Dead Reckoning

By Richard Cibrano

It is 1977, and the newly formed House Select Committee on Assassinations is making headlines. Tom Welles, a successful Pulitzer Prize winning syndicated columnist receives an anonymous letter from an individual alleging firsthand knowledge of the assassination of President Kennedy, with a time and place to meet.
Welles is skeptical of the offer, and is prepared to dismiss it as exploitation, but there is a hook; the letter challenges him to follow the trail of a heretofore-unknown Intelligence organization.
Out of his league, Welles reaches out to a colleague with the appropriate contacts in Washington. However, in tapping his sources, he unwittingly draws the attention of a renegade Intelligence group operating within the highest level of government. Abruptly drawn into the epicenter of a complex web extending beyond the Kennedy assassination, Welles soon learns of a daring CIA penetration operation into the Soviet Union, meets the agent charged with ousting the rogue element from the Agency hierarchy, and encounters the men desperate to keep hidden the Cold Wars darkest secret. Ultimately, Welles finds himself in a race against an unseen enemy to locate the one man with the first-hand knowledge capable of toppling this powerful cabal.
Based on more than twenty years of research, and supported by thousands of declassified files, Dead Reckoning is an inventive thriller that dares the reader to consider the antagonisms of United States/Soviet Cold War diplomacy as a mutually beneficial play act between the architects of the military industrial complex on both sides of the Iron Curtain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 29, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462801091

Richard Cibrano

A graduate of Pace University, Richard Cibrano is a successful businessman living in New York City. Dead Reckoning, his first novel, is the outgrowth of his research of a turbulent period in history that indelibly altered our nation’s course.

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Copyright © 2008 by Richard Cibrano.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

Cover Illustration by: Tyler Hollis

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Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Afterword

Prologue

October 1981

Death revisited; what better way to describe the events witnessed this day at the Rose Hill Burial Park in Fort Worth. I could not conceive of a more dreadful situation for anyone to endure—digging up the remains of a loved one, compelled to mourn once again the life lost. And now, due mostly to my revelations, a family is forced to ponder whether the body interred is in reality the dearly departed.

And what of the indignity to the departed—his remains then remanded to the custody of local authorities for forensic mutilation, all in the cause of justice? Yet, on this crisp, damp autumn morning, required by a guarded publisher to make the overnight trip from New York to Fort Worth to protect our interests, I found myself at the center of an enduring controversy—the culmination of nearly five years of legal maneuverings between embattled family members for and against the procedure, and media-driven debate.

The group invited to witness the much-heralded postmortem investigation began assembling just before daybreak. The small entourage of family and friends, their bitter feelings for the proceedings apparent, watched expectantly from under the cluster of umbrellas shielding them from the mist. The media, under the watchful eye of a small police presence, scrambled for positions within the boundaries. From my observation point, a respectful distance from the grave site, I shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as the gravediggers, going about their work with the attentiveness of an archaeological dig, carefully fastened the nylon cradle from the truck-mounted hoist around the coffin. Then, with a signal from the supervisor that everything was secure, the motor revved, the belts tightened, and the coffin slowly lifted free from its concrete entombment.

As it happened, the day was not without complication. The initial plan called for the removal and transportation of the sarcophagus to the vault manufacturer. They would then open the concrete vault, disinter the casket, and ship it to Baylor Medical Center for identification of the remains. However, when the topsoil was cleared with a backhoe from the grave site, cracks in the vault were evident. The vault’s seal broken, the officials in charge of the exhumation determined the added security measure was no longer necessary.

All eyes were riveted on the coffin as, for a brief moment, it remained suspended over the excavation, swaying slightly from the abrupt end to its ascent. A moment later, with a worker on either side for steady support, it carefully descended into a hastily dug trench alongside the vault. The improvised setup, they explained, would afford the workers better access to the remains.

The signs of severe exposure were immediately evident throughout, particularly in a section of the casket lid. Slats of wood deteriorated from water damage had fallen in bits and pieces into the coffin, creating a sizeable opening near the head. To make matters worse, from the horrified expressions etched on the faces of the spectators close enough to see, it was evident the decomposed remains of the deceased were partially exposed. As if for emphasis, the gravedigger closest to the breach spontaneously reared his head back in reaction to the scent of decay. I was suddenly weak-kneed with repulsion at the spectacle. A short while later, their composure sufficiently recovered, came the only indication from the mourners of my presence: a solitary moment of eye contact in which I felt their deep, penetrating stares of resentment. I lowered my head in retreat, unwilling to respond to the implied accusation. I could not find fault with their ill feelings, or dismiss my culpability; after all, it was my book, and the ensuing debate, that inadvertently led to this painful experience. Embroiled as I had become in these tragic events, I approached the day with mixed feelings of dread and relief, hopeful the controversy would finally be relegated to history.

Waiting for confirmation that the remains of the deceased were in fact occupying the coffin instigated an undertone of discussion amongst the press corps. As it was, the event resurrected a ghoulish theory: that sometime after the burial, an untold faction abducted the body from its resting place and disposed of the evidence it represented. The exhumation would therefore unearth an empty casket—the ensuing uproar instantly fueling the flames of misplaced fanaticism. The cracked vault temporarily raised the hopes of the tabloid press, actively engaged in debate over the likelihood of such an opportune outcome. To me, the issue was never in doubt. Firsthand knowledge aside, I could not conceive of such egregious carelessness, whether through arrogance or incompetence, existing at that level.

The workers fashioned a temporary lid out of cardboard and secured it over the top of the casket. With considerable care, they then slid the coffin onto a wooden platform positioned alongside to support its weakened frame. A hearse hovering nearby took the cue from the director and moved into place. Finally, the coffin secured for transport, the workers lifted the platform and placed it into the hearse.

Media control was a genuine concern. Officials from the medical center feared the excessive coverage would hamper security and thus prolong the postmortem procedure. So they circulated a rumor amongst the press corps that the examination would take place at the Dallas Institute of Forensic Science. Anxious to get a jump on the competition, the scramble for their vehicles began the moment the hearse was sealed. Judging from their route from the cemetery, the misinformation succeeded. The driver of the hearse, instructed to wait until the last of the press traffic cleared the main gate, then stealthily navigated toward a service entrance and the trip to Waco.

With the body en route to Baylor Medical Center, and the media on the road to certain disappointment, I ambled over to the suddenly deserted grave site and stared pensively at the empty crypt. There was no need for me to join the procession and endure the wearisome news vigil. The doctors would make their findings known during a press conference in the center’s lecture hall, and it was my understanding that news would not be forthcoming until midday at the earliest. Besides, considering my unique circumstances, I would receive an advanced copy of the exhumation report.

The stillness was startling and at once everywhere, the only sound the sanctity of eternal sleep. With the suddenness of a near-death experience, and the intensity of a troubled conscience, thoughts of the past few years were racing through my mind. The circumstances were startling: beginning with the anonymous appeal to my sense of reform, my involvement an unintended rapid descent into the underworld of forbidding secrets. The lives affected, on so many levels—I now regretted my decision to pursue this knightlike quest. I thought of Ravilla’s compelling dictum to judges of the Roman Republic to consider during deliberation: Cui Bono?—to whose advantage? With a sardonic snicker, I shook my head and uttered with resignation, "No one’s." This Pandora’s box was best left sealed for the ages.

The gravediggers’ return abruptly interrupted my reflections. I watched as they labored at the vault, preparing it for the journey to the manufacturer for repair. Before long, their questioning glances at my lingering presence told me it was time to leave. I nodded in recognition of their assistance and, with one last fleeting glimpse of the headstone lying flat near the grave site, deliberately made my way down the winding path that would lead me from this place. I wondered whether the same family would be here to greet the body’s return.

One

November 9, 1977

A crisp New England chill punctuates the early morning air. A solitary figure skillfully pushes his way through the brush. The man, a dedicated sportsman, has hunted game in these woods many times before. As he moves along the familiar trail, he recalls his first encounter with this autumnal splendor twenty-five years ago. The tranquil New Hampshire setting is reminiscent of his youth in Bolton, Massachusetts, where he and his father enjoyed many a pleasant weekend together hunting and fishing. It is a time he quietly longs for—before youthful enthusiasm and unimpeachable ethics succumbed to the conflicts and controversy that overcame a once-heralded career.

He is the first to arrive at the rendezvous point, a small clearing about two miles from his truck, where he is to meet two of his companions. A check of his watch indicates he is nearly thirty minutes early. Those who know him understand this is a normal circumstance. He is an early riser, always has been. Indeed, as he advances in age, his body and mind seem to require even less sleep; the cherished gift of time, he quips to friends and associates. At home in this pristine world—one unspoiled by civilization, he settles himself onto a comfortable boulder and inhales the environment.

As the sun begins to appear over the horizon, he is suddenly aware of a pronounced, yet inexplicable, sense of apprehension. Uncertain of the cause, he slowly scans the perimeter. It is not about what he hears, but what he does not hear, that is responsible for his disorientation. The woods, a short time earlier throbbing with activity, have fallen strangely silent. It is a sound not unlike the eerie silence a hunter hears as he closes in on his prey—as if the woods held its breath in anticipation of the kill.

With growing uneasiness, the man slowly rises from his perch and looks about the area with sudden urgency. He calls out to his companions with the hope that they somehow are to blame. However, after a few hopeful moments, he realizes that no reply is forthcoming.

With a look of resignation, the man again settles himself onto the boulder. All at once, guided by instinct, he fixes his gaze at a point to his left on the other side of the clearing. He envisions the look in the eyes of a deer as it appears to stare back at him through his riflescope—a last majestic look of defiance by the hunted into the face of the huntsman.

Just then, the woods explode with a flash. A flock of geese, startled into action, flee en masse to the north. A deer patrolling beyond the boundary of the kill zone pauses, appears to bow his head in acknowledgement, and then quickly moves away. The terrible deed done, the woods seem to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Two

(From New York Times, November 10, 1977)

WILLIAM C. SULLIVAN, EX-F.B.I. AIDE, 65, IS KILLED IN HUNTING ACCIDENT

William C. Sullivan, former head of the Federal Bureau of Investigations intelligence operations, who broke in dramatic fashion with the late J. Edgar Hoover, was killed early yesterday in a shooting accident near his home in Sugar Hill, N.H. He was 65 years old.

Maj. Mason J. Butterfield, law enforcement director of the New Hampshire Fish and Game Department, said that Mr. Sullivan, who had been on the way to meet two hunting companions shortly after daybreak, had been shot and instantly killed by another hunter, Robert Daniels, Jr., 22, who had mistaken Mr. Sullivan for a deer.

Major Butterfield said that the shooting was under investigation, and that no charges had been filed.

Mr. Sullivan’s 30-year career with the F.B.I. began in the early days of World War II, when he was dispatched by Mr. Hoover on an undercover intelligence mission to neutral Spain.

After several months of tangling with Axis spies in Madrid, Mr. Sullivan returned to bureau headquarters in Washington and took the first in a series of administrative posts that ultimately included a decade as head of the domestic intelligence division, and a brief tenure as the bureau’s third-ranking official behind Mr. Hoover, the director, and his longtime companion, Clyde A. Tolson.

Mr. Sullivan, who acquired a reputation as the only liberal Democrat ever to break into the top ranks of the bureau, retired in 1971 after he arrived at his office one morning to find that Mr. Hoover had ordered the lock on his door changed and his nameplate removed.

That incident, widely reported at the time, was the culmination of increasing friction between the two men over Mr. Sullivan’s private, and then public, insistence that Mr. Hoover had greatly overemphasized the threat to national security posed by the American Communist Party while devoting less attention than was warranted to violation of Federal civil rights laws in the South.

Mr. Sullivan was known both within the bureau, and by a wide and distinguished circle of acquaintances outside it as less a policeman than a scholar; one whose interests ranged from theoretical Marxism, on which he was an acknowledged expert, to modern English poetry.

Mr. Sullivan held advanced degrees from American and George Washington Universities, and an honorary doctorate from Boston College.

In retirement, Mr. Sullivan became even more vocal about Mr. Hoover’s nearly five decades of unchallenged leadership of the bureau and of its controversial counterintelligence programs, including some that he himself had conceived and administered.

Testifying two years ago before the Senate Intelligence Committee, which termed some of his official actions abusive and even illegal, Mr. Sullivan declared: Never once did I hear anybody, including myself raise the question, is this course of action which we have agreed upon lawful, is it legal, is it ethical or moral?

The Senate investigation uncovered considerable detail about the counterintelligence programs, collectively labeled COINTELPRO by the bureau, that were intended to spread confusion and dissension among extremist political groups in this country, ranging from the Communist Party on the left to the Ku Klux Klan on the right.

It also developed in the Senate investigations that Mr. Sullivan had been instrumental in the arranging for the mailing of a tape recording in 1964 to Coretta Scott King, wife of the late Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. that contained snippets of Dr. King’s conversations with other women that had been overheard by concealed F.B.I. microphones.

Mr. Sullivan was in the news most recently when he acknowledged that he had passed to subordinates instructions from Mr. Hoover to use whatever means were necessary in tracking down fugitive members of the Weather Underground organization in the early 1970’s.

One former agent, John J. Kearney, is now the subject of a Federal indictment charging the bureau with having employed illegal wiretaps and mail intercepts in those investigations, and Mr. Sullivan was expected to be a principal witness at Mr. Kearney’s trial.

Mr. Sullivan, whose hopes for replacing Mr. Hoover as the bureau’s director were dashed when the Nixon Administration installed L. Patrick Gray III as Mr. Hoover’s successor, infuriated many of his longtime colleagues in 1973, a year after Mr. Hoover’s death, when Mr. Sullivan publicly questioned Mr. Hoover’s mental acuity during his last few years in office.

I’m no doctor, he said at the time in assessing Mr. Hoover. I can’t make a judgment. But he had an unusual personality. In the last three years, you couldn’t depend upon him. He became extremely erratic.

Surviving are Mr. Sullivan’s wife, Marion, two sons, William and Andrew, both law students in Boston, and a daughter Joanne Tuttle. A funeral service will be held on Saturday in Hudson, Mass., Mr. Sullivan’s birthplace.

The man carefully folds the newspaper and places it on the kitchen table. He has read the article three times, searching between the lines for clues that only he could recognize. His practical sense told him it could eventually come to this—especially once that committee began to issue subpoenas—and he long ago prepared himself accordingly. Nevertheless, he’d hoped to be spared the decision he now faces, between two mutually exclusive courses of action. With a glint of apprehension on his face, he reaches for the pack of cigarettes and removes one. He packs down the cigarette on the back of his hand before flicking it to life with his gold-plated lighter. As if inhaling inspiration, he draws deeply from it, savors the feeling, and then slowly expels a long plume of smoke into the beam of sunlight that is coming through the kitchen window.

He met Bill Sullivan back in the 1950s when they were both working counterintelligence—Bill with the FBI and he with the CIA. He liked Bill from the start, believed him to be an honorable gentleman endeavoring mightily to keep a wayward FBI on course, despite the incessant raving of a self-motivated, dysfunctional director. Although an adversarial state of affairs dictated otherwise, the two men quietly advocated a policy of cooperation between the two agencies while maintaining an open line of communication with each other. With the passing years, their careers following dissimilar paths, they still managed to keep in touch, if with nothing more than a congenial note or an occasional phone call.

With his vacant stare fixed across the room, the man rolls the cigarette between the thumb and index finger of his right hand as he considers the circumstances as presented. The very idea that Bill was mistaken for a deer and gunned down in cold blood is utterly preposterous. He was an experienced hunter who went strictly by the book. Bill would never take risks—never expose himself to the carelessness of rank amateurs. So profound was his concern, he placed himself in the minds of these Elmer Fudds and followed the necessary precautions. Rule number one: he would never hunt in the predawn hours. The article did note that the shooting occurred after daybreak, thereby eliminating darkness as an excuse. Finally, with a growing sense of indignation, the man arrives at the unavoidable conclusion.

With some reluctance, he lifts himself from the chair and moves slowly down the hall to his bedroom. He opens the closet door, bends down on his hands and knees, and clears the floor space to the left. With a tool fashioned from an ice pick, he carefully pries up the ends of six wood slats, and removes the sections of floor, revealing a rectangular-shaped compartment. Using a flashlight to illuminate the chamber, he reaches in and dials the combination to the safe bolted under the floor. He opens the door and retrieves a black and white notebook, frayed around the edges from age, and returns with it to his seat in the kitchen. He opens the book to the appropriate page and scrolls through the list of phone numbers maintained through the years. Finding the desired listing, he reaches for the wall phone over his shoulder. With the dial tone cutting through the uneasy silence, the man pauses and taps pensively with his index finger on the table. Old allegiances, no matter how misplaced, can be difficult to sever.

A moment later, his second thoughts assuaged, he dials the number. After the third ring, a throaty voice answers the call. The accent is recognizable; the conspicuous hoarse quality, not unlike his own, he attributes to the passing years and too many cigarettes. He recites the appropriate coded message. Good morning. Is Mr. Engels at home?

There is a moment of silence as the party considers the question, before the anticipated reply follows. I am terribly sorry. Mr. Engels is not to live here anymore. The man smiles at the syntax and replies. Oh, I see. I guess I have some investigating to do. Sorry to bother you.

It is not a problem. I understand these things happen.

The message relayed, the man carefully replaces the handset on its cradle, retrieves his cigarette from the ashtray and settles back in his seat. Puffing through a thoughtful gaze, he abruptly reaches forward and draws the newspaper toward him. Quickly scanning the article again, he stops at the name of the accused hunter and copies his name onto the notepad he keeps by the phone. No charges have been filed, he utters with cynical undertones. And none will, he adds with a deprecating sigh. In time, he will contact his sources, and they will conduct a thorough background check of this individual. With any luck, an indication of a trail will soon be evident.

As he sits contemplating his own future, the man understands that an issue of far greater importance demands his immediate attention. At once resigned to the fact that his fate is now of little consequence, he takes one last drag from the smoldering cigarette butt, extinguishes it in the ashtray, and then moves across the kitchen to retrieve a writing pad and pen from a drawer. For a short while, he thinks about how to say it. Then, with sudden determination, he begins writing the letter that will undoubtedly change his life and perhaps alter the course of history.

Three

No son of a Nazi-sympathizing bootlegger belongs in the White House.

In the weeks before the election of 1960, I was a daily captive audience to my father’s dinner-table electioneering. Never one to hide his sentiments, he would lecture energetically about the true aspirations of the young candidate from Massachusetts. There’s something about those smiling Irish eyes that spells trouble, he assured us with a knowing look that transcended certainty. Of equal concern was the ominous presence of papa Joe, the family patriarch who my father remembered all too well from his personal experiences of World War II. The man’s unscrupulous, he admonished in a voice ripe with contempt. Mark my words… the apple never falls far from the tree. Besides, if experience was a true barometer of a man’s qualifications for the Oval Office, then Nixon was clearly the choice.

My parents didn’t vote for Jack Kennedy; for that matter. With twenty-twenty hindsight to guide my judgment, I cannot say with certainty whether I would have pulled the lever for the charismatic senator from Boston. It was a time before the Twenty-sixth Amendment lowered the voting age from twenty-one to eighteen, and I regarded politics with the indifference of a college freshman indulging his last chance at adolescent irresponsibility. Even so, in my passive observer’s role, I heard the voices of change beckoning a youthful generation to take up their cause.

In his inaugural address, the new president spoke of a symbolic torch that would bridge the gap between old-world ideology and twenty-first-century reform. He called upon a new generation to embrace the extraordinary challenges ahead; and from the missiles of October and the threat of a nuclear holocaust to each magnificent venture of man’s reach for the stars, America’s resolve proudly resonated across two oceans.

Nevertheless, government is politics, and the election ushered in a new four-year cycle of public grandstanding and behind-the-scenes maneuvering in advance of the next campaign.

And then came the fateful November weekend.

In my home, as in all others, we mourned for John Kennedy the president and the family man. We wept for the aggrieved widow and her courage under fire that heartless scandalmongers mistook for indifference. We mourned for the brave little boy and his sister, suddenly fatherless, and the childlike innocence abruptly taken from their lives. We wept openly at the sight of the funeral cortege, and our hearts skipped a beat at the sight of the riderless horse following close behind—the splendid animal’s spirited demeanor representing the vitality of our nation and its fallen leader.

We mourned for ourselves, as a nation suddenly snatched from the enchanting fairy-tale existence we called Camelot and thrust into a reality the rest of the world long since understood. We mourned as individuals, suddenly older and wiser, our innocence snatched from our hearts and souls in a six-second hail of gunfire.

Most of all, in our grief we shut our eyes—like a child frightened of what lies in the darkness—and have not since peered through them with the same optimism and righteous conviction. In a moment of striking impartiality, my father spoke to the heart of the matter: Things just aren’t the same since Kennedy died. The suggestion is unsettling, yet the evidence is undeniable. The assassination of the thirty-fifth president was to set in motion a series of events that irrevocably changed America, my father’s America—the promised land his immigrant father helped build.

There was the continuing tragedy of the sixties—the assassination of King, and then Robert Kennedy, and the enduring pain of the Vietnam War. The decade of the seventies brought forth political scandal and revelations of widespread abuse of power by government agencies. The presumption that such upheaval and scandal did not happen in America no longer held true. Our bubble suddenly burst, America’s once indomitable spirit vanished in a wave of skepticism and indifference.

Like most Americans, I reacted favorably to the new president’s formation of the Warren Commission, confident an investigation by so honorable a body of statesmen would be thorough and beyond reproach. With the release of the Report, I accepted the positive assessments by the media and regarded the critical reviews with cynical uncertainty. However, as time went on, and the shortcomings of the investigation became manifest, my disillusionment grew. While attending graduate school, an activist friend alerted me to the more glaring oversights. I began to read the critical commentaries presented by an ever-growing field of dissenters and attended campus seminars hosted by trailblazing activists lobbying for an independent investigation.

From the evidence presented, I reluctantly concluded the president fell at the hands of a conspiracy. In addition, from the many instances of mishandled evidence by various federal agencies, I was quite certain the government, for untold reasons, was perpetrating a cover-up. As the allegations of impropriety increased, I concluded it was only a matter of time before the government’s case collapsed. However, one event would hang a label of disrepute to the opponents of the official findings and, for nearly a decade, hinder the efforts of researchers.

In March of 1967, Jim Garrison, the erstwhile New Orleans district attorney, proclaimed to the world he had uncovered a conspiracy in the assassination of President Kennedy. My staff and I solved the case weeks ago, Garrison confidently announced at a much-ballyhooed press conference. I wouldn’t say this if we didn’t have evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt.

For his first official act, Garrison arrested Clay Shaw, a successful New Orleans businessman, and charged him with conspiracy in the assassination. The deed created a storm of controversy: Shaw, a prominent civic leader and trailblazer of restoration in New Orleans’ historic French Quarter, was a charismatic figure who enjoyed a legion of support from all segments of the community. What’s more, as the founder of the city’s International Trade Mart, he was responsible for an upsurge in local commerce.

However, Shaw was undoubtedly a shadowy figure. An alleged CIA cutout with established ties to the Agency’s Domestic Contacts Division, Shaw’s roguish dealings included questionable international connections. Completing the improbable picture, Shaw was a well-recognized member of New Orleans underground gay society.

When the case finally went to trial during the winter of 1969, I was an ambitious young reporter with the New York Times covering the local scene. The proceedings were courtroom theatre, the principal characters right out of a Tennessee Williams play. The daily byline from a colleague assigned to cover the trial included regular accounts of unsightly backroom politics and unabashed courtroom repartee. Garrison never made his case, and to no one’s surprise, the jury acquitted Shaw of all charges; but of greater significance, the whispers of fraud left over from the trial were of enduring consequence to the assassination community.

The sheer folly that became Garrison’s investigation was so repugnant, the news media would cast a skeptical eye toward any future allegations of conspiracy. The subject transformed into a journalistic black hole; those conscientious reporters who dared to pursue the evidence did so at the risk of surrendering their reputations as collateral. In their place, a new breed of private researchers, referred to as the Critics, undertook the investigative task. Although typically demonstrating a genuine desire to uncover the truth, they, nevertheless, contributed to the sideshow atmosphere. With theories growing as fast as their ranks, rival camps soon developed, each offering a unique twist on the assassination. The resulting feuds slipped into attacks on each other’s integrity, raising doubts about the motivation behind their work.

According to a recent poll, a preponderance of Americans no longer believed Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. Regrettably, few appreciate the meaning of such a conclusion. Instead, they regard the assassination with a detachment usually reserved for the plot of a Hollywood murder mystery.

With each disclosure of a flawed inquiry, my skepticism for the official findings grew; yet, as the assassination teetered on passage from current events into history, I held out little hope that another investigation would yield a solution to the Kennedy mystery.

Such was my state of mind on the morning of November 20, 1977.

Working at a typewriter always gives me a headache. I leaned back in my swivel chair, let loose an exasperated sigh, and vigorously massaged both temples. It was the anniversary of the Kennedy assassination; more than the reminder of a painful time in our history, the date had come to represent the passing of another year of contentious debate over the official findings. With the House Select Committee on Assassinations currently in session, I felt obliged to present my observations on the state of the union since Dallas. My objective was not to offer melodramatic political commentary or stale sentimentality; rather, to paint a sobering picture of the toll the assassination had enacted upon all of our lives, a condition beyond the redemptive powers of an investigative body.

I enjoy the serenity of a syndicated columnist working at home. No more late hours at my newsroom desk subsisting on burnt coffee and buttered rolls from the all-night diner down the street. Nevertheless, sitting amidst the deafening silence of my apartment, I missed the organized insanity of a paper meeting a deadline—the emotional outcries, the haze of stale cigarette smoke, the incessant clacking of typewriters and the deafening clamor of the linotype machines in the back shop. I missed as well the esprit de corps, the technical and moral support that comes with it, and the competition, friendly or otherwise, associated with chasing down a story. Most of all, I yearn for the finger on the pulse connection to the outside world that can only come from a big city daily.

Instead of the daily roundup in the editor’s office, the mail now serves as my principle link to the news grapevine. On one particular morning, amidst the customary array of trade papers, periodicals, and correspondence piled on the corner of my desk was an envelope conspicuous in its plainness. Cautiously examining both sides of the envelope for a clue to its origin, I noticed the absence of a return address.

Wary of my status as a somewhat public figure, unmarked mail is a reasonable cause for concern. So it was with extreme caution that I slit open the flap of the envelope and removed the enclosed handwritten letter.

November 17, 1977

Mr. Thomas J. Welles

252 West 12th Street

New York, N.Y. 10012

Dear Mr. Welles:

As a dedicated reader of your column, I have come to appreciate your reputation as a responsible journalist, one of uncompromising resolve, and your willingness to remain constant to a purpose.

It is with considerable regret that I approach you in this concealed manner. If our relationship should carry on beyond this introduction, you will certainly come to understand why. Nevertheless, for the present time it is only important that you understand I am a former, but still somewhat connected government employee who, in the course of my duties, became uniquely aware of the circumstances behind the events of November 22, 1963, which I am certain a man of your convictions will find intriguing—if not compelling.

As I am not shopping this information, I will not attempt to contact you or anyone else regarding this subject. However, if my offer appeals to your interest, please meet me on Thursday, November 24 at 10:30 AM at the Empire Diner, located on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Twenty-second Street. Choose a seat in the section of the counter near the pay phone. There is, however, one condition; I do insist you come alone, and that you do not reveal the substance of this letter to anyone until we have spoken.

Since you will no doubt be skeptical of my offer, understandably I might add, I suggest you check out an organization known as Field Operations Intelligence as a qualifier. As this subject relates to Intelligence of a highly sensitive nature, I strongly urge that you confine your queries to only the most secure and trusted sources within your network. I remind you not to divulge the manner in which it was presented to you.

It is with a profound concern for the future of this country that I appeal to your sense of responsibility, and hope that you regard my offer with the same urgency in which I present it.

I thank you in advance for your consideration, and assure you of the genuineness of my overture.

The author chose to remain anonymous.

My knee-jerk reaction was to dismiss it as fraud. Aside from my justifiable skepticism toward anyone alleging firsthand knowledge of the assassination, there was one overriding reason for doubting the letter’s credibility. Why would this person approach me? I had little, if any, experience in the area of espionage, a fact anyone familiar with my writing would certainly recognize. Besides, associating my name with the subject could prove costly to my career. Nevertheless, the manner of the letter suggested I invest a few moments of my time.

The initial inquiries I posed to a few colleagues concerning Field Operations Intelligence (FOI) yielded nothing. Whatever organization the clandestine letter writer alluded to was a mystery to the mainstream press. While my sources dwindled with each disappointment, my curiosity about Field Operations Intelligence increased. There was, however, an ace up my sleeve I reserved for occasions like this.

I placed a call to Earl Thompson, a trusted friend and respected colleague. I met Earl in the summer of 1968 during the infamous Democratic convention in Chicago. I was new to the national scene, and Earl, five years my senior, had by then established himself as a rising star in the field of political journalism. When he discovered I was a fellow Columbia alumnus, he took me under his wing and acquainted me with the important personalities. When events unexpectedly erupted into violence, Earl, displaying his characteristic coolness under fire, guided me through my inexperience. His decency in a highly competitive field became the foundation for our long-standing kinship. He is the one person in Washington I trust.

Earl’s exceptional talent for news propelled his career from Time magazine columnist to the post of senior White House correspondent for the Associated Press, a position he has held during the last two administrations. His extensive network of contacts on Capitol Hill includes a number of luminaries in the Intelligence community. If he does not have an answer to a question, chances are he knows someone who does. Therefore, when FOI did not immediately ring a bell with him, he promised to check around. Three days later, he left a message with my answering service for me to call him back.

Earl? It’s Tom.

Hey Tommy, what’s new these days in Gotham City?

You know the routine… much ado about nothing. How are the boys behaving on the Hill?

Well, the president’s managed to keep his feet planted firmly on terra firma. Aside from that… same old musings.

I chuckled to myself at the memory of President Ford’s tumble down the steps of Air Force One onto his face, and then added, I think he took the job for the medical insurance.

Smart move if he did, Earl said quickly, anxious to get to the point. Look, Tommy, about this Field Operations Intelligence…

Right.

"Well, I told you I’d check with the usual suspects, and I received an assortment of interesting responses. A few had no idea what I was talking about… one egotistical SOB went so far as to assure me that it couldn’t be anything of substance if he didn’t know about it. One former senator said he recalled the name surfacing briefly during a House Appropriations hearing, but doesn’t recall it making it to the floor. One character thought about it real hard, and then said he thought it had something to do with army ordnance."

Really? I trust you thanked him for his insight.

I would be terribly remiss if I didn’t. Anyway, people who are generally in the know regarding intelligence matters are out of the loop on this one.

"Assuming, of course, there is a this one, I added. So you couldn’t find anything," I said, feeling strangely relieved.

No… I didn’t say that…

Earl’s voice tailed off. I never witnessed reluctance on his part to discuss a topic, and when Earl hung on to the last word, it certainly caught my attention.

Is there a problem? I asked, suddenly concerned.

After a moment of silence, Earl heaved a deep sigh and said, To be honest, I’m not sure I should be telling you this.

Look, Earl, if you have a conflict, you don’t owe me an explanation, I stated straightforward. This isn’t that big a deal. I was just looking for verification on a source.

You’re missing the point Tommy. The problem here is this does appear to be a big deal.

For a moment, I sat in silent deliberation. I had prepared myself for two contingencies: with the advent of the House Select Committee proceedings, the letter was a timely hoax meant to entice an ambitious reporter, or that it was a legitimate, but stale, news item meant to impress a novice like me. Both cases would certainly provide an adequate answer to the compelling question, Why me? In either scenario, FOI would turn out to be an insignificant offering.

My immediate concern was whether to oblige Earl to continue. Disclosing the substance of his conversation could compromise a source—a potentially hazardous move in the high-stakes world of espionage. I respected Earl’s judgment and resolved to leave it to his discretion how far the conversation would go. However, I was relieved when he broke the uncomfortable silence.

After I exhausted the usual sources, I decided to try a different approach. I got to thinking, what if this operation or organization… assuming it did in fact exist… was classified, and knowledge of its existence was on a strict need-to-know basis. You know… deep cover. Then there wouldn’t be any official record of it. Even the pseudo know-it-alls would be clueless. Information would have to come from someone with firsthand knowledge… an operative who’s not concerned about compromising his security oath. Unfortunately, most of my close contacts are contemporaries of mine, limiting their exposure to more current events. Do you follow me?

I’ll let you know when I’m in too deep. Go on.

So, going under the assumption that FOI might be a holdover from a previous era, I decided to check the ranks of the old-boy network. With these guys, you never know when legend becomes fact, and vice-versa, so they’re not always the most reliable of sources. Through mutually beneficial liaisons here in Washington I’m acquainted with a few of these Cold War dinosaurs from intelligence, and decided to look them up.

Jesus, you make it sound dirty, I interrupted.

"You must be familiar with the term mind-fucking, Earl uttered with characteristic dry wit. In any case, at first I had no success. The ones who were willing to speak with me either never heard of it, or were damn good liars… which is always a possibility. Then I decided to try my luck with someone I’ve known for a number of years. The guy was a fixture with intelligence dating back to the fifties."

You met with him?

"Ran into him at a function here in Washington and asked if he was familiar with something called Field Operations Intelligence. His face immediately breaks out into a dumbfounded expression, and I swear I could hear the wheels grinding in his head. Then, out of nowhere, he blurts out, ‘Where the hell did you hear that?’ To say the least, his reaction really caught me by surprise. These people know how to be cool under fire… unresponsive. Honest to God, for one of the few times in my life, I wasn’t sure how to react."

Jesus, it sounds like you struck a nerve with this guy, I responded.

Uh huh, and I had to be careful what I said. Even though these guys are officially retired… you know, once a spook always a spook. I was careful not to trip any alarms. So I finally told him I overheard the name in a conversation at a Press Club function, and I was just curious what it was about… that’s it.

Not far from the truth. Was he satisfied with that?

If his response was any indication… not even close. He very deliberately stated, . . . and I’m quoting, ‘Let me say this… there are certain areas that you shouldn’t deal in, and this is one of them. There is nothing here that you’re going to be able to go anywhere with or accomplish anything… except hurting some innocent people. And to answer your question… no comment.’

Holy shit, I mumbled in a stunned voice, but said nothing else. The message was chilling in its presentation and clear in its intent: Field Operations Intelligence was uncharted territory and strictly off limits to outsiders. Even though I had not discovered anything tangible concerning FOI, I did learn something that, for the time being, was just as important. The anonymous letter writer apparently traveled in exclusive circles.

Whether or not his information was firsthand, as he alleged, was yet to be determined, but I suddenly wanted very much to find out. I thanked Earl for his help and promised him a dinner the next time he was in New York. However, before he hung up, he had an additional message for me to contemplate.

Tommy, we’ve known each other for a long time now, he began slowly. And… well, far be it for me to try to tell you your business, but I know about this individual’s background and the type of things he and his people were involved in… and are capable of doing. I won’t ask for the reason you needed the information but, if you decide to follow up on this, tread very carefully… for your sake and mine.

I took Earl’s warning very seriously, and with good reason. He certainly had the credentials and the experience to support any recommendation he made, and knew how to deal with these people—whoever they were—and how far he could go before inviting retribution. In addition, he was never one to exaggerate a situation; hence, his reticence toward Field Operations Intelligence was significant and understandable. He also understood the time-honored rules of engagement between shadow warriors and journalists and knew when not to cross the line. I did not. If he believed an element of danger was present, it would be foolish for me to question his judgment.

I considered asking him for his help—there was no doubting the value of his guidance. Nevertheless, I thought better of it. It would not be fair to involve him, or anyone else for that matter, until I learned the full extent of the potential risk that accompanied this story. The only certain way to accomplish this was to accept the written invitation.

It was then I recognized that Earl’s well being should also be a principal concern. He was the one on record as having inquired about Field Operations Intelligence, not me, and whether or not he remained actively involved, his name would certainly be linked to any further investigation.

Of course, there was the obvious solution: ignore the invitation and be done with all of this. But Earl was never one to allow risk to discourage him from a possible story. Indeed, he could very easily have misled me and explained how he could not get to first base on this one. How would I ever know? But he didn’t. That was not his style. He instead left it to my discretion, and I instinctively understood what he expected me to do.

*     *     *

It is well past midnight when the phone rings in the stylish Georgetown apartment. The man and his wife have just turned in for the evening, and the late-hour call rudely stirs them from their shallow slumber.

The man snatches the receiver from its cradle on the second ring and manages a gruff hello. After a brief moment of confusion, he recognizes the caller and the sense of urgency in his voice: "General Bridges . . . a little late for you to be up, isn’t it?"

If the background noise is any indication, the party is still in high gear. "Sorry about the time, but I’m at that fund-raiser for Senator Thurmond at the Hilton and uh . . . something came up that I thought you should know about right away." (unintelligible background conversation)

Listen, General, I’m having a hard time hearing you, the man announces in a voice filled with indignation. Come by my office tomorrow and we’ll talk then.

There is a moment of silence, before the general says, I don’t think this can wait.

The man mumbles annoyed to himself, then swings his legs over the side of the bed into a seated position and relents. All right then, what is it?

"You know Earl Thompson . . . the AP reporter?"

Of course I know who he is, the man says abruptly, his patience waning.

"Well, about an hour ago, he corners me . . . wants to ask me a couple of questions. I figure it’s the same old bullshit, so I tell him okay. He . . . hold on a second— (some indecipherable noise) Okay, so we go off into a corner of the room, and he says he’s come across the name of a group and wants to know if I’ve ever heard of it."

The man glances over at his wife and then hastily adds, "General, if you’re asking me for advice, you know the stock answer when these guys come nosing . . ."

I certainly do, the general interrupts, "but this is different . . . he asked about FOI."

For a long moment, the line is silent. Then the man speaks in a measured tone. What did you tell him?

"The guy completely took me by surprise . . . no one ever brought it up before."

"General, what . . . did . . . you . . . tell . . . him?"

The general sighs heavily, and then says somberly, "I didn’t tell him anything, but . . . Goddamn it. I asked where he got it from, he told me he overheard the name in a conversation, and I . . . I told him to stay away from it."

You told him what? the man erupts.

"I told him . . ."

Jesus Christ, you don’t have to repeat it. The man pauses to consider the situation. He never had much respect for military types, thought their approach to intelligence was better suited to the roguish postwar days of Wild Bill Donovan. A gaffe like this reinforces his judgment. Resigned to the problem now at hand, he continues. Not that it matters, but what was his reaction?

"He told me not to worry . . . he didn’t plan on doing anything with it."

How thoughtful, the man snaps.

An awkward moment of silence follows, and then the general asks, How should I proceed?

Listen to me. You do absolutely nothing. If you run into him again, react as if the conversation never happened, understand. And don’t let anyone see that you’re upset. I’ll contact you if we need to speak.

"Look, uh . . . maybe there’s a chance he’s telling the truth."

"One thing I am certain of . . . Mr. Thompson is not going to let this lie."

Another moment of anxiety-laden silence ensues, and then the general adds solemnly, "The Old Man, I uh . . . assume he’ll have to be informed."

When, or if it becomes necessary, I’ll tell him what he needs to know.

Right.

Now go back to your party, General.

The man hangs up, then sits hunched at the side of the bed, in deliberation.

Displaying her usual indifference for matters of state, his wife rolls on to her side and asks, Are you coming back to bed?

"Uh, in a minute . . . I need to take care of something first."

The man hastily goes to the study and retrieves a notebook from a locked desk drawer. He finds the number for the secure line and quickly places the call. A short time later, the line comes to life.

"This is Scott. We have a situation . . ."

Four

The sky was classic fall gray, with only a hint of hazy sunshine peeking through the overcast. I gazed west into the New Jersey skyline; the cloud front moving across the Hudson promised little in the way of relief. I pulled up the collar of my topcoat for protection against the late November chill and, with a legacy of half-truths and deceit curbing my expectation, slowly made my way toward Tenth Avenue.

The Empire Diner, a neighborhood landmark, is a replica of the Midwestern truck stops that populated most United States interstates. Although its outward appearance resembles a railroad dining car, the decolike trimmings reflect the ambience of New York in the 1930s. I approached the front entrance on Tenth Avenue and hesitated.

I’ve eaten here before, I realized. Nevertheless, try as I did, I could not coax the memory. A moment later, I climbed the entranceway steps and went in.

The letter instructed me to find a seat at the end of the counter nearest the pay phone, which I immediately spotted to the right. The clock over the mirror read twenty past ten; I was early.

For a diner, late morning is an off-peak hour—too late for breakfast, yet too early for lunch. Since the neighborhood did not support a brunch crowd, the establishment was understandably quiet, which was probably a primary requisite for my host’s choice for the get-together. Nevertheless, there was a semblance of activity, and I casually glanced about the premises for some indication that my contact was present.

There were two people seated at the counter: A gruff-looking older gentleman across from me at the other side of the diner crumbled saltine crackers into his bowl of soup. A short distance from me, a young man in a blue pinstripe suit busily made notes in an appointment book while sipping his coffee. I quickly turned my attention to the couple occupying a table at the opposite end of the diner. A nattily dressed middle-aged man of about fifty was stroking the hand of a young woman about half his age. Her tight, short black skirt, fishnet stockings, and spiked pumps suggested the Kennedy assassination was the furthest thing from either of their minds.

My inspection was interrupted by a gruff, Do you wanna see a menu? A particularly unenthusiastic-looking young woman dressed in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt impatiently awaited my reply. With a little makeup, she could pass for attractive, but her demeanor strongly suggested the job was not worth the effort.

Just coffee, was my equally brusque response.

In the time leading up to this meeting, I had tried to conjure a mental image of my contact. Nearly fifteen years had elapsed since the assassination, and considering the status of the American workplace at the time of the assassination, I assumed I would be meeting a middle-aged man, approximately fifty-five to sixty years of age. At one point, I tried casting Hollywood actors in the lead role of this imagined spy saga. After much deliberation, I awarded the part to William Holden. However, film often does not imitate life, so anything beyond a basic description would be presumptuous.

A short time later, the congenial hostess arrived with my coffee and a metal creamer. After exchanging disingenuous smiles, I poured the spilled coffee from the saucer into my cup, added a splash of milk, and resumed my surveillance. The amorous couple in the corner paid their check and left. Soon after, the entrance door swung open, and I tensed expectantly. A woman and her young son entered and took the table nearest the bathroom. I exhaled and glanced at my watch; it was now ten thirty-six, with not a spook in sight.

Patience has never been my strongest attribute, and I never learned the art of passing time. Time is relative: the more conscious you are of it, the slower the minutes appear to pass (the true fountain of youth?). In contrast, time apparently slipped by too quickly for the young business type. He suddenly leapt to his feet and, after fumbling with his money clip, threw a five-dollar bill on the counter. He grabbed his notebook and, while struggling with his topcoat, bolted out the front door. At last glimpse, he was frantically chasing down a taxi on Tenth Avenue.

A burly-looking young man in work clothes pushed through the entrance and, displaying an abundance of confidence, swaggered to the counter. He straddled the stool and, as the waitress approached, eyed her with a hint of an invitation to share his manhood. Unfortunately, for him, not even Mr. Macho could crack this waitress’s cold veneer. Offended, but undaunted, he ordered a coffee and Danish to go and swiftly escaped his waterloo. Again, I checked my watch; time was quickly becoming an issue.

That left the old gentleman at the counter, now diligently scraping the bottom of the soup bowl with his spoon. His appearance notwithstanding, he was the most likely candidate from the start; I reasoned an aptitude for disguises to be among his clever arsenal. Aside from a quick glance in my direction when I entered, there was hardly any indication of interest in me, reasonable behavior for a covert rendezvous.

With an expectant eye casually aimed in his direction, I sipped my coffee, waiting for an indication or acknowledgement. The old man cast a quick glance my way, then hastily signaled the waitress and demanded his check. I stiffened in anticipation as he paid his bill and dismounted the stool. Trying to look casual—elbows resting on the counter while balancing my coffee cup in both hands—I followed his progress as he slowly made his way along the counter. When he reached the center of the diner, I braced for the meeting, but he unexpectedly stopped and, with a defiant look directed resolutely at me, declared in a raspy, gutter tone:

What the hell are you lookin’ at, bud?

The blood rapidly drained from my face, and my jaw hung open in a vain attempt at a response, but before I could manage an explanation, he turned and brusquely left the diner.

Just then, the little boy at the corner table, on his knees hovering over an ice cream sundae, pointed an accusing finger in the direction of the door and loudly exclaimed, Mommy… that man said a baaaad word. He then resumed his assault on the whipped cream.

I lowered my head into my coffee, trying to hide my embarrassment as the waitress, a master of the unspoken word, rolled her eyes cynically.

Eleven o’clock came and went, and with it only a handful of additional patrons. Optimism was quickly surrendering to bitter reality. My congenial waitress stood a short distance away, displaying an irritated are you going to nurse that coffee all day look on her face. All the same, her attitude hardly mattered for I could only imagine the look of disgust I was now wearing. I instantly felt like a chump for allowing my fanciful mind to get the better of reason. As for the bait, Field Operations Intelligence, maybe it wasn’t as important as Earl thought—no one’s judgment is without blemish.

On the other hand, maybe Mr. X—my name for the anonymous letter writer—overheard the name at a function and attempted to cash in on its probative value. No matter what, I was angry for allowing myself to fall victim to an impulse to find the journalistic equivalent of the Holy Grail—the answer to the riddle: Who killed JFK?

I dropped three dollars and change on the counter, smiled awkwardly at the waitress, and quickly departed the humiliating scene.

For an aspiring beat reporter fresh out of college, a walk around the streets of New York presents an invaluable lesson into what makes the City tick, and I took full advantage of the experience. Roaming through the City’s diverse neighborhoods, amongst its many cultures, afforded me a many-sided look at what growing up a New Yorker means. As it happened, I owe much of my success to this valuable source, and although the ensuing years as a syndicated journalist have seen me take my act on the road, I still enjoy returning to what I consider my roots. It remains a form of therapy for me as well as a constant reality check.

I headed south on Tenth Avenue, pausing briefly for one last disdainful look over my shoulder at the diner. I had no particular destination in mind—just a stroll to collect my thoughts. One block later, my attention shifted to a concrete park where a group of preschool children was playing under the watchful eye of a day care worker. I have always maintained a special interest in children. Hence, their welfare remains a favored topic of my column. I smiled appreciatively as the caretaker eagerly handled the responsibility with authority and forbearance.

So absorbed in their activities had I become that I did not notice the gentleman approach from behind.

It appears we share an interest, he suddenly offered. I love watching children… especially the very young ones.

There was sincerity in his voice and an educated elegance in his demeanor. I nodded in agreement, and when I did not respond, he persisted, I recall reading some time ago something that best exemplifies my sentiments. He paused for a moment, as if summoning the memory, and then continued, "Their priceless innocence is life’s unspoiled canvas . . . that is, until society leaves its grubby fingerprints all over."

I wrote a series of articles on the education of America’s children some years earlier, one of my more gratifying accomplishments, and the line he recited was a direct quote from one of the commentaries. Faced with the unlikelihood of coincidence as an explanation, I stood in stunned silence as the gentleman’s eyes followed the progress of the impromptu game of kickball. My impulse was to excuse myself from the scene, but nothing in his demeanor suggested a reason to be fearful. In fact, a high degree of intelligence was evident in his manner of speaking. It was up to me to interrupt