// 23 November 1963 // 12:28 // Dallas County Police Station // Dallas, Texas //
"I didn't shoot anybody, no sir . . . I'm just a patsy."
Ed followed the winding suburban streets back to the city center, his vehicle flying down the freeway like a moth drawn to a flame. He neared the infamous Stemmons Freeway, navigating the open road entirely by memory. In the past twenty-four hours, the entire city had effectively become a ghost town. Gusting winds wafted through the open windows of his Studebaker, whistling their own haunting echo, as if to only reiterate his observation. Not so much as a single soul interrupted the landscape he had always remembered as being vibrant and full of life.
The sight brought Ed a twisted sense of debauched pleasure. He, as one man, had brought an entire city to its knees with one single bullet. Although the president had been the person who had officially died on that day, the rippling repercussions of his actions had effectively assassinated the hopes and dreams of 189 million more.
Growing closer with every passing second, the triple overpass framed the street in front of him like a gate into Dealey Plaza. He closed his eyes as he passed under it; he wanted to forever remember the open square how it had been, not how it was now. How the anticipation was palpable as hundreds of onlookers held their breath and waited for the faintest sound of the motorcade engines. How the electric excitement prevailed over the stifling heat and drew neighbor and neighbor together as friends...how optimism flowed infectiously and un-cautioned through the crowd, even in the face of communist tension and the military crisis in Cuba... and, as Ed reckoned as most important, for a brief and atypical moment, how not a single person in the Lone Star State was expecting to hear gunfire.
But the memory was faint, and like the dream it really was, faded into reality the moment he opened his eyes. No, that version of the Dealey Plaza that he grasped onto was a fleeting glance at the old America. Try as he might to change it, it would never be that way again.
His mind was numb as he followed the curved street through the Plaza. I killed a man. Yesterday, I shot a man in the head. But it wasn't just any man, it was the fucking President of the United States.
A smile broke out across his face as he registered the reality. It wasn't the same conniving grin as he frequently used to manipulate others, but rather a twisted and maniacal leer dripping in self-satisfaction.
I fucking killed the president, and no one has figured out it was me.
In his mind, it was an accomplishment. He no longer even fathomed the alternate reality of the world he had intended to create. There was no more remorse for the worldly suffering he had created for the Kennedy family... only perverted pride in the misery he had instilled.
Me, a loner from the piss-poor side of the city, singlehandedly took down the leader of the most successful country in the world. Imagine the infamy... the media fame... my name heard around the world...
From the moment that pen met paper, Ed had intended to go straight to the police station to confess... but every passing second challenged his intentions. Which would be more shocking? Coming forward as the man who killed the mighty John Kennedy? Or turning myself in as not only the unpursued assassin, and the master puppeteer behind the biggest police blunder of the country's history?
For him, it was no contest. Anyone could fire a cheap rifle, but only a dedicated psychopath could manipulate law enforcement like pawns in a chess match.
Yet again, that Oswald man has been growing into America's villain for a day now. Why should he get the credit for any of it? The only thing he should be remembered for is being desperate enough to do anything for a quick payday.
It was decided. The most rewarding course of action was to turn himself in immediately. Luckily, he had prepared for the occasion.
As he parked in the county police station parking lot, he parted and combed his hair one final time. Vanity, to Ed, had never been a priority. But at the mere thought of news reporters and flashing cameras, it became an all-consuming demon. Frenzied fingers went to work on menial tasks like buttoning his jacket and smoothing its furrows. My face will be plastered on every paper, poster, and broadcast for the next fifty years. I'll be damned if it isn't perfect.
Finally content with his appearance, Ed tentatively opened his vehicle door and clambered out. The occasional reporter milled about the door with pen and paper in hand. Yet, try as he might, Ed could not attract their attention. Give them their twenty minutes of glory. The next time I leave this door, they're going to wish they knew me before.
Ed waltzed into the room as if he deserved to be there more than any of the officers. Clearing his throat, he prepared himself for what would easily be the most important words to leave his lips.
"'scuse me? I got some of that... what d'you call it... 'pertinent information' 'bout the Kennedy killing..." his nasally southern dialect filled the room.
His statement provoked no reply.
"Hey, som'un? I got somethin' real 'mportant to say 'bout the pres'dent..." Again, his statement was left unanswered. They're probaby just preparing the the chief or something. It's not every day that they get criminals as serious as me come through here.
Finally, an officer emerged from deeper within the building. He appeared oblivious to Ed's growing tirade.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we're quite busy at the moment. We don't got no time for any wannabe shit right now." Without making eye contact, he sat down at the desk and took out a fresh slip of paper. Even after Ed cleared his throat yet again, the officer refused to look up.
"'m real sorry, but this's important. No lie, I gotta talk to an officer right away. I got some info on the whole pres'dent thing 'nd I think you'd really want'a hear it." Ed spoke the syllables clearly and composedly; his tone lacked so much as a hint of his hedonistic greed. He slipped his trembling fingers into the breast pocket of the blazer and reached for the confession letter. Between his trembling fingers, the paper crinkled, but not loud enough for the officer to clue in.
"True or not, we've got our hands full at the moment. Unless you are here to confess to killing the president yourself, you'll have to come back later."
Ed froze. This moment was exactly what he had been waiting for. With the paper still clamped between clammy fingertips, he brought it out. His gaze shifted back behind the desk to the labyrinth of hallways and desk stations beyond. What the receptionist had told him proved true; at each desk sat an officer, most of which with a phone held to their ear. Although the occasional man held a pen in his hand and jotted notes during the conversation, the vast majority simply leaned back into their chairs and absentmindedly nodded along to whatever they were hearing.
It was true pandemonium. Not the kind of unbridled and chaotic emotion that raged on in the streets, but instead an eerily calm disorder ready to implode at any moment. And he wanted to cause that implosion. With the paper in his pocket, he knew he could disrupt the precarious order of not only that office, but of the entire country. It was like the perfect fantasy for him, knowing just how easily he could, yet again, send figurative shockwaves through the nation.
An impatient sigh brought his attention back to the front desk.
"But I don' think tha's the kind of thing you came to tell me," the officer added with a dash of derision; his closely-shaven head and distant stare were a perfect match to Ed's own demeanor. "The whole damn city's been here claimin' to know something; you ain't no different."
Discouraged, Ed crumpled the letter further into his pocket. The moment was gone.
"Jus' listen to me: that Oswald man, tha's his name, right? That Oswald man di'nt do it. I know I don't got much evidence or nothin', but I was there! I saw what hapn'd and he di'nt have nothin' to do with-"
Officer I-don't-give-a-damn moved on to examining the pencils, pens, and previous notes left on the desk. He didn't so much as look up before speaking, "I'm sure you were. You're jus' like the hundreds who come before. Please, jus' go home. We've got this sit'ation all under control. Thanks for the concern, but let us do our job an' you can go do yours."
Ed slammed his fist into the table; he could feel the violent frustration returning.
"Just listen for a minute, buddy. I know who killed Kennedy, goddammit! An' I happen to know that he ain't in custody or nothin'. An' I got the evidence to prove it..."
The male officer leaned across the desk to hush the rant. Steely eyes bearing into Ed's soul, he snorted in amusement. "Look 'buddy'," he mocked, "I believe you think you saw somethin' over at Dealey yesterday. But I promise you, we got this all under control. No one just shoots someone and walks away. Especially the president. We've got the man here, jus' like you saw on the news. We appreciate your concern, but trust us on this one."
Ed was livid. To be ignored was one thing, but to be treated like a child was another altogether. Steadying his voice with a contrived breath, he gritted his teeth before uttering one last threat, "Believe me, you bastards are clueless... the shooter could be in this very fucking room, and you're all too goddamn blind to see it."
But it was too late. The man on the other side of the desk had already walked away and joined the chaos behind the scenes.
Once again, Ed had been so close to worldwide infamy, yet, once again, he had let the opportunity pass. And just like last time, frustration subdued into disappointment, and disappointment into irritation. Why is it so hard for those fuckers to believe me? I ain't never been nothing but an honest American. When they realize that I been right here the whole damn time, they're gonna like the fucking bastards the are... they must be completely retarded to miss this. But they will see... this won't be a secret forever. The truth must come out.
As he mumbled to himself, Ed barely heard the weak voice call out at him as he stormed through the parking lot.
"Excuse me, sir? I overheard you in there, and you say you've got information they don't have?"
As Ed fumed on, the man to which the voice belonged followed only half of a step aside.
"Excuse me? I'm Jim, Jim Lehrer, reporter for The Dallas Times Herald. Would you be willing to talk about your exclusive information on the case? You say it wasn't Oswald?" As the reporter moved forward, he grabbed Ed by the shoulder, stopping both of them in their tracks.
Intrigued, Ed glanced back at the man. He was one from before who had been swarming the station with a notebook in hand.
"Who did'ya say you were?"
"Jim Lehrer, reporter for The Dallas Times Herald. If you're serious about having exclusive information about the presidential assassination, we will pay you good money should it prove to be relevant. What's your name, sir?"
Without a second thought, Ed lunged forward enthusiastically to shake his hand. He no longer cared about having perfect hair or a photogenic smile. If the police were too damn stupid to listen to him themselves, there were other ways to get their attention.
"Edward J. Harrell... but call me Ed. And boy, do I ever got a story for you, Jim."
A/N: Hey guys, I'm back! I just realized I haven't updated since May... whoops! Lets just say that I got caught up with school, and work, and other things. Plus, if you haven't noticed, I've reworked certain parts of earlier chapters based on the feedback I've gotten from you readers! Thanks so much!
And quick question for you guys, what do you think of changing the title of this story? '6th Floor Shooter' was always supposed to be a working-title that ended up sticking for longer than I had anticipated. What do you think of me renaming the book something a little less-specific, like "Dallas"? I've been playing with the idea for a while, and I need help deciding!
So, without further ado, I bring you guys chapter nine! As always, don't forget to vote and comment! I take your feedback very seriously when I go to edit, so I would love to hear what you say!