December 23, 1963
our weeks after the shooting that wasn’t a shooting, on a Mon-F day morning, December 23, Cap Rodgers drew the unpleasant duty of giving Casey the boot. He’d had Casey on a desk since November 23, looking over old cold cases. Cap picked up his phone and asked Casey to step into his office.
When he walked into the captain’s office, Casey had defeat written all over his face. His shoulders were slumped and Cap thought, “Confidence. His confidence is gone. He no longer believes in himself.”
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After insisting Casey take a seat, the Captain told him he was out of the department as of today. Casey was not surprised; he’d seen it coming. If not for a tiny stubborn streak, he would have resigned weeks ago, when the articles began appearing in the local papers.
“I know it won’t make any difference, but I want you to know son, I believe you believe what you told me about that day. I did, right from the start. I can’t explain the event any more than you can.
On another day, another Commissioner, we could have gotten past this. You’d site lack of sleep, let the department shrink dig around in your head a bit… But, that’s not in the cards now.”
“Thank you, Sir, it… Thank you, Sir.”
“I also know you’ll still be one hell of a cop. You have good instincts. They re-opened those two cold cases you sent up to the Chief a’ D.” Casey only nodded.
“I got one concession from them. You could resign. Cite a family emergency that requires your full-time attention for an undetermined length of time. The department will accept your resignation, and remove the incident of November 22 from your record.
In other words, lie. “I don’t know, Sir, I—”
“I know, you don’t want to abandon your truth. I’ll promise you this. I’ve been in this business a long time, and I know a great many people, in Texas and elsewhere. Take a few weeks off. When you look for work again, list me as a reference. I’ll give you a “highly recommended” to any police department, anywhere. With that, and your own abilities, you’ll be back on the job in no time.”
Cap waited a few seconds, and when Casey didn’t respond, he said, “Take this option son. I know it stinks, but a “Dismissed with Cause” on your record will be hard to shake.”
Casey took it. He turned in his gear, changed to street clothes, cleaned out his locker and walked out the door. Everyone had their heads down, buried in their work, as he left.
On the street in front of the precinct house, carrying a small box of belongings, Casey turned to his right and walked toward his car.
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He thought of how his life could have been different if he had ignored the voice in his head that told him to turn, to see the man with the case sneaking in the back door of the book building. For the first few days after the event, losing his job hadn’t really mattered; it was a small price to pay for preventing an assassination. Lately, however, he had begun to doubt his own memory of the incident. He was no longer sure there even was an incident. He was on his heels, feeling worse than he’d ever felt. He noticed, but paid no attention to, the man in a dark suit, leaning against a black Oldsmobile parked at the curb.
“Mr. Peterson?” the man said as Casey passed by. He took two more steps and stopped, then turned his head toward the car.
“Mr. Casey Ray Peterson?” The man withdrew an ID case from a breast pocket, flipped it open, and walked toward Casey, holding it up for Casey to see. “Special Agent Smith, US Secret Service.
Would you care to get in the car please?”
He was still miles away in his head, so it took a few seconds for the man’s words to penetrate. He tilted his head at first, still trying to understand, and then, suddenly, he did.
“Aw now that does it!” Casey shouted, as he dropped his box and turned toward the Agent. “I just hit the limit to the crap I’m gonna take over this.” Advancing toward the Agent, Casey shouted,
“I lost my job. My career! So now what? I tainted the Secret Service just because you happened to be in town on the same day? YOU,”
Casey shouted, poking the Agent’s chest with his finger, “gotta lotta nerve! This is CRAP! I shot the guy, ok? A real flesh and blood guy! Not a ghost like the papers… I don’t know what happened to the body! But I shot him! That’s the truth and that’s all you’re gonna get out of me, so just drop dead!”
With that, Casey turned heel and just about tripped over his box. He scooped it up and stalked off at a brisk pace, mumbling to himself. His thoughts bounced around, first the shooting, then the Captain, his career lost, the agent, a Secret Service Agent for Christ’s sake, his parents, telling his parents, brothers, the shooting again, pulling the trigger, pulling the trigger…
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He was six or eight blocks past his car before he realized it. He didn’t remember the walk, crossing streets, looking for traffic, nothing. He had calmed down though, a little. He could think again. He turned around to find his car, and then noticed how nice the day was: a cool, but sunny late December morning in Dallas. It reminded Casey of autumn days in Wisconsin. It was only two miles further to his apartment. He’d walk. He could use the exercise. He slowed his pace, even stopped once to sit on a bench in a small park.
By the time he reached his apartment, his head was clear again.
He couldn’t miss the black Olds, or Agent Smith, parked as they were in front of his apartment, in a no-parking zone. Casey ignored him, walked to the door, pulled it open, stopped, took a deep breath, and expelled it. He let go of the door and turned around.
“What? What do you want from me, huh?”
Agent Smith pushed away from the car, but only took one step.
“Mr. Peterson, I’m sorry if I was a little blunt earlier. My boss’s boss, or maybe his boss, I don’t know, would like to speak to you.
You have the right to refuse. Just between you and me, from the vibrations I picked up, I’d guess whoever wants to speak to you, will. Sooner or later. Why not save a little time?” He gestured toward his car. “Please?”
Casey thought for a few seconds, and then the half grin that had characterized him for most of his life returned to his face. “Well, as it happens, my schedule has recently opened up a bit.”
Smith held open the rear passenger door. Casey walked over and asked, “Anything wrong with the front seat?” “Nothing at all,”
Smith said, as he closed the rear door and moved to open the front one. “I got it,” Casey said. “Let’s get going.” He opened the door, tossed his box on the seat, and climbed in after it.
To take his mind off his troubles, Casey asked Agent Smith about the Secret Service. He heard a few downright interesting stories, and he forgot his troubles for a while. The Secret Service sounded like quite a job. If even half of it were true, he might like to check it out one day. Of course, the month he’d just had would 68
surely turn up in a background check, putting the SS just a bit out of reach. But a guy could dream.
When Casey realized they were on the approach road to the Love Field Airport, he said, “What, this guy is at the airport?” Smith said nothing.
They drove through a gate where Smith had to show his ID, then he pulled the car to a stop alongside a sleek-looking aircraft.
Smith whistled. “Nice. A Gulfstream One. Carries eight, maybe ten passengers, I think.” He turned to look at Casey. “They’re waiting for you. Only passenger. They’ll take off, soon as you’re aboard.”
“Shit. You never said anything about flying. What’s goin’ on, Smith? C’mon, what am I getting into here?”
“I honestly don’t know. Tell you what though, you came this far. Was me, I’d want to see where it leads. Up to you though. I have strict orders. I can’t force you on the plane.”
“You can just keep making a pest of yourself, huh?”
“You catch on quick.”
“I don’t even have a change of underwear.”
“Stores where you’re going. Resourceful guy like you will figure it out.”
“Now you do know where I’m going?”
“Nope. Just that wherever that baby lands, there’ll be stores.”
“What about my box?”
“I’ll swing by and drop it with your apartment manager. No extra charge.”
“Got an answer for everything, don’t cha?”
Smith only shrugged.
“Well Special Agent Smith,” Casey said, as he opened his door,
“it was nice to make your acquaintance. You ever make it up to Wisconsin, be sure to not look me up.”
“You got it.”
Casey shut the door, and on impulse, couldn’t resist walking around to the back of the car, away from the aircraft, just to mess 69
with Smith. It worked too. About the time Casey made the turn behind the car to head back to the plane, Smith’s door came open.
Then he just sat there, half in and half out of the car, as Casey walked by to the plane, waggled his fingers at Smith and said, “Too-tles.” Smith scowled and gave Casey the finger. The thought that he could learn to like this guy occurred to both men.
On board Casey found he was in fact the only passenger. Besides him, just a pilot and copilot were aboard.
The pilot allowed Casey to sit up front on a little jump seat during takeoff, if he promised to keep still and quiet. He watched all the things the pilot did to put the bird in the air, and he stuck around long enough to see the heading was northeasterly, in the general direction of Washington DC.
That confirmed his suspicion regarding who might be behind this little escapade. But it was just too preposterous to think the president had heard about his story. And what if he had? It didn’t mean he believed the story. He couldn’t. So why would he want to meet Casey? He dismissed the possibility. The guy is a politician.
He would gain nothing by meeting Casey Peterson.
He went to the back and settled into one of the super comfy seats. Before he fell asleep, he had time to reflect on how he had ruined his life by indulging in the fantasy of becoming a policeman—and only in Dallas. It had to be Dallas, although he never understood why. He’d wanted only to fly, was a natural, his first instructor had told him, took to it as a fish to water. He had his private license and had made a good start on his commercial ticket.
Then, out of nowhere, he gets this cockamamie notion to be a cop.
He had tried to ignore it, tried to forget it, took long walks in the woods last November—thought he might freeze it out. But nothing worked, and in a moment of weakness he’d sent in the application, and the damn thing just snowballed on him. Ten months later he’s shot an assassin that didn’t exist. What were the chances! He’d thought it through three times before falling asleep.
The copilot woke him up in time for the landing.
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