THE ASSASSINATION OF
PRESIDENT JOHN F. KENNEDY
Ghost Bullet is a fictional short story built around the basic facts in the Kennedy
assassination. Only the names are changed to protect the guilty. Inspired by Mortal Error1, the biography of weapons and
ballistics expert Howard Donahue.
SMARTPHONE ? Use HORIZONTAL VIEW
Prologue
You are watching an old movie,
The Day of The Jackal2
starring Edward Fox as a ruthless assassin. He commissions a rifle hand-made to his own specifications,
cartridges for it also specially made.
The professional gunsmith, exact, unassuming, mild-mannered, queries - “Will you
go for a head shot or a chest shot ?”.
“Probably head” . . . .
"And what about the chance of a second shot ?".
"I might get a chance but I doubt it".
“In that case you'd better have explosive bullets".
“Glycerin or mercury ?".
“Oh, mercury . . . I think. It’s much cleaner !”.
The assassin goes into woods to centre the rifle's scope. He hangs a water-melon, on which are painted eyes, a nose and mouth, from the branch of a tree, strides seventy paces away and throws his cigarette to the ground . Strapping the rifle, loaded with a full-metal-jacket round, to a tree trunk for support, he aims and fires. The slug puts a small hole in the water-melon by its right cheek ; the gun is firing low and left. Using a screwdriver he adjusts the rifle’s scope and fires again, the second shot hitting higher, to the side of its right eye. After a final adjustment to a different screw his third shot hits between the eyes. The target now has three holes drilled through it : low on its right, higher on its right, dead centre.
He takes a different cartridge, a frangible round previously wrapped in tissue paper, loads, aims and fires. The water-melon explodes.
You have just witnessed the different effects of, first, a full-metal-jacket
3 bullet and, second, a frangible
4, or explosive, bullet. Full-metal-jacket bullets are designed to pass clean through a body, causing minimal damage, temporarily disabling and allowing the target a reasonable chance of recovery. Frangible bullets are soft-nosed or hollow-point ; they disintegrate on impact, exploding into many minor fragments, their forward velocity causing massive damage.
GHOST
BULLET
Two Shots
Dave Elroy Walshe (
El to his workmates) prefers woollen jumpers two sizes too large ; he enjoys the freedom. In his mid-twenties, a slim 5'9", not the sharpest tool in the box but bright enough to realise that he is a loser, with no friends and few social skills, he knows his life so far is a failure. Married, he is constantly at odds with his wife who harangues him several times weekly - "When are we going to stop moving around from pillar to post ? We can’t go on living on your pittance. You think it’s all going to fall into your lap ; well, it's not ! Get a decent job !”. She has taken their two small children to stay with a friend while Elroy lives in a rented room.
Unfazed, this lunchtime he sits by the next-to-the-top sixth-storey open window of his workplace looking down at the crowd in the plaza sixty feet below, his eyes following the fore-shortened figure of a street-vendor moving slowly, chatting, hawking sunglasses. In five minutes the parade of a dozen motor vehicles will pass below – Presidential and Vice-Presidential parties, state, government and national officials, police, press, cameramen.
Elroy’s wife is a great admirer of the President ;
he is popular, wealthy, successful, charismatic, with a beautiful wife and children ; everything that Elroy is not. And now the man who has it all will be flaunting himself under Elroy’s window ! Well, Elroy has had enough ; hardened by disappointment, he doesn’t care ; he doesn’t measure the odds of success or failure, or their consequences, he doesn’t have a detailed escape plan ; he just doesn’t care ! He is going to show them ; this chance has been dangled under his nose and he's going to take it !
His IranChrome-LacCann 6.5 mm rifle is not the weapon of choice : ex-World-War-II, firing full-metal-jacket rounds, it is heavy, unwieldy, manual-loading, cheap : $20 mail order. He ejects the spent cartridge he keeps in situ to obviate dust, loads a live round by slamming the breech-block forward and, his left arm relaxed on the window-sill, watches and waits.
On both sides of the road the hundreds-strong crowd is happy and expectant, hand-held flags waving, small children hoisted onto shoulders. Weather fine and warm, a breeze caressing cheeks, sunlight flashing through leafage.
With police motorcycle outriders, speed a steady, stately 11 mph, the motorcade eases through the throng towards Elroy’s workplace, slows to turn left under his window and then smoothes away, the President's open Lincoln Convertible limousine second in line. Through trees lining the plaza Elroy has a receding view of the President in the right rear seat next to his wife. Already poised, he takes a bead on the head and shoulders and squeezes the trigger. The slug hits the kerb just behind the limo ; ricochet bullet fragments and road chips are thrown up and forwards, hitting bystanders and the President ; slapping himself on the neck he cries out “My God, I’m hit !”.
"Hell and corruption ! Christ Almighty !" ; a miss ! It takes Elroy four seconds to eject, reload, aim and fire again ; by now the limo is in clear sight. His second shot, coming down at a sixteen-degree angle, hits the President, penetrating his back lower neck, grazing his vertebræ, brushing his spinal cord and exiting his upper chest. The President's arms and shoulders are raised in an automatic reflex, but from the moment of impact he is oblivious to what is happening, in half a second the blood pressure to his brain dropping sufficiently to render him unconscious ; his head nods left as if he's sleeping.
Third Shot
Conscientious, professional, Gregory Weinarcheek is one of many Secret Service agents, bodyguards to the President. Normally a driver, today Greg is assigned the Colt RA-51, their only semi-automatic weapon. His station is in the open presidential follow-up limousine, sitting at the back atop the trunk with his feet on the rear seat cushion ; another agent is on his right and still others are around him, in seats or standing on running boards on both sides of the car. The RA-51 is on the limo floor loaded with ten point-223-inch cartridges with frangible, or explosive, bullets, primed, cocked, safety-catch on ; she is ready to go. Agent Mike Nansy, skilful, focused, drives the follow-up car, his job to keep his vehicle close to the presidential limo, allowing agents swift and easy access in case of emergency.
Elroy's first shot, sounding like a firecracker, belies the balmy day ; agents, relaxed until now but rudely aroused, look around. Greg looks behind, turns forward, puts one foot onto the car’s floor, reaches down and picks up the Colt with his right hand. He straightens back, lifting the rifle, pointing it forward, low and inboard, releasing the safety catch and automatically placing his finger through the trigger guard.
Mike tenses, his heightened senses awakened to events around him. Alerting everyone, the explosion of the second shot sets alarm bells ringing in Mike’s mind. Gunshots ! Outta here ! Go ! GO ! Frustrated, one second later he jabs his foot on the accelerator and the car lurches forward. Standing on the rear seat cushion with nothing to brace against Greg is suddenly thrown back by the car’s forward jerk, his arms fly out searching for non-existent support and the Colt, pointing forward, swings up in an arc. His right arm moves back, his finger touches the trigger and the rifle fires. The frangible bullet, trajectory horizontal, just misses the car's windshield and hits the President ten feet in front, putting a small hole in the back of his skull and blowing out a fist-sized chunk inches above his right ear towards the temple.
Hospital
Senior Secret Service agent Mark Ellen, with twenty-five years' service, and over six feet tall an imposing, authoritative figure, was in charge of the motorcade that fateful day. Sitting in the presidential limo front passenger seat he heard the President cry out at the first shot and he heard two more shots almost together. Turning around Mark saw the President mortally hit and the gaping bloody head wound. Years of experience teaching him to react automatically, after three seconds he shouted code-words into his short-wave radio : "Exodus ! Exodus !" ; to the driver “Step on it ; Drakplan Hospital”. The first three cars – lead car, presidential limo and follow-up car – with police motorcycle outriders, took off, gathering speed.
Upheaval in the plaza ! Cars stopped in the road, others crept forward. Bystanders, hearing shots, having thrown themselves to the ground, picked themselves up. Screaming, crying ; police on foot and in cars, shouting, gesticulating ! Pointing to Elroy's perch a man told police he had seen somebody in an upper floor window : "A man with a rifle ! That’s him ! He’s there ! THERE !". A motorcycle outrider, identifying the source of the first two shots, threw his cycle to the ground and raced up the steps of Elroy’s building.
Red Urpaz, a family man in his fifties, wanting to preserve the event on film to show his grandchildren, stood on a raised point thirty feet from the presidential limo, his 8-mm cine-camera running at 18 frames per second recording the whole event. One lady’s black-and-white photo of the follow-up car speeding away showed Greg sitting in back with his rifle pointing in the air.
Mark continued organising during the 4-minute journey : "M/C 2 : race ahead ! Warn them we’re coming ; ETA three minutes. M/C 3 : Lead off : Emergency entrance : step on it !".
The three cars arrived at the hospital. The President’s wife, wearing white gloves and a pink suit spattered with blood and grey matter, had cradled her husband’s lifeless body throughout the journey, his breathing spasmodic. Disparing, distraught, her eyes filled with tears, she was reluctant to release him, knowing this was the last time she could hold him – “No . . No ! . . NO ! They have shot his head off !”.
Mark spoke hesitantly - “There's still a chance of recovery, ma'am ; we need to let the surgeons see him”. Gently, he was prised from her, placed on a hospital gurney and rushed into Trauma Room One where six surgeons gave emergency treatment.
Dénouement
Greg was confused. The car’s jolting seriously unbalancing him, the rifle had fired with no conscious action on his part : he had felt the kick against his arm. Then had followed the short, breakneck journey, unexpected and unplanned. A nauseous feeling entered the pit of his stomach ; something devastating had gone wrong, surely not to do with him ? At the hospital, while other agents rushed off Greg stayed with the car, placing the Colt out of sight on the floor. It was then he found the spent cartridge ; it reinforced his nightmare ; Dear God, what had he done ? He picked it up to put in his jacket pocket ; alone with his thoughts, the inner dread grew.
Events had occurred so quickly that nobody knew details ; not the media, not parade members, not the Secret Service, not even Greg's fellow passengers ; they knew only that the President had been shot. Concern spread that this might be only one of several attacks aimed at higher echelon officials.
Mark snapped out orders : “Take the VP and his wife to a secure room and stay with them. Stay with the President ; seal the area. Call the AG on the landline, warn him what’s happened and tell him there's been an accident ! Keep the line open and stand by the 'phone”. Although uncertain of facts he had a suspicion : the second and third shots were too close together (which may, or may not, mean anything). After five minutes inside he could do no more and must wait on events, something else demanding his attention. Outside he found a haphazard of motor-cycles, ambulances, cars, a panic of people, hospital staff, police, reporters, a cacophony of noise. A fine, warm day.
Mark called Greg over, scrutinising him : “Did you fire ?”. Greg couldn't speak ; weary and woeful, he hadn't yet come to terms with the fact and consequence of his accidental shot. Unable to answer he turned his anguished face away to gaze at unsympathetic milling crowds and blue sky.
Mark's searching look intensified : "OK ! Go back to the car. Count how many shells you’ve got, put the rifle in its box, put the box in the trunk, lock it, then report back”.
Relieved to perform this simple task Greg headed for the car. Taking a two-minute break from the on-going drama Mark sat on a bench, his eyes closed, the breeze wafting his hair, the sun warming his face. Greg returned. Mark looked at him - “Well ?".
And Greg, quietly - “Nine shells left”. They both knew there should have been ten.
Mark grimaced, rubbing his chin ; he knew it : dammit, an accidental discharge !
“And you didn't know ?".
“No”.
Mark had assigned the Colt to Greg and trusted him well enough to know that he was telling
the truth. A shake of the head, heavy breathing out, a slight pause.
In an undertone – “Stay with the car now. Keep the rifle locked up, drive to O’Dell
Five and wait there". The airfield was two miles distance.
Decision
Mark gathered his thoughts. He had seen the gaping, bloody hole in the President’s head, he knew that type of wound could only have been caused by a frangible round, he knew that the Colt was loaded with frangible bullets and he knew now that it had fired once from a close distance. Finally, he knew that anybody suffering a head wound from that type of bullet would not survive.
As the man in charge he was quick to realise that this would be a defining moment in the nation’s perception of the Secret Service, the most senior policing agency in the country, and that what he did now would have significant long-term impact. He grasped more and more the desperate seriousness of the situation from the official viewpoint : if things were badly handled, from the highest officials downwards they would all be in trouble. His face drawn and colourless he had a lot to do. Inside, he searched out his second-in-command, speaking curtly - “Get on to the nearest funeral director, order the best casket available and get it here in a hearse pronto".
He spoke on the landline to a high, powerful official, describing events - "That fool of an agent let loose one shot that got him in the head ! There's no way he can survive !".
For years the AG had been close to the President, personally and officially, both of them knowing each others' families, their wives lifelong friends. The instinct to close ranks was strong. Ever the realist, ignoring his own stunned distress and horror the AG was adamant : “Get him back here straight away. If this gets out we’re in deep trouble ! ; not only will heads roll, we’ll be a laughing stock throughout the whole world ; we’ll deal with the consequences later”.
In Trauma Room One doctors gave up the struggle to save the body in the final throes of life ; a priest gave the last rites : "Te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen". Thirteen minutes after arriving in hospital the President was pronounced dead. After consultation with the widow the time on the death certificate was stated as one o'clock.
News of the President’s being injured and rushed to hospital had flashed around the world ; media were told an announcement would be made in a nearby classroom. At 1.30 pm in a room hushed with a hundred jostling journalists a subdued press secretary read the official statement – “The President died at approximately 1 pm local time . . . . He died of a gunshot wound in the brain". The ensuing world media news-storm spread a dark cloud, pall-like, over western civilization. Across the globe frenzied news editors ordered reporters and cameramen to jump on ‘planes to get the story, get photographs and everything else relevant.
The casket arrived in a large well-appointed hearse and was carried into Trauma One. Mark, shaken and uneasy about the task before him, was nevertheless determined. Stay focused ! He gathered a posse of agents who had been briefed what to do, placing the President’s body in the casket, which was then bundled onto a hospital trolley. The empty hearse waited outside.
Mêlée
In the eyes of the law the assassination of the President was not special : it had to be dealt with like any other murder. Federal and State law decreed that there had to be an autopsy, which must be carried out in the state where the murder was committed ; the body at Drakplan hospital came under the authority of County Coroner Raol Rees. Agents and hospital personnel around the casket observed a bespectacled, dark-suited, middle-aged man of average height push through the crowd, lift the casket lid, look inside, and then leave the lid askew. Addressing no-one in particular he turned to walk away while announcing – “The corpse stays in the hospital for autopsy ; it will be released later today ! We have laws here ; the chain of evidence must be preserved !”.
And so began a battle ; official hospital authority determined to uphold state law versus agents commandeering the body : the Secret Service having messed up once were not going to let anyone else take control. Protests, raised voices ; mayhem morphing into mêlée, havoc in trauma rooms and corridors. Physical violence : a policeman had his jaw smashed by an SS agent. A judge acting for the AG overruled a judge upholding state law. Causing further consternation was the sonorous voice of the DA – “. . . I have no objection whatever to the removal of the President's body ; none at all". Agents had to shield the First Lady from the degrading and distressing spectacle of men squabbling over her husband's body like disputants over a raffle prize, gently ushering her into a nearby room.
Led by Mark a phalanx of SS armed with hand-guns manœuvred the trolley out of Trauma One and wheeled it towards the exit. Surgeon Rees stepped in front, physically blocking their way. Mark, menacing : “My friend, this is the body of the President and we are taking him home where he belongs !”.
Tense, quiet, sure of the righteousness of his cause, the Coroner remained firm – "You cannot break the chain of evidence by moving the body !".
Mark, the bigger man, gritting his teeth, stretched out both arms and shoved him against the wall – “You can waive your local laws !”.
Ignoring bystanders the trolley trundled along corridors accompanied by the First Lady holding on to a casket handle. Asked if she wanted to change her bloodied clothes, stonefaced, shattered, she replied “No, I want them to see what they have done !”. Outside she was seated in the hearse, the casket loaded and the hearse driven away with SS escort.
Cover-up
Official justification for the abrupt departure was that the just-sworn-in new President would not leave the First Lady alone and friendless at the hospital with the body of her husband. Threat of further assassination attempts being suspected, the only option was to all leave together.
The real reason was that senior Secret Service officials knew that a properly-conducted, independent forensic autopsy outside their control would reveal, firstly, two different bullet trajectories from two different sources, and therefore two different shooters. And secondly, in the brain, metal fragments from Greg’s exploding bullet traceable to his rifle. Both implicating the Secret Service.
Four people knew the truth, three being the AG, Mark and Greg. The cover-up had begun. But make no mistake ; it was not a cover-up of a planned conspiracy to assassinate ; there was no conspiracy to assassinate : Elroy acted alone. Developing into a joint effort by pulling in others was the cover-up after the event of the fact that the bullet which killed the President, although fired accidentally, emanated from a weapon being held by a Secret Service agent. Over the months the conspiracy – deceptions fomenting lies, the whole snowballing into a winter of whitewash – grew from nothing because others became involved, others who were not told, nor knew, the objective truth but who, empathizing deeply with the demise of the President, simply responded as a call to arms “for the sake of national security”. Everyone concurred with the official line, orchestrated by the Secret Service with the AG’s mandate, out of allegiance to The Office of The Presidency. The conspiracy of silence was agreed by men at the top ; lesser ranks did not know they were part of a cover-up, they were told to ask no questions and just follow orders.
(The mafia, the Cubans, the Russians, anyone with a grudge against the administration, over time were postulated in wild conspiracy theories, all of which were glorified gossip, none with facts sufficiently reliable to be evidenced in a criminal trial, and all encouraged by the Secret Service as a fog of smoke and mirrors drawing attention away from the truth).
The President’s personal physician, Admiral Dr. Ruy Kleb, had been in the motorcade four vehicles behind the President. He was head of Seth Bead naval hospital in the capitol, chosen for the autopsy because it gave the Secret Service control of personnel, under naval and military discipline, and thereby control of events ; and ultimate control of results.
In the wet twilight the weather had cooled ; in that chilly, darker side of dusk drizzle fell, soaking the heads and shoulders of dreary men who hefted the casket up outside steps, continued upwards several floors in an elevator and then into the autopsy room. Immediate family gathered in a nearby VIP suite.
Head of Pathology Dr. Jesse Hammu, with an equivalent rank of Naval Commander, was put in charge. Aghast, not taken aback but rather dismayed, he knew he was being handed a hornets’ nest but, despite his protests, subject to the chain of command he had no choice. Jesse’s boss, briefed by Dr. Kleb, warned him in a tone brooking of no dissent : “Doctor, you will do this whether you want to or not, whether you like it or not ! If you do not there will be repercussions you cannot imagine ; you will be cashiered from the service, you will lose your licence to practise, salary and pension ; and they will be the least of your worries ! Think of your wife and family, man !".
Autopsy
You are watching the TV drama
Silent Witness5. Forensic pathologist Professor Sam Ryan, one of forty independent surgeons registered with the Home Office, is conducting an autopsy aided by a doctor, a photographer, and an x-ray technician. The room is spacious, the surroundings pristine, the latest technological instruments to hand. Interested parties are banned from the room but may observe from a first-floor glass-enclosed viewing point and can communicate by internal telephone. The ambience is one of calm, unhurried empirical analysis based on profound practical medical knowledge and experience.
The professor's comments are recorded via microphone : “I can feel multiple rib fractures, probably with flail segments . . . . . traumatic subarachnoid hæmorrhage ; that was the cause of death ; it’s a hæmorrhage arising from some form of blunt impact to the back of the skull . . . . . subarachnoid means bleeding over the surface of the brain, caused by tearing to a blood vessel. It’s almost certain he collapsed and died instantaneously . . ”.
The autopsy lasts several hours, an example of scientific efficiency.
- - -
The President’s autopsy was organised chaos, the room flooded with superfluous men recruited by the AG – representatives from the family, the Secret Service, the Army and Navy, federal agencies, the hospital, national government – twenty unnecessary officials whose unspoken purpose was to so disrupt proceedings as to prevent close examination of the head wound. A coercive influence, the AG appealed to everyone’s loyalty : “We know who the killer is ; the family expects you to get this finished as soon as possible ! The First Lady needs expediency ; she has suffered enough !”. The hubbub was deafening : people came and went as if it were a drop-in coffee shop. Having no legitimate business doing so (or even being there) a four-star army General gave orders.
The autopsy team comprised six personnel. Dr. Hammu, qualified to conduct autopsies, had no speciality in head wounds or weapons ballistics, although his second-in-command had. The body was lifted from the casket, the white silk lining a bloody mess : the President had been sealed into it quickly so as to speed departure and had undergone a long flight home. On to the slab now ; first the preliminaries : ". . . . subject is a white caucasian male in early middle-age, height five feet eleven inches, weight 159 pounds, well nourished, dark hair, no outward signs of illness . . . ". Then the full procedure : in vain surgeons searched for the cause of the fatal head-shot, a bullet that did not exist : it had exploded into a thousand fragments large, small, minuscule, a few still present in the brain, the vast majority visible only as starry points reflecting the light from Jesse’s microscope.
Evidence – photos, x-rays, measurements, notes, samples, larger metal specks – was subpœna’d by the Secret Service, officially for safekeeping, and was not seen again. The final report, rushed together, noted the head wound – “ . . . death was caused by a projectile entering the rear of the skull . . . and blowing out a portion of the brain”.
Pressure on Dr Hammu ensured he mislocated the hole at the back of the skull by several inches. At home he burnt the hand notes he always made during an autopsy, saying later that he didn’t know why he'd done this ; but he was afraid of reprisals from agents who continued to pressurize participants into silence because “ . . . of the threat to national security”.
Enquiry
The Public Enquiry into the assassination fared no better, chaired by an unwilling seventy-year-old Supreme Court judge who saw that the irregularity of the too-quickly-organised process was suspect - "Mr President, I would rather not do this ! " . The new president cajoled "Judge, your country needs you in this time of national grief . Just don't dig too deeply ; accept the evidence at face value and everything will be fine". The judge understood : he was a figurehead : the higher-ups knew the investigation would be a charade and they needed his respectability to give it credence.
Elroy was not represented, although the Secret Service was, several counsel being briefed by the AG. The enquiry's members were carefully-selected, not for their gullibilty but for their reluctance to rock the boat . How many of them protested that there was too much pressure from the Secret Service ? Unconvinced, they were manipulated, force-fed bland data and immaterial witnesses, and compelled to the pre-ordained finding that Elroy fired all three shots and the President died from " . . . gunshot wounds inflicted by a high-velocity projectile".
Not called to give evidence were thirty-odd witnesses in or next to the motorcade who saw gun-smoke (which could not have come from Elroy, who was sixty feet in the air with an 8 mph breeze blowing), smelt cordite or heard a gunshot, all at ground level. Unexplored was the science : ballistics evidence of two different bullet trajectories, the hole in the rear of the skull too small to accommodate Elroy’s bullet, and the fact that the massive head-wound could only have been caused by a frangible round. Ignored was the timing element ; Red Urpaz’s home movie proved that three shots were fired in 5.6 seconds, a time too short for Elroy, with his clumsy manual-loading rifle, to load and fire three shots. There was no analytical machinery : no experts to sift and compare evidence, highlight discrepancies and question further.
As an asset to the cover-up the Enquiry was a failure. Comprising ten-and-a-half million words and twenty-six heavy tomes, nevertheless its report was discredited because of too many unexplained details. Other analyses also fail to convince. The public, needing desperately to understand, fed conspiracy garbage and false interpretations, bogged down in a morass of irrelevant data blinding them to original thought, unable to tell the difference between reality and fiction, and coming to believe that the facts will never emerge, has painted itself into a corner. If the truth rose up and smacked them on the end of the nose they would refuse to recognize it for what it is : they became self-anæsthetized against historical reality ; the simplest explanation was made the most difficult to accept ; the Secret Service ruse to hoodwink the world worked.
What matters is scientific, ballistics evidence ; nothing else ! Like Mount Everest the science will not go away . . . " . . IT IS THERE !".
Elroy
Elroy was the fourth person to know the truth ; staring through his sniper-scope he saw Greg fire the fatal shot . . . . and he didn't understand. He believed Greg’s act was deliberate and that he himself was being set up to take the blame, but he didn’t know how ; no-one knew his intention. Nor had he planned his actions afterwards ; he simply ran away and an hour later was arrested : he was the only worker unaccounted for. And then for the first time in his life he found himself the centre of attention, relishing with equanimity his more than fifteen minutes of fame, bandying words with his jailers : “I didn't shoot anybody, sir ; I haven't been told what I'm here for . . . . I’m just a patsy !”. He refused to play ball, claiming two aliases, saying he was innocent of any charge, answering questions only when the whim took him.
“I want to see a lawyer ; that’s my right ! His name’s Jon Bath".
“You can call a lawyer whenever you want ; you can make one ‘phone call".
“You've taken my money !”.
“You can call collect”.
“I still want my money ; they might refuse the call !”.
Despite protests on his behalf by the Civil Liberties Union, a Prisoners’ Rights group,
Elroy was denied access to a lawyer.
His blind-in-their belief, grim-faced captors knew they had the right man ; they
found Elroy’s sniper’s nest and hidden rifle ; three empty shells, corresponding to three shots fired, lay
scattered on the floor.
The obdurate Head of Homicide, a dinosaur in a modern world, unconcerned for the welfare of his prisoner, had no respect for sub judice and cared more for publicity. The press were allowed to take over police HQ ; in jail Elroy was abused by journalists along corridors and, in handcuffs, forced into a midnight press confrontation in a large hall where he was fed to the hundreds of massed media like a felon in the stocks, forcing him for the first time to face the enormity of his action.
Security at police HQ was non-existent : still in custody forty-four hours after his
arrest, in full public view Elroy was shot dead by a crazed gunman (". . . . you killed my President, you rat!")
devastated by the loss of his beloved president.
Endgame
The AG was right : in the eyes of the world the nation’s prestige would have slumped to zero, becoming a laughing stock : no good and a lot of harm would ensue were the true facts revealed that the Secret Service, the official body responsible for protecting the President, was not only incapable of doing its duty but, indeed, was responsible for his death, albeit accidentally. They had their assassin – Elroy ; he was responsible ; if he hadn’t started the ball rolling none of what followed would have happened.
Within a short time the AG was himself assassinated.
Years later medical scrutiny of original x-ray photographs digitally-advanced revealed that the injury to the President’s spine from Elroy’s second shot was so disabling that if Greg had not fired his fatal shot and the President survived he could only have lived as a quadriplegic in a wheelchair.
The Colt RA-51 was never again used in the follow-up car. The Secret Service selectively destroyed damning autopsy evidence. They were billed for the casket but refused to pay, a reduced price later being negotiated. As a result of undertaking this last service for his President the funeral director’s profits for the next few years fell by 20%. Greg and Mark died peacefully in their beds, Greg an old man of eighty.
The proof of Greg's fatal shot is there today, but
not for all to see. It lies six feet underground, buried with the President. A quarter-inch in diameter, the hole in back of the President's skull is slightly larger than Greg’s point-223" calibre bullet, just the right fit ; too small to allow Elroy’s 6.5 mm bullet to pass through. Elroy’s rifle could not fire bullets of
two different calibres.
Nobody has yet solved the conundrum that freedom to defend yourself with a gun facilitates freedom to murder with a gun. Where there are firearms there are accidents with firearms ; where there are guns there is abuse of guns, even to extremes of murdering presidents and children.
Sources
1.
Mortal Error :
The Shot That Killed JFK, Bonar Menninger,
pub. St. Martin's Press 1992, ISBN 9780312080747.
2.
The Day of The Jackal 1973, dir Fred Zinneman - Wikipedia.
The Day of The Jackal Film clip - Water-melon - YouTube.
The Day of The Jackal Film clip - il Signor Gozzi - YouTube.
3.
Full Metal Jacket Bullet Wikipedia.
4.
Frangible Bullet Wikipedia.
5.
Silent Witness Series 1, Episode 5,
Darkness Visible, 1996, YouTube.
6.
JFK The Smoking Gun Film trailer. Colin McLaren ; Muse Trailers, YouTube.
JFK The Smoking Gun Colin McLaren, pub. Hachette (Australia) 2013,
ISBN 978 0733636417.
7.
Zapruder Film
The Film, Abraham Zapruder ; Life magazine - YouTube.
Zapruder Film Wikipedia.
8.
The Day Kennedy Was Shot, Jim Bishop, pub. Funk & Wagnalls 1968.
Ghost Bullet © Chris Edwards