"What does that mean?" Buck wondered.
"Let's find out," said Pepsie. "We have backup on all tapes."
They played the JFK Shooting tape, rewinding the footage before the sound of the gunshot for exactly as long as the minicassette tape recording told them Smith had rewound it.
"Whatever he found," Pepsie murmured, "it's coming up soon."
They both saw it at once. Smith's muttered question gave them the hint.
"Look at that," Buck said. "The guy in the L.A. Dodgers cap is trying to film the shooter."
"Yeah. Before the guy even shoots."
"You know what this means? He was in on it. That's proof of a conspiracy."
"There's only one question."
"Yeah?"
"Why would he film the assassination in the first place?"
"To prove to the guy who hired them they pulled it off okay?" said Buck.
"Crap. That's the President of the United States. The proof airs over every network and cable news service the same day."
"Maybe he's a video hound?" suggested Buck.
"All I know is if we find that guy we can start working back along the chain of the conspiracy."
The phone rang and Pepsie grabbed it. "Pepsie Dobbins."
The familiar soft voice asked, "Have you got any footage for me?"
"Yeah. But I have something more."
"What's that?"
"A big key to the conspiracy."
"I think we should meet."
"When and where?"
"Tonight. After dark. I'll be sitting on a park bench on the Potomac within sight of the Lincoln Memorial. Come at six. And don't forget the tapes."
"Wait! How will I recognize you?"
But the line was already dead.
Pepsie turned to Buck. "I'm going to meet him," she said.
"The Director?"
"Yeah. I want you to come, but discreetly."
"You mean hide in the bushes?"
"And film everything," Pepsie added.
"Why?"
"Because I think that guy knows more than he's letting on and when we compare notes, we may have a big piece of this puzzle."
"Suits me," said Buck Featherstone.
HAROLD SMITH next showed up at the District of Columbia Coroner's Office, where the body identified as Alek J. Hidell had been autopsied.
"I would like to examine the body," Smith told the medical examiner, displaying his Secret Service identification badge.
"Again?"
"Again," said Smith.
"All right, but this has got to be the most examined corpse in the history of this building."
Smith was escorted to the morgue, and the sheeted body was rolled out on a squealing marble slab.
The M.E. drew back the sheet exposing the upper body.
The man looked remarkably like Lee Harvey Oswald, Smith saw. He was prepared for that. But somehow seeing him in the flesh, seemingly aged thirty years, brought unfamiliar goose bumps to Smith's loose gray skin.
Donning a pair of disposable rubber gloves, Smith examined the man's hair. After satisfying himself that there was no surgical scar on the scalp, he examined the mastoid scar and the slash marks at each wrist.
"How recent would you say were these scars?"
"Recent?" the M.E. repeated blankly.
"You heard me?"
"With scarring, it is difficult to say precisely."
"Thirty years old?" prompted Smith.
The M.E. shook his head. "No, not even ten, I should judge."
Smith compressed his mouth and said nothing. He next went to the man's hands, drawing the sheet down farther to expose them.
The body had already begun to stiffen, so Smith had to give the arm a hard jerk to lift the right hand.
"You should not do that!" the M.E. exploded.
Smith brought the limp, cold fingers to his own face and turned the wrist with difficulty. He examined the fingertips, which were black with ink from the posthumous fingerprinting.
"I found it difficult to believe this is really Lee Harvey Oswald," the M.E. muttered.
"I find it impossible to accept," said Harold Smith, using a fingernail to scratch residual ink from the dead man's thumb. The flesh beneath was cold and unresponsive. Smith kept scratching.
"What are you doing?" the M.E. asked, leaning in curiously.
To his horror, Harold Smith took up a loose flap of skin and began peeling the thumb as if it was a tiny white banana.
The M.E. gasped. Smith's grim gray face went grimmer.
Smith let the hand go. It dropped slightly, then froze in a macabre lifting gesture, as if the dead man were stirring back to life. Smith paid the arm no attention. He was looking at the perfect shell of the last joint of a thumb between his gloved fingers.
"Latex," said Smith. "Grooved with Lee Harvey Oswald's perfect fingerprints."
"Latex?"
"The same material as these gloves," said Smith, stripping off the disposable rubber gloves.
"I cannot believe these were overlooked during the autopsy."
"The latex fingertips were expertly fitted so no seam showed, just as the body scars were designed to create the illusion of an older Lee Harvey Oswald."
"Then how did you discover these things?"
"I looked for them," said Smith.
The M.E. winced. "If this man is not Oswald, who is he?"
"After you have his true fingerprints, fax them to me at the White House, but tell no one else. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said the puzzled medical examiner.
SMITH NEXT went to St. Elizabeth's Hospital, where his false identification got him access to the insane patient who bore a strong resemblance to Congressman Gila Gingold.
There were two Secret Service special agents on duty. Smith asked them, "Why hasn't this man been fingerprinted as ordered?"
"We can't get him out of the tub," one agent admitted.
"Every time we try, he tries to bite us," the other added.
"Show me," said Smith.
The patient-his name was now Gila Doe on the bedside clipboard-was in a private room, and it had a private bath.
The attending doctor showed up and began explaining. "He wet the bed repeatedly, so we had orderlies carry him into the bathroom to sponge him down. He took one look at the tub filled with water and threw himself in. We haven't been able to pry him out after that."
Smith found the patient still in his jungle fatigues soaking in the tub. He wasn't soaking on his back, but on his stomach.
When Smith peered over the edge of the oversize tub, he felt his skin crawl involuntarily. The patient's limbs were splayed out. His head was almost entirely submerged except for the white hair on top. His green eyes shifted to fix Smith with a cold lizardlike regard. Bubbles dribbled up from the thin, submerged lips.
Experimentally Smith reached toward a tiny bald spot in the white hair that resembled the burr hole found on the skull of the Socks replica.
Abruptly the patient reared up. He tried to snap the hand off. Smith withdrew his fingers just ahead of the jaws. The man eased back into the water and returned to dribbling slow bubbles, as if nothing had happened.
"See what we mean?" one agent said.
"Distract him, please," Smith told the agents as he removed his coat and rolled up one shirt sleeve.
The agents moved to the end of the tub, and the cold green eyes shifted to follow.
Ducking low, Smith slipped up on one side and snaked his bare arm into the tub. He reached under and carefully began tickling the man on his stomach.
The frozen face betrayed no notice at first. Then a slow, satisfied smile crept over the thin mouth. The eyes grew sleepy and pleased.
"Quickly," hissed Smith. "Turn him over on his back."
The agents hesitated.
"Now!" said Smith.
Eyes afraid, the agents moved in and, reaching around Smith's tickling hand, upended the man.
Smith continued tickling the stomach. The man lifted his arms like a contented kitten. They hung in the air, bent and boneless.
"Print him now," Smith ordered.