I’M ABOUT TO observe the most surreal interrogation of my legal career, and I’m not even sure it’s legal. John Kaiser hasn’t set up this session to gather evidence for a court case. He wants to uncover a long-buried truth, one he believes to be bigger than any single case, and more important than the fate of my father. For this reason, Kaiser has allowed things I’ve only rarely seen in a sheriff’s office, and never during an FBI interrogation.
First, the video camcorder is unplugged. This occasionally happens, and for a variety of reasons (but not usually to help the suspect). Second, the bedsheet is still hanging over the observation window (a sensible precaution). But strangest of all, Kaiser has submitted to a physical search by his prisoner, so the Double Eagle can be sure the FBI agent isn’t wearing any recording device. I had to endure the same treatment in order to be present, and since I hold out some hope that Sonny might recant what he wrote about my father on the puzzle I created, I consented.
Sonny Thornfield has relaxed considerably since I was last in this room. The reason is simple. Kaiser’s agents have already tracked down his grandson, the one preparing to depart for his second tour in Iraq. Kaiser actually brought in an encrypted FBI phone and allowed Sonny to speak to the kid on it. By then I knew the backstory: the boy saw his best friend maimed during his first tour, and he has no interest in sharing the same fate. Kaiser promised Sonny that if his grandson agreed to go into federal witness protection, he would not have to return to Iraq. I have no idea whether this is true, but Kaiser’s confidently delivered answer—combined with the fact that he’s already arranged to fly three of Sonny’s family members here on FBI aircraft—told me that the FBI agent is pulling out all the stops for this case.
So . . . here we sit, watching a former Ku Klux Klansman and Double Eagle prepare to reveal a secret he’s carried for forty years, on pain of death, in order to save himself and his family. Among my regrets—and they are many—is that Henry Sexton did not live to sit beside me in this moment. Whatever Sonny Thornfield knows, it might mean more to Henry than even to Dwight Stone.
“I want to make one thing clear,” Sonny begins, licking his lips and glancing over at the bedsheet to make sure it’s still taped over the one-way mirror. “I’m not going to talk about any other case but the big one. Dallas. And when I say the name Frank, I’m referring to Frank Sinatra. Nobody else, got it? Frank Sinatra.”
“Got it,” says Kaiser. “Let’s hear what Old Blue Eyes did in Dallas in 1963. I always heard that he and JFK were friends.”
Sonny shrugs and turns up his palms. “What do you want to know? I can’t just start talking. Ask me something.”
“All right. To your knowledge, who was behind the assassination? I mean the man at the very top.”
Thornfield rubs his stubbled chin as though pondering what answering that question would have cost him forty years ago.
“Come on,” Kaiser urges. “Nobody can hear you.”
“It was Carlos Marcello’s show,” Sonny says finally. “All the way.”
When Kaiser turns to me, I see something like rapture in his eyes.
“Who fired the kill shot? The one that blew Kennedy’s brains out?”
“You already know. Frank Sinatra.”
Kaiser doesn’t react at first. But I can see from his frozen stillness how badly he wishes this were a legitimate interrogation. “How do you know that?” he asks.
“He told me.”
“Who did?”
“Frank.”
“When?”
Sonny shakes his head.
“What year, then?”
“Nineteen sixty-seven, I believe. About a year after he . . . had a family tragedy.”
Kaiser looks back at me. We’re both thinking the same thing. A year after Frank Knox lost his son in Vietnam.
“Was he sober when he told you this?” Kaiser asks.
“I don’t think Frank was ever sober after 1966.”
“Fair enough. How did Marcello approach Frank about that job? Or did someone else do that?”
“I think Marcello did it. We’d done a few jobs for him over the years, mostly in Florida. But Carlos knew Frank from the anti-Castro training camp in Morgan City. That’s how Frank knew, ah . . . the other guy, too.”
“What other guy?”
“The other guy who was in on it.”
“Oswald?” Kaiser asks, but I know this is a feint to test Thornfield.
“No. Frank didn’t know that nut job.”
“Who, then?”
Sonny practically whispers the name. “David Ferrie.”
Kaiser closes his eyes and exhales slowly. I have to admit, I feel a profound sense of satisfaction at hearing Dwight Stone’s theory confirmed, and since Stone can’t be here himself, I let myself enjoy it.
“What was Ferrie’s part in the operation?” Kaiser asks.
Sonny shrugs as though the answer is self-evident. “He’s the one who knew Oswald.”
“How?”
“They were both from New Orleans. Ferrie had known him since Oswald was a kid.”
“Known him how?”
“Frank told me they were queer. I don’t know if that’s true. But that’s what he said.”
Kaiser cuts his eyes at me again. So far, he and Dwight are batting a thousand.
“Did Frank know why Carlos wanted Kennedy dead?”
“He told me JFK and his brother were going to run the Little Man out of the country. Carlos had tried everything he knew to stop it, but nothing worked. This was the last chance.”
“Okay.” Kaiser glances at his watch. “Let’s talk about the actual hit. Dealey Plaza.”
Sonny scratches his nose and looks at the bedsheet once more. “You guys ain’t got some kind of X-ray camera or anything in there, have you?”
“No cameras,” Kaiser says, treating it as a serious question.
“Are you sure Snake don’t know what’s going on in here?”
“Positive. We’re questioning Snake in another interrogation room right now.”
Sonny clearly gets a fair dose of relief from this knowledge. “What else you want to know, then?”