The Patsy Returns
J. Thomas Ford
Copyright 2012 J. Thomas Ford,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0768-5
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
1
I was staring at the clock when the call came into my office. I know, because I was anticipating an upcoming luncheon date with a young lady I had been trying to hook up with for a week or two.
“Is this Timothy Martin?” he asked. I could tell by the static in the line that this call was coming in from overseas. Oh no, I thought to myself, I’m going to miss my date. A moment later, he told me he was calling from Zurich. I knew it, but it was obvious that this was an American from somewhere down south, Texas or, perhaps Louisiana? For a moment, we engaged in small talk, getting to know one another. I told him that I was about to go to lunch and he said he could call me back, but then he mentioned Dealy Plaza, JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald. I quickly forgot about my lunch date and the two of us were propelled into an hour long conversation that generated chills running up and down my spine. When I asked him for his name, he ignored me and simply said...”I was in Dallas that day.” and then he stopped, almost like he was afraid to say anymore.
A moment later, he added.
“In fact, I was working in the Book Depository.” Now it was my turn to be silent. I took a deep breath, and asked the only question that was on my mind.
“Did you know Lee Harvey Oswald?”
Silence.
I had hit a nerve.
After a moment, he said, “Yes, I knew him.”
At that moment, I swear my heart skipped a beat.
And then he told me his name, and I dropped the phone and told him that was not possible. But, we kept talking anyway. In fact, we talked non-stop for more than an hour and, at the end of that time, I knew he had been there on 22 November 1963. He knew too many of the relevant details. He had to have been there to be talking like this, and he seemed to have answers to every question that had been bugging me for the past three decades, every since I had been studying that tragedy.
My name is Timothy Martin. I am a writer, editor, and owner of a small literary magazine located in the Theatre district in the heart of midtown Manhattan. For the past thirty years, I have been trying to figure out what happened that day in Dallas, Texas. Like most professional researcher’s I had no confidence in the government version. Something didn’t add up. They were hiding something from us, something big, something that pointed the finger back in their direction. They were guilty of something, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was
exactly. After all this time, all I knew for sure is that the President was not shot by Oswald with a Manlicher Carcano rifle with a faulty sight, and he was not shot from the back.
“When can we meet and talk some more?” he asked.
“When can you get here?” I wanted to know.
“Can you come to Paris?”
“How about here, in America?” I wanted to know. “I don’t know, that might not be possible,” he said, as if he was afraid to travel to America.
“I’ll pay all your expenses, including your air flight.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, implying that he had plenty of money.
“I’d like to interview you.” I said to him.
“Will you publish that interview?”
“I will if you want me to.”
“Then, I will make the trip.”
“Good.”
“I’ll call back tomorrow and confirm the dates.”
“If I’m not here when you call, tell the girl who answers the phone what flight you are coming in on and I will be there to pick you up.”
I hung up the phone and immediately called the woman I was supposed to be meeting for lunch and she told me to go to hell and hung up on me, but at that point, I couldn’t have cared less. All I could think of was my upcoming interview with the man from Zurich.
Born to be a JFK researcher, I came into this world on the twenty-second of November in nineteen sixty-six, just three years after the President was shot down. My parent’s said that I would listen to them talking about the assassination almost as if I was curious about the details before I could walk or talk.
At the tender age of six, I was already an obnoxious little ‘know-it-all’ and by the time I was ten I was well on my way toward becoming a serious researcher. By the time I had turned fifteen, I already knew that I was going to spend the rest of my life trying to figure out what really happened that day in Dealy Plaza.
To say that I loved John Fitzgerald Kennedy was not enough for me. I was fixated, obsessed, determined to uncover some of the truth of what happened that day and I didn’t care if it took my entire life to do it.
At some point, I began to feel that Jack Kennedy himself was calling out to me, but that wasn’t something I could admit to anyone for fear that they might have me committed to Norristown State or someplace just like it.
After I read every book I could get my hands on and graduated from a top High School in Long Island, I attended Columbia University on a full scholarship and graduated with a Master’s Degree in English Literature, then I received my PHD from New York University and wrote my thesis on JFK and his tragic demise. It was published by the University and sold enough copies to pay for the printing of the actual books.
Although I was disappointed, my parent’s told me to keep my chin up, that something good was eventually going to come of my efforts. And they were right, because I went to a party in Manhattan and was introduced to Jason Sheets, a well known editor and owner of a literary magazine who had actually read my book and said he wanted to hire me as soon as he got to the last page. I think he may have been pulling my leg, but still it made me feel good. I think he may have been mesmerized by the beauty of my date, who was wearing a low cut blouse showing enough of her belly button that had every man at the party staring, including me. Jason wanted to know if he could take me to lunch, and discuss job possibilities with me. I could tell by the way my date squeezed my hand that I was about to get very lucky, in more ways than one.
