“I tried to make contact with several of my associates in the Agency.
Nobody responded. When the White House and Senate organized the Warren Commission, I knew I didn’t have much time. They’d work me in as a suspect, and the manhunt would begin. I knew they had the film Abraham Zapruder shot. It clearly showed my final shot hitting the President in the head, dead on. Not to mention the eyewitness accounts.
So I took a big chance.”
Charlie stopped to stretch his legs and asked for another break.
Thorne declined before Robert could speak, ordering the old man to sit his ass down and finish. He looked at Robert who shrugged his shoulders. Charlie reluctantly sat back down.
“I dressed up in Navy officer digs, acquired the proper papers, and marched into the Bethesda Naval Hospital where President Kennedy’s autopsy took place. It wasn’t the first time I’d been in the hospital covertly, so I knew its security procedures and schedules. I slipped into an area called “cold storage,” where the hospital kept sensitive information. I knew any files concerning the President would be there. I killed the guard at the door, dragged him inside, took everything I could find, and left. Autopsy photos, detailed recordings from the coroner on the bullet wounds, projected trajectory angles, and every medical note.
In a large brown enveloped stamped FBI, I found the bullet fragments. In a large tin cylinder sitting in a freezer, I found President Kennedy’s brain, mangled and sliced open. I took it all, combined it with the rifle, notes, and everything else, then hid it all where no one would look.”
“I sent a message to Rothschild. Vernon Campbell and several others met me in the basement of Old Ebbits Grill. Things didn’t go well.
They roughed me up, and tried to make me tell where I’d hid the evidence. When I wouldn’t, Rothschild showed up. I still didn’t talk. If I did, I’d be dead. I told Edward I’d made arrangements for the evidence to go to the Washington Post if they killed me. They backed off and let me go.”
“They trailed me night and day. The next thing I know, one year turned into almost forty. I could’ve played hardball and blackmailed Rothschild, but the whole thing took its toll. I just wanted to be left alone. The next thing I knew, Robert Kennedy, King, and so many others, died. All the markings of a coup, and I’d started it all.” Charlie coughed hard into the towel spotting it with blood and phlegm. Robert replaced it with another.
“Who else knew about this, I mean, how far up did it go?” Robert asked.
“I was just a trigger man. These things usually go all the way to the top,” Charlie replied.
“You mean President Johnson?” Thorne asked.
“And Hoover,” Charlie added. “I’m convinced they both knew and didn’t raise a finger to stop it.”
“Now you sound like Oliver Stone,” Robert joked.
“Don’t laugh,” said Charlie, still serious. “He surprised even me.” Robert leaned forward. “How could you do it? He was the President of the United States for God’s sake. Where was your honor?”
“Things were different back then. I was different.”
“Really. You think so?” said Thorne.
“I don’t expect sympathy for what I’ve done,” said Charlie, his voice raspy, almost unintelligible. “I’ve lived a lifetime with the consequences.”
“Why bring it out now?” asked Robert. “Years have passed. Why didn’t you speak out a long time ago?”
“I thought about it every year. I mulled it over, but could never settle on the right moment. Now there’s DNA and other technology. And you’re the right man.”
Robert took a long drink of cold water, and sat the tall glass down on the coffee table. “How did you find out about me? You’ve been out of the loop for a long time. Homeless, living on the streets.”
“I still have a friend or two in the right places overseas,” Charlie answered. “They said you hate the Rothschild types as much as I’ve learned to. You’re not much different than I forty years ago. I made the wrong choices, you didn’t.”
“You make it seem like you picked out the wrong shirt,” said Thorne.
“It’s not that simple. We can go after Rothschild, but you pulled the trigger. What the hell do you expect us to do with you?”
“She’s right,” said Robert. “You’re as guilty, if not more, than Rothschild. You pulled the trigger. You deserve something worse than death.”
“I’ve lived a life worse than death,” Charlie shot back. “I’d rather be dead. If I didn’t have the evidence, I would’ve died a long time ago. If not by Rothschild, then by my own hand.”
“Where’s the evidence now?” Robert asked.
“Hidden,” Charlie told them. “In a mausoleum crypt at a cemetery here in the area. It’s been there since this whole thing started. I’d check on it now and then, no small task with Rothschild’s men watching. It’s the only thing that’s kept me going.”
“We’ll need the evidence if we’re going to make a case. Why did you take it back?
“Because you and your partner didn’t seem quite sure you were up to the task,” Charlie said. “I thought I’d made a mistake.”
“And now?” asked Thorne.
“Now it’s too late to stop. They know what we’re up to so our time is short. But before I give you the evidence, I need to know you’ll ride this out to the end.”
“We’re in all the way Charlie,” said Robert. “Only remember. You go down with the rest. You assassinated a President, and I don’t care how much remorse you feel or how long you’ve suffered on the streets.
We can’t just let you walk away.”
Charlie stared at Robert, his face wrinkled with grief. “I understand,” he said. "I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.”
“What’s that?” asked Robert.
“Just a quote I like,” said Charlie.
Robert motioned for Thorne to stop taping and follow him into the kitchen. He asked her to take the tapes and secure them in their office safe. He’d go with Charlie to get the evidence. They’d meet back at his apartment and take it from there.
The sound of breaking glass sent them flying into the living room.
Charlie lay sprawled out on the couch, blood pouring from his chest and stomach.
Thorne crouched low and slid over to the window, a nickel-plated forty-five in her grip. Shredded curtains and broken glass from the window covered the floor. Thorne spied a dark figure running along the rooftop of the building across the street. “No use,” she said. “He’ll be gone by the time we get downstairs.”
Robert propped Charlie’s feet up and placed a pillow behind his head.
He snatched open the old man’s shirt. “Charlie, Charlie. Where’s the evidence?”
Charlie tried to speak. Wisps of air came from his lips. Robert couldn’t make out a word. “Charlie, we need the evidence! Don’t die on us!”
Charlie smiled. Blood gushed from his mouth. He looked relieved.
He tried to speak again, but only gurgled. Blood streamed down his cheeks. His chest stopped heaving. Robert checked for a pulse. He’s dead.
Thorne leaned down. “What now?” she asked, calm, controlled. “We don’t know where the evidence is, and without it, we’re sunk.” Robert closed Charlie’s eyes. “First, let’s get rid of the body,” he said. “No police.”
“And then?”
Charlie’s confession pounded like a mallet in Robert’s head. The evidence. How are we going to find the evidence? Two miles away, a shiny black Suburban calmly eased down Pennsylvania Avenue. On the backseat, a high-powered rifle, complete with a heat seeking infrared scope and directional microphone, lay hidden out of view. The vehicle drifted down the empty street. The driver slid a Merideth Brooks CD into the player, and sang along with the song “Bitch”.