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   .jpg)       This is a Choose Your Own Adventure book in which YOU, the readers, will solve the mystery of who killed John F Kennedy. Are you up to the case? I certainly hope so.
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Apr 28, 2015 04:41
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It’s been less than a month since your good friend Billy Thompson got shot in the left buttock by a pellet gun while biking home from school. “My rear!” he screamed, as he flew off his bike. That night as your family ate dinner, the phone rang. Billy’s parents were calling for your father’s help—and why shouldn’t they? He’s the Chief of Police in Dallas! Little did they know that secretly, your dad couldn’t solve a two-piece jigsaw puzzle! He relies completely on your keen detective skills to solve even the city’s most obvious of crimes. As your dad began to stammer away nervously, you took the phone from him and said, “Don’t worry, Dad—I’ll handle this.” Your mother just looked at you sympathetically and let out a weary sigh.  The next day, you went with Billy back to the scene of the crime. After carefully examining his injury, you deduced from the angle of his entrance wounds that the shot must have come from the old abandoned Packard house. Sure enough, once inside, you found a treasure trove of evidence—including an empty box of Colt-brand candy cigarettes, the favorite cigs of notorious school bully Slugs O’Toole. Better still, you found an empty metal tin of .22 caliber airgun pellets with greasy fingerprints all over it! The next day at school, you offered Slugs a bottle of root beer. When he was finished drinking it—you lifted his fingerprints. A perfect match! Slugs had no choice but to confess to the shooting. Even your longtime rival in amateur investigation, that smart-mouthed know-it-all Jenni Mudd, was impressed—and her dad works for the FBI! The school paper even ran a front page story about your keen detective skills, spreading the word throughout school that crime-solving must run in your family! If only that were true! All that seems like a lifetime ago. It was only minutes ago that Principal Dunn announced over the P.A. system that President Kennedy had been shot and killed by an unknown assailant—right in downtown Dallas! School was dismissed early. Most kids headed straight home, but not you. You hopped right on your bike and headed straight for Dallas Police headquarters. The station is packed with barking reporters, stoic policemen, tearful witnesses and more than a few angry citizens yelling things like “Kill that Commie rat!” Towering over the crowd, the burly, street-smart Sergeant Fanucci recognizes you instantly—and helps clear a path to your dad’s office, saying, “Glad you’re here, kid! Your pop’s in way over his head. As usual.” “Son—what are you doing here?!” blurts your father as Fanucci leads you in. He tries to sound stern—but it’s obvious he’s incredibly relieved to see you. He looks terrified. “I want to help with the investigation, Dad!” you reply. “Just tell me what you know so far.”  Looking like a deer in the headlights, your father starts to stammer away. “Well, we’ve got this, um, you know—the guy what maybe did it, the uhhhh ...” “The suspect?” you offer, trying not to sound annoyed. “The suspect, right. Lee Oswald... We think he maybe, um, you know, shot the uh, the guy who, um... The man who runs the country, the uhh ...” he trails off helplessly. “The President?” you offer, no longer disguising your annoyance. Sergeant Fanucci steps in, saying, “We think this Oswald shot the President, then iced one of our guys next—Officer Tippit.” He starts cracking his knuckles, “He ain’t confessed to either yet, kid, but he’s gonna. Believe me.” “What about evidence, Dad? What do you know about the shooting itself? Ballistics? The weapon? Entrance and exit wounds? Witnesses? I need details!” Fanucci jumps in, “Kennedy was shot down in Dealey Plaza, kid—we think from the School Book Depository, where this Commie Oswald punk works. We found a 7.65 Mauser behind some books—that’s a bolt-action Kraut rifle. We got shell casings. And we got an eyeball witness who—” Suddenly, the door bursts open. It’s the beautiful yet brilliant homicide detective Dr. Nera Vivalzi—and she looks madder than a wet hen! “Now do you believe me, Chief? I told you this would happen! But you didn’t listen! And now the President’s blood is on our hands!” What will you do? You can question the witness, or ask your dad what Dr. Vivalzi means.
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Apr 28, 2015 04:44
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Though you dread the answer, you ask your father what Dr. Vivalzi means. He bites his lip with a hangdog look, unable to speak. “I’ll tell him then!” Vivalzi says with a bark. “Just two days ago we had two police officers who witnessed strange men engaged in target practice with rifles right down in Dealey Plaza! And they got away!”* You immediately grasp the terrible implications. Unable to stop yourself, you yell at your father, “Dad! You had cops who saw riflemen sighting in targets right along the Presidential motorcade route two days before Kennedy’s visit, and you didn’t at least change the route?!” After a long silence, you father whispers sheepishly, “Don’t tell your mother!” Ugh! What an idiot! “Well, I’m not going to sit by and watch you bungle yet another investigation by pinning it all on this, this Oswald chump,” Vivalzi barks. “Anybody with half a brain can tell this is a lot bigger than that, Chief! It’s a conspiracy—and I’m going to use my own resources to find out who’s really behind it!” She leaves, slamming the door behind her. Your father buries his face in his hands with a groan, but Fanucci seems strangely nonplussed. “Poor Vivalzi,” he says, shaking his head. “There she goes again, running to her conspiracy kooks.” His eyes drift to the clock. “Whoa! Almost forgot. I got Oswald’s police lineup comin’ up. We got a witness—this Helen Markham—she says she saw the guy who shot our boy, Tippit. You wanna come along and see how we do things downtown, kid?” You can follow him to the police lineup, or chase after Dr. Vivalzi. *TARGET PRACTICE - On November 20, 1963, two DPD officers on patrol reported seeing riflemen sighting in over the Dealey Plaza fence on silhouetted targets in an old model car in the killzone. Though noted in an FBI memo on 11/27, it wasn’t disclosed to the public until it was unearthed by a 1978 Freedom of Information Act request.
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Apr 28, 2015 05:38
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You run out into the hallway, but there’s no sign of Dr. Vivalzi. It’s just another endless sea of cops and reporters in all directions. But down a distant hallway, you hear a man cry out in a loud catcall, “Rowwwwwr!” You spring into action, pushing through the crowds. Sure enough, you catch a glimpse of Vivalzi’s lustrous head of black hair, just as she exits the building. You duck and weave your way through the masses, desperate to catch up. Finally, you reach the exit and sprint out into the street. She’s already in her car, backing out to leave. You rush towards her, sweaty and out of breath, gasping, “Dr. Vivalzi, where are you going? I want to help!” She rolls down her window, eyeing you skeptically, then says, “You? The police chief’s son? You want to help me?” “Absolutely!” you reply. “If what you’re saying about the rehearsed assassination is true, then there’s no way Oswald could’ve acted alone. If he acted at all.”  She nods, but still looks a bit skeptical. Finally, she opens the passenger door, and says, “All right, then. But I’m warning you in advance. You’re putting your life in danger by joining us, and—” “Us?” you interrupt. “Who else is—” “You’ll see soon enough,” she answers. She begins to drive, dialing her radio to KLIF-AM. The news host speaks soberly, “—there was absolutely no warning that this would take place. Of course, these things always come so spontaneously. Should there be any warning then the president would be better protected and an alternate route could be prepared, but everything had gone smoothly—” “Unbelievable!” she shouts, turning off the radio in disgust. “Your father just ...” She stops in mid-sentence, her eyes growing narrow and suspicious. She then reaches under her seat, pulls out a blindfold, and hands it to you. “Put this blindfold on,” she says. “Otherwise, I can’t bring you with me. We can’t afford to have our hideout penetrated—especially not now.” Will you put the blindfold on?
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Apr 28, 2015 06:28
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You slip on the blindfold. “Thanks,” she says, calming down. “Sorry for the precautions, but the Altair Society can’t afford to take chances. Especially not now.” “The Altair Society? What’s that?” you ask. “We’re an elite band of researchers,” she says. “Our mission is to expose corruption and conspiracy wherever we find it. But we’ve made powerful enemies, even inside the U.S. government. They’d love nothing more than to infiltrate and destroy us! So we meet in secret. And today we start our most important mission—one we’d feared was coming. Today we start searching for who really killed JFK!” You’re immediately intrigued. Elite researchers may be just what this case needs! Given what you heard about men engaged in target practice in Dealey Plaza, it was obviously a conspiracy. Only a fool could think otherwise. And if this Altair Society actually anticipated the attack, then they may already have a good guess as to who really killed JFK. The car comes to a stop. You reach for the blindfold. “Sorry,” Vivalzi says. “That stays on for now.” “But when can I take it off?” you ask. “When the Altair Group approves of you. If they do.” Her hand grips yours. She helps you out of the car and leads you towards an unseen destination. Your imagination races! Is their headquarters some kind of research lab, flush with the latest in forensic tools? Or maybe it’s some sort of secret spy facility, with futuristic gadgets and technology? Vivalzi stops. She knocks on a unseen door. Tap! Tap-tap! Tap-tap-tap! Tap! It’s obviously a secret knock. You hear several locks turning, a rattle of chains, and then a creaky squeak as a door opens. With a firm grip, she leads you through it. Even without sight, you sense many eyes are on you. “Who is this, Doctor?” asks a deep, authorative voice. “The police chief’s son,” Vivalzi replies, to a chorus of gasps. “Wait! He’s a good investigator! He wants to help.” “No, no, no!” cries a scratchy, older man’s voice. “He could be a spy! An infiltrator! It’s too risky!” “I’m not an infiltrator!” you retort. “I’m a detective! I may just be a kid, but I know a thing or two about crime solving. And I’ll do anything I can to help solve this case!” The room grows quiet, save for the sound of whispers. After a long pause, someone steps directly in front of you and removes your blindfold. Before you stands the deep-voiced man, his eyes dark and haunted. Behind him are Vivalzi and two others. All eyes are on you.  “Admission to the Altair Society requires a loyalty test,” says the dark-eyed man. “Are you willing to take it?” “Just tell me what I have to do,” you say. “It’s simple, really,” he says. “I want you to retrieve evidence from Dallas police headquarters.” “But evidence tampering is a felony!” you say in shock. “You’re absolutely right,” he replies, “and it’s happening at this very minute inside police headquarters. Any evidence that might point to conspiracy, or might exculpate Mr. Oswald, will be buried or destroyed unless we stop it. Unless you do!” “But I don’t even know you!” you counter. “I was a spy in my former life,” he says. “My code name was ‘Joab.’ I’ve seen dozens of government cover-ups. Heck, I led a few myself. But when I learned just how vicious the military-industrial complex had become, I resigned and formed the Altair Society to expose its crimes.” “Like what?” you start to answer. “Can’t you just tell—” “No! I’ll tell you everything once you’ve proven your loyalty. Everyone else here has passed this test. If you want join us, you’ll have to pass it, too.” What a dilemma! You want to help solve the crime, and the Altair Society sounds like they already have a good head start. But you never imagined that cracking the case would require you to break the law! Are you going to go through with it?
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Apr 28, 2015 09:54
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“Taking evidence away from those who would destroy it isn’t a crime in my book,” you reply. “It’s a duty.” “Spoken like a true member of the Altair Society,” says Agent Joab, clapping you on the shoulder. The three other members join him in giving you a hearty welcome. But the well-wishing has hardly begun when Joab turns to Vivalzi. “Dr. Vivalzi,” Joab says. “Did Dallas police file written reports about the target shooters at the Dealey Plaza fence?” “Yes, of course.” “We need to get those reports before they disappear.” he tells her. “The Feds want to pin this on Oswald alone, but if we can get those reports to the press—” “Got it!” Vivalzi says, as she leads you out to the car. You hop in the car. Vivalzi drives like a woman possessed back to Dallas Police Headquarters. It’s even more crowded than it was earlier, a fact that clearly displeases her. “All right,” she says, “You’re the chief’s son. You should have no problem getting in to Evidence Control. When you do—” “Wait. You’re not going with me?” you ask nervously. “I can’t,” she says. “Fanucci’s a mobbed-up cop. And he’s part of this somehow. I know it, and he knows I know it. If he sees me near the station, he’ll know something’s up.” She checks her watch, then says, “Hurry. Look for reports from November 20.” “Got it,” you say, getting out of the car. “If you find anything else important,” she calls out, “any other evidence of foreknowledge, or conspiracy, or—” “I know. I’ll get it!” you reply over your shoulder as you jog up towards the entrance. Once inside, you find yourself again in a bustle of TV news reporters, cameramen and cops. You weave in and out of crowds, heading towards the basement stairs. You’re careful to avoid any live cameras as you skulk through the hall. Finally, you make it! With no one looking, you slip quietly down the stairs, heading for Evidence Control. The room is a maze of evidence racks, organized by date. You weave your way quickly through the corridors, looking for the most recently collected evidence.  You see an aisle marked “Active Cases, 1963.” That’s it! You dart towards it, ready to grab the report and run. But standing right in the middle of the aisle is Sergeant Fanucci! He’s got a box in his hands, which he seems to be filling up, not unloading. “Hey, kid!” he says, with an oversized grin. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d run off with Vivalzi.” “Nah,” you reply coolly. “Turns out she’s a kook.” “No kidding!” he laughs. “Well, glad you’re back, though we’ve just about wrapped this one up. Got the rifle, casings. Found loads of Commie literature at Oswald’s place. He’s guilty as Judas. He made it too easy, if you ask me.” You’ve got to get rid of him if you’re going to get that report. You’ll have to distract him—but how? Tell him your dad asked you to retrieve the week's police reports, or tell him you say Vivialzi snooping around the building?x
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Apr 28, 2015 16:55
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“Nice work, Sergeant,” you say. “I wish I’d listened to you earlier. Instead, I got an earful of crazy conspiracy talk from Dr. Vivalzi. She even thinks the Mob is tied into this.” Fanucci’s smile draws tight. “She does, huh?” “Crazy, right?” you reply. “She even came back to the station. I just saw her snooping around upstairs a minute ago, looking for who knows what.” Fanucci lets out an uneasy chuckle, then puts the box down on the concrete floor. “Tell ya what, kid,” he says warmly. “Keep an eye on this for me. I’m gonna check on her. Sounds like she mighta gone off the deep-end, ya know? She may need help.” Without waiting for your reply, he springs past you. Your bluff worked like a charm! You quickly dig through the box he placed on the floor. Part of you wants to take it all—but you’d look mighty suspicious lugging a boxful of evidence through a crowd of cops! You rifle through folders full of photos, fingerprints, witness reports, evidence from Oswald’s home. Finally, you find a thick stack of police reports. There’s dozens of them! Wait—was that a door opening? Are those footsteps? You quickly tuck the entire folder down the front of your pants and cover it with your shirt. Your heart races! An older police officer with a scar on his cheek rounds the corner. “Sergeant Fanucci sent me,” he says in an unfriendly tone. “Said I should relieve you of guard duty, detective.” “That was nice of him,” you reply. “I’ll be going then.” You head casually past him and back upstairs, the folders under your shirt. You work your way through the masses. It feels like every eye in the hall is watching you! But finally, you make it back to the parking lot. You did it! You head quickly to Vivalzi’s car and open the passenger door, saying, “That was almost too easy!” But the driver’s seat is empty. She’s gone. You touch her seat. It’s still warm. Leaning closely to it, you see fingernail marks scratched into the leather. Now you begin to smell the pungent odor of ether lingering in the air. Your clever bluff worked too well. It got Vivalzi kidnapped. And probably killed. Nice going, Sherlock. YOU FAILED TO DISCOVER WHO KILLED JOHN F KENNEDY! But... what if you had done something else? ------------ “Yeah,” you say, “Oswald made this case so easy, even my dad probably could’ve solved it.” Fanucci guffaws. “Ha! You said it, kid, not me!” “Oh, that reminds me,” you say casually. “My dad asked me to bring him this week’s police reports. Said he wanted to make sure he’d signed off on everything before the feds take them.” He shrugs. “OK, sure. Might as well make sure we’ve crossed our t’s and dotted our i’s, right?” He hands you a thick folder and says, “Just make sure you bring ‘em back. Wouldn’t want ‘em to go missing, huh?” “Exactly,” you reply. You take the reports with you. Once upstairs, you slip them under your turtleneck and into your pants, then weave your way back through the long hallway. Finally you’re back outside. You jog to Vivalzi’s car and slip into the passenger seat. “Well?” she asks anxiously. “Have I got a surprise for you,” you say, as you reach into your pants. You pull out the folder and hand it to her. She flips quickly through the stack, then lets out a big, triumphant laugh as she pulls out a report. “You did it!” she says. “Now can I join the Altair Society? Do you trust me?” She smiles and nods her head. “You’re one of us now. Now you’re ready to join the real investigation.” She drives quickly and recklessly back to the hideout. And this time, you get to enjoy the trip without a blindfold. When you return to the Altair Society’s secret hideout, you’re greeted as a hero! “You did it, son!” Agent Joab exclaims happily. He rifles through the reports and finds one dated November 20, 1963, by a Captain George Doughty. He reads it aloud: “Officers reported seeing two unknown men sighting in a rifle over fence in Dealey Park. Rifle being sighted in at two silhouettes in old model car in vicinity. Officers circled to contact men, but they disappeared.” Joab, delighted, adds, “These reports are proof of both foreknowledge and conspiracy. Multiple target shooters on the motorcade route a few days before the assassination? We could call a press conference right now and—” But before he can finish his sentence, both the wild-eyed older man and his dark-haired peer burst into protests. “No no no!” the old man hectors. “The real proof of conspiracy is 1,345 miles west of here, in Area 51! Kennedy was going to reveal our contact with alien life—” “Come on, Professor Coppens!” the dark-haired man counters. “This has the Mafia’s grubby fingerprints all over it, as payback for Kennedy’s war on organized crime!” “That’s pure poppycock, Angelo!” Professor Coppens retorts. “You’re letting your Italian heritage blind you!” The two begin talking over each other, like a couple of bratty kids. Finally, Joab booms over all of them, “Enough!” The group quiets quickly down, and Joab continues in a calmer voice, “You both have theories—promising ones. But my own gut tells me this is the handywork of the CIA. Kennedy had many enemies—the Mafia, Castro, the Russians. But the CIA, under Allen Dulles, has mastered the art of government overthrows, political assassinations, and cover-ups. They did it in Iran, The Congo, heck, they helped kill the Diem brothers in South Vietnam three weeks ago. After the CIA bungled the Bay of Pigs, Kennedy fired Dulles and promised to shatter his beloved CIA into a thousand pieces. But I think they beat him to the punch.” ------------ Joab turns to you with a respectful nod. “Son, as our newest member, the honor falls to you to choose which path we’ll investigate first.”  Wow! The myriad of possibile suspects boggles even your keen detective’s mind! You feel like Hercule Poirot in Murder on the Orient Express—where a dozen suspects all might’ve participated in the killing! “If I’m going to mount an effective investigation,” you reply, “I’ll need more information. It sounds like lots of people had motives—but I can’t tell who had the means and opportunity to pull this off!” Joab nods. “Fair enough. Which of our theories do you want to know more about?” Will you ask about Area 51, the Mob, or the CIA?
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Apr 28, 2015 18:50
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Intrigued by the possibility of an alien connection, you turn to Coppens and say, “Professor, what’s this alien connection you were talking about?” Professor Coppens smiles widely, speaking in a raspy voice. “In July of 1947, the United States government recovered a crashed flying saucer just north of Roswell, New Mexico. It contained corpses of non-human origin! In the years that followed, more and more sightings of unidentified flying objects were reported—and more spacecraft, and aliens, were recovered and spirited off to Area 51 in southern Nevada for further study.” “What on Earth do UFOs have to do with the Kennedy assassination?” you reply skeptically. “Perhaps the better question is ‘What OFF Earth?’, my boy!” he titters in amusement. “You see, these aliens began visiting us after we detonated the first atomic bomb. They were worried, you see, that with this Promethean fire we might destroy ourselves—as so many other alien civilizations have before us! They came in peace, to protect us from ourselves!”  Angelo moans in annoyance, “Oh, come on, Coppens! This is idiotic!” But the Professor continues, even more excitedly. “Eventually, a top secret meeting between these aliens and members of our government took place. A treaty was signed—allowing them to conduct human experimentation and us access to some of their most powerful technology! When President Kennedy was briefed on this incredible news, he wanted to reveal it to the world! Imagine how it could’ve changed things. It could end war itself! But of course, that’s why the military-industrial complex killed him!” Agent Joab shakes his head. “No, Professor. This is childish CIA disinformation. Your sources—” “My sources worked alongside me on the Manhattan Project!” he barks in reply. “These are men of science! And of peace!” The Professor produces a photo—a strange, greenish-grey humanoid with huge dark eyes. It looks alive! “Waiting inside Hangar 13 is the secret Kennedy died for. A living alien being from the Zeta Reticuli star system,” he continues, placing a hand on your shoulder. “If one of us could sneak inside, capture it, and reveal it to the world, then perhaps Kennedy will not have died in vain.”* You can’t help but remain skeptical—it sounds so crazy! Yet the photo looks so convincing. The alien really looks alive—and like it’s peering into your soul. Could this really be the reason Kennedy died? You can head to Hangar 13 with the Professor, or listen to one of the other investigators. *ALIENS & JFK - Absurdist conspiracy theories—such as William Cooper’s claim in Behold a Pale Horse that JFK was shot by the Secret Service driver of his presidential limousine—have plagued the subject of conspiratorial inquiry for years. Perhaps no claim is crazier than that of the hoax “Majestic 12” documents, which claim JFK died because he was about to reveal secret contacts between aliens and humankind.
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Apr 28, 2015 22:49
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You ask Angelo to tell you more about the Mafia angle. He smiles. “It’s real simple, kid. The Mob helped get Kennedy elected. They stole the West Virginia primary for him, then delivered him the votes of a bunch of corpses to put him over the top in Illinois. Then the CIA got the Mob involved in their plans to kill Castro. Am I wrong, Joab?” Joab lets a deep, frustrated sigh. “No, but—” Angelo keeps talking. “So how did JFK reward them for their help? He made his brother Robert the Attorney General, and they both declared war on organized crime! The Kennedys even deported New Orleans Mafia boss Carlos Marcello. Feds kidnapped him, and dumped him right on a beach in Guatemala in ‘61!” “But what does Oswald have to do with this?” you reply, baffled. “Sergeant Fanucci said he was a Communist.” “Fanucci?”, he says, exasperated, “He’s just another Mob-connected cop in Dallas, kid! And Oswald? His uncle ‘Dutz’ was a bookie for Marcello. Oswald grew up in New Orleans, and was pals with a psycho named David Ferrie, one of Marcello’s lackeys. It was Ferrie who flew Marcello back to the US. And from what I hear, they talked about the JFK hit all the way back, and how to pin it on Oswald.”  Joab can take no more. “Oswald is an intelligence agent, Angelo! In deep cover!” Angelo nods in agreement, exclaiming, “Exactly! You think the CIA is going to let that come out, Joab? Course not. They gotta keep up the ruse. If the American people found out Kennedy’s suspected assassin was a CIA asset, it’d be the end of the Agency. He’s the perfect Mafia patsy!” “But wouldn’t the FBI—” you start to ask. “FBI won’t touch the Mob, kid!” he laughs. “They got pics of J. Edgar doing the dirty with another man!” Zowie! It sounds like the Mafia had a great motive to kill JFK, and maybe even the means to blackmail the CIA and FBI into a cover-up, but still, it all seems so circumstantial! “I don’t know, Angelo,” you reply hesitantly. “We can’t build a case on sexual blackmail, unsavory relatives, and hearsay about Mafia payback. We need evidence!” “Course you do,” he says. “That’s why you gotta get to Ferrie, kid.” He hands you a mugshot of Ferrie— a menacing looking guy with painted-on eyebrows and an obvious wig— then continues. “This is him, kid. Get a confession from him, this whole charade crashes down! He was just in a courtroom in New Orleans with Marcello himself. My sources say he’s on his way to the Alamont Hotel in Houston right now. We put you on a bus, you’re there in three hours!” Hmmm. It still seems like a long shot. But then again, the Mafia is notoriously brutal, secretive, and vindictive. Maybe they did have a hand in this? You’d have to track down this David Ferrie character to find out! You turn to Agent Joab and ask, “You were an intelligence agent, right? Do you really think one of your guys could’ve killed the President of the United States?” Agent Joab takes a deep breath, his eyes tearing up shamefully. “I don’t think, son. I know.” “When I joined the Special Intelligence Group, I was a bright-eyed boy not much older than you,” he continues. “I believed America was the land of the free and home of the brave, and I’d be danged if I was going to let a bunch of godless Russian KGB agents crack the secret code of the whale songs before we did.” “But it wasn’t long before I learned that other intelligence work was a far dirtier business than I signed up for. I’d been reassigned to report to Kermit Roosevelt, Jr., who headed up a CIA program called ‘Operation Ajax.’ Our assignment? Overthrow Mohammed Mosaddegh—the Prime Minister of Iran—and stop Iran from nationalizing their oil industry. We paid thugs—gangsters, killers, even Nazis—to stage riots and murder civilians, and replaced a democratically elected leader with a despotic puppet, the Shah of Iran, all to guarantee America a slice of the Iranian oil revenues!” A single tear rolls from his dark eyes down his cheek. He puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it gently. “I resigned that very day, and made a promise to myself. I’d never sit idly by and watch my own brothers in the spy game overthrow a government. Not in Chile. Not in Vietnam. And certainly not in the United States of America.” He waves the police reports you retrieved from evidence control, then smiles. “Son, with these reports, we can call a press conference tomorrow and prove that Oswald couldn’t have acted alone.” He taps his temple, then continues, “I know exactly how the CIA pulled this off—and more importantly, I know why.” Vivalzi finally breaks her silence, “It’s proof that others were involved—but it’s not enough, Joab! Plus, you defected from the CIA—you’ve got skeletons in your closet. They’ll paint you as a rogue agent with Communist ties, or worse!” Agent Joab nods, then turns to you soberly. “I’m willing to have my character assassinated, Vivalzi, if that’s what it takes to get the media’s attention. It’s a small price to pay to crack this case open. I’m willing to name names—and when I do, it’ll be impossible for them to pin it on Oswald alone.” Dr. Vivalzi’s face suddenly brightens. She turns to you with a beatific smile. “Wait a minute! You’re the police chief’s son—you’ve solved countless crimes! And America loves boy detectives! You could lead the conference! You could tell them that you saw evidence destruction underway, and you stopped it—and demand the evidence be opened to the public! You don’t have any secrets to hide, right?” “Well,” you reply, “I may have slipped Slugs O’Toole a bar of chocolate laxatives once, to solve The Case of the Antique Ring. But I just knew he swallowed that ring! And that afternoon in the school bathroom, I got the proof!” Everyone in the room bursts into sudden guffaws. “Son,” Agent Joab chuckles, “If that’s the worst they’ve got on you, you’ll be A-OK. So make the choice—if you want me to lead this press conference, I’m happy to do it. But if you’d rather take point, feel free. Either way, the truth comes out. This was a conspiracy. And when we prove it, America will demand the evidence—all of it—be released.” What a choice! You’ve no doubt that Agent Joab knows details you’d never know about government overthrows and spycraft. But on the other hand, Vivalzi’s right. America loves kid detectives, and if you choose to break the story, you just might go down in history as one of the greats! So, what'll it be?
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Apr 28, 2015 23:51
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“Agent Joab,” you reply, “I’d hate to see our chance to crack this case open be spoiled by any skeletons you have in the closet. Maybe it’s better if I lead the proceedings?” Joab nods respectfully, then replies, “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow, we’ll start to expose the real truth.” Dr. Vivalzi lets out a delighted whoop, then gives you a congratulatory peck on the cheek, saying, “Break a leg!” That afternoon, Vivalzi works the phones, calling every reporter in the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex, excitedly telling them, “Tomorrow morning at 9:00, The Altair Society will break news of incredible developments in the assassination investigation!” You even take a moment to call your rival, Jenni Mudd. Her mother answers the phone and informs you she’s in Dealey Plaza, investigating the assassination herself. You reply, “Tell her not to bother. Tomorrow morning, I’m cracking the case wide open!” The next morning, it’s showtime! You arrive at the conference, wearing your best turtleneck, your hair feathered to perfection. Dozens of reporters have arrived and are barking out questions at you. Jenni Mudd sits on the front row, looking strangely smug. But you’ll knock that know-it-all smile off her face soon enough! You walk to the podium, raising your hands for silence. “Gentlemen, as the son of the Chief of Police of Dallas, I’ve grown up around policework, investigations, and solving difficult crimes,” you begin, then chuckle, “I guess you could say—it’s in my blood.” Your eyes drift briefly to Jenni. She smiles innocently back, as she hands a folder to the man next to her. Strange! But you continue, undeterred, “When I heard the news that President Kennedy had been shot, I knew I had to do whatever I could to help my dad solve the crime. But the shooting of a president is a far cry from The Case of the Slippery Salamander. And I knew if I was going to investigate it, it might call for some unorthodox methods.” You shoot a look at Jenni, then add, “And when I saw signs that key evidence was being stolen right from under our noses by the FBI, I knew I had no choice but to act!”  Many in the crowd is gasp in surprise—but the man next to Jenni stares in disgusted shock at a photo he pulled from Jenni’s folder. Then his eyes drift up to you, full of murderous intent. Why? Your eyes dart back to Jenni, yet she responds with only a sweet smile and a wink, as she passes the folder down the row. One by one, the men pull a photo from the folder, and pass it down, their faces all morphing from curiosity to mixes of confusion, disgust, and even hatred. Anxiety begins to grip you as you continue, “Uh, where was I? Oh yeah. Um. So, when I saw that evidence was being stolen, I knew I had to do something, even if it meant being, well, a little unorthodox!” “Unorthodox is right, you litle pickle smoker!” someone shouts from the crowd. Pickle smoker? Who would try to smoke a pickle? They’re wet—they’d never light! “Queer!” someone yells from the gallery. What’s happening? Whatever Jenni’s been passing around the room is turning the whole crowd against you! And you haven’t even told them about the police reports of target practice in Dealey Plaza yet! Desperate to regain control, you raise your voice, “Please, please! Let me finish! I’ve discovered evidence about the Kennedy assassination that points to conspiracy!” “Shut up!” someone calls from the back of the room, “Get that turdburglar outta here!” ‘Turdburglar?’ What does that even mean? Your keen detective mind races to break down the etymology. ‘Turd: a piece of excrement.’ ‘Burglar: one who breaks into someone else’s...’ Oh, no! They think you’re a homosexual! But why? Jenni sees your abject confusion, then turns around the photo in her lap. It’s a picture of you, examining the entrance wound on Billy’s buttock out by the Packard place! She must’ve taken it in hiding! Now she’s using it to smear you! “Wait, no!” you cry out, “You don’t understand! That picture! I was examining an entrance wound!” The crowd bursts into laughter, and one man shouts in reply, “That you gave him, ya rump ranger!”  The crowd explodes with laughter and boos! You’ve lost complete control of the press conference! Everyone begins dispersing, uninterested in hearing what you’ve discovered! In less than a minute, the room is empty, save for one reporter, a gentlemen with a goatee and a bright, friendly smile. He approaches you, and shakes your hand. “Are you a reporter?” you ask weakly, “Do you want to hear what we’ve learned?” He shakes his head, handing you a business card. He replies, “I’m just in the art department at the paper. My name is Sal. Call me.” Just then, two policemen storm the room and quickly cuff you. One of them recognizes you, and shakes his head sadly, saying, “So the chief’s own son is a pillow biter, huh?” The other cop replies, “That haircut. What a giveaway.” They read you your rights as they arrest you. For evidence tampering and crimes against nature. ------------ The next day, The Dallas Morning News reports the incident in a sea of assassination stories that pin the blame exclusively on Lee Harvey Oswald. The headline reads, “Local Deviant ‘Completely Obsessed’ with Kennedy Assassination, Rumps.” A photo of your utterly bewildered face, no doubt taken by Jenni during the conference, accompanies the story. Drat! Jenni’s completely destroyed you! You knew her dad worked for the FBI—but now you realize she did, too! You never should’ve invited her. YOU FAILED TO FIND WHO KILLED JOHN F KENNEDY...  There must be somewhere you went wrong. But what should you have done differently? corn in the bible fucked around with this message at 02:50 on Apr 29, 2015 |
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Apr 29, 2015 02:45
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The professor’s theory sounds crazy, but what if he’s right? Is it possible President Kennedy was assassinated because he was about to tell the American people about secret alien treaties and aliens living at Area 51? It doesn’t make much sense, but neither do those new “push-button” telephones you’ve been reading about—who knows what other weird, futuristic technologies the government has access to? You decide you’d better check it out for yourself. “I’ll do it, Professor,” you reply, “if you can get me to Nevada, that is.” He pulls a plane ticket from his jacket pocket, saying, “I was planning to go there myself this very day. But I’m old and weak, and my eyes are failing me. You go for me.” He drives you the short distance to Love Field, and wishes you luck as he hands you an envelope full of cash, “For cabs and such. Remember, the secrets are in Hangar 13. Ignore the rest!” The flight to Las Vegas is nearly eight hours long, and you spend it mostly staring at the strange photo of the alien Dr. Coppens gave to you. You arrive that night, and find a hotel near the airport. You awake the next morning, ready for action, and are happy to see a cab conveniently parked in front of the hotel. “Where to, bub?” the cabbie asks. “Area 51,” you reply casually, “Hangar 13.” He eyes you suspiciously for a moment, then replies, “You don’t look much like the sort I take up there.” You hand him a small fortune—at least $20—and he smiles. “Next stop, Hangar 13!” Two hours later, he’s dropping you off on a dusty road in the middle of the Nevada desert. Once you rub the sand from your eyes, you can make out a series of large, light-colored structures in the distance. The biggest looks like a airplane hangar, with a small office building attached. ------------ As you hike towards the complex, you’re surprised to see it’s unguarded. There’s a small sign in front, faded by the sun, that reads, “Hangar 13—OFFICIAL VISITORS ONLY —TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT AND FINED.” Yikes! You skirt around the massive building, looking for an entrance. You spy a few small ground floor windows with open blinds. You peer into one. There’s two men seated at a long table watching a TV in the corner. You see maps tacked up on the walls. Wait, what’s that one? Houston Street, Commerce Street, Record Street. Zowie! You recognize the scene! It’s Dealey Plaza! On the television, Walter Cronkite reports the latest news. But you can’t quite hear what he saying. One of the men, dressed in a military uniform, loudly barks, “Yeah, well, serves the bastard right for saying we’d put a man on the moon in ten years!” The other looks more like a scientist, and replies with a smile, “Oh, we’ll put a man on the moon, sir. You can watch us do it on live TV. I just hope there’s not an army of little green men waiting there for us.” They both laugh heartily at their strange, private joke and leave the room. You’re a little shaken. What could this mean?! You decide it’s now or never—you’ve got to get in Hangar 13! You continue your furtive sneaking around the building, and come to a giant metal door. A sign on it reads, “DO NOT ENTER.” This must be it! Suddenly, you hear footsteps. You peek around the corner, and see two armed guards. Drat! They’ve got 12-gauge shotguns, and are heading right toward you! You have time to run and hide behind that huge rock a few yards away, or you can take your chances inside the building. If it’s unlocked, that is. You stumble into the hangar, fully expecting to see a flying saucer. But instead, you see a figure in a spacesuit. He’s attached to wires, being lifted in the air as he bounds around a barren landscape of powder and rock. Slowly, it dawns on you ... It’s some kind of fake lunar surface! Area 51 isn’t hiding aliens and spaceships, it’s a gigantic movie set! NASA’s rehearsing for a fake moon landing! Is that why Kennedy died? Because he asked NASA to do the impossible–putting a man on the moon in less than a decade? Suddenly, the “astronaut” produces a gun! Oh, no! A million more questions flood through your brain! Followed by a bullet. YOU FAILED TO FIND WHO KILLED JOHN F KENNEDY... 
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Apr 29, 2015 14:22
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You decide to investigate the Mafia connection. It’s a long shot, but then again, so was your crack case against Slugs O’Toole in The Mystery of The Atomic Wedgie! “All right, Angelo, I’ll look into this David Ferrie character,” you reply. “But first, I need to call my dad and let him know I’m leaving town.” You use the Altair Society’s sole phone to call your dad. “Hey, Dad,” you say when he answers, “it’s me.” “Who?” he replies, confused. “Me,” you answer, annoyed, “your child.” After a moment of silence, he asks hesitantly, “Katie?” Ugh! What a nimrod! “It’s your son, Dad!” you say in exasperation. “Listen, I’m going to Houston to investigate a lead. It’s a long shot, but my sources say this guy knew Oswald, and may have even framed him for the shooting. His name is David Ferrie.” “Ferrie?” he replies. “Is this about the library card?” “Library card?” you ask. “What library card, Dad?” “The ... one we found ... in the wallet?” he answers hesitantly. “Of the guy what shot the ... President?” YOWSERS! You gasp, “Wait! You found a library card for David Ferrie in Lee Harvey Oswald’s wallet, Dad?” But before he can answer, the phone goes dead! Then you realize: Dr. Vivalzi just hung it up! “You can’t tell him about this!” she says fearfully. “Half the police force is mobbed up! They’ll give Ferrie the drop!” Wow! It sounds like maybe Angelo’s lead was hotter than you knew! David Ferrie and Oswald clearly still know each other—and perhaps intimately. You wouldn’t trust just anyone with your library card, right? They might check out books without returning them on time—or worse! ------------ You turn to Angelo, now excited. “It sounds like we may be on to something, Angelo! I’m ready to go after him!” “This is madness!” Professor Coppens moans. Dr. Vivalzi agrees, saying, “Angelo, he’s just a boy—” “I may be just a boy,” you reply confidently, “but I know a thing or two about solving crimes. I can do this!” Angelo claps your shoulder, “Attaboy, kid! But listen—David Ferrie’s no daisy. He’s a cold-blooded psychopath. If I were you, I’d go in disguise, wearing a wire. We just need his confession on tape, not a citizen’s arrest, and—” Dr. Vivalzi jumps up in protest. “No, Angelo! It’s too dangerous!” Then she turns to Joab. “Send him with a spy kit, Joab—let him try to bug Ferrie from a safe distance!” Agent Joab brings a hand to his chin. He looks almost wistful. Then he looks at you and says, “It’s your choice, Detective. I wasn’t much older than you when I donned my first disguise. It can be exciting—but make no mistake, you’ll be putting yourself in real danger. If you’d rather not risk it, well, I’ve got a trunk full of spy gear. It’d be nice for it to get used on a noble mission for a change.” Everyone turns to you, awaiting your answer. What a dilemma! You’ve never donned a disguise to solve a mystery before, but then again, you’ve never investigated a murder, unless you count The Case of the Exsanguinated Hamster! Something tells you that if Ferrie gets the drop on you, you’ll have worse things than atomic wedgies to worry about. Maybe you should play it safer, and go as a spy instead? What do you want to do?
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Apr 29, 2015 19:59
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“All right,” you reply. “I’ll go in disguise. But as who?” Angelo breaks into a huge smile, laughing. “Why, as a Mafia delivery boy, of course!” “A delivery boy?” you ask in shock. “Delivering what?” He picks up the files you filched from Evidence Control, “Police reports of shooters engaged in target practice in Dealey Plaza. Trust you me, Ferrie’s gonna want these!” Joab’s eyes light up. “I’ve got to admit, Angelo—that’s brilliant. While you and Vivalzi get him in disguise, I’ll take photos of these reports for Altair records. I still think this assassination has CIA fingerprints all over it, but Ferrie, well, he’s in bed with the Mob, the CIA, and worse. And a Mafia delivery boy with incriminating reports may be just the key we need to get him to talk.” An hour later, with your hair dyed black, a Grundig TK40 tape deck taped to your stomach, and a Mafia delivery-boy outfit that looks as Italian as spaghetti and meatballs, you’re ready to board a bus to Houston and crack this case wide open! Angelo sizes you up with a smile, “Well, you sure look like a Mafia delivery boy. But how’s your Italian accent?” Without skipping a beat, you begin gesticulating wildly with your hands as you half-shout, “My name-ah is-ah Mario! Now-ah that’s-ah spicy meat-ah-ball-ah!” “That’s super, Mario,” he says, “My own mother would think you were from the old country. Let’s get you on a bus!”  It’s a dark and stormy night, and the bus ride to Houston seems to take forever. The prospect of going undercover to penetrate the Mob has you trembling with excitement—or is it terror? Clever disguises, false identities and hidden tape decks are tools that BIG TIME detectives use every day—and now, it looks like you’re one of them! Eat that, Jenni Mudd! you muse to yourself. To help pass the time, you slip into the bathroom of the giant Scenicruiser bus to record a few mic tests with the painfully heavy tape deck hidden under your shirt. “A-hello-ah!” you say, speaking towards your chest. “My name-ah is-a Mario! And I’m-a gonna stomp-ah you goombahs and a-solve-ah this-a murder-ah! Here we gooo!” You play it back. It’s crystal clear! But the Grundig weighs thirty pounds, and the batteries burn hot when you’re using it. So you decide to give it a rest, return to your seat and devise a plan for fooling David Ferrie into a confession. ------------ Sometime after midnight, with the storm still raging, the bus pulls into the beautiful art deco Greyhound bus depot in Houston. You sprint through heavy sheets of rain towards the entrance. Lightning bolts flash, freezing a million drops of water around you in midair. You get soaked! Luckily, a cab waits under the covered cab stand. The grizzled cabbie barely glances at you in the mirror, drawling in bored annoyance, “So where we goin’?” “To-ah the Alamont-ah hotel-ah,” you reply. “And step-ah on it-ah! I gotta hot-ah delivery-ah for-ah a wiseguy-ah! And he don’t like-ah to be kep-ah-ta waiting-ah, capisce?” He capisces, all right! In a matter of seconds, his taxi is flying at the speed of sound through the torrential Houston rains. You’re there in minutes. You leap out of the car and race once again through the rain, this time into the warm, dry respite of the Alamont Hotel lobby. A dark-haired beauty at the front desk smiles as you enter, “Wow—you really got soaked out there, sir!” “Mamma mia!” you reply, in your utterly authentic Italian accent. “It’sa tempest-ah outta there-ah!” She hands you a clean towel from behind the desk, then asks brightly, “Do you have a reservation, sir?” “Ah, no-ah!” you reply, totally cool. “I have-ah a special delivery-ah, for a mister-ah David Ferrie-ah.” She checks her reservation book, then frowns. “I’m sorry—it looks like Mr. Ferrie hasn’t arrived yet. Would you like to wait for him here in the lobby?” Then she smiles, tucking a loose strand of her thick, black Italian hair behind her ear. “Or you could wait with me in the bar? I’m going on break—I’d love some company.” Wow—she’s really cute! And even a thickie like your dad could figure out she’s flirting with you! But what to do? You have time to kill—why not pass it with a beautiful girl? Well?
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May 1, 2015 04:33
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 If I’m going to have to wait around until Ferrie shows up, you tell yourself, why not do it with a beautiful girl? You offer her a mischevious wink and reply, “You make-ah it sound-ah so good-ah! I don’t-ah suppose a little drink-ah would-ah hurt-ah none-ah. Let’s-ah go, principessa!” She offers a devilish smile back. “Let’s!” A minute later, you’re sitting on a worn, red leather barstool beside Texas’ answer to Sophia Loren! She raises a manicured finger to flag the burly, olive-skinned bartender. “Mitch,” she says, “two Hurricane Carlas, pronto.” He eyes you skeptically, then says, “I’m not sure your little friend here could handle it, Francesca.” He turns to you. “What say I whip you up something a little more your style? Shirley Temple, rocks?” He lets out a bullying cackle. “Oh, Mitch, lay off.” Francesca says. “I’m sure he’s more than man enough for a little drink.” She turns and looks at you expectantly, placing a hand on your knee. Her blue-green eyes sparkle like the Mediterranean Sea, beckoning you to dive into them. Zowie! What a dilemma! You’ve never had an alcoholic beverage in your life, and aren’t sure you should start while in the middle of a super-secret spy mission. But then again, if you order the Shirley Temple, you’ll look like a wimp! Mitch the bartender shrugs and whips up two Hurricane Carlas on the spot, serving you both a red-orange concoction in a surprisingly small glass. He garnishes yours with a pink paper umbrella in an obvious insult to your masculinity. Eager to disabuse them both of any notions of your wimpiness, you throw back the minuscule drink as if it were a cup of milk. To your surprise, it tastes sweet and tropical, like there was hardly alcohol in it at all! Maybe there’s not? “Ahhhhh,” you sigh happily, “how-ah refreshing-ah!” And that’s when Hurricane Carla hits you with the full force of the nightmarish storm that devastated the Texas coast only two years ago! The room is spinning madly! You feel as if you just got off the world’s fastest Tilt-a-Whirl! You grip the bar to hold yourself in place, only to discover you’ve already lost your balance and are tumbling backwards off the stool and onto the dirty red berber carpet of the hotel bar. The full weight of the Grundig smashes into your belly, causing you to scream out in agony, “Oh, my stomach!” In your inebriated confusion, you forgot to maintain your super authentic Italian accent! The gorgeous hotel clerk is suddenly at your side on the floor—feeling the bulging spy apparatus hiding underneath your shirt. She turns to Mitch the bartender, spitting out some unknowable command in Italian. Then Mitch pulls out a snubnosed .38 and levels it right between your eyes, replying, “It’s-ah my pleasure-ah!” It occurs to you that maybe the reason the carpets are red is so they won’t show blood. Good guess. YOU FAILED TO FIND WHO KILLED JOHN F KENNEDY...
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May 1, 2015 18:02
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You reply, “I’m-a so sorry-ah, some other time-ah, eh?” She sighs, disappointed, and heads off to the bar alone. You plant yourself on a long, blue twill couch in the lobby, your eyes watching the hotel entrance like a hawk. The storm rages unabated outside, thunderbolts booming from nearby lightning strikes every minute or two. Occasionally, suspicious-looking figures in shiny pinstripes push through the revolving door. But hours pass, and still no sign of Ferrie. You’re beginning to nod off, exhausted from this seemingly never-ending day, when a frightening-looking fellow with huge, painted-on black eyebrows pushes fast through the revolving door. His red wig is soaked and crooked. It looks like a guinea pig died on his head! He’s followed by two handsome younger fellows, both with suitcases. They head straight to the front desk, and in less than a minute, the desk clerk is handing them a key. You decide to tail them from a distance as they head up the stairs. By the time you’re on the second floor, Ferrie and his crew are already heading into their room. You can hear the chain-lock being set from here. You approach the door, pausing only to lift your shirt and hit the RECORD button. The batteries warm quickly— it’s on! Through the door, a muffled exchange is underway. You raise a hand and rap twice, and in five seconds, you’re standing face to terrifying face with the target. “Mr. Ferrie-ah,” you reply, “I’m-a here to see you-ah.” “Who are you?!” he roars, with breath that smells like bourbon and cigarettes. “What do you want?!” It’s only now you notice he has a .38 Special tucked in the front of his pants, with his right hand resting on it! You can say you're his friend, or say you're here for a delivery from Fanucci.
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May 2, 2015 15:45
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You put on your best Mafia tough-guy face and glare back, replying with a menacing whisper, “My name-ah is Mario. And you, Mr. Ferrie-ah, need-ah to show a little-ah more-ah respect-ah for our friend-ah Mr. Fanucci-ah.” His eyes go wide with surprise, and he pulls you into the hotel room. He turns to his two younger accomplices and tells them, “Al, Melvin—give us a minute, all right?” Without a word, the two leave the room. It’s only you and Ferrie now. He pulls the gun from his pants and lays it on a dirty tabletop nearby. “Sorry, sorry, just a little jumpy, that’s all. Crazy day,” he says, taking a breath. “So what do you got for me?” You open your briefcase and pull out the police reports. “Special delivery-ah,” you reply, “from-ah your friends in-ah the Dallas-ah Police-ah Department. I mean, Department-ah.” He takes the reports from you with lightning speed and starts reading them. But then, the suspicion returns to his face. “Why would I care about some, some kooks play-shooting in Dealey Plaza? I got nothing to do with that madness up there— they caught the guy, right? That Castro-lover? I’m down here to look at a skating rink, that’s all!” Then you drop the bomb. “Mr. Ferrie-ah. We found-ah your library card in Mr. Oswald’s wallet-ah. So, I am thinking, you maybe should-ah drop-ah the pretense-ah. We are, ah, ‘ow you say—on-ah the same-ah team-ah, no?” David Ferrie’s eyes go wide with panic—the color drains from his face. He’s shaking with outright terror. “No, no, no! That’s—oh! Hell! Lee, you stupid son of a bitch!” he stammers, now clearly desperate. “You, you gotta help me get that card! You gotta!” You nod sympathetically, “Yes-ah, we are-ah working on that right-ah now. We can’t-ah have Mr. Oswald tied to the man-ah who was-ah only hours ago sitting beside Mr. Marcello in a courtroom-ah, no?” David Ferrie lets out a horrified wail. His defenses are finally down—now it’s time to get your confession and go! “Mr. Ferrie-ah, we are-ah gonna make-ah this go away,” you reply gently, “but you didn’t-ah make it easy-ah.” Ferrie nods, sweat pouring down his head, “I know, I know—that card! How could I be so stupid?!” “In-ah the Old Country,” you say, “when-ah we frame a patsy for a killing-ah, as you did-ah Mr. Oswald, we make-ah sure we cover our tracks-ah. Not-ah leave a road-map in his-ah pocket that leads right-ah back-ah to Mr. Marcello-ah.” Ferrie breaks into tears, “I know, I know—I thought I’d covered everything!” Then, just as fast, the anger returns. “But our guys on the force were s’posed to pop Lee in the theater!? What the hell happened there?” Wow! They’d even planned to have mobbed-up cops kill Oswald! You’re getting great stuff on tape! “He will be-ah taken care of, soon-ah,” you bluff. “Yeah, yeah— I know,” he says, “Jack’s on it.” Yikes! So the Mob’s already got a hitman assigned? You’ll have to call your dad and warn him Oswald is in danger! You’ve got all you need on tape—time to get out! “Mr. Ferrie-ah, don’t worry,” you say, in the voice of an old, dear friend. “We are-ah gonna fix this-ah. Nobody is-ah gonna know-ah that Mr. Kennedy was-ah killed by-ah the Mafia. But next time, try-ah not-ah to be-ah so sloppy-ah, eh? More-ah headaches for all of us-ah— who needs it, eh?” Ferrie closes his eyes and lets out a relieved sigh. “You’re right, Mario. You’re right. Next time. No mistakes.” You turn to go. Suddenly, Ferrie races forward and embraces you in obvious gratitude! You hear a click—then the telltale sound of a tape rewinding. He recoils from you in sudden horror! Then his hands dart out to feel your stomach. Your own voice booms loudly from your gut, “My name-ah is-a Mario! And I’ma gonna stomp-ah you goombahs and a-solve-ah this-a murder-ah! Here we gooo!” Ferrie staggers back in horror— then grabs his .38! Mamma mia! Looks like it’s game over for you, Mario!  Maybe if you had done things differently, it would have worked out. But what?
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May 3, 2015 16:47
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“I want to talk to the suspect, Dad,” you declare, not missing a beat. “Political assassins almost always brag about their crimes. So why doesn’t this Oswald?” “He’s not bragging because he’s not guilty! He’s been framed!” Dr. Vivalzi exclaims as she storms out of the room. Fanucci shakes his head. “Poor Vivalzi. Always with the conspiracies. Come on, kid, let’s go see Oswald.” He again leads you through the swarms of reporters and cops, every so often clapping a policeman on the shoulder or hailing a familiar newsman. He seems to know everyone! As you reach the door to the interrogation room, a balding, stocky fellow approaches Fanucci. They shake hands in a peculiar, ritualized fashion—then Fanucci turns to you. “Okay, kid, looks like he’s talkin’ to FBI Agent Hosty now,” Fanucci says. “Once they’re done, you can take a shot at him,” he chuckles, then winks, “so to speak.” He leads you into the dark room. Seated at a small wooden table is a wiry, intense-looking fellow sporting a rumpled t-shirt and a black eye. Standing next to him is a tall man with slicked-back black hair. A few homicide detectives, in their trademark white cowboy hats, keep a respectful distance from the interrogation. So, too, do a handful of grim-faced Secret Service men. Oswald glares at the tall, nervous man nearest him, then says, “You have been at my home two or three times now, Agent Hosty, talking to my wife. I don’t appreciate your coming when I was not there.” As if that wasn’t strange enough, he adds, after a tactical pause, “And you never responded to my request, Agent. To the note I left for you at your FBI office last week.” The color drains from Hosty’s face as Oswald breaks into a smirk. Detectives in the room shoot uncomfortable glances to Fanucci, who offers a tiny, pathetic shrug in response. The silence is deafening.*  Your young detective’s mind reels in shock! What could this possibly mean? The Dallas FBI was already in repeated contact with the wife of the suspected assassin of President Kennedy? How could that be? And could it really be true—that Lee Harvey Oswald hand-delivered a note to the FBI just days before the assassination? And if so, what on earth did it say? You’re eager to ask questions—but now, you’re not even sure who should be interrogated first! Do you want to ask Hosty about the note, or simply ask Oswald outright if he killed John F Kennedy? *AGENT HOSTY - It’s true. Oswald really did have contact with the Dallas FBI prior to Kennedy’s shooting, and made mention of the note he’d left for James Hosty days prior during an interrogation which included Hosty. Hoover was furious about it, worrying that this might suggest Oswald was an FBI informant. Many believe he actually was. corn in the bible fucked around with this message at 22:47 on May 4, 2015 |
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May 4, 2015 22:06
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Forgot to add in the footnote, which this book inexplicably does have.
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May 4, 2015 22:48
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You turn to Lee Harvey Oswald and ask, “Did you kill the President?” “No,” he replies, “I’ve not been charged with that. In fact, nobody has said that to me yet. I did not do it—I didn’t shoot anyone. I’m still waiting for someone to come forward to give me legal assistance.” “Wait a minute,” you say to Oswald in surprise. “You don’t even have a lawyer yet?” He shakes his head, clearly annoyed. You turn to Sergeant Fanucci. “We can’t interrogate a suspect who has been denied legal representation. That’s a Constitutional right.” Oswald chimes in again, his irritation obvious, “As I’ve said, I’d like to be represented by Mr. John Abt with the ACLU. I don’t know him personally, but—”* “But if he’s good enough to represent the Communist Party of the USA, he’s good enough for you, right?” Fanucci says, to a chorus of bitter chuckles. Suddenly, the door opens. Oswald is led out of the room, surrounded by several officers. As he enters the hallway, reporters start barking out questions. “What’s going on?” you ask Fanucci. “It’s time for his lineup—with a witness who saw him shoot our guy J.D. Tippit. Don’t worry, kid, this won’t take long,” he replies, leading you out of the room. Sergeant Fanucci leads you to a dark room in the basement with a large, one-way screen set up in the far wall. A few cops are here, gathered around a TV set, watching the news. But one younger officer stands nearby, talking with a dark-haired, terrified-looking middle-aged woman who must surely be the witness. Ugh—she reeks of ammonia! The officer addresses her gently, “Just to confirm, Mrs. Markham. You’re on the record as describing the man who shot Officer Tippit as being short, stocky, and bushy-haired—with a ruddy complexion, correct?” “Yes, that’s right, yes!” she says, bursting into tears.  On the other side of the screen, a door opens. A line of four men enter the room. The first, third, and last man in the line are each clean-cut and well-dressed. But Oswald, in the second position, is a dishevelled wreck. He sports a fresh shiner over an eye, abrasions on his face, and a wrinkled white t-shirt. He’s even cuffed to the men on either side!  Mrs. Markham, shaking violently, is unable to speak. The young officer places a gentle arm over her shoulder and says, “It’s OK. They can’t see you. Just tell me if you recognize the man that you saw shoot Officer Tippit.” She stares at the line-up for several seconds, then shakes her head, crying even harder. Sergeant Fanucci looks over towards the television set and breaks into his strange smile, “Well, well. Looky there ...” On the TV, news footage shows the rumpled suspect being led through the halls by police. Mrs. Marhkam watches and listens as the suspect is identified. Then she turns and through teary eyes points unsteadily at Suspect #2. The young officer writes in his clipboard. “Let the record show that Mrs. Helen Markham has identified one Lee Harvey Oswald as the shooter of Officer Tippit,” he says. You can’t believe what’s happening! This is an obvious farce—they might as well have hung a sign over his neck reading “THE KILLER”!‡ Will you complain about Fanucci leading the witness, or say nothing? *JOHN ABT - Officers present for Oswald’s many interrogations did not record them, but did summarize some details in notes. He reportedly said, “I want that attorney in New York, Mr. Abt. I don’t know him personally but I know about a case that he handled some years ago, where he represented the people who had violated the Smith Act...” Abt spent most of his career as chief counsel for the American Communist Party. ‡THE FIRST LINE-UP - Helen Markham was a key witness to the Tippit shooting, but proved profoundly unstable, producing erratic and contradictory descriptions of the suspect, and often bursting into hysteria. She was sedated with ammonia to calm her nerves. Despite the fact that Oswald was handcuffed between two suited officers, and sported bruises on his face from a recent scuffle, Markham still had difficulty identifying him as the person she saw shoot Officer Tippit.
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May 5, 2015 21:35
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This whole line-up looks like a clear-cut case of witness tampering. But something tells you to stay quiet about it. Oswald, however, can’t help but protest. “You know what you’re doing—you’re trying to railroad me,” he says angrily. “You’re doing me an injustice by putting me out here dressed different than these other men. This isn’t fair!” The men cuffed on either side of him begin dragging him towards the exit. They’re obviously plainclothes cops! “I know my rights. Why can’t I speak to a lawyer?” he complains as he’s led out of the basement. The whole scene is too much for the witness. Helen Markham breaks into another round of hysterical crying. This time, it’s Fanucci who comforts her. “It’s all right. You did good,” Fanucci tells her gently. “You won’t have to see him again. I promise.” “Oh yes she will,” you say, to no one in particular. “When she takes the witness stand in Oswald’s trial.” Fanucci shoots you a strange look, then smiles. “Oh, right. Sure.” She again bursts into tears, and he escorts her out of the room. The rest of the cops clear out, too, leaving you alone with your thoughts. But then it suddenly hits you. The murder of President Kennedy will be the highest-profile trial in American history. If the Dallas police are tampering with witnesses and denying Oswald his basic right to an attorney, they’re running the risks of jail time and even a possible mistrial! But maybe they don’t plan to let this ever go to trial? the keen detective’s voice in your head muses. After all, Vivalzi said Oswald wasn’t even guilty—he was being framed. Which would explain a lot. But if it’s true that Oswald is just an innocent man being framed, he may be in danger of more than staged line-ups! You rush upstairs to your dad’s office. ------------ Your father is staring blankly into space when you rush into his office. His lips are moving silently. “Dad!” you blurt out. “I have reason to believe Oswald’s life may be in danger!” Your father startles to life. “Who’s Oswald?” Argh! “The suspect!” you reply. “Lee Harvey Oswald? The guy accused of killing President Kennedy?” A voice from behind asks, “Why would you say that?” You turn to see Fanucci, standing in the doorway, wearing that strange smile of his. You try to stay cool. “Well, Sergeant,” you say, “there’s a lot of angry people out there, right? They want blood. What if one of them decides to kill Oswald right out in the halls?” “You got a good point, kid,” he replies. “I’ll make sure we have extra cops around him while he’s in the station. We’d hate for something to happen to him.” Then he puts an arm over your shoulder and gives you a painfully strong squeeze. “Meanwhile,” he says to your father, “Looks like we’ve got our man, Chief. We probably oughta let your son here head home? Take care of Mom and that lovely sister?” Your father surfaces from his idiotic stupor long enough to agree, saying, “Oh. Yes. Right. Tell your mother we’ve, uh, you know... got our man.” It’s really obvious now that Fanucci wants you out of the way. Now you’re even more worried that Oswald’s life might be in danger! But without your dad’s blessing, you won’t be welcome at the station. What should you do? Bike home and ask Mom for advice Get a ride from Dad Go ahead and quit the case like Fanucci suggested
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May 7, 2015 18:35
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You exit the police station to see the purple haze of dusk. You hop on your bike and pedal the dark miles home. Your mother greets you at the door with teary eyes and a long, loving hug. She’s waited up for you, and has a warm dinner and hot chocolate set out. “Son, what did you learn today?” she asks quickly. “Your father’s been incoherent, as usual. The TV reports are peculiar, to say the least. But I know you must know more by now. What really happened, son?” “Mom, you won’t believe what’s going on up there!” you reply. You then recount the day’s events in crisp detail: the FBI note, the rigged line-up, along with every other suspicious detail you can recall. She listens intently, piecing it together as you go. When you’ve finished, she surprises you with some facts of her own. “I think you’re on to something, son,” she says. “I spoke with Jenni Mudd’s mom, Linda, earlier today. She said Jenni spent the day in Dealey Plaza—” “Oh man! Jenni’s on the case, too?” you cry, annoyed. “Yes,” she says, “She interviewed dozens of witnesses at the crime scene. Linda said she’s even planning to write a book about it! Most witnesses said they heard shots come from behind the Plaza fence. Some even saw gun smoke.” “Unbelievable!” you blurt out, “But if there were shooters behind the fence, why are they pinning it all on Oswald?” “Tonight on TV, he said he was just a patsy. But if that’s true, then he really is in danger, son,” your mother says, squeezing your hand. “Tomorrow morning, I want you to go back up there and keep investigating this.” “But Sergeant Fanucci said I was off the case!” you say. “I’ll get you back on it, don’t you worry,” she replies. You look at her skeptically. “But how, Mom?” “You forget. I sleep with the Chief of Police.” “Oh, Mom! Eewwwwwwwwwwww.” She laughs heartily for the first time today. After the day you’ve had, you can’t imagine a lovelier sound.  Exhausted by the events of the day, you collapse on your bed, eager for a reprieve from all your stresses. Yet sleep proves no escape at all, as your dreams that night are haunted by visions of murder and intrigue. You’re riding in the Presidential limousine, waving to throngs of enthusiastic fans on a sunny Dallas day. Your lovely wife, Jenni Mudd (!), sits beside you in the car, wearing a pink Chanel suit and matching pillbox hat—and she’s holding a bouquet of black roses. As the limo turns from Houston onto Elm, it passes in front of the School Book Depository. You see Oswald standing in the doorway, watching you pass. His expression, unlike everyone else in the crowd, is one of pure terror. He’s calling out to you, but you can’t hear him over the din of the crowd. As you drive slowly towards the grassy knoll, you see a black silhouette behind the fence. He’s wearing a Jughead paper crown. It’s your archenemy, Slugs O’Toole! He’s pointing his pellet gun at you! Suddenly, everyone in the crowd pulls out rifles and handguns and begins firing at you in unison! ------------ You awake the next morning soaked in a cold sweat. Wait a minute—that’s not sweat! Oh, no! You wet the bed for the first time in years! It’s almost as if your subconscious mind is warning you to drop the case—or else. Just as you begin to collect your thoughts, your mother enters your room with the good news. “You’re back on the case, son!” she beams. “Your father had a change of heart and decided perhaps there’s more to this crime than meets the eye!” With a kiss on your cheek, she leaves you to your thoughts. And your pee-stained sheets. Will you run straight to the police station, or stick around and change your sheets?
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May 8, 2015 17:26
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You decide you should probably go ahead and change your pee-stained sheets before you leave. After all, you don’t want your mom to find think you’ve started wetting the bed again like a baby! You begin pulling off the wet, yellow sheets and crumpling them into a ball. But before you can finish the job, you hear the door creaking open behind you! “Just a second, Mom!” you say, as you scrunch up the sheets tightly. Ugh! You really soaked them good! “Hey, Turtleneck!” a voice from behind says. Drat! It’s Jenni Mudd! Your longtime rival in detective work! And she’s in your bedroom! You try to turn as nonchalantly as possible as she continues talking. She says with a bright smile, “Your mom said I could ... come up ... and...” Her eyes narrow as she examines the ball of bed dressing in your hands. She raises a curious eyebrow, then asks, “So, what are you doing?” You can see the wheels turning in her keen detective mind! Double-drat! You’ll have to think fast! You’re not sure, but you think she might have caught a glimpse of the yellow stains on your sheets. Or did she? What will you say to her? “Oh, nothing. I’m about to go back up to the station and solve the crime” “Ugh. I’m doing the laundry. My dog peed on my bed again”
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May 10, 2015 16:21
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“Oh, nothing,” you reply with a casual shrug. “My dog Muffin, she sleeps on my bed sometimes. And last night, I guess she decided to relieve herself, too.” Jenni laughs, and offers a commiserating nod. “Yeah, our dog J. Edgar just goes wherever he wants, too.” You laugh back as you unobtrusively drop the sheets into your dirty clothes bin. “You named your dog after the Director of the FBI?” She replies, “Yeah. My dad says they both poop wherever they want and let other people clean up after!” She bought it! Maybe she’s not as smart as you thought! You let out a big laugh, intrigued by the implications. Maybe Lee Harvey Oswald’s note to the FBI is yet another mess Hoover expects other people to clean up? Jenni then shrugs and says, “Well, why don’t I wait for you downstairs? But hurry up, OK? You won’t believe what I learned at Dealey yesterday. I was telling my dad about it; he said I could write a book! He knows people in publishing, and they love kid detective stories! Imagine!” She then gives you a smug smile and slips back out. A book deal? Oh, no! If she gets one of those, she’ll never let you hear the end of it! You finish getting ready, and are about to head downstairs when you remember the dirty clothes bin. Gotta keep the ruse up, you think, as you grab the dirty laundry bin. When you make it back downstairs, you find your mother and Jenni talking on the couch in the living room. Jenni notices you and smiles. You nod quietly back, heading straight to the laundry room to get rid of the incriminating evidence. ------------ “Son, come in here!” your mom shouts. “Jenni found some amazing clues in Dealey Plaza yesterday!” “Sure, Mom, just let me drop this laundry in the wash!” you call back as you beeline to the washer and dryer. You pull open the clothes washer and dump in your sheets. Whew! Case closed! You wash your hands in the kitchen sink, and head back to the living room. Your mom shoots you a grateful smile. “So nice to have a little help on the laundry for a change!” Uh-oh, she’s at risk of blowing your cover! Thinking fast, you shrug, “Well, Mom, I think Muffin did a little bit of business on my bed last night.” Your mom’s expression becomes quizzical. “Really? That’s strange, she’s been—” “So, Jenni!” you quickly interrupt. “Tell me about these clues you picked up.” Jenni’s eyes narrow as she keys off your anxiety. “Sure. But do you mind if I meet Muffin first? I do love dogs so.” “Oh, of course, Jenni!” replies your mom. She turns and calls out in a clear, musical voice, “MUFF-in! Here, girl!” You hear the telltale jingle of her aluminum collar tags as she rushes into the room and right up on your mother’s lap. All five heaping pounds of her. Jenni sidles up to her, scratching under her chin. “Oh, I love chihuahuas!” she exclaims. “You’re so tiny!” Eager to shift her attentions back to her favorite subject, you ask, “So, Jenni. What’s this I hear about a book deal?” She stands up and says, “Yes, it’s very exciting!” Then she remembers something. “Oh, can you hold that thought? I’ve got something I want to show you both.” Whew. Close call! She excuses herself and leaves the room. Your mom smiles at you warmly. “I know you’re not her biggest fan, but I think she’s a real doll! If you two got together, you might give birth to the next Sherlock Holmes!” “Ewww!” you reply, to her guffaws. ------------ After a minute or so, Jenni returns to the living room. And to your absolute horror, she’s got your balled-up bedsheets in her hand! OH, NO! “Jenni!” your mom says sharply. “What on earth are you doing with my son’s sheets?” Jenni looks back at her apologetically. “I’m really sorry about this, ma’am, it’s just that ... when he told me upstairs that his dog wet his bed, I didn’t give it a second thought. But then I met Muffin—cute little Muffin—and wondered, ‘Could such a tiny dog really do THIS?’” She opens the sheets—to reveal the gigantic pee stains that cover it from end nearly to end! Your Mother gasps, horrified. “Son! Did you really try to frame sweet Muffin for one of your own misdeeds?” This is worse than your nightmare! At least you DIED in that one! “I’m sorry, Mom!” you reply in humiliation. “I had a nightmare—about JFK! All these disturbing clues! I must’ve wet the bed! And then Jenni came in and I panicked!” As your mother glares at you, Jenni shoots you the smuggest look possible. Then she asks you, in an annoyingly sweet voice, “I know it’s not really my place, but do you really think you should be investigating a murder, when you’re so willing to frame innocents for crimes they didn’t commit?” Your mother nods resolutely, and replies, “She’s absolutely right, son! If you can’t be trusted with little things, then how can you be trusted with giant ones?” And with that, you’re off the case—AND grounded for a month! This couldn’t possibly have turned out worse! As you ruminate, humiliated, about this undignified end over the coming days, your keen detective mind can’t help but wonder if YOU were another mess Hoover wanted cleaned up, and Jenni was the one doing the job for him!  After a few days, you reluctantly decide to call Jenni up and ask what her investigation unearthed. To your surprise, her father, the FBI agent, answers the call. When he hears it’s you on the line, he erupts in hearty laughter, then calls out, “Jennifer, call for you.” In the distance, you hear her ask, “Who is it, Dad?” “Betsy Wetsy!” he says, with an even heartier laugh. After a few seconds, she picks up the phone. “Hey, Turtleneck,” she says. “Sorry about that.” You try to sound casual, ignoring the slight, and ask, “So, my mom took me off the case. But you’re still on it, right? Have you learned anything? I’m dying to know.” “Actually,” she replies, “my dad took me off it, too. Said it was pretty open and shut. Oswald did it. Alone.” You want to argue—about the rigged lineup, the prior contact between Oswald and FBI Agent Hosty—but you know it’s hopeless. You appeal to her ego, instead. “But what about your book deal?” you ask. “With your keen detective mind, I figured you’d crack this wide open, and become America’s most famous child sleuth.” She laughs, then says, “Funny you should mention it. I still have the book deal. I pitched them on a series, though. A clever schoolgirl detective. Her wisecracking FBI dad. With all the cases I’ve solved, I figured, the books would just write themselves, right? I’ll send you a copy, Turtleneck.” ------------ A few months later, you get a copy in the mail. As does everyone in your class at school. As if that wasn’t bad enough, her Annie Grimes series becomes a blockbuster hit, too—selling millions of copies to kids across America and earning Jenni fortune and fame. Ugh! But it earns you a little something, too. Thanks to her immortalization of your botched puppy frame-up job in her debut book Annie Grimes and the Case of the Framed Chihuahua, you become almost as famous as Jenni Mudd and her thinly-veiled proxy, Annie Grimes. For she’s incorporated a thinly veiled proxy of YOU into the books—as the hapless, bumbling, would-be rival to Annie Grimes. The son of an incompetent Chief of Police, a boy both incompetent AND incontinent. For the rest of your life, your friends no longer call you “Turtleneck.” They call you “Betsy Wetsy.” And you live a long, long time.  GAME OVER
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May 12, 2015 19:10
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Your urine-soaked sheets can wait—there’s a crime to solve! You change clothes, then bike straight back to the police station. But to your dismay, the FBI has taken over! They’re putting all the evidence on a plane and shipping it to DC. Even worse, they seem even more eager to pin all the blame on Oswald than the Dallas cops were! You try to interest them in witness reports of shooters behind the Plaza fence and witness tampering. But nobody cares. “Stay out of the way,” one grim-faced fed tells you, “or we’ll arrest you for interfering in a federal investigation.” Defeated, you retire to your father’s office. As you sit down, dejected, you noticed a handwritten note on his desk. Chief: We got two calls last night you should be aware of. One to Sheriff McCoy (2:15 am), the other to Lieutenant Grammer (3:00 am). Both times the (same?) caller said Oswald dies in the basement tomorrow during the move to county jail—unless we change things up. You may want extra protection. Alveeta* It’s just as you feared! You have no idea who killed JFK, but it’s obvious Oswald is being set up to take all the blame, even for things he couldn’t possibly have done. Suddenly, the door opens! It’s your father—and he looks as relieved as you do worried. But before you can tell him of the death threats, his phone rings. He picks it up. “Hello? Oh, hey, honey,” he says, then his eyes bulge. “What? Are you serious? Well, yes, of course, dear...” He puts down the phone and looks at you, mystified. “That was your mother,” he says, looking stupefied. “She wants you off the case, and home. Now. Apparently, somebody peed in your bed last night? But who would do that? Ugh, another mystery to solve! When does it end?” What an idiot! You don’t know what’s worse, your shame at wetting the bed, or being the spawn of the world’s dumbest detective. But either way, your off the case. And you’re in big trouble. Urine big trouble, indeed! GAME OVER *DEATH THREATS - Both the Dallas Police and FBI offices received death threats the night before Oswald’s transfer. Lieutenant Billy Grammer reported receiving an anonymous call he later realized was from Jack Ruby, stating, “You’re going to have to make some other plans or we’re going to kill Oswald right there in the basement.”
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May 15, 2015 17:00
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PleasingFungus posted:Alternately: “Ha, oh no-ah, you-ah misunderstand-ah,” you chuckle warmly. “I’m a friend-ah, here-ah to see you-ah.” Ferrie’s expression only darkens at your attempts to calm him with harmless chuckles. “How do you know my name, friend?!” he growls, his hand adjusting his wig, “and what are you laughing at?” He thinks you’re laughing at his wig! the keen detective inside you warns. Don’t look at it! You try to calm his nerves. “Oh-ah, I’m-ah thinking you must-ah be-ah a funny-ah guy, that’s all-ah. I have-ah important business to-ah discuss-ah with you-ah.” “I’m funny?” he replies, growing angrier, “Funny how? Like I’m a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh? HOW THE FUDGE AM I FUNNY?!” Only he didn’t say “fudge.” He said the F-word! He’s furious! He pulls his .38 out lightning fast—and in seconds, he’s shoving it in your face! You’ll have to calm him down! “No no no!” you reply as calmly as you can, “You-ah got it all-ah wrong-ah! I’m-ah no laughing at you-ah. I’m-ah here to bring-ah you something-ah, a gift, so to speak-ah.” He stares deeply into your eyes, trying to read you. And as he does, the wet, furry guinea pig pelt on his head slides completely off the side and onto the carpet. It looks so utterly absurd, sitting there on the ground like a dead rat. Despite your best efforts, a tiny laugh escapes your lungs. And with that, Ferrie makes his decision. BANG! On the bright side, at least you died with a smile on your face.
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May 15, 2015 21:42
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| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 00:23 |
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It’s a bright spring morning, and you’re standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on a picture-perfect summer day. You can hardly believe your eyes as you gaze out into the crowd—hundreds of thousands of your grateful countrymen, holding signs and waving flags. And they’ve all come to see YOU—the brilliant kid detective who risked all to solve the most impenetrable murder in history! You unravelled a conspiracy so complex, it tied rogue CIA agents with vengeful Mafia dons, angry Cuban exiles, duplicitous FBI agents, greedy munitions builders, Texas oilmen, disinfo specialists, and countless others! The Feds even had to build a new prison just to house them all. In a poignant irony, they called it the JFK Memorial Prison! The shocking revelations shook the country to its core, but today, Americans are celebrating. The crowd roars as President Robert F. Kennedy walks onto the dais. He grasps your hand, and whispers “Thank you, son,” before placing the Presidential Medal of Freedom around your neck. He steps to the microphone and clears his throat.  “My fellow Americans,” he says, in his Boston Irish accent, “today we are gathered to honor the bravery and dedication of this outstanding young man. Because of this boy’s extraordinary courage, we can now say that never again will murderers and traitors be allowed to escape justice with impunity. We can rest easy, knowing that the myriad evildoers who murdered my brother and attempted to destroy our democracy itself are now in prison, and will never again be free to unleash their terror on our nation!” The applause is deafening! You feel a hand on your shoulder. It’s Jackie Kennedy, and she’s crying. “Thank you,” she says. As you embrace her, you gaze out over her shoulder, to the crowd gathered before you. You see Americans of every race, every age, every income level, all cheering for you. In the distance, the sun shines on the Washington Monument. It’s a beautiful morning in the greatest country in the world, a nation with liberty and justice for all, such as it always was, and, thanks to the courage and honor of people like you, such as it always will be.
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May 23, 2015 00:54
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