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(Parkland) while O works. Rifle stored in Paine garage, wrapped in blanket.
O repeatedly visited by FBI agent James Hosty. Stokes his paranoia.
11/21/63: O comes to Paine house. Begs Marina to reunite. M refuses. Last straw
for O.
11/22/63: O leaves all his money on dresser for Marina. Also wedding ring. Goes
from Irving to Book Dep with Buell Frazier. Has package wrapped in brown paper.
Buell asks about it. “Curtain rods for my new apartment,” O tells him. Mann-Carc
rifle probably disassembled. Buell parks in public lot 2 blocks from Book Dep. 3-min
walk.
11:50 AM: O constructs sniper’s nest on SE corner of 6 th floor, using cartons to
shield him from workers on other side, who are laying down plywood for new floor.
Lunch. No one there but him. Everyone watching for Pres.
11:55 AM: O assembles & loads Mann-Carc.
12:29 PM: Motorcade arrives Dealey Plaza.
12:30 PM: O shoots 3 times. 3 rd shot kills JFK.
The piece of information I most wanted—the location of Oswald’s rooming house—wasn’t in Al’s
notes. I restrained an urge to throw the notebook across the room. Instead I got up, put on my coat,
and went outside. It was nearly full dark, but a three-quarter moon was rising in the sky. By its light I
saw Mr. Kenopensky slumped in his wheelchair. His Motorola was in his lap.
I made my way down the ramp and limped over. “Mr. K? All right?”
For a moment he didn’t answer or even move, and I was sure he was dead. Then he looked up and
smiled. “Just listenin to my music, son. They play swing at night on KMAT, and it really takes me
back. I could lindy and bunny-hop like nobody’s biz back in the old days, though you’d never know to
look at me now. Ain’t the moon purty?”
It was bigtime purty. We looked at it awhile without speaking, and I thought about the job I had
to do. Maybe I didn’t know where Lee was staying tonight, but I knew where his rifle was: Ruth
Paine’s garage, wrapped in a blanket. Suppose I went there and took it? I might not even have to break
in. This was the Land of Ago, where folks in the hinterlands often didn’t lock their houses, let alone
their garages.
Only what if Al was wrong? He’d been wrong about the stash-point before the Walker attempt,
after all. Even if it was there . . .
“What’re you thinkin about, son?” Mr. Kenopensky asked. “You got a misery look. Not girl
trouble, I hope.”
“No.” At least not yet. “Do you give advice?”
“Yessir, I do. It’s the one thing old coots are good for when they can’t swing a rope or ride a line no
more.”
“Suppose you knew a man was going to do a bad thing. That his heart was absolutely set on it. If
you stopped a man like that once—talked him out of it, say—do you think he’d try it again, or does
that moment pass forever?”
“Hard to say. Are you maybe thinking whoever scarred your young lady’s face is going to come
back and try to finish the job?”
“Something like that.”
“Crazy fella.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“Sane men will often take a hint,” Mr. Kenopensky said. “Crazy men rarely do. Saw it often back in