The Warren Omissions (2 page)

Nearing the exit to the metro, Flynn felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He spun around to see one of his adoring fans. He knew it before the man even uttered a word. The scraggy brown beard, thinning mop of hair, and baggy jeans held all the telltale signs. But it was the ragged red t-shirt with the schematics of the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars that instantly alerted Flynn to the direction of this conversation.

“Dr. Flynn? I’m Harold Baylor,” the man said, offering his hand.

Flynn shook the man’s hand and forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, Harold.”

“I’m one of your biggest fans,” Harold said. “Your story about how Reagan spied on Mondale during the election was fascinating.”

“Thanks, Harold.”

Then Harold leaned in close to Flynn and put his hand up near his mouth in preparation to share a secret moment. “Now if you can just figure out who killed JFK?”

Flynn withdrew from Harold and smiled. Flynn then glanced around and then leaned in to share a secret moment of his own with Harold. “Oh, I’m sure if I try to solve that one, my life will meet an untimely demise.”

Harold’s eyes transformed from squinty and beady to large saucers. He wiped clean any hint of a smile.

“Well, be careful, Dr. Flynn. Nice meeting you.” Harold hiked up sagging jeans with one hand and turned toward the airport entrance.

Flynn gritted his teeth, politely smiled and waved while Harold trudged away. Though Flynn preferred more anonymity, his regular appearances on cable news talk shows ended those wishes.

Two years ago, Flynn achieved celebrity status when he uncovered evidence that Ronald Reagan followed in the footsteps of Richard Nixon by utilizing government resources to spy on his presidential opponent. Reagan supporters rushed to their hero’s defense, seeking to destroy Flynn’s credibility. They deemed the evidence fake. They questioned Flynn’s motives. They dug up dirt on his personal life. Typical Washington tactics. None of it bothered Flynn. He endured much worse from much more powerful people.

The fact that Flynn was now writing for
 
The National
 
magazine instead of still serving as an intelligence operative for the CIA proved the worst had already been done to him. Serving in the Middle East beginning in 2002, Flynn’s contribution to the war on terror was discreet. He went under the cover of an English teacher, which is what he did in various countries. But at night, he analyzed intel, translating recorded conversations within terror cells. It made Flynn feel like he was leaving a mark on the world. It might not be as visible as an architect’s airport, but it was saving lives by helping the military eliminate enemy combatants.

Then his sense of importance crumbled when he stumbled across a recording that revealed a rogue Marine strapped a bomb to a 10-year-old Iraqi boy just to prove that their presence in one sector of Iraq was necessary. Flynn still winced when forced to recall the moment he learned of this atrocity committed by a fellow countryman. He struggled with what to do with this information, weighing the cost of his decision to report it. When he finally concluded that he couldn’t be complicit in a cover-up, he reported the incident. Senior officials assured him it would be dealt with internally. But after two months, nothing happened. The soldier continued to serve on his post without any consequence.

Enraged that nothing was done, Flynn spoke with his superiors again. They justified their inaction by explaining that the Abu Graib prison incident was sufficient embarrassment for the American military and that exposing this might result in rioting by Muslim extremists. Flynn threatened to go over their heads—then he was dismissed.

Flynn sought out the help of a journalist friend who wrote a story about the incident, based on Flynn’s account, for
 
The Washington Times
 
. But everything Flynn said was dismissed, as government officials painted a nasty picture of Flynn: disgruntled after being passed over for promotion; poor performance reviews; faulty intel reports that resulted in the loss of innocent civilian lives. None of it was true, but they cooked up enough official documents to force
 
The Washington Times
 
to issue a retraction.

With nearly every bridge burned, Flynn turned his intelligence skills to the only profession he could truly be appreciated—and universally reviled: journalism. More specifically, investigative journalism. After Flynn discovered the files that proved “Reagan-gate,” his popularity soared. He proffered a few more government conspiracies and achieved rock star status among those who were leery of the government. Even www.TinFoilHatConspiracy.com recently named Flynn their conspiracy theorist of the year. Now whenever there was a conspiracy theory hatched, cable news talk shows clamored to be the first to get Flynn on their sets. It wasn’t a big mark, but it was something. His story on Reagan was toothless in the fact that it was learned long after Reagan’s death. Had Flynn been a reporter and discovered this while Reagan was still in the White House, he would’ve been immortalized. Instead, he was still in search of his Woodward and Bernstein moment. And that was exactly why Flynn found himself standing in D.C. today, braving the chilling October winds on the Metro platform.

Three days ago, Flynn received a call from a woman named Emma Taylor. She told him it was urgent and needed to meet with him pertaining a document her grandfather willed to her. Flynn had grown accustomed to such calls. The conspiracy theorists often called him about leads and requested that he pay them a visit. But those visits were on his dime, unless he could convince
 
The National
 
that there really was a story to be written. Most of the time, Flynn politely declined the invitation. After crisscrossing the country a few times chasing bogus leads from people with fanciful imaginations, he wised up as he watched his bank account dwindle. Yet Flynn didn’t dismiss them all. He developed a handful of subjects and names that required more questions before he would agree to a visit. This latest call happened to fulfill his criteria.

Squeezing through the Monday rush hour traffic, Flynn boarded the Branch Avenue rail line and sat in a seat at the back of the car. He felt anxious, something foreign to him since he left the agency. Anxious about what this document might mean; anxious that perhaps someone was following him. Based on his conversation with Mrs. Taylor, this document more than met his requirement for a personal visit. If this wasn’t
 
the
 
document, with one or two more it certainly could comprise that elusive smoking gun, the holy grail for every investigative journalist: Who was behind the JFK assassination plot?

Flynn got off at Navy Yard metro station and walked toward the address given to him by Mrs. Taylor. Flynn loved the Capitol Hill neighborhood since it served as a splendid smorgasbord of architecture. Several years ago, the city’s revitalization projection on 8th Street resulted in crafty restorations of older buildings and the introduction of more modern designs. Trendy restaurants and savvy boutique stores gulped up the available commercial sites and the bustle returned. That and well-lit streets attracted younger professionals and returned the area to its former glory. Based on what Flynn knew about the area, he expected to find a young woman in her mid- to late 20s. She likely either worked as a professional in D.C. or was attending law school like everyone else in this town.

A stained oak door held the numbers for the address given to Flynn. He walked up the steps and grabbed the knocker held in the mouth of a cast iron lion.

Flynn heard the clicking of heels on a hardwood floor before the drawn out creak of the solid door opening. Instantly, he surmised she was a young business professional. She wore her smooth dark hair up in a bun. Her plain gray skirt and non-descript white blouse were only accented by gray-patterned hose and burgundy heels. She appeared as if she had just arrived home from work.

“Hi, Ms. Taylor. I’m James Flynn from
 
The National
 
.”

“Please, won’t you come in?” she asked, gesturing inside.

Flynn stepped through the doorway and held his coat in his hand. She offered to take it for him, suggesting this conversation was going to last a while. He wanted to make her comfortable with him and figured some small talk might be good

In a short amount of time, Flynn’s pointed line of questioning revealed that Ms. Taylor worked as a curator at the Smithsonian’s National Science Museum, and had so for the past four years. She had recently graduated from George Washington University and decided to stay in America’s power city. Flynn guessed she was about twenty-eight years old, based on her graduation date, her time spent at the museum and her stint in Jordan with the Peace Corps.

As captivating as her life might be, Flynn was really only interested in seeing if this document was worth the money he plunked down for the ticket to D.C.

“So, tell me about this document, Ms. Taylor,” Flynn began.

“Please, call me Emma,” she said.

“Okay, Emma. What’s the story? Why call me?”

Emma picked up a manilla folder and her hands began to tremble.

“I called you because I didn’t know who else to call. After living in D.C. for about eight years now, I’ve learned to trust no one in this town.”

“I understand. I’m sure your grandfather felt the same way,” Flynn added, trying to sound reassuring.

“I also followed the story about you in the news several years ago—and I knew you could handle this information better than anyone else.”

Flynn studied Emma’s eyes as they scanned the room nervously. Before the trip, Flynn had a good feeling about this evidence. Now, his hopes were sky high that this secret document that Emma held in her hand truly was something big and well worth the trip.

“So, what is this?” Flynn asked, gesturing toward the folder.

“This is something my grandfather left my father, but my father never opened it. In fact, this folder had been sitting in a safety deposit box for more than 35 years until I retrieved it recently. My father said that any secrets his dad had were the kind that get you killed—but I think that’s ridiculous. His dad worked for the CIA, so I guess it’s easy to understand why he was so easily spooked.”

“Does anyone know about these files?”

“Nobody but me and you. At least, I haven’t told anyone else about them.”

Flynn was getting tired of waiting.

“So, let’s take a peek. What are we looking at here?”

Emma flipped open the folder, exposing a handful of CIA documents. The papers were dated 1963 and 1964, and the frayed edges and smeared ink confirmed that these documents were produced in the bygone era of carbon copies—stray marks on the page, arcane correction methods.

Flynn couldn’t read fast enough, but he wanted an immediate summary. It didn’t take long for Emma to blurt it out.

“These are papers from the CIA’s investigation in the JFK assassination.”

Flynn’s heart sunk. He had spent weeks at the archives and had combed through thousands of documents in the JFK assassination collection—FBI files, CIA documents, reports from the House Select Committee on Assassinations. Most of the pieces seemed to be there, but there were always a few key pieces missing. Everyone who proposed they knew who the mastermind conspirator was behind JFK’s death always failed to definitively prove their theory. Some powerful person in the government was like the kid who hides two or three pieces of a puzzle so he can put the last pieces on the board—except these people never had any intention of letting anyone complete the puzzle. He expected this to lead nowhere.

Flynn said nothing as he sifted through the files, trying to determine if this was just another expensive trip he wouldn’t be able to justify to his editor.

“There’s this one strange graph in the back… I have no idea what it means,” she said, grabbing the last few sheets at the bottom of the pile of papers.

She shoved them in front of Flynn. He instantly recognized the form. It was a polygraph test.

At the top of the file was a handwritten name: “Gilberto Alvarado Ugarte.”

Flynn knew all about Ugarte and his allegations in Mexico City in the days following the assassination of JFK. He began explaining to Emma how Ugarte claimed to have seen a man matching the description of Lee Harvey Oswald in Mexico City with a man in possession of a Canadian passport, as well as a “red-haired negro” two months prior to the assassination. It was a settled fact that Lee Harvey Oswald was in Mexico City on September 28, but Ugarte’s date was off by 10 days. The CIA quickly dismissed Ugarte’s testimony when he recanted, claiming that as an operative of the Nicaraguan military trying to infiltrate Mexico, he made up the claims to get in the good graces of the United States. He then recanted his initial recant, saying the Mexican government pressured him to recant his story. It all seemed like a rabbit trail until Mexican poet Elena Garro corroborated Ugarte’s story. She claimed to have seen Lee Harvey Oswald with the same company on the correct date. Garro was dismissed as a nut case and her eyewitness account was also dismissed in the initial report by the Warren Commission.

Flynn concluded his explanation by glancing at the polygraph test in front of him. He put his hand to his mouth, expressing utter awe at the information divulged on the polygraph test. The polygraph affirmed that he was telling the truth on every question. But in the CIA’s official report, Ugarte was shown to have been lying on four questions: