Justification For Killing (23 page)

“
Mr. Doees! Mr. Doees! The
Discharge Officer announced aloud to the people milling around in
the waiting area.

Hurrying to the chair at
the officer’s table Captain Scarburg sat down as he was replying,
“Here!!”

The papers came one
after the other.
When was it going to
stop
, he thought. At last his bag was
poured out in front of him, and he signed and initialed his last
form, but the Discharge Officer was holding his Iphone up in the
air with one hand turning it end over end trying to figure out what
it was. Finally, he handed it to Captain Scarburg, “Here take your
shiny Cracker Jack do-dad and git outta here!! And hey, don’t
forget your Monopoly money.”

Free, free at
last.

The time was 12:18 p.m.
Destiny’s clock had ticked down to its last twelve
minutes.

Luckily the elevator was
on the sixth with doors wide open - the Captain jumped in, pressed
the ground floor button and prayed no one was on floors one through
five waiting to go downstairs. Luck was with him - maybe it wasn’t
luck but fate? The elevator door opened on the ground floor. He
walked as fast as humanly possible without running to get to the
front door. Glancing up at the huge clock over the main entrance -
ten minutes – ten minutes to change the world.

The time was 12:24
p.m.

Chapter
Sixteen

TEXAS SCHOOL BOOK
DEPOSITORY

Outside on the
sidewalk he looked to his left - no Clem. He turned and looked
right - no Clem.
By-ned...! I’ve come so
close! I can’t run to the School Book building on the far side of
the square, and up the back fire-escape in six minutes, it’s too
far... just to far!!! Picture!! I need a picture of the sixth floor
of the Book Depository building.

He had just finished
snapping the photo thinking all hope seemed lost when around the
corner stormed Clem in his grey Nash Rambler station wagon. The
Dallas police officer on foot blocking the south end of Houston was
frantically blowing his whistle, “Stop! Stop! Road closed!” Luckily
he was afoot and could not pursue Clem and his station wagon. Clem,
ignoring the police office, slammed on the brakes with a squeal in
front of the City Jail. He hollered, “Git in John, git in!!” Clem
peeled away from the curb as fast as his old bucket of bolts could
travel. He proceeded north on Houston. The police had just begun to
block the intersection, but he had blown through the barricade at
the corner of Elm and Houston before it was in place. A few cars
lengths past the roadblock Clem stomped on the brakes so hard the
tires screeched, allowing the car to slid to a stop beside the east
side of the Book building, close to the rear.

Captain Scarburg’s feet
were already touching the asphalt of Houston Street before Clem
could get the Rambler fully stopped. “Five minutes to go... Clem
get back around to your parking place on Main Street, now...” he
yelled as he started running down the sidewalk toward the fire
escape.

“
Can’t have but a minute
or two left,” he said out loud.

The time was 12:27
p.m.

Earlier on the way in from
Celina they had “borrowed” a police ‘No Parking’ orange warning
cone. Clem had placed the cone in a parking spot around the corner
from Houston on Main Street. They had to guarantee Clem would have
a place to park. He did.

Up the fire escape, the
Captain went. The first two flights of stairs he covered two and
three steps at a time. From floors three to seven it was one step
at a time. Sucking hard for air, he realized he wasn’t as young as
he once was. A step or two from reaching the roof he stopped, bent
over with hands on his knees, breathing hard he tried to catch his
breath. Slowly he inched himself into a position where he could see
the southwest corner of the roof. He was running out of
time.

The time was
12:28:30.

There... there he
was, the sniper, squatted down behind the brick wall. The rifle
appeared to be an old M-1D, 30-06 caliber, military rifle with a
mounted telescope. The shooter was still on the far end of the
building from Captain Scarburg’s fire escape, but he recognized
this particular military rifle. While stationed in South Vietnam,
he had seen the M-1D Garand rifle many times while working with the
Montagnards or “mountain people.” This particular sniper’s rifle
had been one of their favorites. Obviously, they used whatever
weapons they could obtain, but this one was sturdy and accurate. If
they couldn’t get an M-1D like the one on the roof, they got the
older M-1Cs that were obsolete. The older “C” models had been
replaced by the newer and better “D” models. Fired at long
distances with a 30-06 bullet it made a formidable sniper rifle.
The Captain remembered what General George S. Patton had said about
the M-1 Garand,
"In my opinion, the M1
Rifle is the greatest battle implement ever devised."
Certainly, this rifle was more than adequate as a
long-range killing instrument.

Glancing over his
left shoulder he could see the large yellow and red Hertz
Rent-a-Car clock mounted on the roof.
Got
to get a quick picture
, he thought taking
a snapshot of the sniper crouched on the roof.

The time was 12:
29:15.

There was no time to
huddle behind an air-conditioner, no time to sneak up on the
shooter... no time... no time... the Captain only had a minute...
actually just less than one minute - forty-five seconds to be
exact.

Taking the last step from
the metal fire escape he slipped his leg over the brick wall and
onto the asphalt and gravel roof. He tried to be as silent as
humanly possible. He feared his charge across the roof and the
crunching noise his shoes would make on the gravel would only give
him a couple of seconds before the shooter turned and possibly shot
him stone cold dead.

One more look at the
clock.

The time was
12:29:35!!!

It was now or never!!
Captain Scarburg knew from the fire escape to the south side of the
building was one hundred feet or something less than forty yards.
He began his bolt across the roof, running faster than he ran the
forty yard dash back in high school football...one second... two
seconds... three seconds... the sniper heard the footfalls and
began to turn in the Captain’s direction - the muzzle of the M-1
began to move too. His best time for forty yards had been 4.8
seconds, but he had been seventeen years old!! Across the roof he
ran, it seemed like his feet were stepping in syrup, but somehow
when he was close enough, he reached out and grabbed for the barrel
of the M-1.

Startled, the assassin
touched the trigger with his finger, the rifle fired. It could not
have been accurately aimed since the sniper’s head was beginning to
turn toward Captain Scarburg.

Was that a bright blue
flash of light? Or was it just the flash from the rifle
discharging? No, it couldn’t be, it was blue! It happened so
quickly; it was hard to say exactly what was the source of the
flash.

The two bodies crashed
into each other... it was the best tackle the Captain ever made. At
the University of Alabama, he was a linebacker and punished many a
runner. But he didn’t believe he had ever hit a running back as
hard as he tackled this shooter. Both men tumbled over onto the
gravel surface of the roof. The shooter landed on top. He was
attempting to regain his feet, Captain Scarburg was grabbing at him
when the sniper slipped his grip – the shooter leapt to his feet
grabbed his rifle and fled down the rear fire escape.

What was that... another
rifle shot? Yes, yes, it was a rifle shot being fired, and the
noise was back toward the other end of the building. Since the
building is a perfect square one hundred feet by one hundred feet,
this shot had to be about one hundred feet to his east.

Exhausted,
overwhelmed and totally drained of his adrenalin Captain Scarburg
could not feel the sharp gravel of the roof punching into his back
as he lay on the roof looking upwards toward the large rectangular
clock – all he felt was the exhilaration of
Mission Accomplished
!!!

The time was 12:30:00,
Friday November 22, 1963.

Chapter
Seventeen

“
I HAVE TO WITNESS THIS
MURDER”

“
Wait...! Wait...!” The Captain said loudly. His outburst was
not going to affect or alter the outcome of the shootings. That was
not why he yelled. He reasoned,
I have not
come this far, endured so much, and traveled thru time and space
from the 21st century back to 1963 without seeing this. I know it
is morbid, but I have to witness this murder!
History was happening just over the edge of his roof on the
street below. He actually wanted to be an eyewitness to the
assassination! He jumped to his feet, and cautiously raised his
head slightly over the brick wall and could see the whole of Dealy
Plaza panoramically displayed below. On Elm Street was the black
limousine with the President. He could see Agent Hill climbing on
the rear trunk. The assassin’s bullet he had just heard from the
other end of the building had struck its intended mark – the
President’s back and missed Agent Hill entirely.

Captain Scarburg hurriedly
pulled his camera from his pocket and took a snapshot of the
gruesome scene below.

His mind kept
telling him,
get to the fire escape... get
to the fire escape NOW!
But he seemed to
be paralyzed. The confusion and panic on the street below had him
mesmerized. Suddenly, the explosive noise of another shot echoed
off the surrounding buildings, but wait a doggone second, this one
came from those trees and bushes right over there to his
right.
That’s the Grassy Knoll
area
, he said to himself.
And that did not sound like a rifle shot! That
was a pistol!! So there undoubtedly was another shooter on the
Grassy Knoll!

Suddenly the sound
of another rifle blast jarred his ears, again coming from the
vicinity of the far end of his building.
Wait a minute, that sound seemed to have come from the
Dal-Tex building across the street.
That
could not have been Oswald
, he
thought.
I wonder which shot actually
kills President Kennedy – one from Oswald, a sniper in the Dal-Tex
building or that shooter on the Grassy Knoll?

Looking straight
down he recognized someone - well actually it wasn’t recognized,
more like de´ja´vu, as he saw what had been previously described to
him in his office back at SCAR Headquarters - a small man in a
brown raincoat, opening and closing a large black umbrella -
ANHUR, you son-of-a-gun, I see you... I see
you!
He could see the people in Dealy
Plaza running in all directions - some running away from the scene
of carnage, some running up the slight hill toward the area called
the Grassy Knoll. He could see the motorcycle cop jump from his
Harley with gun drawn hurrying up the hill.
Hmmm.
..
I
wonder if I can see the Grassy Knoll shooter fleeing?
He began to turn to see the trees, bushes and
parking lot behind
... I must get a picture
of this too,
he thought snapping another
picture.

As he took the final
picture of the Grassy Knoll, he noticed something unusual.
Everyone, on or near the Grassy Knoll, was racing toward Elm Street
and the scene of the assassination, but wait, he saw a person
hurriedly fleeing through the foliage to a waiting black automobile
parked in the city’s Impoundment Lot. The direction of travel was
totally opposite to the direction of the panic stricken crowd on
the north side of Dealy Plaza. This person was wearing a dark
colored jacket, possibly green with light colored pants that could,
maybe, be tan. In his right hand was a black bag - a bag possibly
carrying the sniper weapon. Captain Scarburg had cursed his lack of
ability to discern colors on his arrival in the cow-pasture, but
now he was thankful - had it not been for the Captain’s monotone
vision this person would have blended into the surrounding foliage
of the trees, shrubs and evergreens, totally camouflaged. But wait
– there was something else he noticed! As the sniper exited the
trees and moved out into the open he could see him quite clearly;
however, this person was NOT a man!! It was a WOMAN!! Without
thinking, he snapped another photo. “I believe I have seen that
face before… but where?” He said out loud as he watched her run
across the parking lot and jump into a four-door, black Cadillac
Deville.

He had no time to
contemplate this fantastic realization because suddenly it hit
him... GET OUT...! GET OUT NOW...! THE FIRE ESCAPE!

TIME TO FLEE

The last minute or so
Captain Scarburg had been so absorbed and enthralled he thought it
almost unreal - it was as if he were watching himself in a movie.
But time to affect an escape was beginning to run out... he would
think about the woman shooter later, now he had to flee. Flee down
the fire escape, hurry around the west end of the Book building and
hopefully meet Clem at Elm Street. Elm Street, just mere feet from
where the motorcade was whisking the President away, now fatally
shot.