The Warren Omissions Page 2

  Flynn got off at Navy Yard metro station and walked toward the address given to him by Mrs. Taylor. Flynn loved the Capitol Hill neighborhood since it served as a splendid smorgasbord of architecture. Several years ago, the city’s revitalization projection on 8th Street resulted in crafty restorations of older buildings and the introduction of more modern designs. Trendy restaurants and savvy boutique stores gulped up the available commercial sites and the bustle returned. That and well-lit streets attracted younger professionals and returned the area to its former glory. Based on what Flynn knew about the area, he expected to find a young woman in her mid- to late 20s. She likely either worked as a professional in D.C. or was attending law school like everyone else in this town.

  A stained oak door held the numbers for the address given to Flynn. He walked up the steps and grabbed the knocker held in the mouth of a cast iron lion.

  Flynn heard the clicking of heels on a hardwood floor before the drawn out creak of the solid door opening. Instantly, he surmised she was a young business professional. She wore her smooth dark hair up in a bun. Her plain gray skirt and non-descript white blouse were only accented by gray-patterned hose and burgundy heels. She appeared as if she had just arrived home from work.

  “Hi, Ms. Taylor. I’m James Flynn from The National .”

  “Please, won’t you come in?” she asked, gesturing inside.

  Flynn stepped through the doorway and held his coat in his hand. She offered to take it for him, suggesting this conversation was going to last a while. He wanted to make her comfortable with him and figured some small talk might be good

  In a short amount of time, Flynn’s pointed line of questioning revealed that Ms. Taylor worked as a curator at the Smithsonian’s National Science Museum, and had so for the past four years. She had recently graduated from George Washington University and decided to stay in America’s power city. Flynn guessed she was about twenty-eight years old, based on her graduation date, her time spent at the museum and her stint in Jordan with the Peace Corps.

  As captivating as her life might be, Flynn was really only interested in seeing if this document was worth the money he plunked down for the ticket to D.C.

  “So, tell me about this document, Ms. Taylor,” Flynn began.

  “Please, call me Emma,” she said.

  “Okay, Emma. What’s the story? Why call me?”

  Emma picked up a manilla folder and her hands began to tremble.

  “I called you because I didn’t know who else to call. After living in D.C. for about eight years now, I’ve learned to trust no one in this town.”

  “I understand. I’m sure your grandfather felt the same way,” Flynn added, trying to sound reassuring.

  “I also followed the story about you in the news several years ago—and I knew you could handle this information better than anyone else.”

  Flynn studied Emma’s eyes as they scanned the room nervously. Before the trip, Flynn had a good feeling about this evidence. Now, his hopes were sky high that this secret document that Emma held in her hand truly was something big and well worth the trip.

  “So, what is this?” Flynn asked, gesturing toward the folder.

  “This is something my grandfather left my father, but my father never opened it. In fact, this folder had been sitting in a safety deposit box for more than 35 years until I retrieved it recently. My father said that any secrets his dad had were the kind that get you killed—but I think that’s ridiculous. His dad worked for the CIA, so I guess it’s easy to understand why he was so easily spooked.”

  “Does anyone know about these files?”

  “Nobody but me and you. At least, I haven’t told anyone else about them.”

  Flynn was getting tired of waiting.

  “So, let’s take a peek. What are we looking at here?”

  Emma flipped open the folder, exposing a handful of CIA documents. The papers were dated 1963 and 1964, and the frayed edges and smeared ink confirmed that these documents were produced in the bygone era of carbon copies—stray marks on the page, arcane correction methods.

  Flynn couldn’t read fast enough, but he wanted an immediate summary. It didn’t take long for Emma to blurt it out.

  “These are papers from the CIA’s investigation in the JFK assassination.”

  Flynn’s heart sunk. He had spent weeks at the archives and had combed through thousands of documents in the JFK assassination collection—FBI files, CIA documents, reports from the House Select Committee on Assassinations. Most of the pieces seemed to be there, but there were always a few key pieces missing. Everyone who proposed they knew who the mastermind conspirator was behind JFK’s death always failed to definitively prove their theory. Some powerful person in the government was like the kid who hides two or three pieces of a puzzle so he can put the last pieces on the board—except these people never had any intention of letting anyone complete the puzzle. He expected this to lead nowhere.

  Flynn said nothing as he sifted through the files, trying to determine if this was just another expensive trip he wouldn’t be able to justify to his editor.

  “There’s this one strange graph in the back… I have no idea what it means,” she said, grabbing the last few sheets at the bottom of the pile of papers.

  She shoved them in front of Flynn. He instantly recognized the form. It was a polygraph test.

  At the top of the file was a handwritten name: “Gilberto Alvarado Ugarte.”

  Flynn knew all about Ugarte and his allegations in Mexico City in the days following the assassination of JFK. He began explaining to Emma how Ugarte claimed to have seen a man matching the description of Lee Harvey Oswald in Mexico City with a man in possession of a Canadian passport, as well as a “red-haired negro” two months prior to the assassination. It was a settled fact that Lee Harvey Oswald was in Mexico City on September 28, but Ugarte’s date was off by 10 days. The CIA quickly dismissed Ugarte’s testimony when he recanted, claiming that as an operative of the Nicaraguan military trying to infiltrate Mexico, he made up the claims to get in the good graces of the United States. He then recanted his initial recant, saying the Mexican government pressured him to recant his story. It all seemed like a rabbit trail until Mexican poet Elena Garro corroborated Ugarte’s story. She claimed to have seen Lee Harvey Oswald with the same company on the correct date. Garro was dismissed as a nut case and her eyewitness account was also dismissed in the initial report by the Warren Commission.

  Flynn concluded his explanation by glancing at the polygraph test in front of him. He put his hand to his mouth, expressing utter awe at the information divulged on the polygraph test. The polygraph affirmed that he was telling the truth on every question. But in the CIA’s official report, Ugarte was shown to have been lying on four questions:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ***

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

  “Hello?” Flynn said groggily.

  “Is this James Flynn?” a voice asked.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

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

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

  “Do you know a Ms. Emma Taylor?”

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

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

  “What?!”

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

  “Why in the world would you say that?”

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Are you ready to become President?

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

  CHAPTER 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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