Kodak Moment

By Ned Gardner

Suppose Lester Darnell, the grossly obese cabdriver who drove Lee Harvey Oswald to his rented room immediately after the assassination of President Kennedy, had a beautiful daughter. And suppose this woman handed you a sealed envelope her father gave her right before he died that unequivocally proves beyond any doubt that Oswald was the "patsy" he claimed just before he was murdered "live" in front of millions of people on national television.

What do you think this evidence might be worth? To you to the media and the government and especially to the sinister cabal who plotted the killings and will do anything to get this envelope back!

Reporter Chris Hagen is forced to grapple with these questions-and a jealous girlfriend-as he becomes a hunted man in his attempt to control hard evidence that finally closes the book on the most written about, most debated political slaying in American history.

"Kodak Moment is one scary trip! Couldn't put it down and parts of the damn thing still haunt me!"

-W. W. Parrott
Best selling author
Simon & Shuster

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 17, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595808991

Ned Gardner

About the author… Ned Gardner has been writing persuasive, entertaining ideas for over forty years. Following a writing stint at Swift-Chaplin’s Hollywood studios, he began an eighteen-year career at J. Walter Thompson, one of the world’s largest and most prestigious advertising agencies, where he serviced key clients with his exceptional marketing and writing skills all over the country and the world. In 1990, Ned began writing fiction. In addition to FIRESTORM!, he has completed three other novels employing the narrative technique of historical fiction: KODAK MOMENT – a not entirely fictionalized tale finally resolving who really shot JFK and why, ONE-EYED PAPERBOY – an outrageous, humorous romp from Florida to the Big Island of Hawaii intertwining an infamous war criminal’s daughter, her lovely, precocious niece, and the stupidest, most pathetic kidnapping in history, and DEADLY ORCHID – a chilling story of a beautiful but toxic psychopath who will stop at nothing to get what she wants and she wants plenty! Ned has also completed a collection of five quick-paced, mostly unsettling short stories under the title, DEEP, DARK WATER. All these works are available through fine bookstores everywhere. Ned lives in North Palm Beach, Florida.

Book preview

Copyright © 2005 by Ned Gardner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

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Although some real events and actual names are used in the telling of this story, this is primarily a work of fiction. The author appreciates that certain elements may have to be changed should this manuscript be purchased and legitimately published for national distribution and sale. In most instances, beyond what is generally accepted as historical fact regarding events, eyewitnesses and others associated with the Kennedy assassination, the events and characters are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-36467-1 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-80899-1 (ebk)

Contents

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

Endnotes

Reference Material

Acknowledgements

My heartfelt thanks to Sharusky, Scott, Judy Brubaker and Dick Stutsman for their help and suggestions, and especially to Charley Boy who pushed to get this book/manuscript on family coffee tables before the next millennium.

—Ned Gardner

My thanks, with much love, to the truly amazing Lou…

whose tireless support, patience and artful editing

made so much of this work, work.

—Ned

BOOK ONE

TEXAS

CHAPTER 1

SAN ANTONIO FRIDAY, 12:36 PM CST

Dean Kane, a glib, velvet-smooth rock ‘n’ roll disc jockey working his noon-to-three shift at radio station WHYS, had just opened the tiny closet door that housed the noisy United Press International Teletype machine. He was in a buoyant, upbeat mood, having just played British pop singer Leslie Gore’s latest single, It’s My Party back-to-back with The Kingsmen’s hot new release, Louie, Louie! What greeted the foot-tapping DJ and media everywhere around the world was a series of disordered, bloodcurdling messages furiously trying to interrupt a story jung-junging off the Teletype tracking a murder trial in Minnesota…

JUNG-JUNG-JUNG-JUNG…

UPI 12:36 CT NOV 22 FRI—THE CASE WAS OPENED…

JUNG-JUNG-JUNG-JUNG…

BUT THE PROSECUTION HAD NOT LISTED THE KNIFE AS ONE OF THE SEVEN LINKS. THE DEFENSE HAS IMPLIED IT WILL TAKE THE LINE THAT CARROL’S DEATH AFTER A SAVAGE BLUGEONING AND STABBING IN HER HOME WAS THE RESULT OF AN ATTEMPTED…MOREDA 1234 PCS…

JUNG-JUNG…DING, DING, DING, DING, DING!

(five bells—indicating a bulletin trying to come on line)

CLEAR WIRE—MOST URGENT: UPI A 7N DA PRECEDE KENNEDY—MOST URGENT! DALLAS, NOV. 22 PCT (UPI)—THREE SHOT FIRED MOTOCADE IN DOWNTOW DAXLLSU AT PSEK PRESIXS KENNHDY JUU DALLW NOV 22—THRE SHOTS WERE FIRE AT PRES CJ KENNYC

JUNG-JUNG-JUNG-JUNG…

Inexplicably the wire service jumps back to the Minnesota trial, cutting short the chilling, fragmented words from Dallas…

UPI 14N 12:37 MINN …BUT IT IS EXPECTED THE DEFENSW WIILL NOT PRESENT THEIR CASE TO THE JURJK JUDS EEX UNTIL EARLY NEXT WEEKK ALLOWING THEMM MORE TIME TO GATHER EVIDENCE OF MURDER THAT ALLEGXX EDLY TOOK PLACE IN HER HOME THAT WITNESSES TESTFIED OCCURRED IN OOCTOBE OF THIA THYEXCCX YEAR JUCX…

JUNG-JUNG…DING, DING, DING, DING, DING! (five more bells demanding immediate clearance)

I4N MINN—PLEASE CLER LINE—GET OFF LINXE!! CLEAR!! PRECEDE KENNEDY BULLETIN DALLAS, NOV. 22 (UPI)—SHOTS WERE FIRED AT PRESXIDENT KENNEDY’S MOTORCAD TODAY IN DOWNTOWN DALLKS… UPI YYYH GPINX VV

…then back again to Minnesota…

UPI 14N MINN …BUT IT WAS FELT BY MINNEAPOLIS POLICE THAT EVIDENCE IS SUFFICENT TO ENABLE PROSECUTION TO…

DING, DING, DING, DING, DING!

CLEAR LINE! MINNEAPOLIS—GET OFF LINE! CLEAR LINE IMMEDIATELY! GETS OFXF NOW!! CLEAR!!

At last, the national wire service line finally cleared for the horrifying news from Dallas…

UPI DA URGENT! URGENT! 1ST ADD SHOTS DALLAS (A7N) XXX DOWNTOWN DALLAS. NO CASUALTIES WERE REPORTED. THE INCIDENT OCCURRED NEAR COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFCE ON MAIN STREET, JUST EAST OF AN UNDERPASS LEADING TOWARD THE TRADE MART WHERE THE PRESIDENT WAS TO SPEAK TO FLASH!! KENNEDY SERIOUSLY WOUNDED PERHAPS SERIOUSLY PERHAPS FATALLY BY ASSASSINS BULLET TEXAS GOVERNOR JOHN CONNALLY RIDING IN SAME CAR ALSO WOUNDED, PERHAPS SERIOUSLY, PERHAPS FATA VICE PRESIDENT LYNDON JOHNSON’S CAR NOT FIRED UPON JT 12:39 PCS

And finally, following fifty minutes of garbled, riveting shock from Dallas, the unthinkable…

FLASH! UPI DALLAS, NOV 22 PRESIDENT KENNEDY DEAD JT 1:26 PCS

…followed just minutes later by a remarkably accurate likeness of the handsome face of the slain president, illustrated entirely in the letter K—a gesture of respect and deep sorrow on the part of the UPI wire service never done before the tragic events of November 22, 1963.

Image271.JPG

CHAPTER 2

DALLAS

12:26 PM CST

A very excited Alex Hidell, as the young man decided to call himself at the moment, walked toward the red Coca-Cola drink machine in the back of the second floor lunchroom, a fine bead of sweat lacing his high forehead as he fished into his pocket for correct change. Although he had only trotted down four flights of stairs, he was a bit winded and decided to grab a Coke and rest for a fraction of a moment. Time was of the essence and he had to get out of the building as quickly as he could.

You! Come ‘ere! What are you doin’ in here? the large police officer with the crew cut shouted as he ran around the lunchroom glass partition and stuck the tip of his .38 Special service revolver an inch from the young man’s belly. Hey Roy! You know this man? he called over his shoulder to Roy Truly, the building manager. The three were standing in the small employee lunchroom of the old red brick School Book Depository building located on the west edge of the city.

Yeah, he’s okay. He works for me. Come on, let’s go! Truly urged the cop as the two excited men raced out of the room and galloped up the backstairs toward the higher floors three steps at a time.

Hey, what’s going on? Somebody steal something? the twenty-four-year-old called after the two who had already disappeared. Not especially concerned that he never got an answer (those dumb redneck morons), he placed two dimes in the Coca-Cola machine, pressed the button and waited patiently for the thick bottle to slam against the rubber chute below.

Shit, that was close, Alex told himself, once again underscoring the need to get the hell out of the building right now! Although it was only noontime, he figured they’d probably cancel any further work for the rest of the afternoon because of all the chaos and confusion going on outside, and besides, he reasoned correctly, it would only be a matter of time before they found the scoped, Italian-made rifle now stuffed behind a stack of book cartons up on the sixth floor. He had brought the mail-order weapon into the building this morning wrapped in two large sheets of brown butcher paper. Curtain rods, he had told the few curious co-workers who had asked about the long, odd shaped bundle.

One thing’s for sure. This place was going nuts and he needed to find his two friends, Donny and Tego, in the green ’61 Buick Riviera. They had promised to be waiting for him in the north parking lot directly behind the building and he sure couldn’t afford any screw-ups now. He remembered he only had about thirteen dollars in his pocket so at some point these guys would need to stop by his furnished room in Oak Cliff where he had another forty dollars and his .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver stashed in a shoebox on top of his closet. This would be the first place they would go, he would tell Donny and Tego when he found them. It would also get them the hell out of downtown Dallas and Dealey Plaza, which was even more important.

Alex half-walked, half-ran out of the lunchroom with the bottle of Coke and trotted down the short flight of steps that led to the main entrance of the building on Houston Street. Once outside, he strolled through the crowd of maybe twenty people who gathered at the building entrance and walked around the corner toward the rear parking lot where his two associates told him they’d be waiting in the green Buick, but…no Buick. The assholes weren’t there! Not in the lot. Not in the street next to the lot. Not anywhere!

Trying to remain calm, Alex scooted down each row of parked cars thinking maybe Donny and Tego stupidly got buried in the middle of the pack of parked cars and were still waiting to get out, but…here were no Rivieras, much less a green one. Those morons! Those incredibly incompetent morons! And they told me these guys were professionals (like he was, he reassured himself). Son-of-a-bitch! They must have panicked and left. Wonderful. Now what? a perplexed Lee Harvey Oswald asked himself, his face dripping with sweat.

Not sure where he was going but certain he wasn’t about to go back into the old book warehouse that was now swarming with press, police, excited bystanders and God knows who else, Oswald quickly headed east on Elm, somewhat bemused by the throngs of people that were running aimlessly around the area, many of whom were jumping up and down, grabbing each other with hollow, frozen expressions on their tearful faces and yelling like a bunch of teenagers at a rock show. Bad news traveled fast. The scene brought back unpleasant memories of the rackety crowds he had experienced one time when he managed to snag a free ticket to the Cotton Bowl. Lee hated boisterous crowds and was pleased to see that the further east he walked, the thinner and more controlled the once festive, parade-watching lunchtime swarm seemed to get.

At the intersection of Elm and Field streets—about four blocks from the book depository warehouse he had just left—Oswald spotted an Oak Cliff bus clogged in a sea of jammed, horn-blasting cars. Waving at one of the two policemen who were frantically whistling and having only limited success moving the snarled traffic, Lee dashed around the front of the bus and slapped loudly on the folding doors. Pausing for a long moment—perhaps intending to make the point they weren’t at a regular bus stop—the exasperated bus driver finally opened the twin doors with a loud, pneumatic hiss and let the young man on where he clunked some change in the box before slipping next to the window in the second seat on the right.

After ten minutes of start-and-stop crawling for two more blocks, it was clear they were going nowhere. Worse, Lee realized the bus was about to loop around at the end of the next block which was Griffin, and head back west on Elm—returning directly back into the chaos of thick, unruly crowds and the old book depository building!

God damn it all to hell! he grumbled as he stood up and signaled the frustrated driver he wanted to get off, not surprised to see that three of the five remaining passengers had lined up behind him. I don’t blame you, buddy…You want a transfer? the driver asked.

Yeah, sure, why not? Oswald said and grabbed the slip of paper from the man’s hand before hopping off the bus without thanking him.

Once again, now what?

Looking over toward the Greyhound bus station at Lamar and Jackson, he spotted a brown taxi sitting by itself in front of the station entrance. Strolling over to the right side of the cab, Lee poked his head in the window and coughed loudly, startling the grossly obese man who was enjoying a little snooze after just finishing his lunch, and asked driver Lester Darnell if his taxi was available.

Sure, the fatman managed to exhale in the middle of a hippo-size yawn. Where you want to go? Airport?

No. Oak Cliff. The five-hundred block on Beckley.

Yeah, sure. Hop in, boy, Darnell said in a slow, Texas accent and straightened up behind the wheel as much as his massive girth would allow. Assuming the young man would get in the back seat like most fares, Lester was surprised when Oswald jumped in the front (like, maybe, he also worked for the cab company).

CHAPTER 3

12:51 PM

As the taxi squeaked and rumbled its way across the heavily-trafficked Houston Street viaduct that took the two men over the Trinity River on what normally would be a seven-minute journey to the quiet suburb of Oak Cliff, Darnell took a side-long glance at his passenger.

The man was in his mid twenties, about five-foot-eight or-nine and dressed in work clothes. He was slight—maybe 165 pounds—and had brown receding hair, already showing signs of premature baldness. He wasn’t chatty the way most of Darnell’s daytime customers were (Lester preferred the talkative ones), and the young man seemed to the cabby to be highly nervous and fidgety as if he was running late for something. Always quick to form first-time impressions, Darnell decided he didn’t like this kid much. Too sullen and pouty, and just who did he think he was, sitting in the front seat like he was Lester’s supervisor or long, lost buddy?

Hope you’re in no big rush ’cause the whole town’s been one big parking lot all mornin’, the enormous cabdriver said in an effort to be amiable and perhaps calm this guy down some. Did you get a good spot to see the parade and Pres…?

No, Lee sullenly interrupted, apparently not interested in talking. I’ve been workin’ all morning and never saw nothin’.

Man, I never heard such hoopla, Darnell rambled on. Horns, whistles and sirens goin’ off all over the place…Hell, I couldn’t go no place and I turned the dispatch radio off about an hour ago ’cause it was just a lot a noisy, ear hurtin’ gobbledygook and you couldn’t hear nothin’ ol’ Alma, our dispatcher, was sayin’ to any of us anyways so I couldn’t see no point in listenin’ to it. Want a caramel? Darnell offered the man his jumbo size box of Milk Duds.

Not me. Bad for your teeth, Oswald said and continued to stare out the window in silence. He was deeply preoccupied with his own thoughts, trying to figure out why those two jerks in the green Buick weren’t waiting for him as they had promised the night before, and more importantly, where the hell he should go after he stopped and grabbed his gun and money at his rooming house. He was also bothered by the likelihood that his wife would be worried sick after finding his wedding band on top of the bedroom bureau where he intentionally had left it this morning before he caught a ride to work with his wife’s neighbor, Wesley Frazier. Frazier also worked at the School Book Depository building and was instrumental in helping Lee get his job there three months ago.

Lee and his wife Marina had been separated on and off for the past two months. But yesterday he convinced her to let him spend the night in the small suburban house she was now sharing with another woman so he could spend some time with their two young children. There was no sex with Marina, very sad to say, though he did try to crawl into her bed late last night before she told him to leave her alone and go sleep on the couch in the living room. All in all, not a great night, but at least she was friendly and made him dinner. And he saw the kids once more. Of course, all that kind of thing would change after today, after they caught him, he told himself, pretty sure now that they would at some point. Without Donny and Tego he was dead in the water and it was only a matter of time before the whole stinking world would be tracking him down. For the first time he began to wonder if he had been set up. It was also the first time he began to think about dying.

This is fine. Let me out here, Oswald told the driver as they entered onto his street only a half block from his furnished room at 1026 North Beckley. As he got out of the taxi and started to pull a dollar out of his pocket, he hesitated for a moment and seemed to change his mind. Hey, can you wait for me? I just realized…I need to go someplace else. Can you wait five minutes? I need to get something first from my apartment.

You bet I can, no problem. But you need to pay this first part first, Darnell said, not sure this sullen guy wasn’t going to pull a fast one and never come back. Ninety-five cents will do the deed for now, young fella, and I’ll be sittin’ right here readin’ the paper with the meter still ticking so you can take all the time you want far’s I’m concerned!

Oswald gave the fatman a dollar and said, Five minutes, before scampering down the street and ducking into one of the small row houses on the right.

CHAPTER 4

1:05 P.M.

As cabdriver Lester Darnell scanned the newspaper and hummed a new Beatles tune while thumping his fingers on the furry, leopard-skin-wrapped steering wheel, he decided to turn on his dispatch radio, but it squealed and shrieked with so much interference he snapped it off again. In almost exactly five minutes, the young man returned to the cab and slid back into the front seat somewhat out of breath. He had put on a thin white nylon jacket over his work shirt and he continued to look anxious and in a big hurry.

Where to now, mister?

Nowhere. I don’t need you to take me no place. I just want to talk to you for a second and…give you something.

Look, boy, I ain’t got no time to play no games. Give me what?

An envelope. A very important envelope, he said as he pushed a letter-size envelope toward Darnell. I sealed it but you can open it any time you want to. I need you to hold on to it and…take it to the cops or the FBI if you read in the papers or see on TV that something bad happened to me…that I’ve been killed or something. I can’t give you no more money because I need to keep what I’ve got. I just need you to do me this favor so my wife will know what happened—that I was a patsy, that I was set up by a bunch of double-crossing lying foreigners!

No way, Darnell shook his head fervently. "No sir, no way! I ain’t takin’ nothin’! I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about and I don’t want to know what you’re talkin’ about! You owe me another thirty cents waitin’ time like it says there on the meter and then you can go about your business and I don’t need to

know nothin’ about no envelope and that’s the truth!"

I’ll give you five dollars if you’ll just hold on to it!

Hey! What’s the matter with your ears, boy? Don’t you hear nothin’ I was just sayin’? I told you I don’t want it, damn it! Now just give me the thirty cents—thirty-five now—and I’ll be on my way and you can go about your business and that’ll be just fine.

Here! Just take it! Do what you want with it. I don’t give a shit, Oswald said as he threw both a five-dollar bill and the white envelope at Lester Darnell before jumping out of the cab and bounding up North Beckley toward the center of Oak Cliff, leaving the chubby driver staring after him in silent bewilderment.

Well I’ll be a dog momma’s bitch! the cabdriver said, and with a large effort accompanied by an even larger grunt, he managed to just barely slide his massive body over enough to retrieve the five dollars and letter-size envelope that had landed on the floor of his taxi. Man, that boy’s got himself some serious ants in his pants, I can tell you that for sure, he muttered as he held the envelope up to the light, hoping to detect the elongated shadow of more money possibly tucked inside.

Darnell never heard that the President of the United States had been shot in Dallas’s downtown Dealey Plaza only a few short blocks from where he had been enjoying his lunch until he arrived home about three that afternoon and turned on the TV. And, of course, he didn’t know who the boy was—the young man who had been in his taxi and threw the envelope and money at him before trotting down the street to shoot officer John D. Tippet (Tippet had stopped Oswald on Tenth and Patton streets because he answered the radioed description of an employee who was missing from the School Book Depository building). Darnell didn’t know, that is, until about an hour later, after NBC popped up Lee Harvey