Post by dennis on Feb 7, 2018 6:00:03 GMT
The Warren Commission’s report had settled it: a lone gunman; a loose cannon who had managed to squeeze out a few rounds from an upper floor of the Book Depository building and kill the President. No conspiracy; no triangulated fire. Case closed, 1964.
****
In Dealey Plaza, Dallas,Texas, the sound of a chainsaw echoed through the crisp morning air of November 2016. Opposite the Grassy Knoll, a nondescript landform that had long since passed into legend, the wild-looking limbs of two oak trees and being cut back.
“This one’s split,boss”, called out one of the arborists engaged by the city to tidy up much-visited milieu. With a crunch, the hefty branch hit the ground beneath and the chief arborist engaged by the city to tidy up the much-visited milieu. With a crunch, the hefty branch hit the ground beneath and the chief arborist pulled it away for inspection. In this sanctuary, no sign of disease could be tolerated. Sure enough, there was a split of a few inches in the limb and the bark around it was soft and yielding to the specialist’s fingers. Fearing bacterial wetwood, he picked at the soft material.
“Jim!” he called to a nearby colleague. “Lookee here!”
“What is it, Mick”, responded Jim.
“Goddam bullet’s stuck in here! Looks like it’s been here for…”, he paused at length,”half a century.”
“You better get it across to the police, Mick,” Jim mused.
A junior officer received the one-foot long section of the branch in which was firmly wedged a rusting projectile. Before long, a senior officer of the Dallas Police Department took the exhibit to a room wherein a forensic photographer went to work taking macro shots.
“Fired from the Knoll; no doubt about it” said the Inspector as the photographer clicked away.
“This’ll put the cat among the pigeons!”
“Goddam Kennedys!” the photographer retorted. “Still upsettin’ folk down here after fifty-four goddam years!”
“True enough,” the Inspector replied. “But the Commissioner needs to know,” he added wistfully.
“Goddamn nigger-loving Catholic Jack,” the photographer cursed.
“Go easy on the Catholics, Geoff”, the Inspector smiled.
The Commissioner set down the magnifying glass beside the digital camera and glanced up at the Inspector. For a long time, he didn’t speak.
“George:, he said at length to the Inspector, “I’m mighty uncomfortable about this. It’ll stir things up an awful lot. We’ll have super-sleuths like Jim bloody Garrison all over the place trying to make a name for themselves.”
He paused....
“I was there, you know,” he continued, ashen-faced.
“I was on the knoll. I heard those cracks from Oswald’s gun. I saw Kennedy’s head blow apart-just like the Zapruder film. Just like it”
“I didn’t think you were that close to the action, boss,” George replied.
“I thought you were well behind the knoll and didn’t have line of sight?”
“Well,” the Commissioner said, “between us, that's what I told the Warren people. It was better that way, George and it still better that way.”
The Inspector looked down at the section of branch, reached over, and turned it so that he could once again see the semi-buried projectile.
“We gotta duty, here, Commissioner. A duty. This is big. It all but confirms that Garrison was right: a conspiracy. Triangulated fire.”
“Goddammit, George! This can’t go any further. Let that Irish nigger-lover rot in his fancy grave up there in Arlington National. The only thing eternal about that son-of-a-bitch should be the flame on his goddam tombstone!”
“I’m with you on the nigger bit, boss - but, surely we gotta duty, to report this find,” George insisted.
“Report it to whom?” the Commissioner snapped.
“The FBI? You want those suits crawling all over our plaza and patch again?!”
The Commissioner’s hand came down on his desk and cracked like a retort from a pistol.
“Not on my watch! No chance!” he exclaimed.
Recoiling, the Inspector adopted a defensive posture.
“I mean it, George,” the Commissioner insisted. “This stays with the DPD. Careers depend on it”
As the Inspector left the room, the Commissioner drew himself up and, hands splayed each side of his desk, surveyed the evidence before him. Then, drawing from the bottom right hand draw his old manual of ballistics, he resumed his seat. Taking a pen-knife from the still open drawer, he opened a blade and went to work on the section of oak. Reluctantly, it yielded up the projectile. This, the Commissioner placed on the desk, and opened the manual. Slowly flicking through, he paused at the section relating to Smith and Wesson. Back in the 60’s, the weapon itself was standard DPD issue. The bullet was a terrible match for the gun. A perfect match, that is.
Somewhat shaken, the Commissioner rose, composed himself, and collected the bullet, the penknife, and the section of branch. These he carefully placed in a brown paper bag. He then took up the camera and erased the photographer’s work before wiping the device down. The book of ballistics was carefully returned to its drawer. Rising from his desk, the Commissioner drew on his jacket, picked up the brown bag, and strolled out into the crisp November air. He crossed the plaza, and headed to the Grassy Knoll - just over Elm Street. Once he had achieved his destination he segued over to a just-emptied bin.
“Not the first time I’ve disposed of garbage here”, he thought before the bag hit the bottom of the receptacle with a bang that shattered the serene yet eerie landscape. As he strolled away from the underpass, he glanced up at the sixth floor of the Book Depository Building and smiled to himself.
The powerful myth would live on.
Case closed, again. November 2016.
****
In Dealey Plaza, Dallas,Texas, the sound of a chainsaw echoed through the crisp morning air of November 2016. Opposite the Grassy Knoll, a nondescript landform that had long since passed into legend, the wild-looking limbs of two oak trees and being cut back.
“This one’s split,boss”, called out one of the arborists engaged by the city to tidy up much-visited milieu. With a crunch, the hefty branch hit the ground beneath and the chief arborist engaged by the city to tidy up the much-visited milieu. With a crunch, the hefty branch hit the ground beneath and the chief arborist pulled it away for inspection. In this sanctuary, no sign of disease could be tolerated. Sure enough, there was a split of a few inches in the limb and the bark around it was soft and yielding to the specialist’s fingers. Fearing bacterial wetwood, he picked at the soft material.
“Jim!” he called to a nearby colleague. “Lookee here!”
“What is it, Mick”, responded Jim.
“Goddam bullet’s stuck in here! Looks like it’s been here for…”, he paused at length,”half a century.”
“You better get it across to the police, Mick,” Jim mused.
A junior officer received the one-foot long section of the branch in which was firmly wedged a rusting projectile. Before long, a senior officer of the Dallas Police Department took the exhibit to a room wherein a forensic photographer went to work taking macro shots.
“Fired from the Knoll; no doubt about it” said the Inspector as the photographer clicked away.
“This’ll put the cat among the pigeons!”
“Goddam Kennedys!” the photographer retorted. “Still upsettin’ folk down here after fifty-four goddam years!”
“True enough,” the Inspector replied. “But the Commissioner needs to know,” he added wistfully.
“Goddamn nigger-loving Catholic Jack,” the photographer cursed.
“Go easy on the Catholics, Geoff”, the Inspector smiled.
The Commissioner set down the magnifying glass beside the digital camera and glanced up at the Inspector. For a long time, he didn’t speak.
“George:, he said at length to the Inspector, “I’m mighty uncomfortable about this. It’ll stir things up an awful lot. We’ll have super-sleuths like Jim bloody Garrison all over the place trying to make a name for themselves.”
He paused....
“I was there, you know,” he continued, ashen-faced.
“I was on the knoll. I heard those cracks from Oswald’s gun. I saw Kennedy’s head blow apart-just like the Zapruder film. Just like it”
“I didn’t think you were that close to the action, boss,” George replied.
“I thought you were well behind the knoll and didn’t have line of sight?”
“Well,” the Commissioner said, “between us, that's what I told the Warren people. It was better that way, George and it still better that way.”
The Inspector looked down at the section of branch, reached over, and turned it so that he could once again see the semi-buried projectile.
“We gotta duty, here, Commissioner. A duty. This is big. It all but confirms that Garrison was right: a conspiracy. Triangulated fire.”
“Goddammit, George! This can’t go any further. Let that Irish nigger-lover rot in his fancy grave up there in Arlington National. The only thing eternal about that son-of-a-bitch should be the flame on his goddam tombstone!”
“I’m with you on the nigger bit, boss - but, surely we gotta duty, to report this find,” George insisted.
“Report it to whom?” the Commissioner snapped.
“The FBI? You want those suits crawling all over our plaza and patch again?!”
The Commissioner’s hand came down on his desk and cracked like a retort from a pistol.
“Not on my watch! No chance!” he exclaimed.
Recoiling, the Inspector adopted a defensive posture.
“I mean it, George,” the Commissioner insisted. “This stays with the DPD. Careers depend on it”
As the Inspector left the room, the Commissioner drew himself up and, hands splayed each side of his desk, surveyed the evidence before him. Then, drawing from the bottom right hand draw his old manual of ballistics, he resumed his seat. Taking a pen-knife from the still open drawer, he opened a blade and went to work on the section of oak. Reluctantly, it yielded up the projectile. This, the Commissioner placed on the desk, and opened the manual. Slowly flicking through, he paused at the section relating to Smith and Wesson. Back in the 60’s, the weapon itself was standard DPD issue. The bullet was a terrible match for the gun. A perfect match, that is.
Somewhat shaken, the Commissioner rose, composed himself, and collected the bullet, the penknife, and the section of branch. These he carefully placed in a brown paper bag. He then took up the camera and erased the photographer’s work before wiping the device down. The book of ballistics was carefully returned to its drawer. Rising from his desk, the Commissioner drew on his jacket, picked up the brown bag, and strolled out into the crisp November air. He crossed the plaza, and headed to the Grassy Knoll - just over Elm Street. Once he had achieved his destination he segued over to a just-emptied bin.
“Not the first time I’ve disposed of garbage here”, he thought before the bag hit the bottom of the receptacle with a bang that shattered the serene yet eerie landscape. As he strolled away from the underpass, he glanced up at the sixth floor of the Book Depository Building and smiled to himself.
The powerful myth would live on.
Case closed, again. November 2016.