Frame 232 (8 page)

SHEILA KNEW
there were plenty of other pressing matters to attend to, but she also knew she had no hope of focusing on them until she looked into this first.

She found Texas First National on Dearborn Street, just two blocks west of Federal. It was one of Dallas’s oldest financial institutions, or so said the motto that ran in gold letters across the front doors. The lobby was all green marble and walnut. The teller windows were on the left, the managers’ desks on the right. Only one was occupied
 
—by a heavyset man in a size-too-small navy suit, working at his computer. He had thinning black hair combed in a horizontal sweep over the top, and a doughy, boyish face.

As soon as he spotted Sheila, he smiled and rose. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Jay Gallagher. Can I help you with something?”

An eager beaver. He held his hand out, and Sheila took it. Cold and dry. His eyes ran shamelessly over her body.

She thought about turning around, walking back out, and forgetting about the box. Whatever was in there, she’d lived without it this long.

Instead, she heard herself say, “Yes, I have a safe-deposit box here.” She took the key from her pocket and showed it to him.

“Wow, that’s one of our older ones,” Gallagher said. “How long have you had it?” Before she had a chance to answer, he moved toward his desk and added, “Come on over here; take a seat.” He got behind the computer and opened a new screen. “What’s your name again?”

“Baker, Sheila Baker. But the box isn’t mine
 
—it belonged to my mom.”

“Okay, what was her name?”

“It was . . . Well, that doesn’t matter either. The box was maintained by the law firm of Henry Moore and Sons.” Mr. Moore had added the “and Sons” after his two boys
 
—Louis and Brian
 
—graduated from law school. They had since left to join other firms, in St. Louis and Denver respectively, but Henry had kept the name.

Gallagher continued typing, then stopped. “Did you say Moore and Sons?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“Well . . . are you from the firm?”

“No. Like I said, the box belonged to my mom, but they managed it for her.” Then she added, “She passed away recently.”

“Do you have any identification with you?”

“Sure.” She dug into her bag, found her wallet, and produced a driver’s license, Social Security card, and two credit cards.

He looked at each one closely. It struck her as being similar to the way he probably inspected bills that might be counterfeit.

“I also have this,” she said, taking out a large manila envelope. She found the form that transferred the box’s ownership,
with the fresh signatures at the bottom. Gallagher gave it the same meticulous scrutiny.

“Umm . . . are you aware how long this box has been under this ownership?”

“Since April of 1976.”

“That’s right, that’s right. . . . And do you know how many times it has been accessed?”

“Just once.” She made a point of saying this as if there were nothing unusual about it.

“Right.” He put his hands together and straightened up in a standard concerned-executive gesture. “I have to tell you, Ms. Baker, that we have often pondered the idea of starting an investigation concerning this box.”

“An investigation?”

“Yes. We’ve never had a safe-deposit box sit untouched for such a long period. I’ve been with this bank sixteen years, and never once have I seen anyone access it. Yes, the Moore firm has paid the fee each year. But no one has touched it.”

“I guess my mother never had anything else to put in it.”

Gallagher was eyeing her differently now. She felt like a murder suspect.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Okay, well . . . can I get in and see it?” Her nerves were frayed enough without this officious little worm complicating matters.

“Sure.” He stood and drew a ring of keys from his pocket. “Follow me.”

The keys jingled as he crossed out of the managerial pit and into the lobby. “I’m going into the cave,” he called out. None of the tellers appeared to notice.

They don’t like him,
Sheila realized.

The multilayered vault door, with its glass-encased
network of giant gears and polished rods, was already standing open on its massive hinges. That left only the gated inner door. Gallagher inserted and jiggled one of the keys, and the barrier swung back with a baritone growl. They passed through a small antechamber containing several tall cabinets and long file drawers, then came to a magnificently lit room that was floor-to-ceiling with boxes. There was also a long table in the center and two chairs.

“Which one was it again?” Gallagher asked, testing her.

“Number 423.”

The box was located in the far right corner, a few feet from the floor. Gallagher picked out another key and inserted it into one of the two locks. Each box had two
 
—small circles with narrow slots.

“This is my master key. Can’t open a box without it.” He said this in a singsong way, enthralled by the fact that he commanded such power.

“I hope the lock still works,” Sheila said.

“We maintain them even if they aren’t used,” Gallagher told her. “I believe our man squirts a few shots of WD-40 into them once a year.”

He was right
 
—the lock turned without any trouble.

“Okay, now yours.”

She came forward, thinking that she could still turn back if she chose. Then she slid the key into the slender cavity. Like Gallagher’s master, hers rotated without resistance.

Gallagher fingered the little door aside, and the box was exposed. Its looped handle hung down in a huge oval.

“I can manage from here,” she said. “Thank you for your help.”

“Sure thing,” he said, but he took his time leaving, spinning the keys and whistling as he went.

Sheila took a deep breath.
No turning back now.
She wrapped her fingers around the handle and pulled.

In spite of how long the box had been in there, it cooperated as readily as the locks. This was both a relief and a disappointment. She carried it to the table, making sure to keep it level in case there was something breakable inside. Now there was nothing left to do but open it.

She ran a hand through her short-cropped hair. This allowed her to procrastinate for a few more seconds. Then she decided her bag was getting heavy, so she set it on the table. When that was finished, she wondered if she should check her phone for new text messages or e-mails.

Enough. You can’t put this off forever.

She inspected the box from all sides.
What’s the right way to open this?
she wondered. There was a narrow lip at the front, just above the handle. It looked as though you set your fingers underneath and pulled up. She saw the rounded hinges on the back and knew this was right.

Crazy . . . This is crazy.

She took a deep breath and let it out, then took hold of the lid and lifted. The dried hinges squealed in protest. She willed herself to look inside.

Nothing.

The interior was almost mirror-shiny. Her stomach dropped when she realized the contents, whatever they had been, were gone.

Then she saw it
 
—another box. Small, square, and flat. It was tucked in the back corner, as if trying to hide from the light. It was school-bus yellow with red letters, which were part of a logo. The brand name was known the world over
 
—Kodachrome.

A film?

She reached in and removed it. The colors were still vibrant, the corners sharp. It was probably worth something to a collector on those points alone.

She opened it. The reel inside was in immaculate condition. This amazed her, as it had to be as old as the yellowed envelope in which Mr. Moore had kept the key.

Then she saw the letter, which had been under the film. This envelope, made of a heavy paper stock, was just beginning to pale. It was sealed only at the tip of the triangular flap
 
—a common practice of her mother’s. And then the words written clearly across the front
 
—
For Ronnie or Sheila
.

A chill scurried down her spine. She pulled the flap
 
—it came free fairly easily
 
—and removed the single sheet of paper inside. There were several paragraphs on both sides, written in her mom’s distinctive script. As she began to read, one hand moved from the paper to her mouth. Her heart started pounding; breathing became difficult. And when she was finished, she read the whole thing again. Then one more time.

This can’t be real. It can’t be.

Yet there on the table, undeniable in its physical form, was the film. It had been waiting all these years, like a bomb, in this small room.

I’m so sorry. . . . This burden that I’m leaving you. . . .

Sheila read the note yet again. Then she began to think about the pain her mother had endured
 
—the unimaginable pain of carrying this knowledge for so long, unable to say anything to anyone
 
—to her husband, her daughter, her friends. What must it have been like?
Oh, Mom, if only I’d known. Maybe I could have done something.

And now she would know for herself, she realized. Now it was her turn to carry it.

The burden . . .

Or she could take her mother’s advice, clearly articulated in the note’s last line
 
—
Just destroy it and be done with it.
And Sheila could already think of a few good reasons to do this.

The problem was, there were just as many reasons not to.

BIRK, DRESSED
in a neat gray suit, entered the bank ten minutes after Sheila. He spotted her right away, talking with Gallagher, but kept a safe distance. He lingered by a rack of pamphlets.

One of the tellers, an older woman who was clearly bored and probably thought he looked like a nice young man, came over and asked if he needed help. He smiled and said he was thinking of changing banks
 
—the one he currently used was nickeling-and-diming him to death with fees. A friend had recommended Texas First National, so he thought he’d visit. To support the lie, he’d already taken out a few pamphlets and was reading one about checking accounts. The teller smiled and told him to come to her if he had any further questions.

Knowing the security cameras were recording his every move, Birk worked hard to maintain his cover. It was getting difficult, though, as his subject had been in the vault for a while now. None of the other employees seemed to take any interest in Birk, but they would eventually.

Finally, after nearly forty minutes, Sheila emerged. She had looked worried when she went in, and she was ashen now. Were her eyes swollen? Had she been crying?

She returned to Gallagher. Their conversation was brief, and this time she offered her hand first. Birk tried to move close enough to hear the exchange, but Sheila broke away and headed for the doors. She passed within two feet of him. Yes, her eyes were red and glassy.

He lingered another moment, then followed her out, dumping the pamphlets in the nearest garbage can. He trailed her west down Dearborn, remaining behind a phone pole as she got into her car; he already knew it was a rental. She backed into the street and drove off. To her home, most likely.

And he knew where that was because he’d already been there.

Sheila was still numb and disoriented when she came through the front door of the house that now belonged to her.

Nothing seemed the same now
 
—the big Asian rug in the living room, the clock on the mantel over the fireplace, the king-size bed in her parents’ room . . . Everything had a different cast to it, tainted by the horror of what her mother had endured. Probably an hour hadn’t gone by when she didn’t think about it. The time they stood in the kitchen and fought over Sheila’s first miniskirt, or when she came home late on a school night. Even the happy moments
 
—when Sheila got her driver’s license, when she received her acceptance letter to Ohio State. Was her mother thinking about the film through all of this? Did it haunt her every waking moment? For that matter, did it haunt her in her sleep, too?

Sheila went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. With trembling hands, she unfolded the letter and read it again.

April 14, 1976

Dear Ronnie or Sheila,

My heart is so heavy as I write this. Out of love for you both, I have chosen to keep this horrible secret to myself during my lifetime. I have thought a thousand times about destroying this film, but I couldn’t. That said, I also chose not to come forward with it, for fear that something might happen to the three of us.

It was taken by me on the afternoon of November 22, 1963, in Dealey Plaza, when President Kennedy was assassinated. Yes, I was there. It was the most horrible thing I have ever seen. He was such an impressive man, with such a beautiful wife and family. For someone to have done something like this, in plain view and in front of all the world, was an unforgivable act. Many have said it was the moment that changed everything. I believe that’s true. Nothing in America was ever the same afterward.

Like most people, I watched the reports of Oswald being captured, incarcerated, and then shot by Jack Ruby. I remember when the Warren Commission performed their investigation and published their report. And I’ve heard dozens of so-called experts make their arguments over whether Oswald really acted alone or was part of a larger conspiracy. I know the truth about that
 
—and the proof is on this film.

I was standing about thirty feet from the president’s limousine when the shots were fired. I heard the idea that someone might have been on the area they call the “grassy knoll,” behind the fence, with a rifle. That’s wrong
 
—in the film, you can see the fence without any trouble, and there’s
clearly no one there. But there is someone else in a different location
 
—someone who has never been mentioned before. I won’t say anything further because I don’t want you to know any more than you need to. If you choose to dispose of the film rather than watch it, it’s best that you don’t know any other details. Believe me when I tell you that knowing too much can be a curse. It’s been the story of my life since that terrible day.

I was so scared when I got home that I hid the camera. I still couldn’t believe all that I was witness to, and I just wanted to hide. People were asked to come forward with any film or photos
 
—but I didn’t. My fear was too great. Soon I began to hear stories
 
—witnesses who were threatened or harassed, cameras that were confiscated and never returned. A few people even died under mysterious circumstances. I had my family, a steady job, and a nice home. I didn’t want to put those things at risk.

Most of the other witnesses in Dealey Plaza have been found, and I’m sure they’ve paid a price for it in one way or another. But I got very lucky
 
—I was never identified. I was afraid of being seen by anyone who knew me, because I wasn’t supposed to be there. Dr. Lomax, whom I worked for at the time, was a devout Republican, and he couldn’t stand the Kennedys. If I told him I wanted to see the president drive by, he would’ve said no. So I left work early, saying I was sick, and wore a big scarf over my head and a pair of glasses as a disguise. No one knew it was me. But I have since seen myself in other pictures and films taken that day. Some have called me “the Babushka Lady.” I was described as a “person of interest.” I knew people were looking for me. I believed I was being followed by men in
disguises. I thought the day would come when I’d answer the front door and find them waiting to take me into custody . . . or worse. But it never happened. As time passed, my fears eased
 
—but not much. As I write this now, so many years later, I am still not certain I am safe.

Like I said, I was very lucky. If I hadn’t covered myself up, I can’t imagine what would have happened. Even so, I know for a fact that there were people searching for me, people who wanted this film. They didn’t even know for sure that it existed, but if it did, they’d want to find it
 
—which meant they had to find me. It got to the point where I began to jump at shadows, where every stranger who looked in my direction became a secret agent or a hired killer. I finally decided that if something happened to me, at least this film might end up in the right hands sooner or later.

I know this is part of history, and I also realize it might even help find the president’s killers. But I never knew whom I could trust, so I made the decision to keep it hidden. I would do nothing to put the two people I love most in jeopardy. The president is gone, and bringing this film to the public’s attention won’t change that. But maybe, in the future, the people responsible for committing this heartless act will all be gone, and then the truth can come out without any risk to either of you. This has been my burden to carry, and now it’s yours. I apologize a million times over for that.

Watch it if you want to know the truth
 
—believe me, you’ll see it. Or just destroy it and be done with it. Do whatever you think is best.

I love you both. Always.

“Not a sound,” Birk said into the cell phone. He was sitting in his own rental car, a nondescript Chevy sedan, across the street and a few doors down from the home that Sheila Baker had recently inherited. Racener Avenue was a sun-dappled, tree-shaded thoroughfare that could have been featured in a coffee-table book titled
America’s Most Pleasant Suburbs
. “No visitors, no phone calls, no television or radio. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she fell asleep.”

“Your opinion is noted,” his employer said dryly.

He’s on edge,
Birk thought. This was of particular curiosity because he had never known the man to lose control of his emotions. Not that they were a significant factor now, but they were present, and that was unique.

Birk had read the dossier on Sheila Baker until it was committed to memory and had done further research on her parents. The family was completely ordinary by all accounts, another uncolored thread in the working-class fabric of the nation. So why the concern from a man who obviously commanded such wealth and power?

There was a small device in Birk’s other ear, same make and model as the phone
 
—that is, forged by a team of anonymous government employees in some anonymous building somewhere. It was synchronized to a wireless hub in the trunk, which in turn orchestrated an array of tiny listening devices Birk had planted throughout the Baker home while Sheila was attending her mother’s funeral service.

“What exactly am I listening for?” Birk asked.

“Anything unusual.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Not now.”

“It would be helpful if I knew
 
—”

“You know as much as you need to know.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call back shortly,” he was told, and the line went dead.

That’ll make four calls since the woman got home,
Birk noted.

Rydell emerged from his private bathroom a moment later. He got behind his computer and tried to refocus on his formal duties, but it was proving increasingly difficult. He opened a password-protected file
 
—one of hundreds
 
—stored in a hidden folder that would be automatically deleted if anyone else tried to access it.

The file was an ordinary Microsoft Word document. It contained a simple list of names, all female. There were forty-two in total, and thirty-seven had been crossed out using the strikethrough feature, like completed items on a to-do list. Margaret Baker was one of the remaining five.