His Coke arrived and he had a sip.
Flo said, “We’re told the immediate reaction of many was to head for the so-called Grassy Knoll.”
He nodded. “I saw a Dallas Police officer run up the there and go behind the picket fence near the railroad yards. I followed his lead, and, man, behind that fence, that was complete confusion, utter hysteria.”
“So,” I said, “people were behind the fence at this point, and in the parking lot?”
“Oh yeah. I began questioning witnesses, and pitched in to help the Dallas uniformed guys restore order. When things got calmed down some, I started in questioning people who were standing around at the top of the incline, asking if anyone had seen anything strange or unusual before or during the shooting.”
“Had they?”
“Well, a number of people thought the shots came from the area of the Grassy Knoll or from behind the picket fence. But the most interesting, and I think reliable, witness was a Mr. Arnold Rowland. He and his wife were standing toward the top of the knoll on the north side of Elm. Something had caught Mr. Rowland’s attention waiting for the President to arrive. Approximately fifteen minutes before the motorcade got to Dealey Plaza, something caught his eye — a white man standing by the sixth-floor window of the Texas School Book Depository building in the southeast corner, holding a rifle equipped with a telescopic sight.”
“Did Mr. Rowland alert anyone?”
“No. He thought they were Secret Service agents — a natural enough assumption for a citizen.”
“‘They’?”
“He also saw a darker-complected male — colored, or Latin maybe — pacing back and forth, in the southwest corner window. I passed Mr. and Mrs. Rowland along to another deputy, and I understand the Warren Commission has talked to them, although the wife didn’t see anything.”
He sipped his Coke again, and I sipped mine, letting him take a moment to further gather his thoughts. I could sense Flo’s excitement, which I shared — this felt closer to being there than had our tour on foot the other day.
“Well,” he said, allowing himself a sigh, “traffic was heavy by this point — the patrolman assigned to Elm and Houston had left his post, probably dealing the crowd and the chaos. I made my way over to the south side of Elm, to look for any signs of bullets striking the curb or the street or anything. By now it had been established that the President had been shot... this must have been around twelve-forty... and that’s when I heard a shrill whistle.”
“What kind of whistle?”
He held two fingers near his mouth. “Like a kid whistling, to get your attention. Coming from across the street. I turned and saw a white male in his twenties running down the grass from the direction of the book depository. A light-green Rambler station wagon was coming slowly west on Elm. The driver was a husky-looking Latin, with dark wavy hair, wearing a tan Windbreaker. Driver was looking up and leaning over at the guy running down toward him. The station wagon pulled over and picked him up — guy was wearing a long-sleeve work shirt and faded blue trousers.”
He leaned forward and his eyes moved from Flo to me.
He said, “I didn’t know it at the time, but it was Oswald, or somebody who looked a hell of a lot like him. I tried to cross Elm Street to stop them — the two of ’em were obviously in a hurry, and were the only people not running to the scene. That’s human nature when there’s a shooting or an accident, you know, go check out the scene. But they were heading away, so I immediately tried to cross the street, to take the two into custody. Only traffic was too heavy by now, and I couldn’t get to them before they drove off, going west on Elm.”
“You reported this?”
“You bet. Right away I brought it to the attention of the authorities at the command post at Elm and Houston, in front of the book depository. I told a Secret Service agent, or at least that’s how he identified himself, what I’d seen. He didn’t seem too interested. Sheriff Decker himself heard this exchange, and yanked me to one side and told me the suspect had already left the scene. That’s when I got pulled in on what was the first real search of the depository.”
“Decker led that?”
“No. He left that to me and a couple of other deputies. We went up to the sixth floor, which was very dark and dusty. The south side of the building seemed the logical place to start. Immediately we found three spent rifle shells that struck me as arranged, deliberately placed there, in plain sight on the floor by the window. A small brown paper lunch bag with some chicken bones in it was on the floor, too. I called across the room for Dallas Police ID man, Lieutenant Day, to bring his camera over, which he did. Then we started searching the rest of the floor.”
“The rifle hadn’t been found yet?”
He shook his head. “No. We did find it, but that’s a... story in itself.”
“Oh?”
He was nodding as he sipped Coke again, and for the first time he smiled, a small odd smile that didn’t last. “We neared the northwest corner of the floor when a deputy called out, ‘Here it is.’ I went over. Two rows of boxes were stacked close, but when you looked down between them, there it was, on the floor — a rifle on a strap with a telescopic sight, with the bolt facing upward. Lieutenant Day came over and so did Captain Fritz of Homicide. Day retrieved the rifle, activated the bolt, ejected one live round of ammunition. Day inspected the rifle briefly, then handed it to Fritz, who held it up by the strap and asked if anybody knew what kind of rifle it was. Deputy Weitzman, who knew a lot about weapons, used to run a sporting goods store, gave it a close look and said it was a 7.65 German Mauser.”
“What?” I said, sitting up. “Not Oswald’s famous piece-of-shit Mannlicher-Carcano?”
He shook his head. “No. A Mauser.”
“You’re saying at some point a switch was made?”
“I’m saying a deputy who knew his stuff said it was a Mauser, and a bunch of other law-enforcement officers agreed with him. Right about then, word of Officer Tippit’s shooting came in, and it was chaos again.”
He sighed and the waitress came over and asked if he’d like a refill. He looked up at her, nodded and smiled, his second of the afternoon; she smiled back — yes, he was handsome, all right.
I said, “That’s a hell of a story, Deputy Craig.”
“Oh, there’s more. As the afternoon went on, and information came in, and Oswald was arrested at the Texas Theatre, I became convinced that I had seen the assassin and his driver making their getaway from the scene in that Rambler. They would only have to drive six blocks west on Elm and they’d have been on Beckley Avenue, with a straight shot to Oswald’s rooming house. That might have given Oswald time to kill Tippit, which the official story really doesn’t — him taking a bus, getting stuck in traffic, getting off, catching a cab, and so on.”
“Did you ID Oswald as the guy picked up by the station wagon?”
He nodded and another smile emerged, briefly. “I did. Later that afternoon, I called Captain Fritz at the PD and gave him the description of the guy I saw, who Fritz said sounded like their suspect. He asked me to come take a look at him. I got to Fritz’s office a little after 4:30, was given a peek through the door at Oswald, sitting there by Fritz’s desk.”