by W. Green
Outside, they walked toward the newspaper offices. Ethan queried A.C. Currant, “How was it? Can you hear the voices?”
“Let me put it this way. It’s embarrassing. I don’t put much faith in this.”
Back at the American, introductions were made using the student reporter cover for the time travelers. Emma thought Montana was very gracious and handsome.
“So where is it?” asked Quinn. “We’ve got to get a move on.”
Ethan pulled out the two envelopes containing the disks. Emma could tell he was flustered. He didn’t know which one was the Vallee conversation. He shrugged his shoulders and gave one to Quinn.
“What the hell is this? Did you guys cut a record?”
“That’s all we have,” said Emma. “Do you have a machine to play it? She looked at Jack Montana. He had the look of a man seeing his Pulitzer Prize fading away.
Quinn gathered them all together and they went into a room filled with ancient electronic equipment— radios, wire and tape recorders, and a portable phonograph. He set up the machine quickly, placed the disk in place, and set it into action. Emma was ready to pounce on the machine if he had chosen the wrong disk. It played. “This is A. C. Currant speaking from…”
Ethan rushed to the machine and stopped it. He pulled out one disk and inserted the other.
“Sorry,” he said. “That was a test.”
The second disk now played. The quality was not very good, but as Emma said later: “What did you expect for 35 cents?” When it finished. Emma looked around the room. Montana was rolling his eyes at Quinn, Currant was mumbling something about the equipment, and Ethan was focused on Montana.
“So was that Cain?” Ethan looked at the two reporters.
“Could be—or it could be any one of thousands of people.”
“But those words were spoken from the Sheriff’s Office. Did it sound like him?”
“Maybe—what do you think Tom?”
“Maybe,” he said slowly. “I still say we have to confront him.”
Montana checked his watch then spoke. “Look. I have to go, but Dick Cain will be in his office for the next 30 minutes or so if you want to run this by him. I wish you luck. My only advice to you is don’t push him. Treat him with respect. He is the Head of the Special Investigations Unit. He’s a sharp guy. I’m sure he will be helpful. You better go along Tom.”
“OK. Jack. I’ll handle this. Thanks for your help setting it up.”
“No problem. Give him my best.” Montana headed back to his office.
“I don’t trust that man,” Emma heard Quinn mutter to himself along with some kind of unintelligible expletive.
“What?”
Quinn shook his head. “Sounded like someone talking in a can. Let’s go.”
LOG of Zak Newman
November 1, 1963: 19:26 (Day 4 of time travel)
I’m still sitting in the hotel room waiting for the team to return. I actually ordered a burger and fries through room service. A first time for everything. I’m enjoying this animal delight as I write. Of course I took special measures to accomplish this simple task. I wrote a note about my nutritional needs and hand-delivered it to the man at the main desk. He took care of the rest. Charged it to the room. A.C. will love that. At least I won’t starve tonight. I’ve heard nothing from anyone. But as requested by my friends, I have been thinking.
Having the benefit of hearing the Vallee/Sheriff’s Department phone conversation and Quinn’s info about the captured hit-men, I’m thinking Ethan is right. Vallee is being set up. He’s not part of the shooting—except to be a patsy—someone left behind to take the heat. He’s been asked by someone to unleash a giant banner on the building—JFK FREE CUBA. Vallee doesn’t like Kennedy. He wants some kind of military intervention in Cuba, so he goes along with the plan. But then he's double-crossed. They don’t drop banners. Instead, others shoot JFK right in front of the building where Vallee works. When all the action occurs, Valle's on the roof holding a rolled-up banner—ready to unfurl. He hears the shots—sees the turmoil below—panics, heads downstairs, exits the rear door and is gunned down by our boys Milner and Kowalski who are part of the conspiracy. Kowalski provides the dying words to link Castro to the crime and it’s a done deal. JFK dead. Lone-nut assassin dead—case closed. The public screams for Castro to be eliminated. It’s a nasty conspiracy complete with a patsy fall guy.
Or on the other hand, maybe Vallee is a “lone nut” of sorts. He doesn’t know about the other shooters, but independently, and quite coincidentally, he decides the whole Free Cuba banner scenario is not enough—it’s time for real action. So instead of bringing a banner to the building, he takes his M1 along with plenty of ammo and starts shooting. To his surprise, the other gunmen are shooting also. Milner and Kowalski show up. Let’s assume they were only part of a conspiracy to drop the banners—nothing about shooting the president. Maybe they were supposed to help him get away after the banner episode. But then everything goes haywire. They get wind of the shooting and decide they would rather have the glory of shooting the presidential assassin, than the embarrassment of being known as the fools who sent an unbalanced ex-Marine with a gun collection—a certified schizophrenic receiving government disability payments—to the roof of a building placing the President of the United States into the line of fire. Heck, they might even go to jail or worse, as accessories. So they get rid of Vallee—shoot him dead—case closed. An attempted political statement gone bad, but immediately self-corrected by two Johnny-on-the-Spot cops: Milner and Kowalski. Of course, this scenario calls for the improbable coincidence that two independent sets of assassins (Vallee and the hit-men) arrive at the same day and same place for the killing. Seems extremely unlikely to me. I really don’t think Vallee knew anything about the planned assassination. He was set up.
So where does all this thinking lead to? Most likely everyone took the easy way out. Whatever the motivations of Kowalski and Milner, their story would be the same. They happened on the scene and killed the killer. Later investigators might buy the “lone nut” story and look no further. Or they might discover the banners-gone-wild plot, but find that tale a messy snake pit of loose ends, wired connections, and powerful people—all wrapped around a sympathetic story of taking back Cuba from the Communists. Those heading follow-up investigations would find the truth compromised by expediency, the facts compromised by misleading police follow-up and political cover-ups everywhere. My best guess is that months after the crime and the taking of Cuba, the higher-up conspirators sold the investigative commission as follows—forget other shooters—Vallee did it—call him a “lone nut”—“The King is Dead—Long Live the King.” Don’t embarrass the new president, the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the Chicago Police, the Sheriff’s Department, Mayor Daley, and the brave Cuban refugees helped take Cuba back. So they didn’t. President Johnson, the military, the CIA, the Havana casino-owning mobsters, the Cuban rebels, the Cuban dynasties, the U.S. plantation owners in Cuba, whoever Kennedy pissed-off while he was in office, the Republicans, the Bushes, and a host of others were happy. Everyone was happy except the Kennedy family, a few die-hard “lone nut” disbelievers, all the people who voted for Kennedy, and the ghost of Thomas Arthur Vallee. For all we know, Vallee may have uncovered the plot, threatened to expose it and was eliminated. In which case, he was a hero. There are lots of possibilities, and the time travelers are now in the mix. So who knows what will happen now.
I finished my burger and fries and I’m done thinking for the evening. I can’t wait to find out how the Cain meeting went. But no matter what, I have the feeling that the weather tonight for the kids from Mystic Heights will be dark, cold and foggy. Maybe that’s why detectives always wear trench coats. Hey maybe I should get one and one of those Sherlock Holmes' hats. I could be Zak Newman—The Silent Detective. I do miss my Voicenator. I want to talk again.
END 11-01-63
-Chapter 12-
Is Cain Able?
Currant, Ethan and Em
ma squeezed into the back seat of the cab while Quinn rode shotgun for the ten-minute ride across the Loop to Cain’s office. Smoke from the reporter's cigarette drifted backwards. Emma coughed loudly and complained. Turning in his seat, Quinn stared back at her, made a face and then rolled down the window and flipped the half-smoked Lucky out, trading nicotine for peace of mind. Currant announced he rather liked the smell of burning tobacco, and he pulled out his pack of cigarettes for laughs. She was not amused. Ethan also endured some discomfort. Like a broken martinet, his lanky body was shoehorned into the back seat. The ancient and heavy portable phonograph rested on his lap, and each bump and bounce painfully reminded him of the tenuous nature of the evidence. He wondered whether Cain would hear the recording and admit to the Vallee phone call. It was more likely that he would simply kick them out. Ethan sensed the tension in stuffy confines of the checkered cab. JFK's life was on the line. The taxi moved on. The teen-age crusaders, the old scientist and the veteran reporter coursed through the crisp Chicago November night aware their success or failure with Cain might decide his fate and that of America.
The night shift guard greeted them on arrival and walked them to Richard Cain’s office. Quinn entered first, followed by the travelers.
“Tom Quinn. Working late I see,” said Cain. He stood behind a heavy oak desk as he greeted the party. Mid-thirties, well proportioned, not tall, he wore those dark-rimmed glasses that Quinn mentioned. Ethan thought he looked very confident.
“The city that never sleeps…” said Quinn. “Thanks for seeing us on short notice.”
The reporter introduced the time travelers. The office was a minefield of manila folders and clipped files piled everywhere. Quinn and Currant sat in the only two chairs available while Ethan and Emma stood behind. Cain smiled comfortably at the assembled group of amateur crime-stoppers. He looked at the portable record player. “Going to a sock hop?”
Quinn chuckled. “No, it’s part of our investigation into a fellow named Thomas Vallee. As Jack informed you, we think this guy Vallee is a possible threat to the president.”
“Sounds like Secret Service territory to me,” replied Cain. “Why bring me into it?”
Currant interrupted. “I don’t know your title Mr. Cain—Chief Inspector?”
Cain smiled. “For you Dr. Currant—call me Dick.”
A.C. nodded. “Dick—serious business here. We need your help. We have a recording of a phone conversation between Thomas Vallee and someone in your office. We’d like you to identify the voice.”
Cain looked serious. “A wire tap. I thought you people were high schoolers. But let’s disregard the legal issues for a moment.” He leaned back in his chair. “ Play it.”
Quinn got up and offered a cigarette to Cain who declined. The reporter set up the machine. A cigarette hung from his lower lip with a long ash dangling threatening to fall onto the record. He flipped the switch, and the record player spun its way through 90 seconds of barely intelligible dialogue. As Ethan listened, he knew they were holding a pitifully low hand in this poker game. Cain hadn’t changed his indifferent expression while listening. Nor did he appear threatened by the recording.
“That’s it? Well don’t give up your day job Dr. Currant." Cain laughed. “You’ll never make it in the wire tapping business trying to a sell a nasty-scratchy recording like this. I know that world pretty well. But I don’t mean to disparage you or your team of junior reporters. However, let’s assume you’re correct and the call was made to this office. First, the voice quality is very bad. It sounds like someone is talking about setting up a meeting at 11:30. Then something about a ‘big event’.” Cain shrugged his shoulders, “I couldn’t recognize the voice.”
Ethan straightened up to his full height and jumped in. “We think the voice was yours Mr. Cain.”
Cain didn’t flinch. “This whole thing is loaded with issues. If it was me, I'd have it tossed out of court. There are laws about this kind of activity. Even though, as a lawman, I don’t always agree with these legal technicalities, I’m forced to abide by them. You might think about that too. But the fact is, all we can say for sure is that it is a man speaking to another man.”
“What about voice prints? We could have this analyzed.”
Cain smiled. “You’ve been reading too many Dick Tracy comic books son. Can’t be done in real life.
“Dick,” said Quinn, “you must know the flap about town now. The JFK visit.”
“I’m not here for decoration Tom. I’ve heard. But it’s not my party.”
“Do you know Thomas Vallee?” asked Currant.
Cain tossed out a weak smile. “Am I on trial here? I know lots of people. And usually I ask the questions.”
“Did you stop by our hotel last night? We had a report of someone that fits your description asking questions about us.”
Cain leaned back in his chair and looked at Quinn. “I’ll take that smoke, Tom.” Quinn tossed him his pack and Cain appeared to calm himself in the process of extracting and lighting the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and then turned his head to the side and exhaled. He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. Where are we going with this?”
A.C. Currant straightened up. “Mr. Cain. We think we’ve done some good work here. I think you know it and you know Mr. Vallee. I think that you’ve been watching us. Maybe you had something to do with our cab being run off the road yesterday. I think you may be the voice on the disk. It’s possible you may have been planning this ‘big event’ with Vallee.”
“Enough,” said Cain. A new face appeared—his smile turned to a scowl. He squared his shoulders, and thrust out his jaw. His eyes narrowed and focused on Currant. “Who do you think you are talking to? I’m afraid you kids are out of your league and your school teacher here is whistling Dixie. You know, I could have you all run in on charges if I wanted to. But I don’t want to make a mess of your little field trip or give you high school kids a rap sheet. You should be more careful, Currant. This is Chicago—not Springfield Heights and I’m the sheriff in this town. Or close enough to make your life miserable. Take your silly red record and get out.” He stood as if to close the meeting.
“Dick. Wait a second…” Quinn sputtered.
With a wave of his hand he dismissed them.
“Mr. Cain,” said Emma from the back of the room. Her voice was quiet and composed.
Cain looked at her coldly.
“Mr. Cain, I know we have barged into your town and into your business. And I know we are only school children to you. But please have a seat and listen to me for a minute. OK?”
Cain accepted her suggestion and slowly repositioned himself into the chair. “All right Miss Emma,” said Cain now in a composed voice. “I’m always willing to listen to a lady. Especially a pretty one. Go ahead.”
Emma moved closer. Sliding by Currant and Quinn, she pushed a few file folders to the side to clear a space and then half-sat on the credenza. Cain turned his chair to face her. Ethan could see that he was taking a reading of the young woman. He also knew that of all the people in the room, Emma was a match for Cain. She was smart—captain of the debate team at good old Mystic Heights High. And unlike Currant who was a genius, but lacked any diplomatic skills, she was very tactful.
“Let’s look at the facts," said Emma turning her head slightly to lock on to Cain's eyes. "JFK is coming tomorrow. Vallee’s workplace on Jackson Boulevard puts him directly on the motorcade route. We know there are two paramilitary shooters in custody and two others armed with high-powered rifles hiding somewhere in the city. Vallee talked to somebody in this building. I accept that it wasn’t you. But because of your position, you are tied to this whole thing nevertheless. And what is the ‘big event’?”
“You tell me,” said Cain flatly.
“From what we understand it could just be a way of embarrassing the president. Frustrated people making a political statement. People using the occasion to force JFK into action in Cuba. That sounds harmless enough. Almo
st like freedom of speech. But these two hit men—whomever and wherever. They are dangerous," she rolled the last comment out very slowly and clearly. "It certainly sounds serious to me. Do you agree?”
Cain appeared to reflect before answering. He exhaled a blast of cigarette smoke aimed away from Emma in Currant's direction. “You know I'll put my faith in the system to take care of them. The Secret Service is pretty sharp,” said Cain.
Emma nodded and then leaned in toward the desk. “I agree, but why take a chance? The cat is out of the bag with regard to Vallee. You know and we know the police and the Feds are watching him. For some reason, they've not yet arrested him. Even though they know he’s a prime candidate for danger. The ‘big event’ runs the risk of becoming the ‘big fiasco’. If these shooters are even able to fire one shot, there will be a full investigation. Ultimately, Vallee will talk. Rightly or wrongly, this office may be connected to the attempt. People will take sides. They’ll be looking for somebody to blame. And you will bear the brunt. You are in charge. As you say, you’re the sheriff in this town.” Her face took on a look of honest intensity.
“So?”
“So,” she said calmly. “I don’t think you want to have to explain anything. You know what they say ‘never complain, never explain’. I think there is an opportunity of a lifetime here for a courageous, bright man like you.”
Ethan watched Cain react to her words. The cop was visibly mellowing out. Ethan marveled at the way big men could be always be tamed by a sweet-talking woman. He had no idea where she was going with this story, but he had faith in Emma.
“Someone has to make the call here,” she said looking directly into Cain’s eyes. “Obviously no one in authority wants to admit the situation is dangerous for JFK here in Chicago. But somebody has to. And you’d have to agree, this is a very bad time to make a bold political statement about Cuba. It’s a mess. But one that only you can straighten out—and profit from, if you move quickly.”
