That much at least made sense to Jason. Experts had been trying to prove for years that Oswald had not only been one of the best snipers in the world, but that he could also cause bullets to defy the laws of physics. That kind of thing would look cool in a movie, but it didn’t add up in real life.
Heller sighed. "Almost every one of the doctors at Parkland Hospital said that Kennedy's throat wound was a bullet entry wound - a small, neat little hole. Once Kennedy had been moved to Bethesda Naval Hospital, the 'entry wound' had become a tracheotomy scar instead, although if it was, then it looked like a blind man had performed it with a screwdriver. Except for the military cover up that day, we'd have been exposed almost immediately. They made sure all the evidence was hidden before anyone ever had a chance to examine it. Any civilian doctor, given enough time to examine Kennedy properly, would have figured out we were lying our asses off and that he'd been shot from at least 3 different locations.”
"So to answer your question about whether or not we were afraid we'd get caught, Jason...well...we knew it was possible, but we were also pretty sure that the panic we caused that day would cover our tracks for months at least. In the end, our tracks were covered forever. The nation was in mourning, and once all that had calmed down, there was still that little war in Vietnam to worry about and good ole LBJ was more than happy to escalate that conflict to a whole new level. America was distracted, and that was just fine with us.”
Jason just sat there, listening intently. Anyone else listening to this old guy talking would have thought that it was just a crazy old man telling tall tales. Another conspiracy nut boring people to tears in some diner. Jason knew different though. He now knew Heller was telling the truth. He also had to remind himself Heller was also a murderer. He shivered slightly.
Chapter 16
Just as his story was taking on a life of its own, Heller paused for a few seconds and then started to get up from the table. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom, I'm afraid my bladder isn't quite what it used to be. I won’t be long.”
Jason found himself half standing up to help the old man out of the booth. He sat back down instead, reminding himself that there was still plenty of steel left inside this old dude - he didn’t really need any help. Only for the fact the cancer was eating this guy alive, Jason figured he'd have lived to be well over 100. Heller was tough as old boots. Jason could feel it.
Bill Heller strolled slowly to the rest room, opening it to find it empty. It was a pretty typical rest room, with some urinals and two crappers behind him for the guys who couldn't wait to get home. It was pretty typical example of a restroom.
Going to the toilet at his age was an adventure all on its own though. His prostate was the size of a small balloon, and, of course, the fact that he was basically a walking tumor didn’t help either. This sickness hadn’t really crept up on him so much as suddenly arrived just over 2 years ago. Still though, the universe has to balance the books, doesn’t it? Young Armstrong had been right about that. Probably had more insight into the whole thing than he’d ever understand, too.
After several moments of struggling, he’d finally managed to empty his bladder, then zipped up, and moved to the faucet to wash his hands. He glanced in the mirror and tried to recognize the face looking back at him. The eyes were still his but the face belonged to someone else - that haggard, bag of skin attached to his skull just never looked right. His mind was as sharp as it ever had been, but his body was finally failing under the weight of years of abuse he’d inflicted on it, and the evils he’d inflicted on others.
He closed his eyes while he was washing his hands, and, in that split second, he saw Kennedy grab his throat and lurch forward again. He heard the screams of confusion as the other shots rang out. It was as real now as it had been 50 years ago. He had done the right thing, hadn’t he? He’d help to save millions by making sure Kennedy died. It seemed that the older he got, the more he had to justify to himself what he'd done that day. It was almost as if time made things worse rather than easing the pain of it all. He deserved the pain though. No doubt in his mind about that.
He was still wandering through this memory when someone grabbed his throat from behind - a powerful hand, too. For anyone else, this would have caused absolute panic and a choke reflex, but not for Bill Heller. No, sir. Plus, this guy wasn't the best hitman he'd ever come across either - he was only choking him with one hand. "Amateur" was the one thought that popped into Heller's mind.
A voice whispered in his ear. “You thought you were going to get away, old man. You thought you were going to choose when you kicked the bucket. No way. This is a message from the 'Council'."
The choking grip tightened more as Heller felt another hand moving to push him forward into the wall in front of him. Whoever this guy was, he obviously assumed that Heller was just going to be choked to death surrounded by the stink of piss, stale cologne, and dampness. Bill Heller decides when Bill Heller dies - nobody else. This was the last mistake this rookie was ever going to make.
The guy squeezing Heller’s throat never got to see that the reason his eyes were closed wasn’t because of panic. It was because he’d entered that Zen place inside his head, the place he went to just before he did something terrible. Killing someone while you’re angry makes you sloppy. You make mistakes, you get caught and then you’re getting yourself killed at the end of a needle, a rope, or a bullet. Serenity was the best place to commit a murder from. Bill Heller had learned that a long time ago.
The big goon behind Heller was still squeezing for all he was worth, working his second hand into the equation now. What happened next was so sudden that anyone watching from the outside could have mistaken it for a scene from some martial arts movie. The victim wasn’t the victim now.
Heller turned to his left slightly and ducked his head downwards, breaking the attacker's choke hold in an instant. He heard the “Ughh…” of surprise escaping from the rookie killer’s mouth as he did this. It was one of the last noises this man was ever going to make.
As he continued moving to the left, he had a split second to draw a scalpel from his pocket, gripping it firmly but lightly in his right hand. Calm. Cool. No force. He continued a downward pivot to his left and then crouching slightly, he quickly sliced into the inner thigh of his assailant with his right hand.
Unless you were inside Bill Heller’s head, or an ER surgeon, you would have had no idea what had just happened. The scalpel was so sharp that the big guy choking him wasn’t going to figure it out for a while yet either. He’d just cut clean through the femoral artery with a barely audible 'snick' as the blade cut through fabric and flesh. The quietest whisper was all it took to seal this man’s fate.
Heller took two steps back to examine his handiwork. That effort of escaping had winded him badly, he could feel just how much energy he's used up in taking out just one thug. In the good ole days, he could have taken this guy out without breaking a sweat. Now, the effort had almost killed him.