by W. Green
“It’s over,” said Currant. “I saw the whole thing. He’s dead for sure.”
“For sure?”
“Yes. His head was completely destroyed. It was very ugly.”
“We were too little—too late,” said Ethan. “I tried my best. I actually found Oswald. But that was a waste. He didn’t seem to even know what was going on. I just saw him take off out the front door. No big hurry. Pretty nonchalant. I think he was a red herring…” Just then, Ethan looked away from Currant. Something caught his eye—a man running down the slope leading to Elm Street. “It’s Oswald—look!”
Currant looked back at the man who by this time reached a light-colored station wagon car that was parked on Elm. The man quickly jumped in the passenger side of the car and in seconds it was gone. “I thought you said he was walking down Elm Street the other way.”
“I did. But it was him,” said Ethan. “This is crazy. A man can’t be in two places at once—can he?”
“Not unless he’s got a twin. Oswalds are popping up everywhere—like rabbits.” Currant reached up and grabbed Ethan’s shoulders with both hands. “We need to round up our troops and get out of town. We have company now.”
“Company?”
“Time police.”
Emma tried to stand. As the adrenaline subsided, her knees knocked. Tears filled her eyes. She was transfixed. She held her camera weakly in her right hand. Then, abruptly, she felt someone grab it. “Hey! What?”
A big man in a dark gray suit, white shirt and tie flashed his credentials at her—‘Secret Service’. “I’ll take that Miss. You’ll get it back in few days.” Sirens wailed painfully in the distance—downed people began to rise off the turf like zombies in a horror movie—chaos still reigned.
“But,” Emma moaned. She was too beaten to say anything more.
“What’s your name? Where do you live? We’ll get it back to you.” The tone of his voice was too ‘matter of fact’ under the circumstances.
Emma came to her senses. “Forget it. It’s too horrible. I don’t want to ever see that again.”
“Smart thinking young lady.” Then with her camera in his grip, he headed back up the hill away from the devastation.
Emma dropped into a crouch again and cried softly. “Bastards,” she mumbled.
LOG of Zak Newman
November 22, 1963: 18:42 (Day 25 of time travel)
Well the deed is done. And so are the time travelers. We’ve left town and we’re back on the road. It’s hard to say whether our trip was a success or failure. After all, it was supposed to be a history lesson—not a mission to save the Camelot king. It certainly was an education. We’ve learned a lot about life in the ‘60s. It’s a rough time and place. Ask JFK. We may have bought him twenty additional days on this planet, but in the end he’s still out of the picture. His top is down and so is ours. The wind is whistling through my hair, and through the bullet holes in his skull. Soon the sun will set on this horrible day. In the darkness that follows, a nation will cry itself to sleep.
According to the radio news, the mystery man Oswald is in police custody charged with killing the president and a cop. Jackie Kennedy continues to wear her bloodstained and brain-speckled pink outfit. What’s left of JFK is in a box on Air Force One. And the U.S.A. is now under the command of the new president, Lyndon Baines Johnson. That was quick. Thank our lucky stars for the rules of succession. So everything is going smoothly for some people. Not so for Emma. She is next to me—very quiet, still sniffling. Apparently she grew very attached to the handsome young prince in their brief moments together before his demise. I guess she is a reflection of most of the people of the United States. As we drive from town to town escaping the nastiness that is Dallas, we see tear-streaked, red faces everywhere. The people have been crushed. This is the day the grand illusion died—the day the sweet sauce of faithful patriotism was overwhelmed by the stench of the rotten fish of reality. The one-of-kind tasty dish of democracy, now almost two hundred years old, will no longer be palatable or even eatable to those with sensitive taste buds. Of course, hungry people will continue to eat no matter how fishy it smells—because they are hungry. I suspect those that can’t stomach it will die off, because this is now the new American diet.
Essentially, these thoughts have filled Ethan’s conversation since the assassination. He’s become a cynic’s cynic. And Dr. Currant has been very quiet. He’s offered no explanation for his behavior except to say that we owe our lives to a time cop named Joell. He seems to have little interest in the death of JFK. It’s almost as if he has forgotten the grand panorama of history. He is totally focused on the essence of living. He keeps saying that everyone still has his life regardless of the fact that JFK lost his. Great leaders and evil forces come and go. But, all that is beyond us. History is just a backdrop for our own lives, nothing more and nothing less. Like the night storm that roars through the forest of life ripping down trees and frightening children with its thunder and lighting, this too shall pass and the sun shall rise again. “Our lives go on. Our lives go on.” This is something he continues to mumble while he drives. Otherwise, he is not talking.
With my great genetic “gift”, I can really feel the pain of my friends. They are crushed by their memories of the day. Although I did not witness the assassination, I did interview someone who saw “the man behind the curtain” or more correctly, the fence. After Emma dashed away and left me stuck in traffic on the freeway, I had nothing do but wait. Nearby, shortly thereafter, bullets filled the air. But I only endured the nasty atmosphere of automobile exhaust. Eventually it was over, the president had been exterminated, and traffic flowed again. I put the Chevy in Drive and motored on. Things appeared pretty normal. I was focused on getting back to Dealey. But not too far ahead, just past the Elm Street on-ramp, I saw a man on the left side of the road waving frantically. I pulled the Chevy to a stop and jumped out to see what was wrong. Surprise—this guy was mute just like me—a serious looking fellow, maybe late twenties, he wore glasses, his ears were prominent and his jaw square. He was also deaf. By the time I reached his side, he was hyperventilating. He was signing vigorously, but so erratically, it was all gibberish. I knew why no other cars had stopped. The drivers could make no sense out of the situation. However, I could. I tested my signing with him, and he immediately appeared relived. He calmed. I asked him to lean against the car to catch his breath. After a few moments, he told me his name was Ed and he said he had seen something terrible happen. He walked me back to his vantage point. From this place, a few minutes earlier, he had watched history unfold. Now, the two of us looked across the expressway. In the distance the red brick Book Depository was visible. From this location you could see the parking lot on the west side of the building, the backsides of the grassy knoll pergola and wooden fence, and the railroad tracks in the foreground. I asked Ed, to sign slowly so I could understand, and he told me his story.
He had stopped on the side of the freeway to watch the presidential motorcade. While waiting for it to arrive, he had a view of all activity in the entire area to the west of the Depository and north of Elm Street starting about 11:50 am. He saw a light colored station wagon enter the open parking area and circle the lot; eventually it parked near the switching tower. Later, he saw a man in a plaid shirt walk around the end of the L-shaped wooden fence and talk to another man wearing a business suit. There was also a uniformed policeman nearby. Both the plaid shirted man and the policeman walked out of view along the Depository side of the fence. There was another man dressed like a worker who stood near the railroad tracks. The business suit man met with this train worker briefly then walked back to the fence. In time he bent over, straightened up, and looked over the wooden fence toward Elm Street. In a moment there was a puff of smoke. The man then turned and Ed saw that he had a rifle in his hands. He ran to the train worker and reaching him tossed the rifle over. The worker caught the rifle, broke it down, placed it into a bag, and then walked away along the tracks
. Meanwhile, the businessman casually walked back through the parking lot. A policeman (not the same one who Ed saw earlier) with a pistol in hand confronted him. This must have been just after the assassination. The businessman showed the cop some identification. The policeman accepted the credentials and moved on. The businessman then casually walked to the station wagon parked near the switching tower, and the car drove away. Following all this, Ed saw the big blue limo drive up the nearby expressway ramp—the death car racing to Parkland Hospital. The wounded players were knotted into a bloody ball in the back. JFK was slumped down his head resting on the seat. His head had a large fist-sized hole behind his right ear. It was an awful sight.
This silent horror movie was his story and he was relieved to be able to tell it to someone who could understand him. I said goodbye to Ed and he drove away. Shortly thereafter I met up with our group at the corner of Houston and Elm. Tom Quinn was there too. At our powwow, Quinn told us of his sightings of men with guns on the sixth floor of the book depository. Everyone agreed that shots came from many directions. Ethan told of his ambiguous meeting with Oswald. Emma told of the shooter on the knoll. In the aftermath, people ran toward the hill in great numbers trying to find the shooters. She also mentioned the Secret Service man who confiscated her camera. I told the story of the mute man. Only Dr. Currant was without a story. He said it was too horrible to discuss. We were all tremendously excited. Emma cried. It was time to go. We left Tom Quinn standing in front of the Depository. It was sad to leave him. He had been a good comrade for us. But he did say that he would continue to work on the story no matter where it leads him or how long it takes.
We only had a few days left to get back to the TimeTravelle. Tomorrow will be day twenty-six. Dr. Currant said he couldn’t guarantee our safe return to 2028 if our trip exceeded twenty-eight days. We still had over 1,400 miles to go to reach Mystic Heights. I hope the Chevy makes it. We suggested taking a train or plane, but A.C. would have none of those thoughts. He loves this car and he will drive it home.
END 11-22-63
-Chapter 23-
Ruby—Don’t Take Your Love to Town
The reporter Quinn stayed on in Dallas and kept his secrets to himself after the assassination—his own knowledge of the men on the sixth floor, Zak’s story about the men behind the fence, Emma’s detailed description of the destruction of JFK, and Ethan’s run in with Oswald. Now Oswald was the police prime suspect. Quinn stayed with the other reporters working to sort out what had happened. About midnight on the evening of the assassination, he was in the basement of the police headquarters. A news conference was scheduled which would present the alleged assassin Lee Harvey Oswald, as he was now known. This was the man who, in a period of eighty-one minutes, had shot the president, left the book depository where he worked, traveled home by bus and cab, picked up a handgun, walked a few minutes, then shot a police officer dead, and finally was surrounded and captured by police in a movie theater. Now he was in custody. Others were brought in for questioning as part of a leaky dragnet set up after the shooting. These included three “tramps” that were found hiding in a railroad boxcar next to the Depository parking lot. Quinn saw these men that afternoon as they were taken into custody by two shotgun wielding Dallas cops. He got a good look at them. They really didn’t look the part. They were clean, smooth-faced, with decent haircuts. However, they did look like people who were uncertain of how to dress. One wore sport coat and jeans and maintained his golf shirt collar entirely up—kind of a European look. The tallest of the three had messy hair, wore a sport coat and a sick smile. The last tramp looked older. And he wore a funny little hat. Their shoes were serviceable but not stylish. While Quinn realized they could be tramps, he had met enough real vagabonds to know these men were not hoboes. Later he heard that they had been released. Other men, some of them quite unsavory and suspicious, but unseen by Quinn, had also been arrested and released. But by late evening, the table had been set by the purveyors of justice—Oswald was their man.
Quinn was present when Oswald was moved from room to room through the tight corridors of the police building. They were jammed with cameramen, reporters, police, and others. Security was terrible. Strangely, the man Quinn had met that morning in the lunchroom of the Dallas Morning News was wandering about. Quinn looked in his coat pocket for his business card—Jack Ruby, Proprietor. He was a nightclub owner. Quinn wondered what he was doing here at the police station. Oswald answered ad hoc questions fired at him by reporters. He was questioned by one of the reporters whether he had killed the president. “They are taking me in because of the fact that I lived in the Soviet Union. I am just a patsy.” Later under the same circumstances he said, “I did not shoot anybody.” Quinn wondered about this man. He was very cool and calm. He was an assassin without the cry of “Sic semper tyrannis” and without any claim at all to the killing of his victim. He did not appear naïve. He just seemed to be fencing with the police and the reporters—buying time—remaining non-committal. He was waiting for something to happen—but what?
Midnight arrived and the basement was hot, smoke-filled and crowded with reporters. Oswald was again paraded before the newsmen and photographers about ten hours after his arrest. He made a brief statement. He denied involvement with any killings and he requested legal assistance. Later in a question-answer period, District Attorney Henry Wade announced that Oswald was a member of the “Free Cuba Movement”. Immediately, a man standing on a table in the back of the room corrected him. He told Wade it was the “Fair Play for Cuba Committee” not the “Free Cuba Movement.” Quinn looked back at the man. It was that Ruby character again. This time he was dressed in a reporter costume wearing dark-framed glasses and holding a clipboard and pen in his hand. One expected him to don a fedora with a PRESS card tucked in the front band. Quinn found something very wrong with this situation. Jack Ruby—strip-joint owner and junior reporter covering the “story of the century”? Is that guy packin’? What’s that bulge in his pocket? How the hell does he get in here? And how the hell does he know the name of some obscure pro-Cuba organization? How did he have the balls to make his correction part of this history-making press conference when he has nothing to do with the press? Quinn smelled a pattern here—too much Ruby—and Ruby too knowledgeable to just be a mashuga bystander. Later that night, in another crowded corridor, Ruby snuggled up to him and grabbed his hand for a shake.
“What about it Mac? Any news on that scum being transferred to County?”
“Name’s Quinn. And I don’t know shit Jack. What are you doing here?”
Ruby was steady. “Me. I’m a buff. I’m always here. These guys all know me.”
“Just want to be part of history, huh?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” answered Ruby and he waddled off to buttonhole another reporter.
At first, Quinn figured him for a gadfly. Later, when he spoke with other reporters about the man, they had a new name for him. They called him “The Creep”. That he was, and he certainly was part of whatever was happening here in Dallas. Quinn needed help. The next day, Saturday, he called his office in Chicago and spoke with Jack Montana who was pleased that the American had somebody on the spot—even if it wasn’t him. Following up on “The Creep”, Quinn asked Montana to check out Ruby’s local history. Later that day they reconnected again by phone.
“Ruby’s wired,” said Montana
“How so?”
“He bumped around here in Chicago doing odds and ends for the Outfit and then settled in with the Scrap Iron Union in the ‘30s. Started out as low-level hired help, but he moved up. They used to call him “Sparky”. Guess he has quite a temper.”
“Scrap Iron. Paul Dorfman’s operation.”
“Right. Looks like he was the number two guy before the Teamsters took over.”
“What else?”
“He was Jack Rubenstein here—not Ruby. Small fish. Not made, but definitely wired. He was arrested for the murder of a guy named Cooke who apparently g
ot in the way of the union. He beat that charge though. That was in 1940. The Outfit sent him down to Texas in ’47. Opening up a new territory. His ties are here in Chicago Tom.”
“I’m still wondering why this greasy guy is playing reporter and sticking so close to Oswald. Better yet. Why are the police allowing this guy anywhere near their operations. For Chri’ sake he runs a strip club. He’s wired, huh? You know anything about the Dallas cops?”
“I would imagine they’re like our boys in blue. Most straight and some very crooked.”
“Right. Thanks. Jack. Gotta’ go now. I’ll get back to you,” said Quinn.
He would return the call to Jack Montana after Oswald was dead. Quinn was in the basement of police headquarters when Oswald was to be moved to the County jail. So was Ruby. Handcuffed to police guards on either side of him, Oswald was to be walked a few feet to the waiting transfer car—reporters—cops everywhere—a rush of noise and excitement. Oswald was now visible. He squinted under the bright lights. A car horn sounded two times—timed with his appearance. He took a few steps toward oblivion before Ruby, dressed like a B-movie hit man, popped out of the crowd, rushed forward, arm extended, holding a pistol. He fired one shot—point-blank—into Oswald’s mid-section. Oswald crumpled down and never said another word. A plain-clothes detective mounted the recumbent Oswald and started heart massage. Quinn knew about gut wounds from his Marine days. Artificial respiration for a gut gunshot victim would not save his life. It would assure his death.
