Dec 28, 1963 - Early April 1964
few hours after Casey began the drive from Dallas back to A Wisconsin, Kennedy began his next session with his pads. It didn’t go well.
He tried to use Casey’s ideas. He cleared his mind as much as possible and determined to focus only on small issues. He had a list.
He tried. Bless him, he tried. He found himself thinking though about a previous session, something about obesity in children.
Where did that come from, he wondered? Was that even possible?
Children were far too active to be fat, weren’t they? Thinking of that, he recalled something else: a future television show where people tried to lose weight. He doubted any alternate future could find Americans so idle they would sit on a couch and watch svelte train-ers chastising obese people for not losing enough weight. But wait, he wasn’t supposed to be thinking of those things. Concentrate on his list. Ah, that’s better. He really hoped this idea of Casey’s worked. He couldn’t wait to see how his “small steps” approach could fix some of the worst future problems he’d seen. Like school shootings. Can you imagine? In America? Gunmen, just walking into high schools, and even grammar schools, loaded down with guns and shooting everyone they could find for as long as it took police to get there? How can we let that happen? How will we allow the structure of our society to deteriorate to such a reprehensible state that several times a year one of our countrymen will enter a school and shoot children? The worst part is, this wasn’t an alternate future that wasn’t likely to happen. He’d seen it the first day, that day in Dallas, when he saw what would actually happen after the day he died. He’s crying now, but that’s ok. He should cry for his country that behaves so badly. Getting hard to breathe though.
Drop the pad, break the spell. Still crying though. Jackie wants to 111
know what’s wrong. How can I tell her, huh? How can I tell her that, Casey? I tried. This isn’t working. You just don’t know what this is like, you can’t know…
For nineteen months to come, Kennedy will continue to explore the mysteries hidden in his pads, and for all those months he will fail to glean anything of value from the encounters. The sessions will be chaotic, leaving him exhausted and no closer to the prize.
Pad sessions will become easier to recover from, and he’ll wonder if that is a fortunate consequence of adaptation, or if the debilitating effects are accumulating, undetected; if they will rear up one day and destroy him. It doesn’t matter. He is hooked, like a bad golfer who doesn’t know when to quit.
January 5, 1964, the hour was again late when the man with no name called at a side door of the White House. He entered again; his presence not recorded. He was shown to the president’s office.
Kennedy accepted a large envelope and a medium-sized accordion folder from the man. “I’ll read your written report later. Right now, I’d like to hear it in your own words. All you learned.”
“You were right, Mr. President, in that there was an attempt on your life. However, the men whose names you gave me were not involved. After eliminating them, I went with the odds. Pull a job like this, it’d take skill. Looked at east coast contract players. Figured if one gets into something heavy, maybe someone around him notices. I got lucky. Heard-a one dying, who might-a been on a job recently. He had no security, just a dozen heirs waiting to see how much they’d inherit. Got to him alone, night before he died. He might-a got the impression I was a priest. I told him to skip the little things, just tell me the worst things he’d ever done, and he opened up. Sat through a recitation of several abductions, murders and blackmails. Didn’t mention you. I asked if he was done. He said,
‘Yeah, them was the biggies, ‘cept for one. Would-a been the biggest, but I missed ‘im. That don’t count, right?’ Told him the guy upstairs wouldn’t see it that way. Then he told me. I asked for details. Got everything he knew. It’s in my report, including names 112
and details of all seven conspirators.
“Funny thing is, he claimed no one called him, or spoke to him, to arrange the first meeting. Claims he just had an irresistible urge to show up one weekend at this hunting lodge. Six others were there.
He named them all. He said they all had the same story about how they got there. They met four times. They each had their area of expertise; each did their job. They were most efficient.
“They hired a marksman. Number two on my list dropped him off near the book building. The marksman planned to walk out and ride away in the same car when he finished the job, but he never showed. When number two saw cops accumulating around the building, he drove off.
“I’m certain none of them know what became of their shooter.
They read the story about the young cop, thought of approaching him, but decided it was too risky. I’m sorry to report I too could not learn the identity of the shooter, nor what happened to him. It’s as if he disappeared. If anyone can shed light on this issue, it would be the cop, but I stayed away from him, as you instructed.
“Number one on my list ran the show. Besides the four times they met in person, there were many phone calls between meetings.
Then, two days before the attempt, they met again, to take care of last-minute details. They left, all vowing to do their jobs.
“Then nothing happened. I confirmed it with number one. I spoke to him for over an hour, under, ah, circumstances that… I can guaranty he told me the truth, and he woke up the next morning with a huge hangover, recalling nothing of our meeting.
“The story he told confirms what I learned from the one who died, and I made further confirmations, in bits and pieces, from several of the others on the list. Every element of my inquiry gives me high confidence the story is true, except for one thing.
“Of the four I questioned, all four claim they came to the first meeting of their own volition. I don’t believe it. There must be someone higher up pulling the strings, and it troubles me I could not learn that identity. It calls into question the veracity of everything else in my report. I considered reporting my mission as failed, but 113
with every other factor at a high confidence, I thought you’d want to know, so here I am.”
“You were right to report, more than you’ll ever know. You did a fine job, and I couldn’t be more pleased with the results. Are you certain none of the men on my list are connected in any way?”
“Yes, Sir. I checked all of them out, and I’m confident they were not involved, and they have no knowledge of the attempt.”
Pointing to the accordion folder, Kennedy asked, “Do you have any notes, papers, scraps or scribbles that are not in this folder?”
“No, Sir.”
“Fine, fine,” Kennedy said. “Now all you have to do is forget everything. You’ll receive your fees every year, without fail, even if I should die. I can’t over-emphasize how important it is this stays between us, and how pleased I will be to never hear of it again.”
Kennedy said nothing about how unpleased he would be if he did hear of their meetings again, but the man with no name was a pro. He knew it was implied.
“You can count on me, Sir. I’ve been winter hiking the southern Appalachian Trail for the past four weeks, solo. Something I’ve always wanted to do. Good luck, Sir,” the man said, as he stood.
“Good luck, yourself,” Kennedy said softly. Then he watched as his visitor walked to the door, opened it, walked out, and closed it behind him.
Kennedy stared at the door for several minutes, his mind sorting through all he had learned and confirmed on this night. Then he opened the envelope and read the seven-page report. When finished, he gathered the report, envelope and accordion file, and took them to the fireplace on the north wall of his office. He started a small fire and deliberately fed everything to the flames, watching to ensure the flames consumed every tiny scrap. Then he scraped the ashes together and flushed them.
Kennedy had formed a hypothesis regarding the higher authority behind the conspiracy. He wanted to confirm it, so the following day, he had federal agents abduct the number one conspirator, the one indicated as the leader in the report. The big man went with the 114
agents willingly. They brought him to the same stately home in which Kennedy had met Casey. There were no logs in the fireplace, and they offered no refreshments. Two agents stuck to his side while they waited for Kennedy to appear, about 10 PM.
Kennedy stood in front of the fireplace, facing the big man, who was seated in one of the comfortable leather chairs. He asked the two federal agents to wait in the hallway, with the door closed, and then asked, “You know why you’re here?”
“Yes. We can cut to the chase. I led a group that attempted to kill you last November. There were six others. I’ll give you their names. Whatever you have planned for me, I accept. I’ve led a corrupt life, and now it’s caught up with me. I knew it would, sooner or later.”
“You know I can’t have you released?”
“Certainly. You can’t trust that I won’t try again. I’m ready.
Just make it quick.”
“I’d like to know why,” Kennedy said. The big man only pursed his lips and looked down at his shoes. “You must have had a reason. What difference does it make if you tell me what it is?”
“It’s complicated. You won’t believe me, anyway.”
“Try me,” Kennedy said. The big man stared at his shoes again.
“You know of the US Disciplinary Barracks, in Kansas?”
“Military prison. Nice. As prisons go.”
“I could arrange for you to spend your remaining days there.”
The big man looked quizzically at Kennedy. “When you were in the Army, a certain captain disappeared.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Perhaps not. But you could confess to it. A military crime.
You could spend your life sentence in the DB.”
The big man shrugged. “You still won’t believe me, but, what the hell? Won’t do me any harm to tell you. I had no reason, none whatsoever, to kill you.” When Kennedy only folded his arms and stared at him, he continued. “Honest. I even voted for you. Give me a lie detector test, torture me, you’ll get the same answer. I woke up one morning thinking you had to die, to support a cause near and 115
dear to me. Before you ask, I have no idea, now, what that cause is, or was. It’s… The whole business is foggy now, like a bad acid-trip.” He offered his hands, palms up, and then dropped them to his knees.
“What about the other six you recruited to help you? Had you known them before?”
“I knew them. Didn’t recruit them. That’s another part you won’t believe. We showed up in a hunting cabin we all knew of.
But we’d had no contact before that, not for several years.”
“Someone recruited you. You’re covering for someone.”
“If I am it must be like, God, or something. Everything I’ve told you is true. No reason to lie. Nothing more to lose.”
Kennedy walked behind the two leather chairs and paced for one minute between the desk and chairs. The story he’d just heard confirmed what he’d been thinking: just as he could not rationally explain his own experience in escaping assassination, the same appeared to be true of those who’d conspired against him. It was a relief, in the sense that none of his political enemies hated him enough to kill him—or at least they weren’t bold enough to try—
but it suggested a concern that was far more troubling. To deal with a human behind the attempt might have been difficult, but how would he deal with the supernatural? Still thinking, and shaking his head sadly, he opened the door and walked away. The two federal agents entered the room and stood to either side of the big man. A third person walked in, identified himself as a federal prosecutor, handed the big man a one-page statement and told him to sign. He started reading it, but realized he’d be in no position to demand any changes. He sighed, and signed.
Three days later, on January 9, 1964, Casey Peterson enlisted in the Army, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, after a brief two weeks spent with his family in Marshfield. He longed to tell them about the meetings he’d had on Dec 23 and 24, but he knew all the reasons he couldn’t. They knew everything else, though, and to their credit, his parents and brothers believed Casey’s version of the events in 116
Dallas, and told him so, knowing the boy they’d raised, and the man he’d become, wouldn’t fabricate a story such as this, not in a million years.
Casey was the first basic training graduate in fifteen years to score one hundred percent on the physical fitness test. The Army approved his application to the Aviation Warrant Officer Candidate program, and Casey entered the training with thirty other candidates. At program’s end Casey was one of two selected to receive fixed wing training in Fort Eustis, Virginia. While there, he became dual qualified in rotary-wing aircraft.
Ken thought of it as part of his job, as Kennedy’s aid, to keep track of things important to the president. He knew of the two meetings just before Christmas of 1963, in the little study with the two comfortable chairs in front of the burning fireplace. It didn’t matter that Kennedy chose not to share with him the reason Casey was important. He was, so Ken kept track.
He found out about Casey’s enlistment in the Army a few weeks after Casey joined. He obtained a copy of the enlistment document Casey signed, and on February 5, 1964, he placed it on top of a stack of other briefings he delivered to Kennedy’s desk that morning. He watched as the president picked up the item.
“Oh my,” Kennedy said, after he’d studied the document for a few seconds. “I didn’t see that coming.” He placed the document in front of him on his desk and studied it for several more minutes.
Then he folded it once and placed it in a desk drawer. “Thank you, Ken. I’d like to know where he’s assigned, please?”
“Yes Sir, of course.”
The cacophony of voices speaking out against Kennedy’s determination to withdraw from Vietnam had been steadily growing since he had announced it on the previous November 29th. By early 1964, those advocating war grew loud and organized. Outspoken congressmen, senators, and well-known celebrities demanded the 117
U.S. come to the aid of the people of South Vietnam. Hawkish or-ganizers convinced college students that Communists were on a mission to conquer the entire world and the only way to defeat them was to stop them in Vietnam. There was a barrage of student-led demonstrations and sit-ins on college campuses across the country, including vandalism and fires on many campuses. Minority peacenik groups charged that large corporations, heavily invested in the building of war machinery, funded pro-war groups. Violence erupted on numerous campuses as the small, but determined dove groups clashed with the far larger and better-organized hawks.
Richard M. Nixon arose as the strongest voice for war. While he advocated for peaceful dialog in the US, he demanded war in Vietnam. Kennedy had defeated him in 1960 by the narrowest margin in history, and he was eager for a rematch. Amid the drums of war, Nixon took measure of the country’s foul mood, laid the fault on Communist aggression in Vietnam, and promised to deliver the USA from all its enemies, within and without. He easily became the Republican nominee, and in the early months of 1964, it looked as if he were headed for an easy win on November third.
Through the turmoil, Kennedy remained aloof. After the confrontation with the big man of the conspiracy, he was convinced that if another assassination attempt were to occur, it would be at the behest of an other-than-natural source. He became obsessed with discovering the nature of that source, and he was sure he could find the answer in his legal pads. He threw himself into the effort, and became reclusive, at times, when he’d convince himself he was on the verge of a breakthrough, such as the one that occurred in April 1964.
On that day, for the first time, he felt as though he moved, physically, beyond the glowing text. He found himself looking out the window of a high-speed train, the train speeding through an endless series of unrecognizable stations, the stations passing his window in a distorted blur. The train would occasionally stop, and he would see the station name, never a place he recognized. Below the station name, in slightly glowing letters, he’d see three or four words, a 118
message, he guessed, considering their nature. The message at the first of these stations said, “Here Be Monsters.” He didn’t feel compelled to step off the train. Then he was back in the White House, staring at his pad.
He dove back in, and in the next session the high-speed train stopped at a station that bore the message, “Place of No Hope.” Others were, “Rules, Only Rules,” “Crazy, With Knife,” “Water, Water, Water,” “Hot, Very Hot,” and “Just A Little Bug.” It went on for hours. Even Jackie couldn’t lure him away from his pad. Kennedy knew he should quit, but something compelled him to keep trying. The next session took him to a station bearing the simple message, “Paradise.” Finally, he thought, progress. He thought he might like to disembark here, and he stood at an exit door. It opened, and a blue-suited conductor wearing a plaid hunting cap handed him a ticket printed with the words, “Good for One Return.”
“Don’t leave the platform,” the conductor said. “And remember to count your steps.” The conductor looked like Johnny Carson; the new late-night talk show host Kennedy had seen a few times.
Stone-faced Conductor Carson ignored Kennedy’s attempts to engage him in conversation, and stared past him instead, as if he didn’t see Kennedy.
As soon as he planted his feet on the platform, the train and conductor disappeared, with nothing behind him but empty tracks, and nothing ahead but an empty station. He didn’t know why he had to count his steps, but he was leery, so he took one cautious step, and was instantly somewhere else: a vast farm field, in one of the plains states, he thought. The field was overgrown with a mix of weeds and tall grasses, even a few small trees he could see in the distance. Eight deer browsed off to his right. He saw trails through the field, and evidence of other animals.
His next step found him standing on a gravel road, or at least where one had once been. It was unmaintained, and vegetation had taken over. Looking fore and aft, he could just make out a trace of where the road had been. There were plenty of animals here, as well.
His next five steps took him to a wide, six-lane street with tall 119
buildings on either side, the lobby of an office building, a room in a grand home, the slope of a tall mountain, and last, to Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington DC. He found the same overgrown, abandoned conditions in each place, and it didn’t take long for him to notice he encountered no humans, nor evidence of them. He then understood why the station sign proclaimed the place to be Paradise.
The concept saddened him, that removing humans would turn Earth into paradise, and he wondered what actions taken back in his time would lead to here.
It didn’t matter. He’d seen enough. He turned, retraced his steps and found his train waiting. He handed his return ticket to the Johnny Carson Conductor, and again Carson ignored him. However, this time Kennedy understood. Carson knew Kennedy was there and ignored him on purpose. That purpose, Kennedy realized, was to show disdain, to show that Kennedy, as representative of humanity past, was to blame for humanity’s downfall. As Kennedy stood looking at Carson, Carson averting his gaze, Kennedy understood what the full weight of shame would feel like if one such as he, from the past, were made to bear the accumulated weight of judgment from a future made bleak by sins of neglect, indifference, and thoughtlessness.
He visited dozens of alternate futures this way. Some were fascinating, and many were bizarre. The problem was, Kennedy wasn’t solving any problems this way. Like a privileged voyeur, he was having a great time, but he was wasting time too, and time had become a precious commodity to Kennedy. So, he would reformulate his mindset, reengage his pads, and look again for that which eluded him.
He told Jackie, his only confidant, about most of his “little journeys,” to those “cast-away ages,” the term he began using to refer to all those futures which, hopefully, would never come to be.
A personal crisis, looming over one year out, would finally lead JFK to the secrets his pads had to share with him. Whether the pads could have foretold him the crisis, and whether, in knowing, he could have avoided it, he would never know. History, once written, 120
can no longer be altered, not even by gods.
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