The Confession (standard:drama, 2427 words)
Author: Chris Michlewicz	Added: Jun 07 2002	Views/Reads: 3664/2347	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A confession from the one person that everyone has been waiting to hear from

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“Where did you meet?” the man behind the desk asked. 

The man looked toward the ceiling and scratched at his beard again with
one hand while the other rested on the arm of the chair.  His smoke 
floated aimlessly to the hazy cloud now growing thick above the two 
men.  He opened his mouth to speak but soon closed it.  Finally he 
said: 

“I guess it was in an office downtown.  Not too far from the plaza, if I
remember correct.  A dark office, it was.  Lot like this one only not 
as cramped.” 

The man behind the desk glanced up from his notes only to meet the cold
stare of the haggard old man.  His eyes quickly leapt back to his 
notes. 

“The sissy was the first one there.  He was real into this thing.  To
me, it was just another job, only the pay was a hell of a lot more than 
I was used to.  And the stakes were a little bit higher.” 

“Who was the sissy?” 

“You know, the Communist.  The only one they pinned it on as a matter of
fact,” he said with a laugh.  “Didn't know a lick of what he was doin.' 
That's why he got caught.  I'm sure of it.” 

“Who else was there?” 

“A fellow named Sherwood.  Couldn't tell ya if that was his first or
last name but that was what we knew him by.  He was the last to show 
up.  A little late, I think.  So we go over the plans one last time, 
who was gonna be where and when, that sort of stuff.” 

He puffed on his cigarette and stabbed at the air as he began to speak
again, spitting billows of smoke with each enlightening word. 

“As I said before, I was to be behind the fence by the rail yard. 
Sherwood was somewhere off of Houston, behind the target, just like the 
sissy.  We formed a triangle but it was an odd shaped one at that.” 

“So what happened at the meeting?” 

“I just told ya!  We went over the goddamn plans!” 

“Anything else?” 

The old man stared at the man behind the desk.  A scowl found the bottom
half of his weary face and twisted it into a disproportionate shape.  
His breathing was deep and irregular. 

The investigator looked up with his eyebrows raised. 

“Anything else?” he repeated. 

The old man looked away and brought a now trembling hand to his mouth. 
He smoothly drew in the smoke and held it, finally streaming it out his 
nose the way a dragon might. 

He spoke more softly. 

“Just what we was gonna do before, during and after the job,” he said. 

“What did you decide to do when it was over?” 

“High tail my ass out of town, you better believe that, young man,” he
said condescendingly. 

“Where did you go?” 

“Off to see my mother in New Orleans.  By the time I got there she was
nothin' but tears and grief.  You know women.  Talkin' bout, ‘What is 
this world coming to?' and ‘He was such a nice man.'  Never met him 
myself but he seemed like a nice enough man from the television.  Like 
I told ya before it was nothin' personal.  Just another job, do ya 
follow?” 

The man behind the desk nodded, his eyes now fixated on the notepad in
his hand. 

“Well I guess I stayed there for the good part of a week just to wait it
out, you know.  Got some fine home cookin.'  Told my wife I had to make 
an unscheduled business stop in Louisiana and decided to visit with mom 
for a spell.  She took to that just fine indeed.  Didn't suspect a 
thing.” 

“Can you go over, in detail, how it all carried out?  From the time you
took position to the time you left it.” 

“Now that is somethin' I remember.  Not somethin' a fellow can easily
forget.  After our meeting, we went our separate ways.  Different cars 
and such.  People was linin' the streets startin' at eight o'clock.  
Just to make sure they got a decent spot.  Reckon they got more than 
they bargained for that day,” he said, unleashing a sly, but unsure 
laugh. 

The man behind the desk rested his index finger on his temple as he
listened intently.  He decided to let the recorder do the note taking 
for now.  Its white wheels spooled the brown tape around itself in a 
neat, compact circle. 

“We waited ‘til about noon before we took to our positions.  Didn't want
to be spotted by bystanders or the police.  Police had no idea of what 
was going to happen.  Too risky.  I'm sure the secret service didn't 
know cause it would have been a conflict of interest, to say the least. 
 It was important that only the people that had to know about it knew, 
ya see. 

So we each had an AM radio to keep tabs on the motorcade; where it was
at, when it was going to be where we wanted it.  No two-way radios or 
walkie-talkies, though.  Too much danger in that.  The DPD probably had 
every frequency monitored by more'n one person, just in case.  We were 
s'posed to wait ‘til the first shot was fired by our communist friend, 
then let loose at will.  That was our only signal.  Not a very 
carefully planned scheme, but one that was carried out like it was 
s'posed to. 

The tricky part was totin' the rifles to where they was s'posed to be. 
Sissy boy took his to its hidin' spot a few days before the murder was 
gonna take place.  That was one thing we didn't agree on but he felt 
like he was the centerpiece of the whole deal so it was his choice.  Me 
and Sherwood let him believe it just so we could do our jobs right but 
we never took an order from him.  No, sir.  Orders were to be taken 
from the Chief and his closest associates.  That's it.  They told us to 
bring'em the day of so that's what we did. 

Mine was a sleek Remington A-42, custom built for killin' or severely
woundin'.  Mounted with a cross-hair scope and plenty of raw power.  
The type of machine that any man should fear going against no matter 
what kind of special weapon he has in his hand. 

Sherwood had another rifle though not as nice as mine, but one that
could do the job.  I don't have a clue as to what the communist was 
holdin'.  Don't matter either way cause the bastard missed on his one 
chance at glory.  Missed the target completely and ended up hitting a 
gentleman standing underneath an overpass 200 yards down the road.” 

“David Beckman,” the clean-cut man said. 

“Sure.  I don't know.  I don't worry myself ‘bout the specifics of that
day.  What was done was done and that was it.  Carry on with my career 
in what it was I was doin' and move on.  Didn't happen like that 
though.  Not in the least.  After they caught the sissy at the movie 
theater, I started worryin' ‘bout my own well-being, as you might 
understand.  Thought they was hot on my tail for two months after the 
killing.  Turns out the boys above me took care of any and all 
inquiries into who might have been standin' on that hill without 
tellin' me.  Boy, that was an easily forgivable offense if I ever heard 
one,” the scruffy man said with a hearty chuckle. 

“Anyway, we took our positions at noon or so and made like we was common
spectators.  Brought our rifles in something inconspicuous, a letter 
carrier's bag.  Looked like we just finished our routes and came down 
to witness the man of the hour rollin' on by.  ‘Cept we didn't have no 
uniforms.  No one paid a mind to us anyway.  Their attention was on the 
Elm Street and nothin' else. 

“We knew that, by the orders of some unknown, the parade route was
changed.  Changed so we could have a go at him in the most logical 
spot, which happened to be Dealey.  So sure enough, they come rollin' 
down in the distance.  Could hear the people screamin' before we could 
see him though.  He's wavin' at everyone, sayin' his hello's to the 
people on the way to his little luncheon.  Not a thought goes through 
his mind of what we was going to do, until the Commie missed.  Just 
like everyone said, sounded like a backfire.  Nothin' else. 

“Well as soon as the first shot was fired, the old man turned his head
in the direction it came from.  I suspect the idea that someone might 
be firing at him entered his mind as fast as that bullet went over his 
head.  He stopped wavin', stopped smilin', and that was when Sherwood 
took his shot.  Since he had his head turned, the shot fired from the 
back and left of him entered at the back of his neck and came out his 
throat with a neat little hole marking the exit.  This was when he knew 
his suspicions were correct, but it was too late to do a thing about 
it. 

“His pretty little wife leans over to see if he's all right.  By this
time he's slumpin' down in his seat.  Well Sherwood sees his target 
getting out of range and out of sight and, knowing he missed the head 
on his first shot, squeezes off another.  This was the one, I assume, 
that struck the governor and caused him to yell out, ‘My God, they're 
going to kill us all!', or some such dramatics.  I know by seein' all 
this unfold before me, that it was up to me to do the job right. “I 
still had a good seven to eight seconds to line up a shot, but decided 
just in case he goes to the floor of the bucket seat, I'd better off 
him right then and there.  I only took enough time to see that thick 
head of hair in the middle of my cross and fired.” 

The man paused there as if trying to collect his thoughts, but the man
seated across from him knew that the scene he had just described was 
playing back in his head, just as it had over and over again for the 
last forty years.  The realization of what he had done took on a whole 
new light.  He was telling his story to someone for the first time.  A 
horde of emotions were being released, pouring out of his brain and 
distributing to areas of the body where they could be displayed.  A 
tear formed in his left eye, wavering on the tips of his eyelashes.  
The old man had the bottom half of his face held in one hand.  He 
blinked and the tear dropped to the floor.  The man across from him sat 
stone-faced, just watching. 

“At that moment, I became a traitor to my country.  I killed our
president, John F. Kennedy.” 


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