November 22, 1963
Elm Street shimmered under the Texas sun as municipal workers hung red, white, and blue bunting across Dealey Plaza. Crowds already lined the sidewalks waiting for the President’s motorcade. At 11:12 a.m., Officer Bill Sprinkle squinted up at the brick facade of the Texas School Book Depository.
“You see that?” he asked his rookie partner, Carl Fernandez.
Fernandez raised a hand to block the glare. “Where?”
“Fourth floor. Window to the right.” Sprinkle pointed. “Flash of light.”
“Maybe a scope,” Fernandez said, narrowing his eyes.
“Exactly.”
“Should we call it in?” Fernandez asked.
“We’ll check it out ourselves. Probably nothing.”
Moments later, they were climbing the echoing stairwell of the Depository. Sprinkle’s hand hovered over his revolver as they reached the fourth floor. The hallway was quiet. They found the door to an office ajar. Inside, a man stood by the window, mounting a camera on a tripod.
“Sir!” Sprinkle barked. “Step away from the window!”
The man startled, nearly dropping his Nikon-F.
“I’m a photographer,” he said, raising both hands. “Bob Bletcher, Lone Star Gazette. I got cleared two weeks ago. I’m covering the President’s visit.”
Fernandez scanned the room. No weapons in sight. Just camera gear.
“There was a flash from that window,” Sprinkle said, still wary.
Bletcher pointed to the tripod. “Probably light on the lens. I was lining up my shot.”
“Got ID?” Fernandez asked.
Bletcher opened his wallet and took out a laminated press card.
Sprinkle exhaled. “Alright. High alert today as you can imagine.”
“No problem,” Bletcher said, smiling now. “I’ve been waiting weeks for this. The president and the governor. A shot for the ages maybe?”
Sprinkle and Fernandez left the office.
“Look around some more?” Fernandez suggested.
“Nah. Let’s get back down to the street.”
They descended the stairs just as a new shift of officers took up positions around the plaza.
“You were right,” Fernandez said. “It was nothing. Glad we didn’t call it in.”
Meanwhile, back in the Depository, a thin, young man sat nestled behind a wall of textbook boxes on the sixth floor. His Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5mm, rested on the windowsill. He watched the police and, as they approached the building, he had gone still. Now he relaxed and readjusted his line of sight down Elm Street.
At 12:24 p.m., a glint of light came again, this time from the sixth floor.
“Looks like our guy moved,” Fernandez said.
Sprinkle nodded. “Bletcher, trying to get a better angle. Photographers! They’ll do anything to ‘get the shot’. Saw a guy one time dangle from an overpass to get a picture of an accident.”
The two policemen turned away.
Inside the Book Depository, Bletcher hadn’t budged. He checked his viewfinder.
A cheer went up as the motorcade turned the corner.
Bletcher leaned and depressed the shutter.
Simultaneously, the man on the sixth floor exhaled slowly, finger tightening on the trigger …
Shots rang out against the blue Texas sky.
Bletcher gasped, nearly dropping his camera again.
On the street below, chaos erupted.
Sprinkle and Fernandez turned and looked back at the building they had so recently exited.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Sprinkle said as comprehension hit him like a sledge hammer.
“Let’s go,” Fernandez shouted as he turned to run back to the Book Depository.
Sprinkle grabbed him by the arm. Shook his head.
Fernandez looked his partner in the eye. He understood. There’d be hell to pay if they went back.
“No need to get hung out to dry by an honest mistake, son.”
Sprinkle and Fernandez were soon lost in the frenzied swarm of uniforms converging on the scene.
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared recently in The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, MetaStellar Magazine, Freedom Fiction Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Antipodean SF, The Blotter Magazine and 365 Tommorows.
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