you. Ho, ho. Well, I really am here to help you.”
Karp waited, his expression neutral. Ziller took a breath and resumed.
“Okay, I got this from a buddy of mine who shall remain nameless. He’s a staffer with the Church committee.”
“The Senate Intelligence investigation.”
“Yes, the Intelligence investigation. Church is the chair, but Dick Schaller is the leading light. They subpoenaed a shitload of stuff from the CIA and most of it was either trash or blanked out—par for the course with the spooks—but there was one incredibly juicy little package that came through untouched. Some of it bears heavily on the JFK investigation.”
“In what way?”
“This I don’t know, but my guy says it’s dynamite.”
“And Schaller is going to give us this stuff?”
“Yeah. What he wants is to get rid of it. The investigation is finished, the report is out. The last thing he needs is to be sitting on something this big that he didn’t use.”
Karp frowned. “Wait a minute. What you’re saying is that a U.S. senator had information germane to the assassination of the president and he’s playing footsy with it? He’s not going public with it immediately?”
“That’s not the point. It was ancillary to the intelligence investigation proper, and if he used it, he’d have had to branch off down a line of investigation he chose not to pursue.”
“Why not?”
Ziller paused and said meaningfully, “Because in certain quarters of this town, getting excited about who did JFK is considered on the same level as having food stains on your tie or walking around with your fly open.”
“That’s good to know,” said Karp, and then asked, “So what do I do? Beg him?”
“No, we’ll set up an appointment, you’ll go over to the Dirksen Building, you’ll chat, talk about the weather, and when you leave the stuff’ll be in your briefcase.”
“Great,” said Karp. “Is that it?”
“No, Mark Lane has some dynamite stuff he got on an FOIA request from the FBI, another miracle. There must be a rat in the public information office there,” said Ziller. He looked at his watch and beckoned to the waitress for the check. “I have to run; there’s a staff meeting over at Rayburn in ten minutes.”
“Wait a second—what’s this about Mark Lane and a rat in the FBI?”
“Yeah, it’s a long story. It’s another document, and I’m sure Lane’ll be around to see us. It’s apparently signed by J. Edgar Hoover’s own soft, pink hand.” He stood up. “I should be able to start full-time next week, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah, sure, fine,” said Karp, feeling vaguely one-upped and unsure about whether it was fine or not.
Back in the office, Karp found a message from V.T. on his desk. V.T. himself was in his own dingy room poking into one of several heavy cartons made of a dark, waxy-looking cardboard.
“What’s up, V.T.?”
“How was your lunch?”
“I had the cheeseburger special. What’s in the boxes?”
“National Archives,” said V.T. “Your research director has been researching, and I had these sent over. It’s the photographic stuff, copies they let us have. The actual stuff, they send a guy over and he watches it. I imagine we’ll need to do that when we go to hearings.”
“What actual stuff?”
“Oh, the Rifle. The Bloody Shirt. The Magic Bullet. I went over there this morning. They let me Handle the Items. You get a chill.”
“I bet. So you got all the evidence and autopsy shots?”
“Those they had. Plus the films. That’s what I wanted to show you. I set up a projector already.”
V.T. led the way to a freshly painted bare room down the hall, in the center of which he had a projector set up on a metal typing table. There were two straight chairs on either side of it. The blinds were closed, and when V.T. shut the door and clicked off the lights, the room became quite dark.
“What are we watching?” asked Karp, sitting in one of the chairs.
“You’re a
Karp waited, his expression neutral. Ziller took a breath and resumed.
“Okay, I got this from a buddy of mine who shall remain nameless. He’s a staffer with the Church committee.”
“The Senate Intelligence investigation.”
“Yes, the Intelligence investigation. Church is the chair, but Dick Schaller is the leading light. They subpoenaed a shitload of stuff from the CIA and most of it was either trash or blanked out—par for the course with the spooks—but there was one incredibly juicy little package that came through untouched. Some of it bears heavily on the JFK investigation.”
“In what way?”
“This I don’t know, but my guy says it’s dynamite.”
“And Schaller is going to give us this stuff?”
“Yeah. What he wants is to get rid of it. The investigation is finished, the report is out. The last thing he needs is to be sitting on something this big that he didn’t use.”
Karp frowned. “Wait a minute. What you’re saying is that a U.S. senator had information germane to the assassination of the president and he’s playing footsy with it? He’s not going public with it immediately?”
“That’s not the point. It was ancillary to the intelligence investigation proper, and if he used it, he’d have had to branch off down a line of investigation he chose not to pursue.”
“Why not?”
Ziller paused and said meaningfully, “Because in certain quarters of this town, getting excited about who did JFK is considered on the same level as having food stains on your tie or walking around with your fly open.”
“That’s good to know,” said Karp, and then asked, “So what do I do? Beg him?”
“No, we’ll set up an appointment, you’ll go over to the Dirksen Building, you’ll chat, talk about the weather, and when you leave the stuff’ll be in your briefcase.”
“Great,” said Karp. “Is that it?”
“No, Mark Lane has some dynamite stuff he got on an FOIA request from the FBI, another miracle. There must be a rat in the public information office there,” said Ziller. He looked at his watch and beckoned to the waitress for the check. “I have to run; there’s a staff meeting over at Rayburn in ten minutes.”
“Wait a second—what’s this about Mark Lane and a rat in the FBI?”
“Yeah, it’s a long story. It’s another document, and I’m sure Lane’ll be around to see us. It’s apparently signed by J. Edgar Hoover’s own soft, pink hand.” He stood up. “I should be able to start full-time next week, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah, sure, fine,” said Karp, feeling vaguely one-upped and unsure about whether it was fine or not.
Back in the office, Karp found a message from V.T. on his desk. V.T. himself was in his own dingy room poking into one of several heavy cartons made of a dark, waxy-looking cardboard.
“What’s up, V.T.?”
“How was your lunch?”
“I had the cheeseburger special. What’s in the boxes?”
“National Archives,” said V.T. “Your research director has been researching, and I had these sent over. It’s the photographic stuff, copies they let us have. The actual stuff, they send a guy over and he watches it. I imagine we’ll need to do that when we go to hearings.”
“What actual stuff?”
“Oh, the Rifle. The Bloody Shirt. The Magic Bullet. I went over there this morning. They let me Handle the Items. You get a chill.”
“I bet. So you got all the evidence and autopsy shots?”
“Those they had. Plus the films. That’s what I wanted to show you. I set up a projector already.”
V.T. led the way to a freshly painted bare room down the hall, in the center of which he had a projector set up on a metal typing table. There were two straight chairs on either side of it. The blinds were closed, and when V.T. shut the door and clicked off the lights, the room became quite dark.
“What are we watching?” asked Karp, sitting in one of the chairs.
“You’re a
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