Frozen Camelot: The Incredible Story of JFK’S Secret Double

By Kenneth Diamond

For sixty years, the perceived elegance and idealism of the Kennedy presidency has come to be known as the Era of Camelot. Like the fabled reference to another time, "Frozen Camelot" is the incredible story of how a little-known actor, Lawrence Hinsdale, became JFK's presidential double. The double was originally used sparingly and for rare appearances, mostly to simply wave at crowds; but as time went on, Hinsdale's involvement progressed into a much more dynamic role. His ability to project a healthy version of JFK became ever more important as John Kennedy's health deteriorated. In the end, we are left with the essential question: who was assassinated on November 22nd, 1963? Was it the secret double or was it JFK?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350940435

Book preview

Chapter 1

Thursday, August 25th, 2001

Hanover, New Hampshire

There is a tranquil quality to morning sun. Emily Dickenson had described it as rising one ribbon at a time, allowing steeples to swim lazily in amethyst. However, on this particular morning, the four-and-a-half-billion-year-old ball of fury was being a bit more direct. With the flat of my hand, I shaded my eyes before crossing the street. The blare of a car horn froze me in my tracks. I looked up, only to see the annoyed driver shoot me a stern look of admonishment before driving off. Today I was to report to a new job, and in my nervous haste, I had forgotten my sunglasses. Cursing my stupidity, I looked at my watch: 7:45. Not enough time to go back; besides, I was almost there. I picked up the pace and thought about my new endeavor.

Two weeks earlier, I had discovered the job from a posting in a wadded-up copy of the D, Dartmouth’s student newspaper. The heading read, Wanted: reliable and trustworthy groundskeeper. Flexible hours. Applicants apply by phone. When I called the number, an automated machine had drummed on and on, peppering me with a stream of exhausting questions. What was my Social Security number? What was my date of birth? Where had I been born? Had I ever been convicted of a crime? The entire automated call lasted over thirty minutes. Several times, I considered hanging up. Despite my sense of frustration and futility, a few days later, a woman called to confirm that I was being offered the position. She explained the basic nature of my job and where I needed to go to complete a drug screen and—to my dismay—a background check and fingerprinting. Now, almost there, I wondered about the paranoia of my new employer.

From the street, the entrance was like nothing I had ever seen. I pulled a paper from my pocket and checked the address. Four sixty-three Holland, so I was in the right place. The woman on the phone had described it as a private residence, but this was more like the gateway to a theme park or a zoo. A long driveway led inwards towards an enormous gate. Overhead, dark twisted branches of mature white oaks stretched skyward, forming a cool shaded tunnel. As I walked forward, morning sunlight broke through the leaves, causing the ground to come alive.

A small shack, bristling with antennas, stood defiantly in front of the gate. One of three serious-looking guards stepped from the building and made his way towards me.

Can I help you?

Yes, sir. I’m Kevin Henry. I’m supposed to start work here today.

The guard shifted his weight. His boney hand coming to a rest on top of a large gun holstered lazily to his side. The awkward image of Barney Fife, from The Andy Griffith Show, suddenly popped into my head, specifically, the scene in which Andy tells Barney that he can no longer carry a loaded gun. I couldn’t help but wonder whether the little man had a single bullet safely quarantined in the pocket of his shirt.

What sort of work are you supposed to be doing here? he asked, turning his nasal voice.

I pulled the paper from my pocket. Groundskeeper. Mowing the lawn and stuff.

Huh, he said, snatching the paper from my hand. You say your name is Henry?

Kevin Henry, I repeated slowly.

He studied me for a moment as if I would crack and admit that Kevin Henry was an alias. He shifted his weight back to the other side and studied the paper. After several moments, he said, You wait right here. Understand?

Alrighty, I said in a slightly teasing way.

He flashed a look of annoyance before he made his way back to the little shack. Through the glass, I could see he was making a phone call.

I turned my attention to the gate. It was tall. Twelve, maybe thirteen feet high, and solid except for a row of square openings the size of pizza boxes along its top. I stood up on my toes in an attempt to peek through one of the openings but could only make out a tree on the other side.

A few minutes passed before the cocky guard stepped back out from the shack. He flung his arm in the air, waving me towards him. The giant gate began to swing open. It made a screeching sound, which seemed to indicate it rarely moved.

You see that little building up there?

Yes, sir.

That’s the personnel office. Go straight up there. No wandering around. You understand?

I nodded.

Go inside and ask for Mrs. Hines. She’ll get you handled.

He handed the paper back to me, his eyes never wavering.

Thanks, I said. I stuffed the tattered mess in my pocket.

I walked through the gate and made my way up the drive. Its curved path eventually revealed a large Tudor-style mansion beyond the little building. The grass and bushes along the drive were beautifully manicured. Mounded beds of tulips, marigolds, and lilies exploded between red-leafed dogwoods. Everything appeared newly planted, and yet, like any slice of heaven, there was a lasting presence, as if everything had always been there.

A buzzing sound caught my attention. I looked up and spotted a camera perched on a pole. It began tracking me as I walked. I turned my attention back to the small building and noticed more cameras on its sharply pitched roof. The security of this place was intense and left me wondering who or what it was designed to protect.

The little building was done in an English style that matched that of the main house, but its door was glass, like that of an office building. I pulled on it and went inside. Green linoleum crackled under my weight, causing a woman to step from a cubicle.

Hello, I said. I’m here to see Mrs. Hines.

You must be Kevin. Have a seat, and I will be right with you.

Mrs. Hines was an attractive woman in her early to middle forties. Her hair was blonde, and she wore a tight-fitting leopard-print skirt. I wondered whether she was the woman who had called to confirm my hire.

I turned and found a row of plastic chairs against one of the walls. Settling in one, I examined the rest of the room. Like the glass door, nothing matched the opulence of the building’s exterior. Instead, it was the kind of room the IRS would have dreamt up. Olive-green desks, made of government metal. No paintings. No carpet. Just a plain drab work environment. Even the phones were simple and outdated. A humming sound with an occasional clatter came from a small window-mounted air conditioner which was clearly past any kind of a warranty.

The floor crackled again. I watched a man in a dark suit walk in. He stopped, took one look at me, and then disappeared behind the cubicle Mrs. Hines occupied. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but after a few seconds, I heard my name. I strained my neck to hear more, only to watch the man reemerge. This time, I could see that he was wearing an earpiece. It was attached to a curly wire that came down and disappeared into his collar. He glanced in my direction before walking out the door.

Kevin, Mrs. Hines said.

Yes, I said, standing.

Go ahead and fill out these forms while I make a copy of your driver’s license and your Social Security card.

Mrs. Hines handed me a clipboard while I dug through my pocket.

I see that you’ve already completed your drug screen and background check. Fingerprints are here as well. Excellent. Everything looks good. As soon as you’re done, you can go see Mr. Ferris in the toolshed.

Yes, ma’am. Where is that?

She pointed to a screen door at the rear of the office. Right through that door and across the lawn.

Once I arrived at the toolshed, I saw several lawn tractors and lawnmowers crowded near the entrance. Layers of dried grass and dirt were caked to the sides of the machines, giving the shop a musty smell. Against the far wall, bags of fertilizer and topsoil were neatly stacked, while a desk, flanked with garden tools, sat at the other. An older Black man was sitting at the desk stuffing a pipe, his shiny bald head illuminated by dusty spears of light streaming through a skylight.

Excuse me, sir. Are you Mr. Ferris?

The man turned to look at me. He was thin but had a muscular build, suggesting a life of hard work.

Who’s asking?

I’m Kevin. I was told to report to you.

Report to me?

I held out the paper. "Yes, sir. For work. I’m the new

groundskeeper."

Mr. Ferris stood. He took the paper and threw it on the desk, where it landed next to a pile of others. Without looking, he opened a drawer and pulled out a wooden match. With one smooth motion, he flicked it across the desk and lit the pipe. He took a long draw before speaking. You ever worked grounds before?

Yes, sir. Back home, I worked at a golf course.

He took another long draw. Light sweet smoke filled the air.

Where’s back home?

Lakewood, Colorado; it’s a suburb of Denver."

You came back east to go to school?

Yes, sir. I’m at the university. I’m studying history. I hope to be a writer someday.

Humph, he snorted, clearly unimpressed. Are you sure this is the kind of work you wanna do? I mean, most college kids are looking for something a little more stimulating. Something they can wrap their mind around.

No, sir. I mean yes. I like working outdoors with my hands. I wasn’t looking for anything complicated.

Well, this ain’t complicated work. It’s hard work, he said, pausing to take another draw from his pipe. His face tightened for a moment before he continued. I only have a couple of rules. So, let’s get a few things straight. We start work at eight-thirty every morning. Oh, and you gotta wear pants! No gangster basketball shorts or goddamned cutoffs. You can’t work with your shirt off. Most importantly, I don’t care what the hell you did the night before, but if you’re hungover, you gotta tell me. Don’t want you losing a finger or something stupid because you’re all jacked up. You understand?

Yes, sir.

And another thing: If you’re smoking weed, don’t bring it in here!

No, sir. I don’t use drugs.

Uh-huh. Well, don’t. He pointed to a wooden box near the entrance and said, Get yourself a pair of gloves from that bin over there, and I’ll show you what we’re doing today.

Together we walked towards a big lawn that flanked one side of the driveway. We stopped at a work area where a small trench had been dug. Mr. Ferris knelt and set his smoldering pipe on the dirt. Hand me that crescent wrench over there.

Looks like a sprinkler leak, I said, only to realize that I was stating the obvious.

He looked up with contempt. Yes, this is a sprinkler leak. You ever fixed one?

Sure, lots of times. The golf course back home was pretty old. Every week, one or two would break. Hell, all I ever did was fix leaks!

Well, good. Let’s see what you can do with this one. Ben passed me the wrench. I found a break between these two fittings. You think you can handle that?

No problem, boss.

Ben let out a sigh. He picked up his pipe and walked away.

I spent the rest of the morning fixing the break, only to find another leak. I dug the hole into a larger trench. Then I went back to the shed to find a length of pipe and some connectors. The connectors were in a metal bin. I took several in case I needed more. I searched around the shop and found several pieces of plastic pipe. Next, I located a spool of plumbing tape. While reaching for it, I noticed something shiny hanging next to it on a hook. It looked like a track medal. I picked it up and read the inscription along its bottom: Marksman Expert. I rubbed it a couple of times and then flipped it over. The back had an inscription: To Benjamin Waldron III for work behind enemy lines in the face of great danger. JFK. I stared at it a moment before hanging it back on the hook. I spotted a hacksaw lying on a bench and added it to my pile. When I returned to the trench, Mr. Ferris was standing there, lighting his pipe.

I found another leak Mr. Farris. I went back to the shop to get more pipe.

Humph. looks like you’ve done this sort of work before, he said, scratching his chin.

Yeah. I sure hope this gets it.

I turned to look out across the lawn and towards the main house, Mr. Ferris, who lives there?

Ben handed me a bottle of water and smiled. His demeanor suggested a newfound glimmer of respect. Apparently, it had been a long time since they had sent someone who knew what they were doing and who wanted to work.

You can call me Ben, he said. He looked towards the house. Mr. Pierce lives there. Made his money in coal.

Coal?

Yeah. He had a coal mine somewhere in Pennsylvania.

The guy must be loaded to have a place like this.

Ben smiled. Takes a hell of a lot of money, I suppose. More than you or I will ever have.

I nodded. I was glad to see that Ben’s attitude towards me was softening.

We spent the rest of the afternoon working together. When the leak was fixed, the ground was restored and looked as if it had never been touched. The sun was beginning to set, and the first popping of sprinklers could be heard off in the distance. 

Never a shortage of work here, Ben said as we made our way back to the toolshed. Most kids never make it past the first few days.

I can’t understand why, I said. I shook my head. This place is beautiful.

Well, Kevin, I hope you still want to come back tomorrow.

I’ll be here at eight-thirty sharp. You need me to do anything else before I go?

No. Kevin, we’re done for the day.

I put my gloves away and walked towards the door. I’m not sure why, but I looked over at the hook where I had seen the medal—only now it was gone. Ben was busy packing his pipe, so I decided to let it go.

* * * * *

The next day, I arrived early. While waiting for Ben, I cleaned and polished all the mowers. When Ben arrived, the reaction on his face flashed between confusion and astonishment. His eyes scanned the polished mowers and, for the first time in years, he could make out the brand names along their sides.

Hope you don’t mind, Ben. I got here a little early and was bored.

He turned away, trying to conceal his approval. He merely nodded and replied with a Humph. It wasn’t the reaction I had hoped for, but it was a start.

What have you got for me today, boss?

Well, apparently you know how to clean them, so let’s see if you know how to use them. Today is Thursday, and we always mow the back lawn on Thursday. Go ahead and jump on that Toro, I’ll meet you there.

We spent the rest of the morning mowing behind the main house. He showed me how to cut the lawn to give it a diamond pattern, like that of a baseball outfield. I mowed the lawn in one direction, then mowed it again in a perpendicular direction. When we were done, I marveled at the beauty of it.

Mr. Pierce is a big Red Sox fan. He told me several times this lawn reminded him of the outfield at Fenway. He told me they crosscut the grass. Gives the outfield a cleaner look.

I can see why he likes it this way.

I nodded, Yeah. It does look good.

There was a buzzing sound. I looked towards the back porch. A camera was turning slowly.

There sure is an awful lot of security here, Ben.

Oh, hell! They got all kinds of security here. This place is like Fort Knox. No way anyone comes or goes without a camera or a guard seeing it.

Why do they have so much?

I don’t know, kid. They just do.

Was it always like this?

Yeah, as far as I can remember.

How long have you been here Ben?

Ben looked down as if to calculate an immense number. Several moments passed. Be thirty-seven years this spring.

Holy shit!

Ben’s face dropped.

I mean, that’s a long time, Ben, I said, trying to mitigate the abruptness of my response.

Ben slowly surrendered a smile.

Longer than you’ve been alive, kid.

Ben and I spent the rest of the day going over my schedule and reviewing what I needed to do every day. Each day of the week, I mowed a different part of the estate. I also tended and weeded the flowerbeds in those sections. It was simple work, and I liked it because it gave me a chance to think about things. I thought about Ben and how long he had been here. Thirty-seven years: an eternity! I wondered how anyone could do the same thing day in and day out for so many years. I also thought about the house. I learned that it had been built during the roaring twenties and it had taken over two years to construct. The style was English Tudor, and the stone on its exterior had been imported from a quarry near London. No expense had been spared. I imagined the extravagance of its interior.

* * * * *

After the first week, I stopped counting security cameras. They were everywhere. Then there were the security men. Dressed neatly in dark suits and always wearing reflective sunglasses, they too seemed to be everywhere. They appeared modeled after the secret service and patrolled near the house. They were in fact the only ones who ever came and went from the house. Ben had told me to avoid them. He referred to them as the suits and explained that they were deadly serious about what they did.

As the days passed, I grew accustomed to my new routine. Everything at Dartmouth was going well, and I was happier than I had ever been. My life had structure. I had a room in the dorms, plenty of food, and I had my job. It felt strange to me that I hadn’t felt homesick. Maybe that would come, but for now, everything was perfect.

* * * * *

September 17 was like any other day, except that it was boiling. I had just finished mowing along one side of the house and was exhausted. Grabbing a water jug, I poured cool water on my head and then took a long swig. I was admiring one of the flowerbeds next to the house, when my eye caught an old man in a wheelchair. He was staring at me from a bay window. The sight of him startled me for a second, but I realized that this had to be Mr. Pierce. I watched his hand rise, culminating in a delicate wave. Not knowing what to do, I forced a smile and waved back. His hand came down. A dismal look seemed to spread across his face. It was the kind of look that a castaway might give to a passing ship that wasn’t going to stop. I looked at him for a moment until it became awkward. I restarted the mower, raised the blade deck, and turned towards the toolshed. Instinctively, I looked back to the window, but he was gone.

Ben was sitting at his desk when I walked in.

Hey, I saw Mr. Pierce! The old guy waved at me.

Not supposed to mess with Mr. Pierce.

I didn’t mess with him! He waved at me, so I waved back. He seems like a nice old guy.

Better not let a suit see that shit. They’re apt to think you’re up to something.

He looks old, maybe in his eighties? Ben, how old do you think he is?

Ben had a frozen look on his face. The comment appeared to have taken him a million miles away.

Ben? You alright?

Oh. Yeah. He’s ninety-two; be ninety-three on the twenty-ninth of May.

You know when his birthday is?

Ben laughed. Like I told you, kid. I’ve been here a while. He struck a match across the desk and relit his pipe.

Did you ever get to know him?

Oh, sure. Mr. Pierce wasn’t always the way he is now. He was a vibrant man, someone who lit up a room. He was the kind of person that gave you goosebumps when he spoke. Ben paused. I could tell he wanted to say more, but his mind seemed to drift. After a few moments, he continued, He would always stop and talk to me. I remember this one time. He asked my advice on how he should handle a problem. Imagine that, back in my day, a man of his power, talking to me, a Black man, and giving a shit about what I had to say! I tell you what, there are a lot of words that might describe him, but courage comes to mind when I think about everything he did for this country. Ben stopped. His face filled with anguish. Strong feelings, hidden deep inside, had boiled to the surface, making it hard to continue.

Instinctively, I looked down.

Silence engulfed us as Ben fought to regain his composure. He said at last, He was a very special person.

I hadn’t expected such an emotional outburst. I waited, not sure of what to say.

Ben finally looked over and smiled. Hey, why don’t you cut out a little early today? I know you have a test or something. Right?

I do. Thanks, Ben. I could use the extra time. Are you going to be alright?

Ben gave me a reassuring smile. Of course. Go on now. You’ve been working hard—and I appreciate it.

Alright. I’ll see you in the morning.

As I walked out, I couldn’t help but wonder about Mr. Pierce. Ben had spoken so highly of him, and then Ben had become so emotional. I thought about Ben’s words everything he had done for this country. The words felt powerful, yet they felt completely out of context. Maybe Mr. Pierce had been a war hero or something.

Chapter 2

The extra study time had paid off. I scanned the class after completing my exam. Most of the students were still working on theirs. I stood, packed my things, and walked to the front of the room. The solicitous look on my professor’s face faded as he examined the first few answers. He gave me an admiring nod, and I walked out.

I had a few hours to kill before my next class, so I stopped by the student union to get some dinner. I was standing there looking at a small assortment of sandwiches when a girl walked up.

Not much of a selection, she said, picking one up to smell it.

No, not at all.

I keep telling myself to pack something, but I never do. Instead, I end up eating this crap. None of it can be good for you.

I smiled at her.

She set her backpack down. Hey, don’t we have a history class together?

I studied her now, trying to place her. I don’t know. I have twentieth-century American history on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Yeah, with Dr. Hutton, right?

That’s the one.

Awesome, she said. I’m Kelly, she added, putting her hand out.

Kevin, I said, taking her hand.

I’m not doing very well. I’ll probably flunk the class. Maybe you could help me.

Sure, I said.

She smiled. I gotta warn you, though; I suck at history. People, places, dates—I can’t keep any of that stuff straight. I could definitely use some help.

Still holding her hand, I began to realize how beautiful she was. She was probably twenty or twenty-one. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and a slender athletic body, like a gymnast’s. Brown penetrating eyes looked up at me—paralyzing any sense of propriety I had. Her soft alluring expression began to change. Then I realized I was still holding her hand.

I’m sorry, I said. I released my grip.

The arch in her eyebrow intensified, as if she were discovering that she had my complete attention but not knowing exactly what to do with it.

Without much thought or control, words began to stumble out of my mouth, I mean, I’m available and all. I don’t want to impose on you or anything.

No, not at all. I think, she said, carefully. But remember, I suck at history – so fair warning.

Well history is my thing, so no worries.

Again, I found myself in a hypnotic stare. Her eyes penetrated right through to my heart, and a warm sensation engulfed me. I don’t know whether I had stopped breathing, but it felt as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. Calm down, you fool! You’re acting like a caged squirrel! I sucked in a gallon of air and said, Why don’t we grab a table and set our stuff down?

Kelly continued her quizzical look.

That would be great. Are you going to be alright?

In a hoarse voice, the kind you get when you swallow wrong, I managed to force out, Oh, yeah. I’m good.

We talked for what seemed like hours. I learned that Kelly Livingston was also a freshman and hoped to get her degree in chemistry. She had come from McPherson, a small farming town in Kansas. Her parents operated the town’s hardware store. She told me she had two brothers and a sister and that they all worked at the store. I could tell she was homesick by the way she described the storybook essence of the town, giving it a serene quality.

Eventually, I told her about my life growing up in Colorado and how my mother and father divorced when I was six. I explained how my parents were always broke and how my mom worked dead-end waitress jobs just to keep us fed. I’m sure I shocked her, but she listened politely anyway. The time was getting late, and I suddenly realized I had missed my next class. I glanced at my watch.

Wow! We’ve been talking for almost two hours."

Didn’t seem like it, she said with a flirtatious smile.

All I could do was look at her. It was as if I were under a spell. I could feel a tingling deep within. I didn’t want her to go. A smile moved across my face as I scrambled for something clever to say.

I should probably get going, she finely said.

Right. Me too. Well, so, maybe I could call you or something?

That would be great.

We exchanged numbers, and then I watched her walk away. I had never felt this way before.

I had dated, gone steady, but had never had my world rocked as it was now. I looked again at her contact information. As if sinking a three pointer at the buzzer, I pumped my arm in victory.

Unfortunately, she looked back just as I was doing this.

All I could do was stand there. Adolescent embarrassment spread helplessly across my face.

She smiled and blew me a kiss.

That was all it took. She had me.

* * * * *

I arrived at work the following morning with a spring in my step. I couldn’t stop thinking about Kelly and how beautiful she was. The entire evening kept playing over in my mind. Her blonde hair, the way she smelled, the way she laughed. I was whistling away when Ben walked in.

Sounds like somebody had a good night, Ben remarked.

"Good morning, Ben! I did in