The Warren Omissions (7 page)

While Golden claimed to live in Dallas, it was a lie. When it came to metro areas, Flynn learned most people felt such fibs were acceptable. In Georgia, nobody wants to be from Doraville. They are from Atlanta. In California, who wants to be from Culver City? Those people live in Los Angeles, no matter what the U.S. Postal Service says. And while Mr. Golden may have told Flynn that he lived in Dallas, what he really meant was Crandall.

Flynn wondered if he was in another country when he passed the city limits sign for the rural town about forty-five minutes southeast of Dallas. He noted corn stalks sticking up in people’s backyards. The bedroom community seemed to struggle with what kind of place it wanted to be—an extension of Dallas or a farming town. Only a few major restaurant chains had wormed their way into Crandall, which seemed to prefer the past over the present. White picket fences and wrap-around porches highlighted almost each house along the tree-lined streets.
 
It’s not quite Mayberry, but it’s sure trying to be.

Sam Golden rocked in a chair on the front porch as Flynn pulled into the driveway. Apparently Sam’s job could wait, whatever it was. Welcoming a big city slicker into Crandall meant no work for him.

“Are you Mr. Golden?” Flynn asked as he got out of his car.

“It’s Sam. Please call me Sam,” he said, lumbering down the porch steps and toward Flynn with his hand outstretched as a welcoming gesture.

They shook hands as Flynn looked around.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Flynn said, trying his best to be polite.

The truth was Flynn would never live in a place as run down as this. Weeds overtook the yards. More weeds spurted out of the driveway cracks. The picket fence may have been white at one time, but anybody’s guess when that last was would be a legitimate one. The paint chipped off years ago, exposing the wood to the harsh Texas elements. Now, the fence simply rotted. Flynn also feared the front porch might collapse if he stepped on it at the same time as Mr. Golden. He walked behind his host, stepping lightly and hoping for the best.

Inside, the decor of the house revolved around one thing: Texas Longhorn football. Panoramic shots of the Texas stadium. Longhorns hanging high over the room with the burnt orange logo seared into the skulls of what likely were real Longhorns at one point. A large framed portrait of Texas coach Mack Brown hoisting the national title trophy up with quarterback Vince Young. Flynn didn’t even need to ask Mr. Golden how he spent his Saturdays in the fall.

Once Flynn stopped gawking, he decided to get down to business.

“So, Sam, tell me how you came across this footage of your father’s?”

“Funny story, really,” Mr. Golden began. “My grandson was playin’ ball with one of his buddies in my backyard when they hit a baseball through the attic window. So, I went up there to fetch it for them. At first I couldn’t find the ball, until I saw a box that was partially open. I opened it up to see if the ball had landed in the box—and it had. But then I saw this home movie camera I remember my dad using when we were all little. I just couldn’t remember him using it anymore at some point. I had no idea what caused my father to stop filming us, but he did.

“Anyway, I set up the projector I found in this box and put the reel on. And that’s when I found the footage that I’m about to show you. You better be sitting down when I show it.”

Flynn could tell this wasn’t dramatic hyperbole from his guest.

Mr. Golden darkened the room and fired up the projector. It whirred and wheezed until it gathered speed and began to show the images more clearly.

The brisk November morning started with Mr. Golden and his brothers loading into the family station wagon. The camera captured a few shots of the brothers goofing off in the car before the scene shifted suddenly to Elm Street in downtown Dallas, where thousands of adoring citizens waved and cheered for the President. Then the shots rang out.

Mr. Golden’s father dove to the ground, yelling at his boys and his wife to do the same. While the camera was still running, the lens fell aiming toward a culvert about ten feet away. Though it was difficult to make out at first, the camera focused on a dark-skinned man clutching a gun in the culvert. He suddenly disappeared from view moments before the camera was hastily whisked away and turned off.

Flynn knew the area well, including the exact location of that culvert. Several conspiracy theories floated around about a second gunman on the grass knoll. But the hard core conspiracy theorists knew of a much more plausible place for the gunman to be: hiding in the culvert at street level.

However, Flynn gasped when the evidence revealed something far more sinister and unbelievable than he could ever imagine.

“Is everything OK, Mr. Flynn?” Mr. Golden asked.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s impossible—but I think I know the man who shot JFK.”

CHAPTER 10

GERALD SANDFORD COULD HARDLY pay attention to his wife’s ramblings about the latest Capitol Hill gossip. Not that he didn’t like to hear the latest scoop over which politician was the latest to be outed by the Fly on the Wall blog. Any rumor spread in Washington about a political figure was sure to be detailed by the blog’s anonymous writer. Most politicians suspected that one person couldn’t be so well connected to hear all these rumors and that it must be a team of writers. Several congressmen suspected their staffers participated in either writing or passing along the often damning information. What appeared on front pages of newspapers across the nation likely appeared on the Fly on the Wall blog first. Most evenings, Sandford would be riveted as he listened to his wife, Sarah, recount what she read, particularly when it happened to one of his political foes. But not tonight.

As Sarah babbled on about who got caught with their pants down, Sandford gazed across the room at nothing in particular. The contentious cabinet meeting the day before still bothered him. He wished for a simpler time, perhaps a time when leading a nation wasn’t so complicated. Now opinions flowed freely from every hack with Internet access, making it more difficult to control delicate situations. The World Wide Web set back government propaganda five hundred years. Instead of controlling the press, the press controlled the government. All they had to do was write or broadcast any idea they ginned up and proffer it as “what most Americans believe” or “what most Americans want.”
 
If only most Americans knew what really went on. Not many have the stomach to do what it takes to lead.

Sandford watched with dismay as his longtime friend, President Briggs, fell victim to this new game of the tail wagging the dog. All his decisions appeared to be based on the latest poll results. Not that he needed to worry about them since he was already into his second term. But Briggs appeared more concerned about his public image than doing the right thing. Sandford had been at this long enough to know the public doesn’t always know what’s best. They only know what the media tells them, which is an entity with its own agenda. At least weak-stomached presidents in the past were led around by deep-pocketed donors instead of the media—and public polls.

The more Sandford thought about it, the angrier he got. How could he let this happen to the country he loved so much? If he were president, then he’d be doing his job, protecting the American people and upholding the Constitution. He wouldn’t be caught dead even looking at polling numbers. As he mulled what to do to get President Briggs to reconsider, the thoughts that went through his mind embarrassed him. Some of them were criminal, like blackmail. He had more than enough dirt on President Briggs to sink him in one fell swoop. But that was his nuclear option. Good statesmanship required a different type of persuasion, one that appealed to the best nature in someone. Sandford just didn’t know if that nature even still dwelled in the President’s mind. He determined to think of something. And if he didn’t, he would hope that cryptic message he received would ring true any day now.

Sandford didn’t hear his wife until she realized he wasn’t engaged in her story about the congressman from North Dakota who got a D.U.I. and was also charged with possession of moonshine.

“Gerald? Gerald?” Sarah asked. “Are you listening to me?”

He snapped out of his stupor.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, honey. I’ve got a lot on my mind these days. What were you saying?”

“Never mind. Just finish up so I can get us dessert.”

Sandford stared at his plate. He’d hardly eaten a bite of his wife’s baked chicken, one of his favorites.

Then his phone rang, prompting him to get up from the table to take the call. The number was blocked. He went into his office and shut the door.

“This is Sandford.”

“Is this Vice President Gerald Sandford?”

Sandford struggled to place the accent. It sounded Eastern European, but he couldn’t be certain.

“Yes, it is. With whom am I speaking?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is that I tell you something about your daughter. I know who took her—and so does the Russian government.”

“What do you mean ‘took her’? She was killed sixteen years ago.”

“Is that what they told you? Well, don’t believe everything you hear from the Russian government. They take their time and strike when you least expect it.”

“Who is this?” Sandford demanded, his voice rising.

“Just remember what I told you: When you become President...”

“Hey. Who are you —-”

The caller hung up, leaving Sandford alone to decipher what it all meant. If anything, it picked at an old wound, the wound that became the driving force for Sandford’s political ambition. He wanted justice for his daughter’s death. But if the caller was to be believed, Sydney wasn’t dead after all. All his buttons were being pushed and he couldn’t handle it.

Sarah knocked on the door and poked her head in.

“Is everything OK, Gerald? Who was that?”

“I don’t know. Somebody’s messing with me. It’s nothing.” Sandford slumped into the chair behind his desk.

“OK, I’m about to bring out dessert.”

“Honey, I’ve got to be honest—I’m not really hungry right now. Can you save me some for later?”

“Sure thing,” she said as she closed the door behind him, leaving him alone in the office.

Sandford buried his head in his hands and let out an exasperated sigh. He didn’t know what to believe. He especially didn’t like being toyed with. But getting worked up was no way to govern.
 
You rule with your head, not your heart
 
, Sandford’s father told him when he first got elected to represent his home state of Tennessee as a representative. At the moment neither seemed sufficient.

He placed a call to his office and asked a staffer to get the NSA to track the most recent call placed to his cell phone. He waited in silence before a quick response came back: they couldn’t trace it—neither the phone’s owner nor the location.

Sandford decided he needed a drink, a strong drink. Vodka would suffice.
 
At least there’s one thing good to come out of that godforsaken country.
 
Sandford slammed the drink down and poured himself another. He needed to think about what his first move would be as President.

CHAPTER 11

FLYNN STILL FELT LIKE he was groping in the dark, trying desperately to make sense of the shards of evidence he had collected. It was one thing to identify the shooter—the real shooter in the JFK assassination plot. It was another to figure out who he was working for. By his estimation, Flynn solved the easy part. The question everybody wanted answered still clung to his back like a 400-pound gorilla.

Navigating afternoon traffic in Dallas was not one of the more glamorous parts of the job. After visiting Sam Golden in Crandall, Flynn returned to Dallas proper for another meeting he’d delayed for several weeks. He received a call from a man named Stephen Moore who had some documents he wanted to give to Flynn—but it had to be in person. He asked Mr. Moore to wait patiently until he could get there. Fortunately, the invitation to see Sam Golden’s video gave Flynn the opportunity to make it a two-for-one trip, something that would make those finance people at
 
The National
 
happy.

Flynn also wanted to make Theresa happy, which is why he recorded a playback of Sam Golden’s footage of the shooter hidden in the culvert. It took all of three minutes, after he emailed the footage to his editor, for her to call him back.

“Are you serious? Is this for real?” Theresa asked.

“You know me. I always air on the side of caution and cynicism. But if this is a hoax, it’s one elaborate one. Just get an expert to compare it with official television footage. It shouldn’t be hard to prove or disprove.”

“But we have no idea that the man in the culvert actually fired his weapon.”

“I’m not concerned with whether he fired his weapon or not. I want to know who he is.”

“Do you have any idea of who he might be?”

“Strangely enough—yes. But it’s going to take some time to verify who he is.”

“Got any friends left at the CIA who can help out?”

“I’ve still got a few friends there, but this is not something I want to transmit to them and put into their database as coming from me. Just give me some time. I’ll see what I can come up with.”