The Third Bullet

reasons, a hundred reasons, they could shoot different by far. And you know what, Richard? In my theory, it doesn’t matter a lick how even Oswald’s rifle shot that day.”

“Okay, I get it. Second gunman, second rifle. Another Mannlicher.”

“Close, but no. Let me tell you this: I don’t know why, I don’t know who, but goddammit, I know how. Come on, let’s get that cab and go for a ride. On me.”

He herded Richard toward the street in a friendly-bear manner, and the younger man couldn’t resist. If working for somebody, he had to maintain the contact; if the assassination nut he claimed to be, he had to find out whether the new info was cool.

They got in, and Swagger instructed the driver to drive around for a while on the meter, that he’d pay whatever. It was a great gig for the fellow, who rarely got a big ride this late at night. Off they went.

“Richard,” Swagger said, “I want your judgment. Maybe I’m nuts and all I’ve got is bullshit. Or maybe it’s part of the answer. Anyhow, I had a what-you-call-it, epiphany today, which makes me even more sure I’m on to something. It came out of something you said. Let me run this by you–”

“Jack, I don’t know anything about guns. I can’t make a judgment.”

“You’ll get this, Richard. Then tell me if it’s worth hiding, worth looking for an author to partner up with, if it has any value book- or movie-wise. I don’t know about that stuff; you do.”

“Okay, Jack. I’ll give it my best shot.”

“Here’s the key question. Why did the third bullet explode? In my opinion, nobody has answered that correctly. The best answer you get is, it exploded because it exploded. Bullets occasionally explode. You can’t predict it, but you can’t deny it. Get something moving that fast, anything can happen.”

“What’s your answer? Why did the third bullet explode?”

“You said, ‘As it performed its killing duty, it ceased to exist,’ isn’t that right? The bullet from the future, which, in doing its duty, obliterated itself, its rifle, its shooter, and a hundred years of tragedy.”

“I said that, yes. That’s the crux of the conceit. It’s kind of cool, I think.”

“Richard, do you know what ‘lingering’ means?”

“Of course I do.”

“I mean something that hangs around, won’t leave your mind, seems always there, that kind of lingering.”

“Yes, I know what that kind of lingering is.”

“What you said, ‘it ceased to exist,’ that lingered for me. It lingered and lingered, and finally, I realized something. The third bullet. The one that hit Kennedy. It ceased to exist.”

“So it did. To the eternal annoyance of the Warren Commission and the delight of conspiracy animals the world over.”

“No, no. It wasn’t an accident. Here’s the point. It had to do that. It was engineered to do that. And because the engineering was sound, that’s what made the conspiracy possible.”

“Explosive bullet, huh? Just like The Day of the Jackal, with the mercury inside. Or I suppose–”

“No, no. No explosive, no mercury, no glycerin, nothing like that. All those leave chemical traces, easily detectable by the forensics of 1963.”

“I believe the Warren Commission asked the FBI forensics guy about such a possibility, now that you mention it.”

“Yeah, Frazier his name was, and as usual, he was both wrong and stupid. I’m talking about something else. What I mean is that the bullet itself, without changing its composition, its metallurgy, its anything, was engineered in such a way that it had to explode – it had to, that was the brilliance of it all – so that it left no record of its existence. It was the real magic bullet, only everybody was too stupid to figure that out.”

“So what are you talking about? How do you make a bullet explode?”

Swagger said, “I’m talking about velocity.”

He continued to explain to Richard, who sat rapt, as if he did know something about guns after all.

- - - -

“Where are you?” Nick’s voice came over the cell. It was a few days later. In the meantime, he’d stood up Richard at a planned meet, sent him a few e-mails asking whether he’d come across anything similar to his velocity theory, which Richard was presumably checking, and generally making an annoyance of himself without showing up anywhere to be photographed.

“I’ve switched motels,” Swagger said, giving him the new address. “I’m closer in now, and I can get cabs easier. Man, am I wearing out the ATM, all the cash I’ve been using.”

“Okay, listen to me,” Nick said. New tone to his voice: official G-man, dead-zero serious. “I want you to stay there. Under no circumstances are you to leave and expose yourself. Don’t make me send a car to bring you in and put you under protective; just comply, okay? It’s for your own good.”

“What’s happened?”

“This may mean nothing. I have no evidence it’s anything other than what it seems to be, but still, it’s provocative. A black Dodge Charger, brand-new, the big muscle-car variant with that supercharged 370 Hemi under the hood, was stolen out of a garage in Fort Worth yesterday. It’s exactly the kind of muscle car that was used in Baltimore.”

Swagger said, “He’s here. He’s hunting me. Either Richard told him, or someone is on Richard and knows what Richard knows. And whoever it is, he doesn’t like the velocity theory. See, Nick, this proves it has to do with JFK.”

“It doesn’t prove anything like it. It proves a muscle car was stolen. Maybe it’s in parts in some chop shop, or on the way to a soldier of the Zeta cartel’s garage in Nogales, or being driven around by a couple of meth heads with chicken feed for brains. Those are all possibilities, and they may be more probable than this slightly improbable car killer, whoever he is, if he even exists.”

“Ask James Aptapton if he exists.”

“So. Here’s what I require. You stay put. I mean put. Room-service pizza and Chinese food, lots of daytime cable, get to know your housekeeping staff, that sort of thing. Meanwhile, I am going to put together a task force. I want to bring Dallas Metro in, and since it involves cars, maybe the Texas Highway Patrol. We’ll figure out some kind of sting, find a way to expose you under controlled circumstances, and when he thinks he’s taking you – assuming he exists – we’ll take him. Bet he has some interesting beans to spill.”

“Everything says he’s a pro. He spills no beans. He shuts up, takes whatever ride he gets without ratting, because he believes his outfit will bust him somewhere along the line, maybe not this year but the next. Those guys have made friends with that kind of math. It’s the price they pay for the chicks and the coke and the respect, for being a hard guy. Nick, he won’t tell you shit. By being here, he’s already told you everything he’s going to tell you.”

“Ten years in Huntsville, followed by life in Hagerstown, that might budge him.”

Bob sighed. “You’re thinking like a lawman. Everything’s leverage. Sometimes you have to send a message; that’s the best leverage.”

“Bob, I’m going to have you picked up if you pull any shit. You will go down. You have to play by our rules on this one. It could be a big bust. It all goes away if you go cowboy.”

Bob saw that Nick was bluffing. It wasn’t so. Dead, the pro would be just as much a trophy as alive, particularly if an FBI undercover put him under through Nick’s supervision. And whoever he was, his identity would be his true testimony and point to a next step.

“Do I have your word?”

“Please tell me you’ll set this up fast.”

“It takes time, coordination between agencies. If he’s after you, he’s not going to go away. We haven’t even spotted him yet. We’ll put a net around Richard and see if he shows. If we nail him, we’ll move on to the next step. I need time from you. And sniper patience.”

“He’ll pick up on that in two seconds.”

“For God’s sake, you–”

“It’ll happen late, no traffic, no pedestrians. Tomorrow night, near Dealey, in some alley. He likes alleys. Have a rolling team set up, get there fast, and it’s your crime scene. It’ll be your kill.”

“Or your death.”