Justification For Killing (54 page)

Chapter
Forty-Three

THE CHAUFFEUR AND THE
MAID

Around 6:45 p.m.,
Thursday, November 21, 1963, Olive Marie and Forrest had decided
they had waited long enough. Olive Marie pulled the old truck into
Clint Murdock’s long tree lined driveway, and slowly the tires
crunched through the snow toward the main house off in the
distance.

As they had sat earlier
waiting at the entrance, they observed a number of shiny, black
Cadillac limos turn into the driveway. Approaching the last
limousine in the long line of cars parked along side the drive in
front of the house Forrest said to Olive Marie, “Stop behind the
last Cadillac. I will walk up to the house and join the other
chauffeurs. You go on around and pull into the parking place behind
the house and get into your maid’s uniform.”

Forrest got out of the
truck, quietly shut the door, and began walking up the sidewalk
past all the identical black, Cadillac limousines, but something
did not seem right, what was wrong? The drivers? Where were the
drivers? There were no chauffeurs in the cars and there were none
milling around outside. He could easily see why they were not
outside – don’t let anyone tell you different, it gets cold in
Texas in the winter.

Walking around the side of
the house, Forrest noticed a large building, which evidently had
once been the carriage house during the horse and buggy days. It
had been thoroughly remodeled, and for all intents and purposes was
probably now being used as a guesthouse. It was sitting to the left
rear of the main house. He could see lights shining from the
windows that illuminated the snow outside, and he could hear
muffled laughter.

Over to the entrance door
he ventured. Slowly, he opened the door, not knowing what to
expect, and stepped into a warm, brightly lit room. It was crowded
with at least a dozen other chauffeurs, and cigarette smoke so
thickly permeated the air one could barely see across the smoke
filled room. All were dressed exactly alike allowing Clem’s
chauffeur’s uniform to blend in like a pea in a pod.

“
Hello,” the chauffeur
closest to the door said. “Come in out of the cold and get warm,
I’m Senator Harold L. Hunter, this guy,” he said motioning with his
arm, “this is Senator Charles Tomlin. State Senator John Masters
and the ex-Vice President Richard Nixon are playing cards at the
table with J. Edgar Hoover and Lobbyist Wink Gullion. The rest are
drivers for the other guests.” It was then Forrest realized the
persons in the room were not merely just chauffeurs or drivers;
they had lost their individual identity and had assumed the persona
of their passengers. As he pondered this amusing development,
Senator Hunter turned to Forrest and asked, “And you
are?”

This caught Forrest by
surprise; he had not anticipated this turn of events, and did not
have a fake passenger identity to assume. Hesitating for a fleeting
moment to organize his thoughts he blurted out, “I’m...I’m...
Robert Scarburg... Robert Scarburg, Junior... pleased to meet you
both,” he said sticking out his hand.

Quizzically looking
at each other, Senator Hunter turned to Forrest and asked, “Robert
Scarburg? Who is Robert Scarburg,
Junior
?” Placing an emphasis on
Junior as tho’ it were a bad four-letter word. “I don’t believe we
have had the honor.”

“
Oh,” said Forrest, “he’s
some Washington bigwig. I should have said “Captain” Robert
Scarburg, Junior. He is head of some hush-hush group called
SCAR.”

“
SCAR, what in the devil
is SCAR?” One of them asked.

“
I told you, it was
hush-hush. We’re not even supposed to be talking about it.” Forrest
said, pressing his index and middle fingers to his lips.

“
Sorry my good man, mums
the word. Come on in and get something to drink. That will warm you
up. We have hard spirits and coffee, what’s your
pleasure.”

“
I believe for now, I’ll
just warm up with the hot coffee.”

Forrest had to admit, even
though a tad on the snobbish side, they all seemed rather amicable.
For the remainder of the evening, they sat around playing cards,
smoking and drinking. Forrest sipping his coffee, the others were
drinking about anything available in the liquor cabinet.

Around 9 p.m., the
door opened with a flourish. In stepped a large ogre dressed in a
chauffeur’s uniform that seemed a size or two small for his massive
size. Through the dense haze of cigarette smoke Forrest could see
he had a square cut jaw with piercing grey eyes - steel grey eyes
that seemed to look right through a person. Forrest thought,
there is something strange about his eyes!
Forrest stared at the newcomer;
I know now
, he
thought,
those eyes – the eyes of a
wolf
. After removing his cap Forrest could
not help but notice the brute’s blonde hair with its meticulously
trimmed G.I. flattop. A flattop so flat one could measure it with a
carpenter’s level. Following closely on his heels were two more
bruisers dressed in dark business suits. The scowl on all three of
their faces appeared as if they had been born with
them.

Senator Hunter leaned over
and whispered into Forrest’s ear, “Vice President Johnson and two
of his Secret Service strong-arms. He is an uppity sort, never
cared much for him. He thinks driving for JOHNSON,” (inflecting his
voice on the name Johnson,) “makes him better than the rest of us
lowly, mere, despicable chauffeurs.”

Without as much as
an acknowledgement to the rest of the drivers in the room the three
walked straight to the liquor cabinet, lifted a bottle of
Cutty Sark
they poured
themselves a hearty two fingers of scotch. They did not engage in
conversation with anyone in the room, they talked among themselves
– their elitist attitude suggested the other drivers were too
loathsome to have anything of importance to
contribute.

Forrest
thought,
Goldmine... I have struck a
goldmine, and didn’t even have to do anything to obtain my
information
. In this room were all the
drivers of the men Ms. Margaret White had spoken about. At least
Forrest now knew Lyndon Johnson attended a party at the estate of
Clint Murdock November 21, 1963, the night before the Kennedy
assassination.
Maybe Olive Marie will find
out more information
, he
thought.

It must have been around
11:30 p.m. when one of the Secret Service guys pulled out a two-way
radio from his coat pocket and carried on a short conversation with
someone on the other end. Putting the radio back into his pocket,
he summoned the chauffeur Senator Hunter with the motion of his
finger.

Senator Hunter’s driver
walked quickly across to the three-man group. One of the agents
leaned forward and whispered something in the Senator’s ear.
Forrest could see Senator Hunter shake his head and then he nodded.
Forrest wondered what THAT conversation was all about. Finishing
the tête-à-tête, Senator Hunter donned his chauffeur’s cap and left
the room. The first agent removed his radio from his pocket, stole
a glance in Forrest’s direction, and made a couple of whisper-like
statements into it. Turning from his radio, he spoke something
unintelligible to the second of the two Secret Service agents who
then immediately walked into the middle of the room and announced
the party was over. All drivers were to return to their respective
limousines.

Forrest had been sitting,
and fortunately winning, at the table playing penny ante poker,
listening to Vice President Nixon complain about his run of lousy
cards, when all along Forrest thought he was winning due to his
artful skill with the deck. “Darn,” Forrest said pushing back his
chair, “I was nearly a quarter ahead!” He began to walk toward the
door when, suddenly, his arm was grabbed by one of the Secret
Service guys. “What the...hey”, he said, “what’s the big
idea?”

“
You
need to come with us,” one of the big dudes said. Before he had a
chance to protest Beefy Brute and his partner Burly Brute,
physically dragged him toward a side door. Across the snow Forrest
stumbled, and was pushed harshly down four concrete steps that led
into the basement of the main house. The first agent opened the
door, and unceremoniously shoved Forrest into the dark, dankness of
a cold cellar. The only light in the room came from the door they
just entered, but it was night outside and overcast, not much light
was available to illuminate the interior of his basement dungeon.
Off to one side Forrest could hear someone or something emitting
muffled, grunting sounds. The noise was akin to a human or... or...
a bear. Forrest thought,
I sure hope it
isn’t the bear.

In the darkness, he could
not recognize who or what it was. He heard someone rip fabric, or
it sounded like someone tearing tape. It was – duct tape. The piece
was securely stuck over his mouth. Now he was making the same
grunting sounds he heard when he first entered the basement. In a
way, he was glad, he knew the sound he heard surely wasn’t an
animal it had to be human – a human with their mouth also duct
taped.

He could hear the crackly
noise of a two-way radio, but he could not see who answered; the
second agent had tied a bandana across his eyes and bound his wrist
tight with tape. He could only hear his response, “Okay... roger...
yes they are tied up in the basement... they are not to leave this
room... yes, understood... yes get rid of them after the ‘event’
tomorrow... roger... tie up loose ends... understood, over and
out.”

Now Forrest realized the
‘they’ and ‘them’ meant there must be at least himself and one
other prisoner in this basement. Two people? He was glad to have
company but was afraid they might never meet, and the part about
not leaving this room - that didn’t sound good either. He could
hear the two agents walking away. One positioned himself next to
the same door they entered. The other he could hear went up some
wooden stairs, which obviously let to the floor upstairs. As soon
as the upstairs door had closed, Forrest grunted once. The person
on the far side of the room grunted once. He grunted twice, it
returned the grunt two times. It was then he fully realized there
undoubtedly was another person being held hostage in this basement
along with himself.

“
Shut up!” the guard at
the basement door ordered. “Keep quiet or I’ll come smack
you!!”

He wished he could talk to
whoever was in this cellar imprisoned with him. The shooting of the
President tomorrow was going to be a tremendous deal, the two of
them sitting in this basement with their mouths taped shut and
their wrists bound were small potatoes. He was thinking they were
not going to survive their predicament. Especially after hearing
the words, ‘get rid of them after the ‘event’ tomorrow’. Forrest
knew the real meaning of the word ‘event’. He was scared.
Throwing-up type scared. No one even knew where he and Olive Marie
were. Olive Marie? He thought. What had he gotten Olive Marie into?
Is she okay? He wondered if she was able to maintain her
disguise?

Forrest, sitting there in
the dampness figured out how the Secret Service found out about him
– his announcement of driving for Captain Robert Scarburg. One of
the chauffeurs obviously reported the information to the Secret
Service. They may have been more muscle than brain, but it didn’t
take those blue suited bozos long to figure out there wasn’t a
Captain Robert Scarburg at the party.

If he could talk
with the other person held prisoner with him, maybe they could come
up with a plan.
Darn my
plans
! He thought.
Look where they have gotten me, these people will never allow
us to leave and I will never be able to tell the world who the
people are that’s attending this party. After tomorrow’s ‘event’ –
we are going to die. They are going to kill us - they have nothing
to lose. We are nothing but ‘loose ends’ to these
people.

The time was 12:30 a.m.,
Friday, November 22, 1963.

Chapter
Forty-Four

EIGHT AND ONE HALF HOURS
EARLIER

The clock on the
wall of the launch facility indicated the time was 2:30. Thirty
minutes until the scheduled launch of
Pegasus’
s third voyage to Texas. “Is
everyone all present or accounted for?” Captain Scarburg announced
to the group standing around
Pegasus
. “If you’re not here hold up
your hand,” he said trying to break the tension in the room. They
were all about at their wits end, and he wanted to get them into a
more relaxed mood. “Come on, pick-up those spirits... this is not a
wake, it is an adventure. We’re going after some very historical
information, information and data never before uncovered on the
John F. Kennedy Assassination. We are all going to make history. In
fact, we may, in fact, become a part of history. Besides, I am
going to find Forrest and Olive Marie and get those two birds home,
safe and sound. Now, let me see some smiles...” Looking around the
room, “Good that’s better.”

“
Does everyone have all
his gear assembled? You do? Good... I see you all have changed into
your ‘60s duds. What about the cash? Did you all get some good old,
and I mean old, greenbacks to use in Dallas? All right, then I
think all that is left is loading my equipment, saying my goodbyes
and let you guys know I’ll see you all in Dallas, if not earlier,
surely at the cow pasture when we leave to come back, and I want to
assure the rest of you staying – we will be coming
back.”