The Warren Omissions (3 page)

* Did you see a large sum of money on September 18?

* Did you see this money given to a person you described as Oswald?

* In the Cuban Consulate, did you hear someone say, “$6,500”?

* Did you hear someone say, “I can kill him”?

Flynn saw the handwritten note from Emma’s grandfather, explaining how the question “Did you see a large sum of money on September 18?” was interpreted incorrectly. The question was actually asked about September 28. And Ugarte passed. Another note explained that he passed the other questions, too.

Emma finally asked the only question that mattered in this titillating piece of evidence: “What does all this mean?”

“In and of itself, nothing,” Flynn replied. “The House Select Committee on Assassinations conceded that JFK’s death was likely a conspiracy and that Lee Harvey Oswald was acting on the orders of others. But since Ugarte’s testimony is true, the most important aspect of this story that needs to be investigated is determining who were the men with Lee Harvey Oswald that night. That might actually reveal who was behind JFK’s assassination.”

Emma stared blankly at Flynn before finally breaking the heavy silence.

“Wow,” she said. “This is obviously something big.”

“Yes, this is the holy grail of all modern-day conspiracies. And this just might be the clue to help point us in the right direction.”

Flynn requested to take pictures of the entire contents of the folder, a request that Emma granted.

When he finished, Flynn advised Emma to return the files to the safety deposit box and to not speak of them to anyone. She nodded, as if she agreed. Flynn thanked Emma and promised her that he would include her in his acknowledgments should he ever write a book about this one day. He bid her a good evening and walked back to the Metro, lost in thought over the evidence he had just discovered.

***

FLYNN’S RETURN FLIGHT to New York was scheduled for 2 p.m. on Tuesday, affording him the opportunity to sleep in. But that ended abruptly at 9:00 a.m. when his cell phone began buzzing.

“Hello?” Flynn said groggily.

“Is this James Flynn?” a voice asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I’m Greg Harper of the D.C. police department. We need you to come in for questioning.”

“Come in for questioning? What on earth for?”

“Do you know a Ms. Emma Taylor?”

“Sure. I met with her last night about a story I’m working on. Is everything OK?”

“I’m afraid it’s not, Mr. Flynn. She was murdered this morning as she was walking to her car.”

“What?!”

“You heard me. And we need to speak with you since we suspect you were the last person who saw her alive.”

“Why in the world would you say that?”

“Her Twitter feed. Last night she posted, ‘Who killed JFK? My grandpa knew and a new friend is going to solve the case.’ She also included your Twitter handle,
@TheJamesFlynn
.

“I told her not to tell anyone about our meeting,” Flynn said, still stunned by the news.

“Maybe you should have told her not to tell
 
everyone
 
,” Harper quipped.

Flynn promised Harper he would speak with him and hung up. Despite feeling sorrow over Emma Taylor’s early demise, Flynn leaked a wry smile. He thumbed through the pictures he had taken the night before on his iPhone. He was going to find out who really killed JFK.

CHAPTER 2

GERALD SANDFORD STARED at his itinerary for the day. In his late 50s, he certainly looked the part of a statesman. Handsome, rugged good looks. Big green eyes and a distinct chin. A full head of hair that had started to gray, projecting him as a wise man. And at a shade just below six-feet, two inches, he exuded power when he walked in a room. But he wasn’t feeling so powerful as he perused his itinerary. Just below the tagline “The Office of the Vice President of the United States of America” was the date: October 2. Just another day for most people, but not for Sandford. Sixteen years ago on October 2, his daughter, Sydney, was killed.

Sandford paused and reflected on his daughter’s life. Sydney had just graduated from college and wanted to see the world, specifically Russia. Volunteering with the Peace Corps, she was one of the first workers to get into the country once it opened its doors to the global organization after the fall of the Iron Curtain. The letters Sydney sent home—and smiling pictures with friends, both fellow co-workers and new acquaintances, dancing, singing or partying together—suggested that Sydney was living her dream of worldwide peace.

But then the unthinkable happened. Chechen rebels stormed the school where Sydney was teaching, killing scores of students and teachers. Rebels forced students and teachers into an assembly hall before locking the doors and setting off enough explosives to bring down an entire sports stadium, according to Russian officials. Most of the remains couldn’t be identified.

Sandford slammed his fist onto his desk and screamed out a slew of expletives. He and his wife tried to move on but it was difficult. Every October 2nd, he struggled with the reality that he would never see his daughter smile again, never hug her, never walk her down the aisle or watch her become a mother. All of these simple dreams were stolen from him. And they were stolen because of some ridiculous conflict, agitated by a group with blatant disregard for human life.

Sandford’s secretary, Abbey Pearson, knocked on the door and entered once Sandford gave her permission.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Sandford?” Abbey asked.

“Oh, yes, I’m fine,” he answered, sounding as if he didn’t even believe himself. “What do you need?”

“Oh, nothing important,” Abbey said. “I just had a few personal letters for you.”

She slid a handful of envelopes on his desk and exited the room.

Sandford welcomed the distraction. Anything to take his mind off what today meant. Anything to take his mind off politics.

When Sandford came to Washington more than twenty years ago, he thought he could make a difference, influence change, return Capitol Hill to a place of significance by rediscovering the heart of what the forefathers wanted for the American people. It didn’t take long for him to feel out of place. Washington had become a cesspool, a city where bare-knuckled politics supplanted statesmanship. Sandford hated it, all of it. The phony smiles, the political posturing, the “principled” decisions.

After Sydney died, Sandford mulled returning to normal life. There was almost no reason to stay and fight an unwinnable war. Yet there was one big reason: justice for Sydney. The Russian government never caught the rebels who killed his daughter. He blamed them as much as he blamed the rebels. Justice would never be served, not like it needed to be. Those men needed to pay for what they did to Sydney, for what they stole from him. And he was going to make sure somebody did one day.

That was all the motivation Sandford needed to stay in Washington. It drove his every decision, his every plan. Now it had taken him to the office of the Vice President. And if everything stayed on course, he would run as his party’s presidential nomination in three years. That was still a big
 
if
 
, especially considering how he was on shaky terms with the President. Their public disagreements over policies often made front-page news, but Sandford knew, like most things in Washington, it would blow over eventually.

He glanced at his itinerary again. October 2 glared back at him. He shoved the paper aside and shuffled through the envelopes Abbey had placed on his desk. One envelope caught Sandford’s eyes. His name was hand written on the outside. No return address, no markings. Simply his name. Another staffer must have shoved this into his box in the mailroom.

He scrounged around in his drawer for his letter opener and ripped the envelope open. Sandford unfolded the piece of paper and read the note. Its message chilled him. It also excited him. Six words that meant his life could dramatically change. It read:

Are you ready to become President?

Sandford wanted to find out if Abbey knew who sent this note. Then he decided against it. If he had learned anything in Washington it was that culpable deniability was one of your greatest assets. He pulled a lighter out of his desk drawer and held the note in his hand before setting it on fire. The fire crept up the page, turning it into ash as it climbed near Sandford’s thumb and forefinger that pinched the corner. As the flame drew closer, he blew it out and watched the ashes sprinkle into his trash can. He knew nothing—yet he was desperate to know more.

CHAPTER 3

FLYNN LOATHED TALKING TO COPS. After working for the world’s best spy agency, all other law enforcement personnel made Flynn gape at their incompetency. They always went after obvious connections, ones that took no training on how to uncover who was behind a crime. And when it came to local law enforcement, Flynn surmised maybe that was a good thing. Most criminals are stupid and incompetent, leaving a trail of clues more obvious than Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. He never understood how police procedurals became so popular on American television. It was the same thing over and over and over again. Local detectives might as well be working in a factory making auto parts all day. When Flynn entered the Washington, D.C. precinct handling Emma Taylor’s murder investigation, he didn’t have high expectations that anyone would have any idea what was really going on.

Flynn alerted a woman officer behind the front desk that he was summoned by Detective Alex Livingston to talk about a murder investigation. She called Livingston, and moments later he emerged. Unlike the uniformed officers, Livingston sported khaki slacks and a light blue button-down shirt. His brown hair slightly unkempt, Livingston offered Flynn his left hand to shake, refusing to transfer his coffee mug from his right hand. Flynn obliged with an awkward shake before following Livingston back to an office.

The name on the outside read, “Detective Ken Mooney.” Flynn inquired why they were going to another detective’s office. Livingston said that he needed a more private space to talk and his office was located in a more public spot. Flynn appreciated the gesture.

As soon as Flynn sat down, Livingston started with the questions.

“So, what were you doing at Ms. Taylor’s house last night?” Livingston asked.

“Before we begin, I must ask if all of this is going to go into your official report because if it is, I can’t tell you everything,” Flynn responded.

“I’ll put whatever I want in this report—and you better answer my questions straight. Just remember that you were the last person she was seen with last night.”

“With all due respect, Detective Livingston, your empty threats are the last thing I’m worried about. If you put some of the things I tell you in your report, I’ll be dead in a week. So, you can either leave some details out and we can continue. Or this conversation is over.”

Flynn knew he was pushing the detective’s buttons. But he’d do anything to shorten this torture.

“Fine, then,” Livingston conceded. “What were you doing at Ms. Taylor’s house last night?”

“She contacted me about some documents she wanted to give me.”

“Documents pertaining to JFK’s death, I presume?”

“You can presume all you want, but I’m not going on the record with that.”

Livingston jotted down a few notes and continued.

“What was the nature of your relationship with Ms. Taylor?”

Flynn furrowed his brow and stared at Livingston.
 
Man, does this guy watch too many cop shows
 
.

“I told you that she contacted me because she wanted to give me something.”

“Yes, but she stated on Twitter that you were friends.”

Flynn shifted in his seat and sighed.

“Look, she was excited to meet me. I do have fans, you know. But I had never met her before.”

“Yet you met at her private residence?”

“Yes, she had some documents that she didn’t want anyone to see, not in public anyway. So she suggested that we meet at her place.”

“What time did you leave Ms. Taylor’s place?”

“I wasn’t there more than thirty minutes. Maybe seven-thirty. I don’t know for sure.”

“Can you tell me for certain?”

“How did you even know I was there?”

“Other than your admission now? Surveillance cameras in the neighborhood captured you going into her house.”

“So, wouldn’t the surveillance cameras have the time I came out of her home?”

Livingston refused to look up, scribbling something in the corner of his pad. Flynn rolled his eyes in disgust and continued. “What kind of questions are these anyway? You already have all the answers to everything you’re asking me.”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Flynn.”

“I already did.”

“What did you do after you left?”

“I went straight back to my hotel and went over my notes from our conversation. Then I went downstairs and had a drink in the bar before retiring to my room for the evening.”

“What time were you in the bar?”

“About ten o’clock.”

“Can anyone verify you were there?”