“Back, and to the left,” I say, quoting Kevin Costner from the movie. “Seinfeld even had an episode mocking that.”
Dwight nods in the bed. “Oliver Stone almost single-handedly elevated two glaring forensic errors into myth, which always trumps truth in the public mind.”
“What were his errors?”
“First, the magic bullet wasn’t magic at all. Oswald was firing fully jacketed rounds designed for winter war in the Alps, meant for penetrating multiple layers of heavy clothing. His bullets were slow—eighteen hundred feet per second—but very powerful. In Dallas, they performed exactly as they were designed to.”
“The real magic bullet,” Kaiser says, “was the head shot. It blasted open Kennedy’s skull, blew out a third of his brain, and left only tiny fragments in the skull case.”
“And practically vaporized in the process,” Stone finishes. “Which no Mannlicher-Carcano 6.58 round ever did after hitting a human skull at eighteen hundred feet per second. We’ve verified that under the most rigorous field conditions, and also through exhaustive research.”
“There had to be another shooter there,” Kaiser asserts. “One firing a rifle with a muzzle velocity greater than three thousand, two hundred feet per second, the speed required for a bullet to reliably and effectively explode. A rifle like the Remington 700 you identified from Brody Royal’s basement. A hot load for that rifle can reach four thousand feet per second.”
“Why didn’t ballistics experts see this long ago?” I ask.
Stone smiles sadly. “The forest and the trees, Penn.”
“Contrary to popular belief,” Kaiser says, “Oswald had the skill to make that shot. What he didn’t have on that day was the rifle or the bullet.”
“But Dwight said Oswald hit Kennedy in the back,” I point out.
“Even a blind pig finds a truffle now and again,” says Stone.
“That was luck,” says Kaiser. “The scope on Oswald’s Carcano was a cheap Japanese add-on, and it wasn’t even zeroed. In fact, it couldn’t be zeroed. It only had two screws holding it on. But even if it could have been, that Carcano couldn’t fire a bullet fast enough to explode, and Oswald wasn’t using frangible rounds.”
“Okay, let’s say I buy all that. If Oswald didn’t kill JFK, who did?”
Stone and Kaiser share a long look. Then Stone says, “Frank Knox.”
I shouldn’t be surprised to hear this, but the conviction with which Stone said the name has rattled me—not least because I know my father knew Frank Knox.
“On November twenty-second, 1963,” Stone goes on, “Frank Knox—the ex-marine from Ferriday, Louisiana, and founder of the Double Eagle group—fired the bullet that blew John Kennedy’s brains out. Knox was sent there by Carlos Marcello. He fired from a lower floor of the Dal-Tex Building, probably the second floor. He fired one reasonably silenced shot from deep within the room, and he accomplished his mission, just as he’d done so often during the war.”
Stone sounds as sure of this as any man has ever been sure of anything.
“Can you prove that?” I ask.
“Some of it. With your father’s help, I think we can prove the rest.”
My skepticism quickly morphs into an almost frantic exasperation. “Dwight . . . I love you, man. But this is pretty hard to take. Last night John told me that you think Dad knows who killed Kennedy.”
Stone shakes his head. “No, it’s worse than that, I’m afraid. Your father actually made Frank’s shot possible.”
These stunning words trigger the disorientation of an unexpected blow, when your brain tries haltingly to fathom the cause and extent of the damage. Stone closes his eyes as though he feels the same pain I do, but when he opens them, I realize that he doesn’t even see me. He grimaces in agony, and then his hands go to his emaciated belly.
“Dwight! Are you okay?”
“I need to get to the bathroom,” he croaks.
Kaiser has already sprung to his feet. He unfolds the wheelchair, and together we transfer the old agent from the bed to the chair. Dwight’s quivering muscles tell me he barely has the strength to hold himself erect. With Kaiser’s help, moving him into the bathroom isn’t that difficult, but once he’s there we stand anxiously outside the door, listening closely in case he should pass out.
“I can’t believe he flew down here in such bad shape,” I whisper.
Kaiser shakes his head, then whispers back, “This really may be his last ride. That’s how much this case means to him.”
Sobered by the nearness of mortality, I blow out a rush of air. “John . . . what the hell was he talking about? My dad made Frank’s shot possible? Even if Knox did shoot Kennedy, that’s just nuts.”
Kaiser gives me a long look, then shakes his head. “Let’s just wait for Dwight, okay?”
This doesn’t reassure me. “I haven’t got all night, man.”
“It won’t take that long. But you’ve got time for this. Stone wants to solve this case, but he also wants to help your father if he can. So how about you make time for him?”
A groan and a thud come through the door.
“Oh, fuck,” says Kaiser, grabbing the knob.
CHAPTER 33