Читать книгу The Patsy Returns - J. Thomas Ford - Страница 7

“The President was killed by professionals, Timothy.

That’s what they have been trying to keep from the American people all these years. That’s what they don’t want you to know.”

“Even now, after all these years?”

“Afraid so, once the government starts lying it can’t stop.

It’s a part of the story now, and they don’t want to ever give it up.”

“It just sounds so ludicrous,” I said.

“I agree with you.”

“That’s why my generation doesn’t believe a thing the government says.”

“Right! I can see that, and just the opposite is true for those of us who are a little older,” Lee added.

Once or twice I tried asking him questions, but each time he put up his hand as a signal not to interrupt him. He wasn’t trying to be rude, I think it was more like he wanted to get it out before he forgot some of these details. He spoke non stop for the next twenty minutes, by the time he was finished the sweat was pouring down each side of his face. One of the things that I wanted to know about were the shooters, who they were and what kind of weapons they were using. I asked him these questions one by one, and he answered without hesitation.

“Sniper rifles, the kind that you can fold up and carry away in a valise. They were European made and they were all using the same ammunition, 7.62 grain, high velocity, which is deadly when it enters human flesh, even more so when it slams into a human skull, which is what the shooters were all aiming at that day.

The team consisted of three shooters, six men altogether. Each team was spread out around Dealy Plaza, using a technique well known to any military man, called triangulation of crossfire. When I asked him to elaborate, he did so with professional expertise.

“They used military walkie talkies and Swiss made stopwatches. They fired three volleys, altogether nine bullets. They were aiming for the President’s head. Three of the rounds missed their mark and they came from the shooter in the Texas Book Depository, which meant that he was in the worst position or not the best marksman.”

“Was that you, Lee?”

“No, it was not. I was downstairs eating at the time of the shooting.”

He hesitated, took a drink of water and continued.

“The President didn’t stand a chance, Timothy. It was an ambush. These people knew exactly what they were doing. They were highly trained assassins, the best that money could buy.”

What he meant was that these men had experience with this technique. They knew what they were doing. None of them were amateurs. This was not a hit spurred on by emotions. These men were doing this to get paid, especially the man everyone referred to as the Bulgarian.

“How much was he paid?” I asked.

Oswald merely shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I can only tell you what I heard on the street.” I still wanted to know.

“Twenty-five thousand up front and another twenty-five when the job was done. Of course, out of that, he had to pay his team, and your guess is as good as mine on what they received.”

When I asked where the money came from, he said it came from the Mob, more specifically Carlos Marcello, the Sicilian born Don from New Orleans.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

My own research told me the same thing, that the Mob was furious with both Kennedy’s because of the way the Attorney General continued to harass them, even after they helped to get Jack into the White House. But, I also knew that Mr. Marcello had a hatred for the Kennedy’s because of what Bobby Kennedy did to him personally.

“By deporting him to Honduras?”

“That’s correct. Marcello was so mad about that he bragged in public that he was going to kill both brothers and their entire families, even the kids, one by one. Dozens of people heard him make this boast because he did it in one of the restaurants he frequented in New Orleans.”

I knew that Bobby Kennedy had allowed the power he wielded to go to his head, and that he eventually paid the ultimate price, but the pain he felt when Jack was killed went beyond the pale because in his heart he knew that it was because of him that Jack was dead.

It all began when Carlos Marcello put out a contract on the President of the United States and his younger brother. The first thing he did was direct his associate, David Ferrie, to find the right man for the job. Money was no object. David went off to Europe to find the Bulgarian, and when he came back he told Marcello that they would have to allow for the assassin’s to escape so they could spend their money. He told Marcello how much money was needed and the man told Ferrie that money was no object.

“What was your role, Lee?”

“I was the gopher, Jack’s errand boy and I was taking care of the assassination team. I brought them food and drink on a daily basis. They were living in low rent motels outside the city and Jack wanted them to remain in their rooms and not be seen on the streets while they waited to kill the President. But, the Bulgarian had other ideas. One day, he decided he wanted to go to a shooting range. I knew that Jack would have hit the roof if I let him so I tried talking him out of it, but he was not the type that you gave orders to and I knew that he would not take no for an answer so I reasoned with Jack and told him the man was going to go anyway, so why not accompany him, keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t get himself into trouble.”

“So, you went with him?”

“That’s right. I did. It was my idea, so Jack said go ahead, but make sure he stays out of trouble.”

“Uh huh. So, what happened?”

“We both shot. First, I made a fool of myself by putting one bullet in the bullseye and the rest were all over the place. Then, it was his turn. I’ve never seen anything like it. Every shot was in the bullseye and, more than once, his bullets traveled through the same hole. If he had done it just once, I would have thought, well lucky shot, but he did it over and over again. The more he shot the better he got. When I was in the Marines I was around world class shooters, but I never saw anyone shoot like that. And he still wasn’t satisfied.”

“I am rusty,” he told me in his broken English. That’s why he wanted have access get to a range and shake off some of that rust.”

I watched for a moment as Lee went back to his sketching and started thinking about the next question I wanted to ask.

“Let’s go back to the shooters, Lee, if you don’t mind?”

He indicated that he did not. I tried to put my next question into the proper context.

“Where were they firing from?”

“From multiple directions. One from the left, one from the back and one from the front.”

“Go on.”

“Timing was everything. The key was the ‘kill zone.’ The shooters had to hold off until the limousine was perfectly placed. That’s why the limousine slowed to a stop just as the shooters were firing. It was a planned assault, and the co-operation of the man driving the limousine was a must, no matter how much denial there was from the Secret Service. Once there, the President was a dead man.”

Although my next question was stupid, I just had to ask.

“In your opinion, what chance did the President have of getting out of Dealy Plaza alive?”

“Under the circumstances, none.”

“None?”

“You heard me. That’s why I went to the FBI and tried to explain to them what was going to happen and how important it was for them to convince the President to stay away from Dallas.”

“When did that happen?”

“Ten days before. I believe it was on or about the 10th of November.”

“So, why didn’t they do something?”

Lee shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine?” Then, he added, maybe they wanted it to happen!”

I looked down at my notes. He was right. That could have been the answer. Maybe, someone other than the Mob wanted Kennedy out of the way, whether it was Johnson, Hoover, the CIA or all of them together. Too many people didn’t do their job that day. The fix was in, and it had to take a lot of co-operation for it to come off the way it did.

“What about your role in the assassination?”

He took a deep breath. He glanced up at the ceiling. It took a moment for him to answer me.

“Believe it or not, I didn’t actually have one.”

“Do you expect me to believe that, Lee?”

“Believe what you want to believe, Timothy, but that’s the truth. I went as far as I could go. I refused to do any more. I thought the reason that Jack went along with it was because he knew how I felt about the President, but, I was wrong. I was going to be the scapegoat and he needed me to stick around, so they could set me up and make me look like the lone assassin. Of course, I did not know it back then. It was only later that it occurred to me. I just knew that I had to warn the FBI what was about to take place. At first, I was a little taken back that they did not seem to be all that interested in what I had to say. The simple answer may have been that they didn’t trust me, or didn’t believe that I was telling them the truth? I don’t know, I never could figure that part out?”

As he finished up what he was trying to tell me, he stood up and walked over to the window. He was trying to collect his thoughts. He was still looking out at the New York skyline when he turned around and said...

“My main concern was helping to prevent the assassination from happening, but I wasn’t getting much help in that regard. Not even the FBI appeared to give a damn whether the President survived or not. It was as if they were merely going through the motions! Even the Secret Service were moving like they had lead in their pants. I remember thinking, what the hell was wrong with these people? Why did they seem to be moving in slow motion?”

“Did you have access to the Zapruder film. Lee?”

“Yes, when it became available, I bought my own copy. I’ve watched it dozens of times.”

“What did you see when you watched it?”

“I saw a red streak coming in from the left in the area of the Dal-Tex building. That was where the Bulgarian was situated. A split second later, the President’s head exploded. The first time I watched the film, I didn’t quite get it, but about the tenth time I finally realized that there was something wrong with the response time of the Secret Service. It looked like they weren’t trying very hard. Holy crap, I thought, even the Secret Service was in on it!”

He sat back down at the table.

“Why did you put yourself in that position, Lee?”

“It just happened. I didn’t plan it. I thought I was doing a job, one that was going to lead to a job with one of the agencies. It started when I wandered into Guy Bannister’s offices looking to help him with the Cuban expatriates he was being paid to keep an eye on. His detective agency worked with all the covert agencies. As a former FBI supervisor, he had a lot of contacts and he told me he could probably find work for me. At the time, I was trying to form a chapter of the Fair Play for Cuba organization. I made the suggestion to Mr. Bannister that maybe we could help each other out. After discussing it for a day or so, we came up with an idea to try and embarrass the Cubans. The plan worked and turned into a radio and TV spot and some bad publicity for the Cubans.”

“Is that all?”

“While Bannister and I were celebrating over a cold soft drink, he mentioned the possibility of my helping out a friend of his, Jack Ruby, in Dallas. It just so happened that my wife and two little girls were living in Dallas, and it would be good thing if I could find some work there that might pay me decent money so I could take care of my family.”

“Did you know Jack Ruby before that?”

“I did not. I knew the name. I knew his reputation, but I had never met him until that day. He was there to discuss the assassination attempt with Bannister and Ferrie, but they did not reveal any of that to me at that time.