Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

“Does anybody know the president’s blood type?”

“O. R-H positive,” Kellerman blurted out.

Just then, Mrs. Kennedy came out of the trauma room. Her face, still spattered with blood, was expressionless.

I strode over to her, afraid she might faint.

Landis called out, “Somebody get a chair for Mrs. Kennedy.”

There were agents and medical staff and policemen all over the place. People running around back and forth, in and out of the two trauma rooms. Somebody brought a chair and I said, “Mrs. Kennedy, sit down.”

She sat down and looked at me. Our eyes met, and it nearly broke me. The light was gone, and all that was left in those beautiful brown eyes was pain. Sheer, unbearable pain.

A medic rushed out of the room and called out, “He’s still breathing!”

Mrs. Kennedy stood up and asked, “Do you mean he may live?”

Oh God, I thought. Please, nobody answer her. I saw what happened.

Nobody answered, but as soon as Kellerman heard that the president was still breathing, he looked at me and said, “Clint, take the phone.”

I left Mrs. Kennedy with Paul and took the handset from Kellerman.

“Clint, what happened?” Jerry Behn asked.

“Shots fired during the motorcade. It all happened so fast,” I said. I tried to remain as composed as possible, as I kept my eyes on Mrs. Kennedy. “The situation is critical, Jerry. Prepare for the worst.”

Before Jerry could answer, the operator cut into the line. “The attorney general wants to talk to Agent Hill.”

The attorney general. Robert Kennedy. The president’s brother.

“Clint, what’s going on down there?!”

Staring at Mrs. Kennedy, I repeated, “Shots fired during the motorcade. The president is very seriously injured. They’re working on him now. Governor Connally was hit, too.”

“What do you mean seriously injured? How bad is it?”

I swallowed hard, as the image of the president’s head exploding replayed in my mind. The image of his lifeless body lying across Mrs. Kennedy’s lap. His eyes fixed. His blood and brains all over her, all over me.

How do I tell him his brother is dead?

Looking away from Mrs. Kennedy, I closed my eyes, squeezed the phone hard, and said, “It’s as bad as it can get.”

THE SECRET SERVICE agents from the President’s Detail who had been stationed at the Trade Mart had raced to Parkland Hospital as soon as they heard the president had been hit. With them was Admiral George Burkley, the president’s physician. Dr. Burkley had been in the VIP bus at the back of the motorcade. He had no idea how bad the situation was until he got into Trauma Room No. 1.

I knew the doctors at Parkland Hospital, along with Dr. Burkley, were doing everything they could to save the president, but I knew there was no hope.

Dr. Burkley walked out of the trauma room, his face contorted with pain.

Mrs. Kennedy stood up as soon as she saw him and said, “I’m going in there.”

A nurse tried to stop her, but Dr. Burkley intervened and led Mrs. Kennedy back into the trauma room, so she could be with her husband when he took his last breath.

I was still on the line with Jerry Behn, when two priests arrived.

“Two priests just walked into the trauma room,” I said.

Perhaps they will be of some comfort to Mrs. Kennedy, I thought. At least they’ll know the right things to say.

A few moments later, Agent Roy Kellerman walked out of the room and came toward me. In a low voice, he said, “The priest has just administered Last Rites. This is not for release, and is not official, but the president is dead.”

I had known it, of course. There was no way he could have survived. But still, to hear it said out loud. I could hardly breathe.

“What is it, Clint?” Jerry Behn asked on the other end of the phone. “What did Kellerman say?”

My chest tightened as I took a deep breath.

“The president is dead, Jerry. Roy said it’s not to be released, but the president is dead.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Jerry Behn had been the Special Agent in Charge since President Kennedy’s Inauguration. He was with the president all the time, just like I was with Mrs. Kennedy. They had a great relationship. The president loved him, trusted him. With the campaign getting ready to get started, Jerry had decided to take a week off, to get some things done around the house. We all understood how that went. His first annual leave in three years. And now, the president was dead.

The world had stopped, but I had to keep going. Bobby’s words echoed in my mind.

How bad is it?

“Jerry,” I said, “I think you should advise the attorney general and the other members of the president’s family immediately. They need to know before they hear it in the press.”

The president is dead. Oh dear God. The president is dead.

KENNY O’DONNELL, ONE of President Kennedy’s closest friends and his chief of staff, had been riding in the follow-up car. He was beyond distraught.

“Clint,” he said, “I need you to call a funeral home. We need a casket.”

A casket. For the president. For Mrs. Kennedy’s husband.

At least I had something to do. As long as I had something to do, the images would leave for a few minutes. When I stopped, or when I looked at her, still caked in blood, I couldn’t see anything but the car moving away from me, the sudden explosion, and then Mrs. Kennedy, climbing onto the back of the car.

As long as I had something to do, that slow-motion picture in my mind would pause for a while, and I could hold it together. Keeping busy was the only way I was going to get through this day.

I found one of the hospital administrators and said, “I need to contact a mortuary and obtain a casket.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, as he led me to a small office. He found the number for the Oneal Funeral Home— they were the best, he said—and left me to make the call.

My hand trembled as I dialed the number.

“I need a casket delivered to Parkland Hospital’s emergency entrance. Right away. The best one you have.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“My name? My name is Clint Hill. Put it in my name. I need the best damn casket you have. Do you understand?”

Oh, God. Oh, God.

“It’s for the president . . . the casket is for President Kennedy.”

I hung up the phone and went back into the hallway. Paul Landis was still standing outside the door to the trauma room. Stoic and strong, he was holding it together. Somehow, we were all holding it together.

Mrs. Kennedy walked out of the trauma room, followed by the two priests.

“Thank you,” she said to them, looking each of them in the eyes. “Thank you so very much.”

I started walking toward her.

Down the hall, I heard Emory Roberts’s voice telling some of the agents to get to Love Field. He wanted everything secured, all the buildings cleared.

“Only our people and local law enforcement. That’s it. And call Colonel Swindal and tell him we’re heading back to Washington.”

I LOOKED AT my watch and realized the casket should be here any minute.

We were going back to Washington—with the president in a casket. Oh God.

I went back to the room with the phone and dialed the Dallas White House Switchboard.