Justification For Killing

by Larry Hunt

  Chapter Fifteen

  “YOU’RE UNDER ARREST”

  “Hey fellow stand up and put your hands on the table,” a voice from behind Captain Scarburg gruffly demanded as he punched the Captain’s shoulder. Turning in his seat, he saw a couple of Dallas police officers standing at the table glaring down at him. These two had obviously been a couple of the supposed “drunks” sitting at one of the tables. The Captain did not know Jack Ruby gave the police free food and free alcohol. That was his way of staying in their good graces, and he considered them as they did him, friends. These two officers had merely been in the Carousel eating their free lunch when Captain Scarburg and Clem arrived. “I said, git up mister,” the officer compelled, sharply grabbing the Captain by one of the straps of his overalls and jerked him to his feet.

  “What’s going on officer? I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “Nothing wrong, huh? What about them clothes you got on - we got a bulletin someone had robbed an old couple up north of here, and the thief was wearing a red flannel shirt and a pair of blue denim overalls with a tear in the right knee. Seems to fit you to a tee mister, but do you and him have the same tailor? Put your hands behind your back, you’re under arrest.

  “Under arrest?” The Captain shockingly responded. “For what offense?”

  “Breaking and Entering.”

  “Hold on a minute Tommy, I can vouch for these men - I’m sure you have the wrong guy,” Ruby said to Officer Thomas Traylor.

  “This fellow been here long Jack? The robbery took place yesterday. Can you vouch for his whereabouts on Wednesday?”

  “Well... well... no. Sorry Mister Doess.”

  Speaking to Clem the Captain quietly said, “I don’t have any money for bail, but I have this Rolex watch - the crystal is broken, and it does not run but it’s made of eighteen karat gold. Can you take it to a pawnshop and get what you can for it and come back and bail me out?” Turning to the officers he asked, “Officers where will I be taken?”

  “We’re carrying you to the Dallas City Jail over on Houston Street. Houston is on the east side of Dealy Plaza.”

  Even with all the commotion Captain Scarburg couldn’t help but think, ‘that’s the same jail Lee Harvey Oswald will be held in tomorrow afternoon, and this man sitting right here in front of me is going to kill him Sunday in that same jailhouse basement. What a strange world.’

  The time was 2:06 p.m. Thursday, November 21, 1963.

  By the time the booking of Captain Scarburg had been completed, and he had been taken to his cell at the Dallas City Jail the sun was beginning to drop behind the Texas School Book Depository. No one realized, except Captain Scarburg on the sixth floor in Cell Number Two, today’s setting of the sun was the end of an age - the Age of Innocence for the United States. Drastic changes were about to occur after sunrise the following morning. After tomorrow, the U.S. and the rest of the world would never be the same again. Was it premonition, fate or just the luck of the draw but Cell Number Two was the same cell that would house Lee Harvey Oswald tomorrow night.

  Sitting in his cell, Captain Scarburg could look out his window, and see the Texas School Book Depository building just across the way. It was located on the north side of Dealy Plaza facing Elm Street, and the Dallas City Jail, where the Captain was firmly secured, was on the east side facing Houston Street. He wondered, did I come to Dallas from the 21st century, for nothing? Surely not! I can’t do anything tomorrow from this cell. I have to be on the Book building roof at exactly 12:30. How? How? Darn it, I’ve got to get out of here. Where is Clem?

  At ten o’clock, the main lights in the jail cells were extinguished. The two firelights and the exit sign above the door to the main booking room provided enough dim light to illuminate the hallway in front of the cells quite well. But it wasn’t the lights keeping Captain Scarburg awake - it was his nerves. His were a total wreck. He lay on the worn out, thin mattress of his bunk with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, thinking – his mind wasn’t on the thin mattress or the rusty, iron bunk he was thinking, I’ve come so far, traveled through time from one parallel universe to another and survived. The history of the world surely cannot come down to one old flannel shirt and a pair of worn-out overalls. Surely not!

  Nothing was heard, but the squeaking of his bed springs as he slowly arose from his bunk, walked to the bars of his cell and peered down the hallway at the clock high on the wall at the far end.

  The time was 12:15 a.m., Friday, November 22, 1963.

  He knew the date - that terrible day had arrived - Friday, November 22, 1963. By-ned just fifteen more minutes and I’ll only have twelve hours! Twelve short hours! Can this be done? Can I interrupt the shooter on that building? Shuffling back over to his cell window he once again looked across the street to the now darkened red bricks of the Texas School Book Depository building. The waxing crescent moon cast just enough light to allow him to get a glimpse of the sixth floor sniper’s window. The building didn’t seem so significant, and tonight it wasn’t. No one knew its name except the people who worked there. Tomorrow in the daylight it would take on a sinister aura. Its name would be known, not only to the inhabitants of Dallas, but to the country as a whole, no, not just the United States, but to the whole wide world.

  A building, build of wood, brick, plaster and paint would take on a life of its own. Everyone would know its name - it would become famous - maybe the word infamous would be more fitting; however, Captain Scarburg knew whether he was released from that cell or the assassin on the roof of the building was successful, the seven story, brick building looming just within a stone’s throw of his cell would forever be remembered in history.

  As Captain Scarburg peered into the blackness of the night, he thought about that building so inconsequential, so insignificant, so irrelevant, just a building, nothing more nothing less - tonight!! It was quite; spooky quite as he gazed at the foreboding structure. Off in some trees across Dealy Plaza he heard the sounds of a Nightingale singing its mournful tune in the dark. Another time, another place, this would be idyllic, he thought.

  The Texas School Book Depository was destined to become an American historical place. It would become consequential, significant and relevant - tomorrow.

  OFFICER J. D. TIPPIT

  Standing at his window staring at the Book Depository, he heard the keys jangling as one of the guards unlocked the entrance door into the cellblock. A tall, slim built man Captain Scarburg reasoned to be in his thirties dressed in the uniform of a Dallas police officer entered to perform the hourly cell check. The Captain sizing him up determined him to be a hardworking, good-looking young fellow. Strange, thought Captain Scarburg, how remarkable he resembled the President John F. Kennedy. As he neared Captain Scarburg’s cell, he was startled to see Captain Scarburg standing with his hands tightly gripping the cold steel bars to his cell.

  “What’s the trouble Prisoner No. Two? Having a hard time sleepin’? You’re actin’ like you’re goin’ to an execution tomorrow,” the jailer said grinning.

  “Execution... huh?” The Captain said mulling it over in his mind. “Execution...? Yeah, you might say that.” He replied, glancing at the guard’s nametag on his left front breast pocket, ‘TIPPIT’ it read as he released his hands from the bars and walked back to his bunk. Under his breath, Captain Scarburg said, “Officer J. D. Tippit!!”

  Hearing the Captain’s remark, “How’d you know my name? I never told you my name!”

  “Oh... oh... uh... must have heard one of the other guards referring to you, I guess.”

  Turning to walk away, Tippit turned his head and spoke over his shoulder saying, “Try to get some rest you’ll probably get out of here tomorrow or the next day for sure.”

  “Wait Officer Tippit. I would like to speak with you.”

  Returning to the Captain’s cell, “What do you want?” The guard asked harshly.

  “How long have you been with the Dallas police?”

  “’B
out eleven years now, I guess. Why? What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing, just wondering. I have a feeling you plan on making policing your lifelong career.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been givin’ it some thought lately. When I first joined the force I really wanted to be a detective, but all they had was a patrolmen’s job. I have to split time between patrol duties and jailer duties. With the patrolmen and jailer experience under my belt, I believe I have a good chance passing the detective’s test and finally becoming a plain-clothes detective. A detective’s pay is a lot more than a patrolman. I’ve got a family to support I need the extra money. I’ve already had to pick-up some extra jobs on the side... but like I said, what’s it to you?”

  “You seem like a nice enough young man, and I would like to do something to help you.”

  “What are you talkin’ about, how can you help me? You’re just a bum... a thieving bum at that!”

  “I’m much older than you, and you are right I cannot help you right now, but I can give you a sound piece of advice: ‘people you come into contact with, are not always whom you think they are’. And another thing - ‘life does not always turn out as we expect.’ Officer Tippit, if this were your last day on Earth what would you do.”

  “That’s a stupid question.”

  “Maybe, but think about it for a second.”

  “I dunno... well, I guess I would tell my wife Marie and my children, Brenda, Curtis and Allen I love them. I guess there ain’t nothin’ else I would do special.”

  “Remember what you just said when you get off duty tonight. Do it! I cannot emphasis it enough. Officer Tippit wake them up and tell them what they mean to you. We never know what tomorrow might bring. What time does your shift end?”

  “At 2 p.m. tonight, then back on jailer duty again tomorrow night.”

  “You sure? I think you will be on patrol duty tomorrow.”

  “What do you think? You don’t know nothing ‘bout our schedule. You’re just a prisoner.”

  “I... uh... I just thought you would rotate from jail duty to patrol duty. Anyway, I believe I’ll be out of here tomorrow. The jail could have a more important guest for my cell. Execution, huh? That was a good one. Don’t forget your wife and children, please.”

  “You’re talkin’ crazy. I don’t need your advice.”

  “Yeah, may seem like it today but you see the side wall of my cell where all the previous inmates have scratched notes? Once I’m out of here, I left some advice on that wall too. It will be under 12/22/63.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Remember, just read it Officer Tippit - before 12:30 tomorrow!”

  “Aw, you bum... what are you, a psychic? All you bums got a plan don’t you? You’re probably innocent too, right? Well forget it. It won’t work with me.”

  The time was 1:30 a.m. Eleven hours to go.

  It was early Friday morning November 22, 1963. The Dallas police’s Handbook of Procedures states a police officer cannot enter an inmates cell unless a second officer is on hand, as a backup. Officer Tippit was alone. He could not enter the cell and read the wall tonight unless he found another officer to provide backup for him. It appeared Tippit was not too interested in the scribbling of a thieving derelict anyway.

  Captain Scarburg arose early, passed on the breakfast but drank the black coffee and sat quietly on the side of his bunk. The sun was beginning to cast a glimmer of light through the barred window onto the cold, unpainted concrete floor directly in front of him.

  The time was 7:06 a.m.

  “Dog-gone-it, five hours to go - where in the heck are you Clem?” For the next four and a half hours, hands behind his head, he lay motionless on his back in his bunk staring at the ceiling. The hours dribbled by 7:30, 8:30, 9:30, 10:30 and finally 11:30. One last time he went to the cell door and checked the clock. One hour! I only have one more hour! If Clem arrived at this exact moment, I don’t know if I can out-process and get into position on the roof before 12:30.

  Back over to his bunk he sat with his chin in his hands thinking. The lock on the door to the cellblock clanked with the hard, metallic sound they make as a guard entered. He jumped to his feet and hurried to the cell bars. As the guard walked across the floor, Captain Scarburg watched his movement intently. I can’t tell, is he coming my way? His shoe leather snapped loudly on the concrete as the guard moved down the long hallway. Come on, come on let it be me. There were only two prisoners in the cellblock. Another inmate was in cell Number One. The Captain was in Number Two. Approaching the first cell, the guard stopped, reached for his belt and unsnapped the large key ring full of keys - fumbling for a second or two he found the correct four and one half inch long brass key. Darn, I was sure it was my time to get out of here. The clock was running out.

  The time was 11:55 a.m. Only thirty-five minutes left.

  It appeared the prisoner in Number Two was not to be freed this morning in time to meet his rendezvous with destiny. The guard walked swiftly toward the exit, returning his keys to his belt as he approached the door.

  By-Ned, he’s walking away!

  But suddenly the guard stopped, turned and walked back toward the Captain’s cell. “Oh, almost forgot about you Mr. Doess. Charges against you have been dropped.” Unlocking the cell door, he motioned toward the door the first inmate was now exiting, “You are free to go, best of luck to you. Stop outside, there are some papers you will have to sign and you can pick up any personal articles the arresting officers might have confiscated.”

  “Thanks... oh, thank you.” Looking at the clock, as he had done a hundred times during the previous night, he thought, this is going to be tight!

  The time was 12:05 p.m. Twenty-five minutes to go.

  Swinging open the heavy, steel, cell door he almost ran to the metal door leading outside to freedom. Before he could reach and grasp the door handle the door swung open. He practically ran into another police officer, Officer Johnny Kennedy, (if he only knew, thought Captain Scarburg), who had been on the night shift before Tippit of the previous night, along with a prisoner and a second jailer. The two jailers had an obviously drunk man in handcuffs. “Excuse us...,” said the first guard, “I’m just comin’ on duty Mr. Doess.”

  “Yes I remember you from early last evening. Oh, by the way, what happened to Officer Tippit?”

  “They moved him to patrol duty today because the Presidents coming. They needed extra patrol duty. Heard your charges were dropped - take care and good luck.”

  “Good luck to you too Officer John Kennedy.”

  “It’s Johnny, Mr. Doess, not John.”

  “Sorry, I guess I had the President’s name on my mind.” The Captain could not afford to waste time with this officer, “Yeah, Officer Kennedy, got sprung! Charges aren’t dropped yet, just getting bailed out now, but I’ll be a free man just as soon as a judge signs the papers,” he said as he hurried through the door the second jailer was holding open for him.

  Under his breath, soft enough Captain Scarburg could not hear, Officer Kennedy replied, “Worthless bum...! Good riddance...!”

  The time was 12:12 p.m. Eighteen minutes to go.

  A large outstretched hand greeted the Captain as he arrived in the outer room, “I’m sorry John! I got back as quick as I could.” It was Clem.

  “No time... no time... come on Clem we’ve got to go. You can tell me all about it later, where do I sign out?”

  One of the Judicial Officers instructed him to take a seat and the Discharge Officer would see him as soon as the Judge signed his release papers. He was now fighting the clock.

  Captain Scarburg and Clem both fidgeted in their hard plastic and steel chairs, which filled the Booking/Discharge room. The stark hardness of the chairs did nothing for their hind sides as they awaited the Captain’s name to be called.

  Back in the cellblock Officer Kennedy proceeded to the Number Two cell, his partner stood guard by the exit door. Slamming and locking his inebriated prisoner’s cell d
oor Officer Kennedy turned to leave but remembered something Officer J. D. Tippit had told him earlier. He now had to see what Mr. Doees had written on the wall.

  Opening the cell door with a loud clang he walked over to the note filled wall. What did Mr. Doees say last night? Look for something under... under... darn, wish I had been listening when Tippit was talkin’. Where the heck is it, he thought taking a cursory look over the wall at the dozens of handwritten, scribbled notes. What a mess! We’re goin’ to have to paint this wall. This thing’s got too much junk written on it. Hastily he glanced over the wall again, shucks, there ain’t nothing here worth readin’.

  Walking to the broom closet at the far end of the cellblock Officer Kennedy removed a gallon of grey paint and two paintbrushes. Opening cell Number Two’s door he grabbed the newly arrived inmate and impatiently demanded, “Come here... help me paint this wall.” His partner remained at his station by the door - as stated, unless it was an emergency both officers could not be in a cell at the same time.

  As he began to slap the paint on the wall the drunk commented, “Ossifer, ossifer... uh... uh... yeh know Lee Oswall?”

  “What? Wall? Yeah paint the wall. Shut your whiskey talkin’ mouth and keep painting that wall?”

  “Hoos Oswall? Hoos Jack Ruby?

  “What are you mumbling about? I said ‘Shut up’ just paint!”

  The drunk would not be quiet, “whats thuh School Buildin’ and thuh Texas Movie Theater? It must be today at 12:30, ain’t today the 22th... I betcha some other bum...” interrupting his thought he stopping to burp and at the same time almost throwing up, continued... “said these thangs. Huh, Ossifer, what yew thank?”

  “Shut up you drunken bum and paint over that trash on the wall. I ain’t tellin’ you agin!”

  They had the wall re-painted in cell Number Two in a few minutes. “There, the wall looks better, nice and fresh. Now I don’t have to look at all that worthless scribbling done by them bums. Come on you’re goin’ to cell Number One ‘till this paint dries.”

  The prisoner in cell Number Two’s last brush strokes covered over, what was likely, the most momentous piece of historical information ever written about an American tragedy before the event had even happened. Underneath the coat of fresh, grey paint had been ample assassination data that could have ensured the immortalization of Officer Kennedy’s name in the history books of the future. A Kennedy would be in history books all right, but his name would not be Johnny, but John – John Fitzgerald Kennedy would become the American icon, but Officer Johnny Kennedy’s name would never be remembered. History would forget his name. The “scribbling” read:

  11/22/63 12:30 pm

  JFK Killed

  Texas School Book Building 6th Floor

  Lee Harvey Oswald did it

  He will kill Officer J.D. Tippit 1:15 on 10th St

  Catch him in Texas Movie Theater

  I’m just a patsy he’ll say

  Jack Ruby 11:31 am Sunday 11/24/63 will kill Lee Harvey Oswald.

  Beware basement Dallas City police station

  Back in the processing waiting room Captain Scarburg’s previous jail cell buddy, the prisoner from cell Number One was called to the Discharge Desk. The Captain watched as, it seemed, an endless stream of papers were being shoved in front of prisoner Number One to sign. After the last release document had been notated, the bag of his valuables was emptied out on the table, and another paper pushed in front the prisoner to annotate. He looked at his belongings and of course signed and initialed the paper. Turning to Clem the Captain spoke almost in a whisper, “Clem hurry downstairs, get the car, and drive it around to the front police station entrance on Houston. We’re running out of time.”

  “Mr. Doees! Mr. Doees! The Discharge Officer announced aloud to the people milling around in the waiting area.

  Hurrying to the chair at the officer’s table Captain Scarburg sat down as he was replying, “Here!!”

  The papers came one after the other. When was it going to stop, he thought. At last his bag was poured out in front of him, and he signed and initialed his last form, but the Discharge Officer was holding his Iphone up in the air with one hand turning it end over end trying to figure out what it was. Finally, he handed it to Captain Scarburg, “Here take your shiny Cracker Jack do-dad and git outta here!! And hey, don’t forget your Monopoly money.”

  Free, free at last.

  The time was 12:18 p.m. Destiny’s clock had ticked down to its last twelve minutes.

  Luckily the elevator was on the sixth with doors wide open - the Captain jumped in, pressed the ground floor button and prayed no one was on floors one through five waiting to go downstairs. Luck was with him - maybe it wasn’t luck but fate? The elevator door opened on the ground floor. He walked as fast as humanly possible without running to get to the front door. Glancing up at the huge clock over the main entrance - ten minutes – ten minutes to change the world.

  The time was 12:24 p.m.