill. It was, in a way, as though some school bully had beaten his brother. The boy would have to take Robert on next.

  Kellerman was all cop. He could keep his mind on that grotesque autopsy for hours—if so assigned—and he could concentrate on the motorcycle cops and the pace of the cortege. Duty divorces emotion. Mr. Kellerman glanced up and down each passing side street as though he was still looking for a threat. The political philosopher, Larry O’Brien, would remain in the arena where the action was. He did not know Lyndon Johnson well, but he knew that Johnson had long ago assessed him. If the President asked him to stay, O’Brien would stay. If he was asked to leave, he would go home to Massachusetts. There were high-ranking government officers who could not sleep tonight trying to remember whether they had been cordial or cold to Lyndon Johnson. Men and their wives sat recounting every meeting, trying to remember every word. The conundrum resolved itself to: “Never mind my impressions of him. What were his impressions of me?”

  The cortege passed Georgetown University and turned left. Greer was in no hurry. He was moving slowly and he looked at the familiar houses and shops on M Street and then he curled the ambulance around and onto Pennsylvania Avenue. There was a slight slick on the pavement as though a drizzle had dampened this part of Washington.

  The ambulance kept to the middle of the street. A few people were out in front of Blair House, one of them a woman with her knuckles in her open mouth.

  The motorcycle police approached the West Gate. Across the street in Lafayette Park, the people stood stonefaced as they had on the morning of April 15, 1865. They did not weep because many of them could not yet believe. The ambulance came to a stop. The police escort wheeled away from it like a fleur-de-lis. Inside the main door of the White House, the men who had worked so hard all night said: “Here he comes” and, in a body, they retreated.

  Sargent Shriver went out to the front porch and stood waiting under the big light. His skin was pale. A Negro usher began to open the great front doors, the latches snapping loudly. Two White House policemen opened the double west gates. On the driveway, a double row of servicemen heard an officer shout an order and it rang off the front of the mansion. Greer bent low behind the windshield, nodded to the policemen, and started up over the sidewalk slowly and onto the big curving driveway. The soldiers, the marines, the Air Force recruits flanked the ambulance and marched beside it, their officer in front of the bumper, lifting his legs high, the saber leaning on his shoulder. The thump of boots hitting the pavement in cadence could be heard inside the ambulance. They could be heard in the silence across the street. The lights of the cars passing slowly onto the grounds washed the dark old bark of the big trees.

  Everywhere he went, this man had heard “Hail to the Chief.” This time there were the muffled drums of feet. Roy Kellerman glanced at his watch. The time was 4:24. Greer saw an honor guard of United States marines ahead and he pulled slowly abreast of them and stopped. “. . . and miles to go . . .” He pulled up the hand brake and turned the ignition off. “. . . and miles to go . . .”

  The cars behind them, lights blazing, came to a halt. Except for a hoarse military shout now and then, and a car door opening or closing, there was no sound, no conversation. The relatives and friends who had kept the vigil emerged, walking hesitantly up the line of cars to the ambulance. Kellerman and Greer opened the back. They helped Mrs. Kennedy and Robert Kennedy down. There were no tears. They looked around and up toward the portico, like people who are surprised to find that they are here.

  Military men in dress uniforms slid the dark casket out on its bearings. At a whispered command, each man grasped a silver handle with both hands. At another command, they turned to face front and held on with one hand. This was the darkest hour, and the light from the portico was brighter than ever. It scintillated along the curving lid of the casket as the young men began their slow steps through another long guard of honor onto the porch.

  Mrs. Kennedy and her brother-in-law followed. The others fell in awkwardly behind them. The casket tilted as it was carried up the few steps. The guard of honor extended through the doors and on into the main lobby. Across the street, a woman wailed aloud. The group walked slowly through the main doors into the cool brightness of the marble reception hall. An honor guard of marines stood at attention. The sound was new, the squeak of shoes. Sargent Shriver kissed his sister-in-law, whispered a consoling word, and took his place on the opposite side.

  The pallbearers turned left and into the great East Room. There, for the first time, Mrs. Kennedy could see what had been done. She saw the great black catafalque and the bits of crepe on the chandelier and the frames of mirrors. She nodded to herself, satisfied. The casket was lifted high, centered, and lowered on the dark dais. Robert Kennedy looked and then looked away.

  The men who had carried the body stepped back. They looked furtively at each other. No one had told them what to do next. A marine officer stepped smartly to the center of the parquet floor, clicked his heels, and whispered orders as a priest in cassock and white surplice walked to the head of the casket, sprinkled holy water, and murmured prayers. The marines marched off, the boots thumped in unison, and the little wall bracket electric lights shivered.

  There was an altar boy; the priest whispered to him to light the taper and light the four candles surrounding the catafalque. The boy was nervous. Two officers snapped an American flag open and draped it over the top of the casket. David Pearson watched the altar boy fumble. So did another former altar boy: Robert Kennedy. Someone noticed that Mrs. Kennedy was no longer in the doorway. A moment later, the Attorney General disappeared.

  The priest knelt. His prayers were his own. Some, in the doorway, knelt. Others stood. Stuart’s portrait of Washington stared out in pride and did not see the thirty-fifth man to the office. An officer inspected the guard of honor—a man from each branch of service. His face was hard and stern, and he turned heel and toe away from each man to march to the next. At the conclusion, he muted a barked command and the honor guard lapsed into parade rest.

  General Godfrey McHugh stood straight and silent. He was near the casket, thumbs on the seams of his trousers. Beside him stood Secret Service man Clint Hill. The East Room was so quiet that men could hear each other breathe. An usher came into the room, strode over to Hill, and whispered that Mrs. Kennedy said that she would be downstairs in a minute. She wanted the casket opened.

  The flag was folded and removed, to be draped over the forearm of an officer. The general and the Secret Service man stepped up on the side of the catafalque to try the catch. They fumbled. Then it snapped, and the lid came up. They did not want to be fumbling when Mrs. Kennedy arrived. Clint Hill lifted it wide. He looked inside.

  He studied the face more boldly than he had before. The President looked composed. The jawline seemed a little broader. The thick chestnut hair looked darker against the white satin pillow. Carefully they lowered the lid without closing it. McHugh looked back across the room. Mrs. Kennedy stood in the doorway, on the arm of Robert Kennedy.

  For the first time, she looked exhausted. The feet were a bit too wide apart. The head was slightly down, the mouth hung open. The eyes held the haunted look of the long day. Robert Kennedy held her elbow and whispered to her. They started slowly across to the center of
the room. General McHugh barked an order: “Honor guard, leave the room!” There was a hesitation. Each man did an about-face and started to walk away.

  “No,” Mrs. Kennedy said, holding up a hand. “No. They can stay.” They stopped but did not turn back. One man was in midstep, and remained in that attitude. Robert led her to where Clint Hill stood. The Secret Service man lifted the lid high and stepped down. The Attorney General helped the lady up the step. She stood looking in, still wearing his dried blood on her strawberry dress and on her stockings. She stared at the image and asked for scissors. Hill got them. She reached in and snipped a lock of hair. Robert Kennedy glanced at his brother and turned his glance down. Mrs. Kennedy held the snip of hair and the scissors.

  Then she turned away. “It isn’t Jack,” she said.

  Epilogue

  Looking back over the shoulder, one gains perspective. The further back, the more the mind focuses on infinity. Five years after the assassination of President Kennedy, it is clear that America immersed itself in an emotional bath on November 22, 1963. It soaked a long time but emerged no cleaner. In June 1968, President Kennedy’s brother, Robert, was assassinated. Between those events, other crusaders had been killed. Others will be killed.

  These sorrows are not the symptom of a sick society. To the contrary, the health of the community is displayed by the increasing amount of mass shock which follows each assassination. America is deluded by a veneer of gentility and sophistication. The country feels that it is “above” violence. No culture, no country is. Man husbands hate as he does love. It is mundane for one person to wish another person dead. Some kill symbolically with an anonymous letter or a threatening phone call. A few stick pins in dolls. The coward misses on purpose. The fanatics, the sick, transform their hate and frustration into a final, physical act.

  This book was written for two reasons. One is that, for a number of years, the minute-by-minute account of an event has been my forte, and that day in that city lends itself to this kind of writing. The second is, as the list of source material will show, a great number of writers have spent a lot of energy bending these events to preconceived notions. And yet I cannot claim complete and unqualified accuracy for myself because I have never written anything which, in the final analysis, is exactly as I had hoped.

  The nonfiction writer, unlike the novelist, is stuck with facts. They can be, collectively, undramatic and antidramatic. Solid facts have ruined good scenes.

  My feelings about the people in the book and those, like the members of the Warren Commission, on the perimeter of events are turbulent. There are liars and second-guessers in the cast, and self-hypnotists too. I cannot believe that Mrs. John F. Kennedy said: “I love you, Jack!” as her husband fell dead in her arms. She doesn’t even remember crawling out on the trunk of the car. Those riding with her can recall everything they heard her say. “I love you, Jack!” is not one of them.

  Will Fritz was a good, plodding cop, but I do not admire him as Inspector Kelley of the Secret Service does. Fritz kept no record of his interrogations of Oswald. A pool of police stenographers was available to him. Also, for a few dollars, he could have rented a tape recorder from a shop near police headquarters. His questioning was cautious and repetitive. I am left with the impression that Fritz was afraid of alienating his prisoner. The book does not reveal him in this light because the known facts are counter to it.

  I felt, at times, that Chief Jesse Curry wanted to hide from the assassination. He remained at Love Field until 4:05 P.M. although Oswald was arrested at 1:40 P.M. The chief spent much of his time in his office worrying about the press and the possible indictment of his department. The district attorney had the impression that the chief did not know a great deal about the case. Nor do I believe that Fritz and Curry were solicitous of the rights and welfare of Lee Harvey Oswald. Every time the prisoner entered or left the office of Captain Fritz he ran a gamut of vicious reporters. He also pleaded for “John Abt or a lawyer from the American Civil Liberties Union.” The police department told the ACLU that Oswald had declined the services of an attorney.

  Fritz has said that if his men were close to the President when the shots were fired, they might have picked off the assassin in the sixth-floor window or, at the worst, sealed the building against escape. When the shots were fired, Dallas policemen fell off motorcycles, drew revolvers, and ran in diverse directions as the echo chamber of Dealey Plaza tossed the explosions back from three walls. In addition, they were unable to seal the Texas School Book Depository building until at least 12:34 P.M., at which time Mr. Oswald was sauntering back up Elm Street to board a bus.

  The press was abominable. Reporters were demanding, hysterical, and abusive. It was within the power of Captain Glen King and his superiors to seal the third floor against cameras and journalists at any time. The reporters could have been evicted to the first floor where, once an hour, Captain King could have appeared before them with a typewritten report of progress. The police were afraid of the press. The midnight conference with Oswald was a mockery of justice. The lion was thrown to the Christians.

  A good case can be made out for any theory about the three shots. As a mediator on television, I have listened to some which induced laughter. The best procedure is to work backwards. The vast majority of witnesses agree that they heard three shots. Zapruder’s film proves that the third shot blew the top off of John Kennedy’s head. This leaves two for accounting. Governor John Connally, who remained alert and conscious through the ghastly scene, is a hunter. He heard a rifle shot and swung toward his right, then toward the left to look at the President. Mr. Kennedy was lifting both hands upward. A second shot rang out, and the President grasped the throat area and began to fall toward his left. At the same time, the Governor felt as though someone had slammed him in the back. This would indicate that the second shot hit Mr. Kennedy, furrowed between the strap muscles of the neck, nicked his tie, emerged pristine, having hit no bone, punctured Connally’s rib cage, and emerged exactly where the films show Connally’s right wrist to be—coming up toward his chest. It hit the wrist, fractured it, and was spent in a shallow furrow on the left thigh and remained there until it fell off a stretcher.

  If there is a mystery—and I don’t think there is—it lies in the first shot. A direct line from Oswald’s window, down to the position of SS-100-X, and straight to the underpass at Commerce, will show that this is the one which hit the pavement on the right side of the car, sending up a shower of gravel from the pavement. A woman on the curb opposite the car was hit by a “spray.” President Kennedy’s seat in the car was elevated three feet higher than the Connally jump seats. Undoubtedly Kennedy heard the first shot; undoubtedly he felt the spray of concrete and realized that someone had taken a shot at him. The bullet is believed to have tumbled upward off the pavement, nicked a curb, and sprayed the face of James Thomas Tague standing beside his car at the underpass—on a straight line from that sixth-floor window.

  Marina Oswald has my sympathy, not my esteem. She was ready to tell about her husband’s rifle and the blanket in which it was wrapped. Why did she not volunteer the information she had about her husband’s attempted assassination of Major General Edwin Walker? Why not tell about how she locked him in the bathroom because he vowed to kill the Vice-President on a visit to Dallas? I cannot quarrel with the posture of a mother who wishes to protect her babies and herself, but if she proposes to reveal some truths and withhold others, she does not qualify as reliable.

  Lee Harvey Oswald’s mother makes the perfect portrait of the permanently aggrieved woman. When I was in Dallas and Fort Worth, she was one of the few persons I could not locate. And yet I feel that I know her. She has one-way eyes and a mind to match. Marguerite Oswald formulates logic so illogically that it becomes predictable. As long as she lives, Lee Harvey has a friend at court.

  My conversations with Judge Joe B. Brown and the host of anonymous men he sent to my hotel suite at the Dallas Statler Hilton were the most revealing.
Brown was the judge who presided at the trial of Jack Ruby for the killing of Lee Harvey Oswald on Sunday, November 24, 1963. He had sustained several heart attacks and had an ardent desire to write a book defending his conduct of the trial. He sat smoking a pipe, a man with an excellent memory for names and events. The people he sent remained “anonymous” because many of them—for example, police department employees—had been ordered not to discuss the assassination with anyone. The material given me by the judge and his faceless friends filled many of the blank spots of that bad day in Dallas. The judge took me to the jail one night so that I could see the “old” maximum security cell in which Oswald reposed for two days.

  The management at the Hotel Texas in Fort Worth was kind in permitting Mrs. Bishop and me to occupy Suite 850 which had been occupied by the Kennedys on November 21 and 22, 1963. We were in it on November 21 and 22, 1967, the fourth anniversary of their stay. In all cases, I photographed everything—interiors, furniture, lobbies, exteriors, the parade route—all in color. The only time I was forbidden the use of a camera was when Mr. Roy Truly of the Texas School Book Depository took me up to the window used by the assassin. He pointed to the Nikon and said: “Leave that thing down here.”

  I am certain that, without the unqualified assistance of Chief James Rowley and the Secret Service, and Cartha de Loach and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, this book would have been a guessing game. The agents of both services who worked on this case in Dallas or in Washington were made available to me for individual questioning. Their report sheets showed exact times on events, even small ones. At the National Archives, I hefted the cheap rifle Oswald used, examined the revolver used to kill Officer Tippit, and counted the bits of bullets which have been recovered.

  I am grateful to President Lyndon Johnson for a private interview on the assassination. It was the first time he had discussed it and, from the manner in which it affected him, it may be the last. Mrs. Lyndon Johnson, always gracious, is the only person I interviewed who wept. Malcolm Kilduff, assistant press secretary, and Jack Valenti, President Johnson’s most confidential aide, cudgeled their heads to recall every scrap of pertinent information.