The Day Kennedy Was Shot (32 page)

Hosty was eating lunch downtown. He had watched the motorcade go by and had felt the pleasure of seeing an obviously delighted President. A waitress came to his table, scribbling the bill on a pad, and said: “Just came over the radio. The President and the Vice-President has been shot.” James Hosty didn't wait for verification. He stopped eating, paid his check, and dogtrotted back to the Sante Fe Building, one block away.

He was ordered out again, told to get in his car and listen for radio instructions. The seconds on the clock were both precious and hectic. Hosty was ordered to Parkland. As he arrived, the
radio ordered him to return to the office at once. He was out of breath when his supervisor saw him come into the outer office. He was told to go over the Dallas files carefully and see if he could develop any possible leads in the assassination.

Jim Hosty started on the file immediately. The name Oswald never came to mind.

At Idlewild Airport, in New York, a group of reporters and photographers had been waiting for the American Airlines plane to come back off the landing ramp. It waddled back up the apron strip, whistling like a banshee, and, after some delay, pulled up to its blocks. The ramps were adjusted and passengers disembarked from Dallas. Among them was the briefcase-swinging former Vice-President of the United States, Richard Nixon.

He had a lucrative law practice; he was an officer of a soft-drink corporation. He had been close to the seat of power in Washington once, and he was young enough to think that he would live down the narrow defeat by Kennedy in 1960 and try again. His personal plans were to assist the Republican Party in 1964 by assisting in the nomination of someone else—preferably Barry Goldwater of Arizona—to oppose Kennedy. At the same time, Nixon would run against Pat Brown of California for the post of Governor. If Nixon won his race and Kennedy won his against Goldwater, then Nixon would reach for the presidency again in 1968.

His mood was to keep his political future alive, but not to the point of being nominated in 1964.
^*
As he got off the plane, he thought that he would give “the boys” basically the same interview he had granted to the reporters in Dallas. He wore his smile of camaraderie, related a few facetious opinions about John F. Kennedy and the Kennedy administration, and closed
on a note of division. “The President may have to drop Johnson as his running mate,” he said. “In the fight for civil rights, Lyndon Johnson has become a liability to the ticket. He may be more of a hindrance than an asset.”

Nixon posed for a few pictures, then kept walking, the microphones under his nose. He walked out front, waved good-bye and got into a taxicab. He was barely out of the airport when one of the reporters got a message: “The President has been shot in Dallas.”

President Kennedy's death was a secret. It was known to a select few, such as Jerry Behn, in the White House fifteen hundred miles away. It was not known to Lyndon Johnson, thirty-five feet away. A brace of doctors and a few nurses knew it. The Secret Service agents whispered the information to each other. In the corridor, Chief Curry saw Stephen Landrigan and said bluntly: “Is he dead?” The press relations man said: “Yes, chief. He's dead.”

A few minutes before, Kenneth O'Donnell had peered inside the drapes of the small cubicle in which Lyndon Johnson and Mrs. Johnson huddled on orders of the Secret Service and said: “It looks bad. Perhaps fatal. I'll keep you informed.” O'Donnell was issuing the orders. The chieftain had fallen; the palace guard took charge. O'Donnell saw Clint Hill. “Order a casket,” he whispered. “Find some place nearby. We want to take him back to Washington.”

Clint Hill found Landrigan. He said he needed counsel on the matter of a casket for the President. The press man said that Oneal was reliable and nearby on Oak Lawn. They couldn't get an outside line. In time, they went upstairs to the office of C. Jack Price, administrator of the hospital, and used his private line. Steve dialed LA 6–5221. He got Mr. Vernon B. Oneal Sr. and turned the phone over to Hill. “This is the Secret Service calling from Parkland Hospital,” Mrs. Kennedy's bodyguard said. “Please select the best casket you have and put it in
a coach and arrange for police escort and get it here as quickly as you can.” He listened. “Yes,” Hill said, “it is for the President of the United States.”

He handed the phone back to Landrigan, who talked to Mr. Oneal. “Wait a minute,” said the press agent. Hill was leaving the office. “He wants to know what kind of a casket you want.” Hill was still walking. “Tell him to send the best he has and to send it right away.” Landrigan relayed the information, and Mr. Oneal started to say he had a bronze casket for $3,900, but he was talking to a dead phone.

Downstairs, Trauma One was a quiet room. Nurse Margaret Hinchcliffe was given a depressing assignment. She was told to wash the President's body and prepare it for travel. Miss Hinchcliffe got the assistance of Nurse Bowron and Orderly David Sanders. All of the clothing, sheared off, was placed in a paper bag and given to the Secret Service. In the jacket pocket was a Mass card given by Monsignor Wolf in Fort Worth four hours ago. It was for the health of the President and his family. Nurse Bowron forgot to include the watch she had in her pocket.

The body was sponged carefully, the legs and arms still pliant. The cart drapes on the right side were heavy with brain matter. This was cleaned up and the edges of the massive wound in the head were wiped. The brown hair was slicked back. The body was lifted off the carriage and white sheets were placed underneath. Enough loose material was allowed to hang off the left side so that, when the President was placed in the box, his head and neck wounds would not soil the white satin interior.

In the hall outside, O'Donnell and the Secret Service and Mrs. Kennedy conferred. Malcolm Kilduff was told he would have to announce the death. He wanted to know the time, the exact time. Mrs. Kennedy and O'Donnell wanted to know what time it was now. It was a minute or two before 1
P.M.
The widow
wanted the time of death to come after the time the priest had given her husband conditional absolution. The heads began to nod. Dr. Malcolm Perry was called. He was asked if 1
P.M.
would be all right. Yes, that would be all right. The death certificate would so state.

At 12:59, Mrs. Kennedy went back into the room. She kissed her husband's ankle and reached under the sheet for his hand. Miss Hinchcliffe and her assistants stood back. They watched. They were professionals, and professionals are not supposed to weep.

It is doubtful that Earlene Roberts ever knew a great joy. She was fat and unpretty and middle-aged, a housekeeper who wheezed when she walked. Even the small pleasures—a gumdrop—were denied to her because she had diabetes. She wore oversized house dresses and spent a great deal of time alone in the little house at 1026 North Beckley, in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas. If she lifted a curtain from the front window, she saw a few struggling shrubs and a sign: “Bedroom for Rent.” If this was not enough, Mrs. Roberts could look diagonally across the street at the filling station.

She maintained the little house for Mr. and Mrs. A. C. Johnson. They had a small restaurant which kept them busy all day, so Earlene took care of the dusting and cleaning and counted the towels and face cloths the roomers turned in. Mr. Johnson seldom had much to say. He worked hard and kept his mouth shut. “Mizz” Johnson was alert and in her middle years and could look through a person if she had a mind to. The roomers were mostly men who worked for a while in Dallas; then, one at a time, they dropped off and new ones saw the sign on the lawn.

It was exactly 1
P.M.
when Earlene Roberts heard the phone, and she got herself up from a chair by degrees and went to it. There was a girlfriend on the other end. “Roberts,” the voice said with the pretentious tone of one who has a secret, “President Kennedy has been shot.” The housekeeper was never short of words. She had lots of them if there was only someone around to use them on. And yet all she said was: “Oh, no.” The woman said: “Turn on your television set.” To Earlene Roberts nothing
bad could happen to the mighty. “Are you trying to pull my leg?” she said. Her friend had no patience. “Go turn it on,” she said and hung up.

The legs were slow, and Earlene had to walk around the curving couch in the living room, because the furniture was grouped around the square opaque eye of the television set. She turned it on and backed up to sit and then, when the sound came, it was all a babble of excitement as though too many people were talking at the same time. She stepped forward to adjust the volume and the front door swung open and one of the boarders came in.

She seldom saw one in the middle of the day, and she never saw this one in such a hurry. His name was Mr. O. H. Lee and sometimes she said hello and he said nothing. She backed up to the couch and glanced at him and said: “Oh, you
are
in a hurry.” Mr. Lee didn't look at her. He strode swiftly across the living room area to the left, where he had a small room. The picture came on the set and the camera kept switching from a hospital to people who were babbling about what they saw, and a young woman and a baby got on and Earlene could see that the woman was excited as she told about shots and where she had been standing and how awful it was.

The roomer had double doors leading into what once must have been an alcove. He opened one and disappeared inside.

The space was five feet by twelve, and an iron bedstead occupied most of it. The walls were pale green. Four windows adjoined each other. They were screened by venetian blinds and lace curtains. The bed had a chenille spread. One window held an air conditioner; the floor had space for a small heater.

There was a pole for hanging clothes, but the roomer didn't have much apparel. He yanked a white zipper jacket from the pole and put it on over his work shirt. On the wall was a solitary naked electric bulb. A fresh towel was lying on a chifforobe. He took his revolver and jammed it down inside the belt of his
trousers. It was a .38 caliber snub-nosed weapon, seven and a quarter inches from barrel to butt. He thrust a few extra shells into his pocket.

He came out of the tiny room and closed the door. Mrs. Roberts looked up from the television and might have spoken, might have communicated a fragment of the mass shock radiating out of Dallas, but, as Earlene thought, Mr. O. H. Lee “zipped” out the front door. She had never seen this particular boarder move so fast, so, a moment or two later, she got up, walked to the front window and drew the curtain back. There he was, down on the corner where Beckley, Ballard, and Elsbeth meet, standing at the bus stop. Mrs. Roberts was inquisitive, but the shooting of the President was much more exciting than watching Lee, so she returned to the set. She kept thinking that she never saw him come in and go out so fast.

The lean and pale face of Maude Shaw pulled itself up into a smile when she heard the voice of Nancy Tuckerman on the phone. Like Earlene Roberts, Miss Shaw felt lonely at times, especially when the Kennedy family was away. Her job involved the care and feeding of Caroline and John, and what made it bearable to this British nanny was the innate good manners of the youngsters.

She left both of them in the family sitting room on the second floor of the White House to answer the phone. “Yes,” she said when Mrs. Kennedy's secretary said: “Miss Shaw?” There was a silence on the phone, as though Nancy Tuckerman was trying to think of a way of saying something. “I have some bad news for you,” she said. “I'm afraid the President has been shot.” Sometimes, when words induce horror, the mind refuses to accept and assimilate and, like an overloaded fuse, it shuts down all service. “Will you repeat that, please?” Miss Shaw said quietly.

It was repeated. “Oh, dear,” Miss Shaw said. “I do hope it isn't serious.” Miss Tuckerman, who was in the East Wing, said:
“That's all we know right now. I'll call you back as soon as I hear how he is.” Maude Shaw put the phone on its cradle and stood. She walked back down the long corridor with the uneven floor, passing the dimly lighted portraits of past Presidents and their ladies, and walked through the double door to the living room. Her eyes swept the array of odd chairs, the couch, the end tables with silver-framed portraits of the great men of the world, the small cathedral window, and, under it, Caroline, the prim, willful child who was just learning how to ride a pony. At the moment, she was reading a small book with big block capital letters and small words. On the floor, John was on his stomach. Before him he had a crayon book and an assortment of penciled pigments.

He had the patience to begin placing the right colors on the right flowers and the docile animals, but, if the crayon slipped outside its appointed place, he tended to scribble carelessly. The woman watched the children for a moment. She knew something they didn't. The eyes blinked, and she thought that a nap would be a good thing. It would be a good thing in any case, because Nurse O'Dowd had just left, taking with her the children of Senator and Mrs. Edward Kennedy—Teddy and Kara.

“Come along, children,” she said. “It's time for your rest, now.” They were not the type to plead for clemency or an extra minute. Caroline smiled and kept her place in her beginner's book. John began to round up the crayons from the floor. Miss Shaw had never had an occasion to feel sorry for them before. They were wealthy, they were handsome, they were “as good as gold,” and their father was the President of the United States. Suddenly a sorrow welled in her heart as she watched them smile and hurry to obey.

She took Caroline's hand, and John danced on ahead, the little white shoes skipping in the dark corridor. In her room he received a little assistance in undressing, and he talked as volubly as ever, the flame-red little mouth busy with excitement. He loved helicopters and John was at his finest when he received
permission to stand on the South Lawn and watch one come in or take off with his father and mother. Sometimes—on very rare occasions—his father permitted him to get on the helicopter and sit next to him and look out the window as the overhead blades slashed the air and the grass drifted away and the big White House grew smaller and smaller. When this happened, John squealed with delight and pressed his knees together. Caroline asked if she could rest “on top of the bedspread” and Miss Shaw said yes.