The President Killers: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #8

By charles fisher

Shannon is hired to solve the assassination of the President of the United States. The plot thickens when it is shown that a Mannlicher Carcano was left at the scene., which expands the investigation in a very odd direction, the Kennedy Assassination. JFK Buffs will like this one. Lots of action involving Shannon's friends and the Area 51 connection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: charles fisher
• Release date: Jan 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524292003

Book preview

August

Greenwich, Connecticut

Shannon? Ryan Wills. Are you awake?

Shannon Flynn brushed her platinum hair out of her eyes and squinted at the clock radio next to her bed.

No, I talk in my sleep. This better be six at night, Wills, she mumbled.

It’s morning. I know members of your species don’t come out of their caves until noon, but this is important.

"Nothing is important at six in the morning. I didn’t even know there was a six in the morning until I was twenty seven. What do you want?"

Don’t you watch the news? Wills said.

Only if  they interrupt the Road Runner cartoon show. Or  if I land on the remote when I pass out drunk, and it changes to Fox. What happened now, did that asshole you guard escape from the White House and go to a titty bar?

He’s dead. Somebody shot him  last night in Maryland.

Well, that’s not too far from Arlington, drag his useless ass over there and give him one of those firing squad funerals.

Did you hear what I just said? The president has been assassinated.

Did anybody tell him? she giggled. After all, he isn’t that smart. He may not even know he’s dead. Where did they shoot him?

I told you, Maryland.

No, I mean body part. Doesn’t he wear a vest?

They shot him in the head.

Oh. Well that’s odd, I’m surprised a bullet could penetrate that thick skull of his. Who did it?

How the hell should I know? That’s why I’m calling you.

I was home all night, Shannon yawned. Sorry, keep looking.

You’re hopeless. I need some help with this. This is just too bizarre for words. Can you come down here?

I could, but I don’t want to.

We’ll pay you.

What time do you want me to be there, Shannon said quickly. My royalty check didn’t quite cover all my bills this month.

As soon as possible. And yes, you can bring all your asshole friends with you. I know you will anyway, so I authorize it.

Good move, Secret Service boy, she said.  And what’s so bizarre about some dumb politician taking one in the head? I’m surprised they didn’t whack the idiot four years ago.

The weapon, Wills said. It was a Mannlicher.

I prefer a girl licker, Shannon said.

Don’t you know what a Mannlicher is?

Yeah, but I don’t do that any more. It tastes funny. Besides, writing mystery novels pays better than giving hum jobs. I think. Now that you mention it, I’ll have to ask Coleman about the current pricing schedule.

Mannlicher Carcano, you idiot. It’s a rifle. It’s the one they used to shoot Kennedy.

The same one? Really? That must be really old, I’m surprised it still fires. What did he do, steal it from the National Archives?

Jesus, Wills sighed. Just get your ass down here. The line went dead.

Ungrateful bastard, Shannon groused. Her Cocker Spaniel looked up at her from the foot of the bed and growled at her. What are you growling at, you little turd? Speaking of which, you better learn to shit outside. I’m tired of stepping in the brown surprise.

August

Bridgeport, Connecticut

The National Informant

––––––––

I know, Ann Coleman sighed. Terrible isn’t it. She glanced out the window of her office and jumped up. Wait a minute, okay?

She grabbed a camera and started snapping off pictures of two cops shooting it out with a crack dealer. The dealer took one in the leg and staggered out onto Main Street, where he was promptly squashed flat by a passing garbage truck.

Squisho! Ann giggled as she snapped a few more pictures of the mangled corpse and the trail of blood and organs behind it. Okay, she said as she sat back down. Where were we?

Was that gunfire? Shannon exclaimed.

Of course, Ann huffed. "It’s Bridgeport, isn’t it? The city motto is Shoot to Kill.  I just got a front page story, and I didn’t even have to leave the office."

You mean the story about Hitler’s two headed baby gets bumped? Shannon laughed.

We ran that last week. Maybe I’ll put the president on page three. My readers don’t care about politics.

"Your readers can’t spell politics. All they care about is fried babies and beheadings."

You should talk, with the shit you write.

Forget that, are you in? I don’t like working alone.

You don’t like working at all. A busy day for you means you start drinking at noon instead of ten in the morning.

Sugar Pops and Coors, Shannon sighed. Breakfast of Champions. Come on, Coleman, your country needs you. Where is your patriotism?

I sold it for gas money. Besides, I didn’t vote for the asshole.

We’re getting paid. A lot, too.

I’ll be right there, Ann said, and hung up.

August

Greenwich, Connecticut

How much are we getting paid? Ann said eagerly. I like money.

That reminds me, Shannon mused. How much does a good blowjob go for these days?

"Well, if you don’t spit......wait a minute, why are you asking me about that? Ask Tyler. He’s blown more people than Hurricane Katrina."

He’ll be here momentarily, Shannon said. You can ask him yourself. Although I doubt any cash changes hands in his case. He is the world’s most famous actor, after all. I doubt he needs the money. Unlike some people around here.

Oh, I suppose that means me, huh. I know what you’re thinking. Ann is cheap, Ann won’t go for spit, Ann has the first nickel she ever earned. I’ve heard it all before.

And it’s still true, Shannon said, eyeing Ann’s arm. Nice watch. Did you get the Cracker Jacks, too?

Eat me, Blondie. So I don’t live in a six million dollar mansion like you, and I don’t buy a new Jaguar every six months or Rolexes. That doesn’t make me cheap.

You drive a 1958 Chrysler to beat the city on property tax. You live in a house that rats abandoned because it wasn’t nice enough for them. You own a disgusting rag sheet newspaper that grosses like fifty zillion dollars a year, but you shop at Good Will. You’re cheap.

I’m frugal, Ann pouted.

Cheap would be the operative term, Tyler Brooks said as he came in and flopped down in a chair. Miss Coleman’s legendary lack of spending is only rivaled by her lack of beauty, inspired by her bovine appearance.

Bovine this, you ass wipe, Ann snapped. I’m hot. Look at me. Barely forty, long, beautiful dark hair, piercing brown eyes, a body to die for, and the best legs this side of Texas.

There are many creatures in Texas which have similar physical attributes as yourself, Tyler smirked. They end up as hamburger. And as for your long beautiful hair, most of it is located on your back or in your ponderous, manly underarms. Miss Flynn, do you have any beer?

Where’s Betty when you need her, Shannon sighed as she got up. She returned with a garbage can full of ice and beer. Coleman, did you call the human broomstick? After all, she’s your niece, not mine. We could use a good investigative reporter on this.

Yeah, she’ll be along any time now. She likes Washington.

So did you, I imagine, Tyler said. Probably dated him. Were those wooden teeth hard to deal with?

Only when he wanted to.....wait a minute, you aren’t getting me with that one. I told you, I’m barley forty.

And barely human, and barely two hundred pounds, Shannon said.

The doorbell rang, and Betty let herself in. She stalked over to the garbage pail, took two beers, and flopped down on the sofa next to Ann, a mean look on her face.

Fuck all of you in advance, she said. Right in  the poop chute. Especially you, Gigantor, she said, eyeing Shannon. Don’t think I forgot about all the shit you did to me during that last little caper I helped you with. I had it with your bullshit, Peroxide Patty.

You have no recourse, chicken legs, Shannon grinned. Just take it like the little bitch you are.

No recourse, huh? I got news for you, stretch. Look and be fearful, Betty said, opening her bag. She produced a black karate belt with four  gold hash marks at the end. I just got my fourth  degree. I was so good, they let me skip my third degree test. That means your big lumbering stupid ass belongs to me.

Well, let me know when you get to the sixth degree like me, Shannon said. Then your black belt turns purple. Kind of like  your face is going to do when I choke you out, if you don’t show a little respect around here.

For what? Betty exclaimed. So some giant stupid blonde buzzard can throw me in her fucking swimming pool because she doesn’t like my table manners? Eat shit and die, you big idiot. Go ahead, throw me in the pool again. I learned how to swim.

Not with me holding you under the water after I knock your skinny ass out,

Shannon said.

Now ladies, Tyler sighed. You should reserve such mayhem for the unfortunate individuals we are about to pursue.

Yeah, Ann said, elbowing Betty. Shut your pie hole.

Why don’t you go fuck yourself too, monkey jerker? Betty said, eyeing Ann up and down. She still carries a picture of Grandma Coleman’s pet Zippy the chimp in her wallet, Betty giggled. He’s on the floor with this white shit foaming out of his mouth like he had a seizure, with an empty Crisco can and a rubber glove next to him. Poor bastard got jerked into a coma by you know who.

That’s a picture of Mel Gibson, Ann said haughtily. And I never jerked......well, maybe once, and I was young. I didn’t know any better. After all, they like it when you......what? Why is everybody looking at me like that?

Can we get back to why we’re here? Shannon said. Jesus, I don’t need to hear any more about Coleman’s special talents. Good God, who cares how far a chimpanzee can shoot a load?

Eight feet six inches is the record, Ann muttered. What? Again I get the look? I read it in Jane Goodall’s book.

Okay, Shannon sighed. Some asshole shot the president in the head with a cock licker, or something like that.

Mannlicher Carcano, Tyler said. The world’s most humane infantry weapon. Italian in design, modeled somewhat after the German  Mauser 98. It has a 6.5 millimeter bullet, travels at 2400 feet per second. Not very accurate, though, in used condition. The weapon to which Miss Flynn refers was supposedly used to assassinate President Kennedy. Although there isn’t much evidence to support the allegation.

They found the fucking thing on the sixth floor of the book depository, Betty said. It had Oswald’s prints on it.

Au contraire, bird legs, Tyler sighed as he popped another beer. Learn your history. One palm print was found on the stock of the weapon, and only after the FBI spent half an hour with Oswald’s corpse at the funeral parlor. They had the rifle with them.

And how did it wind up being used again? Shannon said. Wills said a Pussylicker Cockbanger was used to kill this other douche bag who managed to win in a landslide, even though they can’t find ten people who voted for him.

I assume it was not the original, Tyler sighed. That one is in the National Archives, after a lengthy legal battle involving an individual named John King, a Denver oilman as I recall, who purchased the rights to the rifle and the revolver Lee supposedly carried. He bought them from Marina Oswald in 1965. The courts found against him and returned ownership to the government. I assure you, Miss Flynn, the weapon currently used was not the original.

What are you, Jim Garrison? Betty laughed.

No, but I played him in a movie, Tyler sighed. It required much study on my part. A most interesting subject, I might add.

Well, the whole thing makes no sense. Who’d use a shitty old rifle like that? Where would you even get one?

Any gun dealer, Tyler said. This was the standard rifle issued to the Italian military during the war. They made millions of them.

But they suck.

Yes, but you could take one and have it done up by an expert, and it would shoot quite well. Someone wants to send a message.

Like who, Shannon said. And what message?

I did it before and got away with it, so here I am again.

Come on, you think it’s the same people? Shannon said. That was fifty years ago. Most of them are dead, or wandering around in paper slippers and a diaper, mumbling to themselves. Like Coleman after a good date.

Nobody really knows who the real shooters were, Tyler said. They could have been young men, who had the proper reflexes and abilities. They might be approaching seventy today, but would still have the skills required to carry out such a mission. At their age, they wouldn’t care if they got caught.

Like Auntie Douche Bag sneaking into the North Avenue Jail with a case of KY Jelly and a bib, Betty said.

Hey! It was my birthday, Ann said. A girl is entitled to some fun once in a while.

Okay, obviously whoever did this didn’t run into the nearest FBI office and confess, and the rubber gun squad in Washington will never catch them, Shannon said.

The government? Betty laughed. They probably did it.

You always watch the news, Tyler, Shannon said. How did they bag him?

He was staying at the Four Seasons Hotel in Baltimore. He was there to campaign for a senator. He was walking towards the entrance with the Secret Service after a speech and he just fell over, quite dead.

No emergency run to Parkland Hospital? Betty snickered.

When you have a five inch exit wound in your forehead, it’s rather obvious that you’re dead. They took the remains to Bethesda for an autopsy.

And of course nobody saw or heard anything, I suppose.

Of course not. They probably used a silencer.

Whatever, Shannon sighed. We’ll do what we always do.

What’s that?Ann said.

Get drunk, beat people up, and save the world.

Here here, Tyler said, raising his beer. I’ll drink to that.

Is there anything you won’t drink to? Betty said.

Yes, there is, Tyler said, eyeing Betty up and down. A brunette chicken in a mini skirt.

Oh you’re real fucking funny, you are, Betty said. I wonder how good you look in a mini skirt.

Probably better than you, Ann giggled. What happened to your legs, anyway? I don’t remember you having polio.

I didn’t, because I never took the stupid vaccine. That means I probably won’t get cancer, either.

Oh here we go, Shannon sighed. Miss Conspiracy has arrived.

Look up the statistics, Betty said. Bet you don’t know what caused the spike in polio during the war years, do you.

Nope, and I don’t care. I wasn’t around during the war years.

She means World War Two, Tyler said. You were then a teenager as I recall.

Antibiotics, Betty said. They came out in 1942. Before that, we had maybe 3,000 cases of polio a year. It jumped to 37,000 in 1942, and peaked at about 60,000 three years later.

So medicine causes polio, Shannon said. Yeah, right.

Yeah, right. Because antibiotics kill all the  good bacteria as well as the bad bacteria. Your intestinal tract loses its natural ability to screen out viruses. Polio is normally disposed of in the intestines.

And what does that have to do with cancer?

The geniuses who developed the vaccine cultured it in Rhesus monkey kidney material, which contains the SIV 40 Simian cancer causing virus, the forerunner of HIV. They dumped 100 million doses of this shit on the public. And the asshole who was the CEO of the drug company that produced it made a speech in front of an auditorium  full of doctors. He swore it was all bullshit and the vaccine was safe. As proof, he vaccinated his two grandchildren on stage. Within 48 hours, one kid was dead and the other one had polio.

Coleman? What do you think? You like monkeys, Shannon giggled.

That’s the way it happened, Ann shrugged. Just another big cover up. You think the pharmaceutical companies would ever admit they did this? All they wanted was a quick fix to the antibiotic fiasco. Look at the cancer stats starting in the 50s. Phenomenal increases.

Let’s forget polio and get back to this other thing, Shannon said. Tyler thinks Lee Harvey Oswald is still alive or something, or these old guys with Alzheimer’s shot our dummy president to make a point, which would be that they can even remember it was ever 1963. Which means we have to solve the Kennedy Assassination. Any takers? All hands went up.

Shit, Shannon sighed. I knew it. Now I have to call Cagney.

August

Area 51

Groom Lake, Nevada

––––––––

You’re what? Lieutenant General James Cagney said. The Gary Busey look-alike sat back in his chair and shook his head in dismay. You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you?

Tyler thinks there’s a connection. It’s just a hunch. What do you think?

I think Tyler lost his mind. Do you know how old those guys would be? If they’re even alive.

There’s a new invention called the penis, Shannon said. These morons like to have their idiocy continued by their offspring.

Like who? Oswald had two daughters. They live very quiet lives  in Texas. I doubt they’re out there shooting politicians. Besides, I doubt Oswald even took a shot that day. Nobody knows who the real shooters were. It’s all speculation.

Who knows the most about this case?

Publicly, it was always Harold Weisberg. He was a phenomenal researcher. Realistically, you want to talk to Harold Donnelly. Two star general, M.D., he was at Bethesda when it went down. He’s been studying it ever since. I hear he has some interesting stuff. He’s damn near ninety, so don’t wait too long. He lives in Maryland.

Thanks. Know any weapons people?

Phil Bolton. Best there is. A bit weird, but he knows his shit. Knows a lot about the assassination, too. Lives in the desert in Arizona. I’ll email you their numbers.

Thanks. I’ll be in touch.

Uh, don’t poke around in this too much, Cagney said. It’s still one of the hottest items on the CIA’s list of subjects to stop people from looking into. Some of the people involved in this have kids with political  aspirations. They have their list of pet authors that get books published if they rubber stamp the Warren Report. The rest get harassed, ridiculed, and untimely unexplainable deaths. I can’t help you much when it comes to this subject.

I’m not worried, Shannon said. "Is Goldfinger still your favorite movie?"

Yes. I have several copies in case one gets lost.

August

Greenwich, Connecticut

He gave me a couple of names, Shannon said. I’ll call them from DC when we get down there.

Are you on fucking drugs? Betty exclaimed. "All that peroxide you bleach your hair with must have rotted out your brain, Blondie. These assholes are in on this, one way or another. You want to use the D.C. phone system to investigate this? You might as well just send a recording of the conversation to the NSA with a note that says please kill me. They don’t want anybody to solve this."

Wills is a good guy. I’ve worked with him before. I trust him.

Yeah? He’s the head of the Secret Service. Big fucking deal. He can’t be very good at his job, or what’s his name would still be president. What the fuck was his name, anyway? He was so forgettable.

Hutton Smithfield Pierce, Tyler intoned. Related to  former President Franklin Pierce. With a name like that, how could he lose?

He lost, Betty said. Somebody wanted him gone, for some unknown reason. The fucking guy never did a thing  except sit there and smile at the TV cameras with that dumb look on his face. However, I do seem to remember something........let me make a call.

Peck the number with your beak, Ann muttered.

Right here, Grandma, Betty said as she headed for the den, her upraised middle finger pointed at Ann.

You gonna take that from her? Shannon said. What’s the world coming to. Tommy shoots Spider in the foot, Spider tells Tommy to go fuck himself. Here, Spider, this is for you.

Okay, Shannon De Niro, Ann said. I’ll fix her later. I still carry a brick in my purse, you know. Fuck her black belt. She starts any shit with me, they can use it to lower her dumb ass into the ground.

Unlike your monstrous body, Tyler said. Such an endeavor would require the services of an industrial crane company.

Shove it, scrotum licker, Ann snapped. I’m thin, she said, flipping her hair. So there.

Betty came back in after a few minutes and sat down. She grabbed a beer and stared at Ann, who stared back.

What are you looking at, monkey fucker? Didn’t you see my new black belt? I bet you could have gotten one too, if they gave one for whacking off chimpanzees. And you can take that brick you carry and shove it up your buffalo sized ass.

Colemans on parade, Tyler laughed. Does it ever stop?

Oh, it’ll stop, Ann said. As soon as the city  comes around to collect dead bodies. One of which will be hers.

In your dreams, you rotten smelling old  skank. Let’s go.

Knock it off, Shannon said. I’m tired of cleaning up your blood. What were you calling about?

Seems Pierce had a hobby, she said. The Kennedy Assassination.

Oops, Shannon said.

Yeah, oops. Look what you got yourself into now, Betty said.

It’s never too late to tell Wills to jump in the lake, Shannon said.

Are you going to do it?

Nope.

Why not?

I need the money. I’d rather be dead than poverty stricken. I guess I’d  better call these dudes from here, I still have a scrambler.

August

Mobile, Arizona

––––––––

Well now, I figured you’d be calling sooner or later, Phil Bolton said. Be careful where you stick that pretty little nose of yours. Somebody might decide to cut it off for you.

I can handle myself, Shannon said. Besides, the Secret Service wants me to help them.

Ryan Wills, Bolton nodded. Good man. Too honest for my liking, though.

You don’t like honest people?

Not entirely, Bolton said. Too hard  to deal with. Can’t get anything on them to use for leverage.

You mean blackmail?

We don’t use that word, Bolton said. We call it leverage. Everybody understands it, and nobody takes it personal. It’s just a game. I leverage you, then you leverage me. Then we shake hands and team up to leverage somebody else. That’s just the way it is.

So you’d rather deal with a crook than deal with me.

All things  being equal, yes. But I don’t have to deal with you. If I did, somebody would leverage my ass, and I don’t need no more leveraging at my age. Whatcha looking  for, anyway?

I have an idea Pierce was killed because he was looking into the Kennedy Assassination. What do you think?

I think that’s one hell of a good idea. Got another?

Yeah, Oswald didn’t do it, Shannon laughed.

Oh hell, everybody knows that, Bolton said. Except the suckers who watch CNN all day. You just figure that out?

I never really looked into it. They seem to have had quite a bit of evidence against him.

Sure they did. And every last piece of it was fabricated. He didn’t shoot JFK any more than I did. Not that I wouldn’t have, but nobody asked me to.

You would have killed the president?

If the price  was right, sure. Why the hell not? He was gonna get hit anyway, so all that did was mean somebody else gets paid and not you.

You’d risk being electrocuted for money?

See anybody get electrocuted for that crime? People like that don’t get caught, because they own the catchers. Hitters get a real nice payday and an all expense paid trip out of the country. They keep their mouths shut and they get more work because they are the best in the world and there ain’t that many of them. Guys like Oswald get set up to take the fall. That’s the way it’s done. Go ask James Earl Ray, or that asshole Sirhan Sirhan. When you got friends in high places, you don’t get caught. You should know, Bolton said. I know about you. I ain’t as stupid as some would make me out. There’s a few hundred less international asshole bankers running around because of you and our friend in the desert.

They deserved it.

There you go! You just got your degree in politics. One man’s bullshit is another man’s reason to have him killed.

Then who’s right?

Nobody! Bolton laughed. In the world of politics, there ain’t no right or wrong, only the highest bidder. Everybody else is expendable. You, me, the president, whoever. You get in the way of the machine, you get run down by it. Pierce got in the way, I reckon.

Let’s go back to Oswald. He worked there, he was there when it happened, he bought the rifle they found, he ran away. Why do you say he was innocent?

Because I know he was! Bolton cackled. Sure he worked there. Big deal. So did a lot of people. He was on the second floor having a soda when it went down. Bunch of people said so, but the Warren Commission dismissed their testimony. That gun they found didn’t fire those kill shots and I’ll stake my life on it. I been working with guns for sixty years. No way that hunk of crap made those shots. No way in hell. That was a plant.

The bullets matched Oswald’s gun.

Bullshit. That’s what they said, but there isn’t any evidence to back it up. They did the roundy round on that one. The bullet they found on the stretcher at Parkland matched, but there ain’t one single bit of ballistic evidence that ties the shots that hit JFK to that rifle. Mainly because all they recovered was a bunch of lead fragments and no jacket material. Explain that one.

The bullet broke up on impact.

"Exactly. That Carcano is one of them soft hearted Geneva Convention rifles with a mandated heavy jacket material so the bullet won’t break up. That’s the point of it. They can’t get out from under their own bullshit story. Here they got CE399, the magic bullet, that supposedly made seven wounds in two people, and comes out in one piece. Then you got the head shot with something like 40 fragments and no jacket. Where’d it go?"

I thought that bullet was on Governor Connally’s stretcher at Parkland.

"It was on an empty stretcher sitting outside an elevator. And if that hit Connally, I’m the Pope. Connally had more lead removed from his wrist than was missing from CE399. And he still had more