a meeting. Now, the ramblings he sat listening to made him sorry he said yes.
Charlie fumbled open the black duffle bag sitting next to his chair, and placed its contents on the desk. Photographs, phone records, hand drawn street maps, memos, a plastic bag with spent shell casings, another with several mutilated bullet fragments and what looked like six or seven journals rubber-banded together-all fought for space on Robert’s already cluttered blotter.
Charlie continued to drone, unwrapping the long curtain rod-like package, dropping the tattered blanket on the floor. A rifle, complete with scope rested in his hands. At the sight of it, Thorne stood and walked closer to Charlie, her shotgun ready.
He sat the rifle on the desk with the rest of the items and continued to confess the impossible. Robert listened in stunned silence, occasionally glancing up at Thorne who looked just as perplexed. An hour later, he felt truth in what the old man told them, although the magnitude of what he heard demanded he not accept it.
“Why should we believe you?” Robert asked, staring deep into Charlie’s tired blue eyes. Thorne, her dark, lean muscular frame obvious, stood next to their visitor, arms crossed, carefully taking stock of Charlie, sizing him up.
Dingy and worn, the old man’s filthy, tattered overcoat covered a navy blue Georgetown University sweatshirt, equally covered in grime and dirt.
Charlie continued to squirm and fidget. “This evidence speaks for itself, doesn’t it?” he told them. “Or do you think I could make up pictures like these?” His bony, crusty finger pointed to several black and white glossies strewn across the cluttered, overused desk.
Robert picked up the photographs and inspected them closely.
The pictures, taken from various angles, showed a man crouched behind a wooden fence, firing a high- powered rifle similar to the one sitting on his desk. The gunman, much younger than the man who sat before them, wore a plaid jacket and baseball cap, and was unmistakably Charlie Ivory. Robert, dazed by what he’d heard, realized the possibility that the homeless man in front of him-assassinated an American president.
Skeptical, he sat there examining major pieces of evidence Charlie claimed he stole when his handlers failed to tie him to the crime.
The rifle, bullets, and papers looked compelling and could be checked out, but Charlie, homeless on the streets of Washington D.C. for close to forty years, produced something quite startling-chilling photographs of him executing President John F. Kennedy, from behind the grassy knoll that November day.
“These are the days of high-tech,” said Robert, tossing one of the photos back on the desk. “A child could make pictures like these with a digital camera and a computer.”
“Do I look like a child?” the old man said, sitting up straight, wiping his eyes. “Listen, if you have doubts you can send them out to someone who’d know better.”
Robert leaned forward and stared hard at Charlie. “We have every intention of doing just that. But let’s say the pictures and the rest of this stuff are real. Why in the hell would you bring this madness to us? And why shouldn’t we cart you off someplace where they’d care?” Charlie grinned slightly, his eyes looking as though they held the keys to many secrets. “Because you hate them as much as I do,” he said, pointing to a copy of Fortune magazine sitting on the corner of the desk.
Several captains of industry were on the cover, including Bill Gates, Oprah Winfrey and Edward Rothschild, one of the world’s richest and most powerful men.
“They got away with it, they did,” he continued. “And from what I hear of you, I figured you to be the one somebody to put things right.
Anyway, I didn’t think anyone else would care.”
“You mean you got away with it!” Thorne snapped. She moved next to Robert. “If you ain’t a lyin sack, then you’re the one who got away with murder, and I ought’a plug you where you sit!” She rested her hand on the shotgun that still dangled from her shoulder. Robert motioned for her to calm down.
“What do you mean-from what you hear about me?” shot Robert.
Hear what, from who? What is it you think you know about us?” Charlie’s mouth turned down at the corners and his eyes emptied. He stared vacantly out the window. “They’ll come for you now,” he said.
“They know I’m here and they’ll come for you.”
“Who are they?” Robert asked, still not believing what he’d been told. It felt surreal. He didn’t know how to feel, or how much to believe. But on the off chance that Charlie participated in Kennedy’s assassination, the fabled Black Dog Man at the grassy knoll, he wanted to make sure.
“You know, it was all about money,” Charlie groaned, his voice now low and deliberate. “They killed him for more money, more power, more of what they already had.”
“How much money did you get to pull the trigger?” Robert fired, his patience wearing thin. “And who the hell paid the bill?” Robert’s question seemed to strike a nerve. Charlie’s weathered face turned ashen. He dry washed his hands nervously, as though trying to knead them clean.
“Yes, I was paid, and paid well,” said Charlie, his voice cracking.
“By Satan himself.” His eyes beet red, they welled up again. “I’m not proud of it,” he continued. “I was a different man back then. Confused and self-deceived.”
“Does the Devil have a name?” Thorne bellowed. She leaned forward on the desk with both hands, her face contorted, nostrils flared.
“We don’t have time to play Jeopardy with you. Either tell us who hired you, or take this shit and get out.”
They’d been playing good cop, bad cop since childhood. Thorne loved playing it bad. She said it gave her the chance to explore her masculine side, but this time he could tell she wasn’t playing.
“What my partner’s trying to say is that we’re inclined to believe you.
The evidence is compelling, but without a name and face to this animal, we might as well be talking about the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot.” Robert hesitated. “You could be just another nut looking for a little attention,” he said. “And you still haven’t said why you came to us.” Charlie sat up straight in his chair. “I’m no nut Mr. Veil, not crazy at all. I just need to know you’re serious, and that you’ll take this to the end if I tell you everything. I’ve lived with this a long time, but I don’t want to die with it.”
Thorne’s face twisted with disgust. Her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling.
“I came to you because I know you,” said Charlie. “I was you.” Robert leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of disgust and disbelief. “I have no idea what the hell you mean by that, but I’m beginning to agree with my partner. I think you should take these things and get out.”
Charlie, somber, composed himself. He reached inside the duffle bag and pulled out an oversized mason jar, filled with a cloudy gray liquid.
Floating inside were small pieces of brain matter and flesh.
“If the pictures, gun, and bullets don’t convince you, then maybe this will,” said Charlie.
“What is it?” asked Robert.
“President Kennedy’s brain,” answered Charlie, sitting the jar on the desk. Thorne leaned in to get a closer look.
Robert remembered something he’d read. President Kennedy’s brain disappeared after the autopsy and was never recovered.
The brain tissue in the jar looked tattered and fragile, dancing in the cloudy fluid like sea monkeys. Thorne took the jar and held it up to the light.
“It degenerated over the years,” said Charlie. “Decomposed quite a bit, but with DNA you can prove this is Kennedy’s brain. Then no one will doubt you, and what I’m telling you will be believed.” Stunned, the hairs bristled on the back of Robert’s neck. How did you get this stuff? He examined the bullet fragments, shell casings, and rifle more closely. The weapon, a Mannilcher-Carcano, bolt action, clip fed rifle, was Italian made. The casings matched. The bullet fragments were so mutilated he couldn’t tell by sight if they matched, but a competent lab would be able to with no problem. The rifle’s scope, Japanese made, looked cheap, but adequate.
Robert sat the evidence down and stood. “Charlie, I need to see my partner in private. Sit tight. When we come back we’ll need those names.” He exited with Thorne on his heels.
Charlie sat silent, head low, hands trembling. Fresh tears rolled down his leathery, wrinkled cheeks. Thorne put it on the line for Robert more times than he could remember.
A favor he gladly returned, even when it almost cost him his life.
