JFK Assassination Novel  

                                                   The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.

                                                                                                                                    -Dante

This web site header and subsequent pages leads the reader through the deception, the altered evidence and fraud of the events in Dallas. The novel 1963 has sourced salient facts of the JFK Assassination. One only needs to know the basics of the plot to understand how the government had lied to the American people for fifty-three years. The reader is encouraged to dig deeper and discover more evidence of conspiracy. More importantly, spread the truth, it’s the only way to bring justice for President Kennedy.

1963 by Robert P. Fitton Digital Online Edition Promo

1963 Chapter One

Author’s Note

2016 Online Edition

 

This novel is not a chronology of the JFK Assassination nor is it meant for researchers in possession of minute details of the JFK events. It is for those who have no knowledge of the murder of President Kennedy. What this novel professes is a connection of documented events that can serve as a gateway to study the work of researchers. Subsequent editions of 1963 will reflect the newly released documents and awareness of what has been hidden from the American people and the world. If I have overlooked or discounted pertinent facts I will stand corrected.

Let us connect the dots. 1963 is an unusual science fiction-time travel novel that collides with the real Lee Oswald and his activities preceding the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. It is my hope that this novel will be a gateway to all aspects of the complex scenario that produced the death of President Kennedy. This digital version contains online links and graphic images for the reader to better understand the background and perspective of this complex story.

Rather than rely on official stories and character destruction, 1963 refers to validated events. I am not a researcher. This footnoted work is written on the shoulders of countless investigators, who year after year searched for the truth in the face of relentless criticism, humiliation, and the weight of government obfuscation. This book is not intended for those who experienced the horrific events in Dallas in November 1963. Nor is it an encyclopedia. The weaving together of the conspiracy is presented to those not yet born when Kennedy died. Contained within is a simple connecting of pertinent facts in the latter part of 1963.

The truth remains alive because witnesses made the courageous choices, as President Kennedy would have admired, to speak up in the face of threat, danger, and loss of position. Like President Kennedy, dozens of these men and women were murdered.

As a time travel author, I am in awe of how history became remarkably altered by the murderers and those complicit in aiding, abetting, and fomenting the plot on President Kennedy’s life. Subsequently, the dogged, pervasive, and mostly ruthless cover-up effort persists over half a century later.

The United States was founded as a republic with representative government. Lincoln so eloquently stated that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth. To capture these ideals, this nation needs the truth of just how that government derailed and failed to be a government of the people in 1963. Only then, will we have another new birth of freedom and establish justice for President Kennedy.

 

Robert P. Fitton

November 22, 2016

Original 1963 audio at audible.com   

Amazon   

Message from the author:

 

This online edition is illustrated. Links to films, documentaries and biographies of the Kennedy Assassination players not only buttress the major assertions of this novel, but provide the reader with an expansive resource to understand why the Thirty-Fifth president of the United States was murdered. It is not my intent to inject what some may consider phantasmal science fiction into what is a serious study by devoted and competent researchers.

For those who are not inclined to read the science fiction aspects of 1963 or the novel itself, the digital edition of 1963 has “Easy Access.” The political and historical aspects of the Kennedy Assassination can be effortlessly summoned with a single click.

 

Robert P. Fitton

November 2016

Chapter One

 

Dealey Plaza


Dallas, Texas


Sunday


January 13, 2013


11:22 a.m.

 

Rewriting history carries an expensive price tag. For years, Patch Kincaid had relived John Kennedy’s assassination behind a foldaway aluminum table in Dealey Plaza, Dallas, Texas. The locals knew him as the eccentric bearded fool who once claimed he caused Kennedy’s death in 1963. Little kids would then add up the years from 1963 to 2013 on their fingers. Then, inevitably, someone would proclaim him a liar. How could somebody in his forties have been alive fifty years ago?

If only he could prevent Kennedy’s death. Nobody cared now about what happened half a century past on the street below. Patch did not involve himself in conspiracy theories or what-ifs about JFK. Across his tabletop were the books and DVDs celebrating the career of John F. Kennedy. At times, he would play some of Kennedy’s speeches through his docked MP3 player into the humongous gray boom box below the table. Just last week, three Dallas police officers had threatened to have him arrested as JFK’s voice, teaming with optimism, told the world why the United States chose to go to the moon. During the last few days, the unusually cold temperatures had prompted him to close down his table and take a break on the front steps of the museum.

       

  He gazed up at the sandstone brick building, once called the Texas School Book Depository Building, where the loner Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy from the corner sixth-floor window on November 22, 1963.[i] On the day of the assassination, a huge yellow Hertz Rent a Car sign on the roof displayed the time in white digits.[ii] Patch had no reason to question what Earl Warren and his distinguished commission members had written in twenty-six volumes so many years ago. In his old timeline, he remembered Kennedy being alive in 1986. He understood he had warped history’s fabric because he traveled back in time to 1961 and returned to 2003.

The traffic ebbed and flowed in a fluctuating buzz along Elm Street. From the museum’s stone steps, he checked the triple underpass ahead and the stockade fence to his right atop the knoll, and then he panned down Houston Street to his left. Over the past few weeks, he had seen men watching him from numerous locations. Two intelligence operatives had warned him three months ago to mind his own business and leave Dallas permanently. Even his friend Herman grew nervous.

       

  Herman’s straggly steel hair and deep-set spooky brown eyes gave him the look of a madman. In his denim jacket, he led a group of young students in the cold air toward the museum. Patch smiled as Herman recited in a gritty voice from memory the words on the plaque outside the building.


“ Formerly the Texas School Book Depository. The site was originally owned by John Neely Bryan, the founder of Dallas. During the 1880’s French native Maxime Guillot operated a wagon shop here. In 1884 the land was purchased by Phil L. Mitchell, President and director Rock Island Plow Company of Illinois. An office building for the firm’s Texas division, known as the Southern Rock Plow Company was completed here four years later. In 1901 the five-story structure was destroyed by fire. That same year, under the supervision of the company vice president and general manager F.B. Jones, work was completed on this structure, built to resemble an earlier edifice. It features characteristics of the commercial Romanesque revival style.


“In 1937 the Carraway Byrd Corporation purchased the property. Later, under the direction of D.H. Byrd the building was leased to a variety of businesses, including the Texas School Book Depository.

 

“On November 22, 1963, the building gained national notoriety when Lee Harvey Oswald allegedly shot and killed President John F. Kennedy from a sixth-floor window as the Presidential motorcade passed the site.”[iii]


Herman brought the group around the corner on Houston Street near the traffic light. The next caravan of cars and a couple of small trucks moved away from the light.

“In 1966, the world-renowned physicist Richard Feynman was asked by a researcher to study all aspects of the shooting directly in the plaza before you. Dr. Feynman did determine that the final head shot was a slight movement forward and then a violent backward thrust. This was an all-in-one dynamic.”[iv]                                                   


Patch squinted, and his eyes watered as he faced the oncoming gust. Not many people were in the plaza today. Random snow pellets accompanied the northern air and low-hanging gray clouds, and transformed the plaza into a chilled mausoleum. He pushed his thumb on the highlight screen to June 1963 and Kennedy’s Berlin Speech -the president’s most inspiring speech.  JFK’s voice broke through time from 1963. He mouthed the words.


I am proud to come to this city as the guest of your distinguished Mayor, who has symbolized throughout the world the fighting spirit of West Berlin.”[v]


A pudgy young man and his bleached blonde wife looked up the knoll at Patch. The man zipped up his blue Chicago Bears Jacket. Patch stroked his beard. At least he had gotten their attention. Mr. Chicago pointed at the concrete pedestal where Abraham Zapruder had filmed the assassination with an 8 mm Bell & Howell, model 414PD Director Series camera, operated by a spring mechanism. Then they climbed toward Patch.


“Hey, how come Kennedy flew backward…  if he was shot from behind?” asked Mr. Chicago in a gruff voice. His dark beard bristles blanketed his rounded chin, and the remnants of whatever he drank for lunch lingered in the air.


The woman kept her hands inside her blue nylon Windbreaker. She spoke in a squeaky voice, “Ed likes straight answers.”

          “I’m here to celebrate the life of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Listen . . .”


He turned up the volume.

          “Two thousand years ago—Two thousand years ago, the proudest boast was ‘civis Romanus sum.’ Today, in the world of freedom, the proudest boast is ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’.[vi]

          “That’s great, but the CIA had JFK knocked off,” said Mr. Chicago, pretending his finger was a gun.

          “Isn’t it more important that we understand what he accomplished?” asked Patch.

          “We saw that at the Kennedy Library up in Boston,” said the lady.

          “Those people had no friggin’ idea who killed JFK, Delores.”

          “He’s still dead either way,” replied Patch.

          A cocky Mr. Chicago turned toward Elm Street. “So this is where they nailed him?”


He thrust his index finger upward toward the knoll and the wooden stockade fence next to the curved white pergola. “The shots came from the grassy knoll, Delores. To me, that makes more sense. Most of the people in the plaza that day ran up the grassy knoll.”[vii]

Patch showed him Kennedy in Ireland on the cover of the CD. “I can get you all of Kennedy’s speeches for $9.99.”

        

Mr. Chicago just kept walking as Delores shrugged her shoulders. Then he performed an odd alignment with his thumbs and forefingers from behind the fence. Patch had seen the machinations before. People always emerged from the fence, proclaiming the easy shot to the street below.

          “It was a piece of cake, Delores.”

          A hefty woman with feathered short white hair walked upright in a dark coat and white pantsuit


along the grass toward Patch’s table. A scented perfume accompanied her approach. She had a genuine smile and chestnut eyes, and her smooth voice indicated kindness and sensitivity.

          “We all loved Jack Kennedy.”

          Goose bumps covered Patch’s arms under his jacket sleeves. “Most people coming through here


now were not alive back then.”

          “Like you?” she asked, followed by a quick laugh.

          “Right. Where are you from?”

          “Originally from the Northwest, but now I live in West Palm Beach. I swore I would never come down here to where it happened.” She saw him sniffing the air. “It’s called Honeysuckle by Avon.”

          “I wondered.”

          “You like it?”

          “Sure.”

          “It first came out fifty years ago. What’s your name?”

          “Patch Kincaid.”

          “Cabbage Patch.”

          “Funny.”

          Patch grinned at her humor. Then his face resumed its Dealey Plaza solemnity as she focused on the tattered X pasted on the Elm Street asphalt. “Ma’am, don’t walk down there unless you’re a hundred percent sure you want to.”

          “We watched for four days on the TV. This country was on the rise and Jack Kennedy was a


leader. We don’t have leaders anymore, Patch.” She wore no ring and extended her hand. “My name is Sharon Gorman… one of my names. I’ve been married one too many times.”

She looked over her shoulder toward the sixth-floor window.

“Kind of eerie, isn’t it? Have you been in the museum, Mrs. Gorman?”

          “I walked through that sixth floor very quickly.”

          “Why is that?”

          She produced an incredulous expression. “Where have you been, sweetness?”

          Patch slowly grinned. “Right here.”

          “Let me tell you something, and listen good: Oswald was innocent.”

          “I never really looked into it. I’m down here to promote Kennedy’s life.”

          “That’s a good thing. There were other plots against Kennedy. There’s a saying: Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time, it’s enemy action.”

          “Who said that?” asked Patch.

          “Someday you’ll read it and think of me.” She held his wrist and starred with an intensity that made him uneasy. “I’m finding it difficult to go down there.”

          “Do you want me to walk down there with you?”

          “We used to say it’s rattling my cage,” she said patting his shoulder.

She removed a tissue and patted her eyes. “You don’t know what this did to my generation. You never get over it.”


Patch pinched the brim of his Aussie hat and zipped his faded army jacket. It was too damned cold to be selling anything out here today. He squinted into the January glare across the triple underpass toward the Stemmons Freeway. With a single jab, he pushed the Mp3 button for the Kennedy Berlin speech. Her head darted to the left, and she smiled. She clutched onto Patch’s extended arm, and they took short steps down the cold Elm Street sidewalk. Her face assumed a new excitement with the president’s words in the background, and her soft scent followed them toward the street.

With just Kennedy’s speech breaking the lonely silence in Dealey Plaza, their conversation disappeared.


All—All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin. And, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’.”[viii]


Her glassy eyes gravitated away from the asphalt X and toward the railroad bridge’s weathered concrete. The cloud-smeared sun cast a dreamy glow over their shadows on the sidewalk under the lofty Reunion Tower overlooking the plaza. A few more people snooped around the stockade fence atop the knoll.


“I’ll tell you, Sharon, what they said about those who visited the Nazi concentration camps at the end of World War II.” Patch lowered his voice to a loud whisper. “Like tourists in hell they took pictures. Sometimes I feel the same way about Dealey Plaza.”

He looked over his shoulder to the central pergola where Zapruder’s secretary had steadied him on the concrete riser. Zapruder had panned his movie camera toward the motorcade as it proceeded slowly down Elm Street.[ix] Patch winced when he visualized Kennedy’s head blowing apart on that sunny November day in 1963. He had only viewed the film once, and that was enough.

They shuffled onto Elm Street’s smooth pavement. She remained remarkably composed when they reached the spot where the fatal shot had hit Kennedy. Her little nose and wide cheeks formed a firm facade, but her dark eyes were fixed to the pavement. She shook her head and looked up at him.

        

“We must find the truth, Patch.”

          Patch tilted his head. She released his arm and smiled. Then she checked the road and walked with her head up toward the open grass stretch back toward Main Street. Like a solider parading across a battlefield, she passed under the rippling American flag above the pergola along Houston Street. Then she entered the crosswalk and was gone.

          Patch eyed the sandstone facade’s sixth-floor window. When he worked at the museum, his job involved steering patrons over to the Plexiglas cubicle surrounding the stack of cardboard boxes that partially obscured the infamous window. The army psychiatrists had advised his friends that his working in the museum would help him shed the responsibility for Kennedy’s death after traveling back in time. Yet he remained confused as to how his association with the Bay of Pigs Invasion in 1961, the Cuban rebels, and, specifically, Carlos Sánchez’s death had prompted a lone gunman to shoot the president.


He focused on the building’s concrete-framed entry, and then he peered through the twisted oak branches along the quiet side street that led toward the knoll and a parking area adjacent to the rail yard. Every time a train passed, the rumbling cars and the lonesome whistle hearkened him back fifty years.


The conspiracy buffs had men shooting from catch basins, others aiming guns from cars in the motorcade, some firing darts from an umbrella, and even snipers targeting Kennedy from surrounding buildings. And they assigned blame to every possible person or group. Now he was condemned, like the Ancient Mariner in Coleridge’s epic poem, to impart aspects of JFK’s life to those who would listen. A new history now existed since his time travel journey. Ray Meinkewitz, who had formulated time travel theories into a working embarking chamber, had long since retired in Florida. Meinkewitz would never receive the recognition for pioneering the time dilation experiments. The government had locked it all away in a National Archives warehouse in New Mexico. Kate retrograded from 1961 before Patch returned to the future from the dam in Cuba. He and Kate had planned to marry, yet they lied to Kate and said he had died. She married someone else. From a distance, he had seen her family years ago. Now his life felt as if he were floating in a comfortable limbo.

He waved at Herman. His drifter friend, a Dealey Plaza tourist guide, had made five hundred bucks off a group of tourists last summer. Herman, like the lady who had just disappeared beyond the crosswalk on Houston Street, did not think Oswald killed Kennedy. Patch did not want to listen to yet another conspiracy theory. From the corner of Houston and Elm at the traffic light, his lanky buddy, clad in a denim jacket, returned the wave.


Near the stockade fence, a mustached man in his thirties, clad in a dark sports coat and white turtleneck, walked briskly from the parking lot behind the knoll. Patch had seen this man spying on him last week and he now watched him closely. The man continued up the hill to the concrete triple underpass. On November 22, 1963, railway workers awaited the arrival of the president and Mrs. Kennedy along those railroad tracks. On that Friday, both sides of the road below were lined with people. The mustached man caught up with him as he leaned on the concrete bridge abutment.

“Dealey Plaza . . .” Patch did not acknowledge him. “Kennedy died there, right?”

       

  Patch stared into his serious dark eyes. “X marks the spot, my friend.” He pointed at the asphalt down Elm Street. “Right there. Kind of sick, isn’t it?”

          “Not really. Sometimes it’s important to mark moments in time. If you don’t do that, you won’t know who did what and when.”

          “I used to work in the museum. President Kennedy . . .” said Patch as he gazed up to the sixth-floor window. “President Kennedy was shot by a single gunman from that corner window.”

          The man, younger than Patch, smiled a quick smile. “Listen, Patch.”

          “How do you know my name? There have been people watching me for two weeks. And you’re one of them.”

          “Maybe.”

“You look familiar.”

“My name is Nick Tobias. You probably saw me lurking around here, watching you. I’m aware of your background. Could you show me around and tell me about the assassination?”

          “You have me wrong. I’m down here to promote the life of John F. Kennedy.  I don’t speculate on crazy conspiracy theories.”

          “Then we’ll talk about Jack Kennedy.”

          “Sure.”


He motioned Patch back along the stockade fence toward the pavilion. “I work on my own, but I have contacts with many people.”

          Patch squinted, and as they walked toward the fence, he studied the man’s chiseled face. He gripped the picket fence. “Conspiracy theorists believe there were shooters right here behind this stockade fence.”


“Among other locations.”


“The Warren Commission fully established that a single bullet passed through President Kennedy and Governor Connally and that a final shot from the sixth-floor window destroyed the president’s skull. It never should have happened.”


He walked ahead of Nick back to his table near the curved pavilion.

          “You feel that because of your time traveling to 1961, President Kennedy died,” Nick shouted from behind. “It’s not your fault, Patch.”

          Patch spun in front of his table. “I don’t know what you know, Nick. But he was alive before I went back in time. He had his own national radio broadcast in 1986.”

          “I know the specifics of Hastings Mountain and the time dilation in the other timeline.”


He looked closer at Nick’s dark eyes. “How? It’s all classified.”

“No comment.”

“Who sent you? The government wants me to stop talking about Kennedy and leave Dealey Plaza.”

          “I’ve come down here to Texas to speak about time travel-the reopening of the time dilation experiments.”

 

      Patch’s eyes intensified as a burst of cold air arose like a ghost from Elm Street. He motioned Nick around the back of the pavilion. The red sandstone face of the museum loomed overhead. To his left, the parking lot opened behind the stockade fence.

PatchPatch bit his lower lip. “Starting the time dilation experiments is quite impossible. All the files on time dilation are also classified.”

         

           “Doesn’t matter.”

          “Who’s behind this?”

          “No comment.”

          “Well, bullshit. You won’t tell me how you know anything?”

          “That wouldn’t be smart.”

          “Then we have nothing to say, Nick.”

       

  He walked silently back to his table. Kennedy’s speech had ended. Traffic accelerated past the green light and flowed freely over the roadway. He gathered up his CDs and books and placed them carefully into the plastic crates he had removed from under the table. Even in the cloudy weather, Nick’s shadow shaded the table. His square shoulders and large frame formed a blackened behemoth against the fuzzy clouds.

“Officially, the Meinkewitz version of your time dilation trip is gone.” Patch placed his hands on his hips as he stood. Again, he looked into Nick’s dark eyes. “I know, however, you did prevent the destruction of American cities in 1986 by traveling back in time and killing Carlos Sánchez.”

     

    Patch shook his head. Sometimes he thought he saw something passing by the sixth-floor window. More than likely, the interior images of museum patrons passed by the window. With his brow cut deep into his forehead, he faced Nick. “My job was to kill Carlos Sánchez. Meinkewitz shot him. And that caused the lone nut Oswald to shoot Kennedy. Don’t ask me how that happened.”

          “We need you to stop them from traveling through time.”

          “Who is them, Nick?”

          “I would rather not say.”

          Patch put his arm behind Nick, and they walked under the scraggly oaks back toward the museum. Herman, his breath foggy, lectured a little guy on the pergola sidewalk. Was Nick telling the truth? Patch stopped on the old School Book Depository steps. “I want to meet your contact.”

       “That’s impossible. Even after fifty years, Patch, this thing is still very hot. Let me be more specific. My contact is aware that a certain individual has stolen the dilation information from New Mexico. He knows the location of the new embarkation chamber and that the facility is nearly operational due to the efforts of this man.”

“That’s not good. Time travel should be forbidden.” Patch stroked his beard. “Why do you need me?”

Nick smiled for the first time and panned to the sixth-floor window. “Patch, I can’t tell you that right now.”

“You’re a pain in the ass. You know that?”

          “I risk other people getting involved.”

          “Then more people have been watching me.”

          “Yes.”

          Many times, Patch had tried to envision the world as it once existed with Kennedy alive in 1986.


“If you could send me back to 1963, I would indeed prevent what happened here. Yes, sir. I’d step into the street and stop the damn motorcade.”

       

  Nick looked into his eyes for the longest time. “I can’t guarantee that I can send you back to 1963, Patch. Will you help us?”

          Patch stared at the worn X on the asphalt and pressed his lips. The cold air stung his face. Then he faced Nick. “I’ll think about it.”

 

 

 

   


1963 Chapter One Footnotes 

Chapter One

 

 

[i] The Warren Commission Report, Chapter One, Summary and Conclusions, pp. 18.

[ii] The Search for Lee Harvey Oswald, Robert J. Groden, Penguin Studio Books: New York, pp. 101.

[iii] Formerly the Texas School Book Depository Building, Marker #: 5113006895, 411 Elm Street, Dallas, Texas, Dedicated 1980.

[iv] Enemy of the Truth, Myths, Forensics, and the Kennedy Assassination, Sherry P. Fiester, JFK Lancer Productions: Southlake, TX, 2012, pp. 223-4.

[v] John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, John F. Kennedy, Remarks at the Rudolph Wilde Platz, Berlin, June 26, 1963.

[vi] Ibid.

[vii] Rush to Judgment, Mark Lane, Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, New York, 1966, pp. 368.

[viii] John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, John F. Kennedy, Remarks at the Rudolph Wilde Platz, Berlin, June 26, 1963.

[ix] Rush to Judgment, Mark Lane, Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, New York, 1966, pp.  41.

In 1986, led by terrorist Carlos Sanchez, nuclear devices are planted in American cities. As New York and other cities are swallowed up in fireballs, Patch Kincaid is sent back in time to prevent the destruction. He lands in 1961, where he chases Sanchez into the Bay of Pigs Invasion. Captured by Castro, Patch and his mentor, Meinkewitz track Carlos into rural Cuba.

Patch's actions result in President John F. Kennedy's assassination.

 

1963 Easy Digital Access