Read Online Secret and Suppressed: Banned Ideas and Hidden History by Jim Keith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim Keith
Tags: Retail, Non-Fiction, Alternative History, Gnostic Dementia, Amazon.com, 21st Century, Conspiracy Theories, v.5
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Dallas the day John Kennedy was shot. That possibility brought to mind something I had almost managed to happily forget. A decade earlier in New Orleans I had discussed, among other things, the idea of assassinating President Kennedy with a man who in many unsettling respects bore a resemblance to the members of the Watergate break-in team. As I was to say to Weberman in a letter two years later, this man was “a plumbers type of guy.”
Although he even looked something like pictures of E. Howard Hunt, his bald head diminished any direct physical similarity to that now-famous spy. More a matter of style than anything else seemed pertinent then. Also relevant were links between the CIA and organized crime that were coming to light in the wake of the Watergate revelations. For the man I spoke to used to let on that he was somehow associated with New Orleans mobster Carlos Marcello.
Already I had been suspecting tie-ins between Watergate and the J.F.K. murder because both crimes seemed connected to the Southern Rim or Cowboy faction of the American Establishment — the so-called military-industrial complex. I had, however, been bending over backwards not to jump to conclusions. Something about those photos of that man
The Yipster Times
argued was Edward Howard Hunt made such restraint harder. What, exactly, it might be continued to elude me.
Something else occurred that same summer that wore at my ability to keep believing this is the least conspiratorial of all possible worlds. Again, it was nagging rather than sensational.
After I wrote an article published in Atlanta’s underground paper,
The Great Speckled Bird,
titled “Did the Plumbers Plug J.F.K., Too?” — I got two unusual phone calls.
First was a male voice imitating the sounds of a speeded-up tape recorder or a gibberish-talking cartoon character. Ten years earlier a Quarterite named Roger Lovin and I used to address one another in the Bourbon House with identical noises to those I was now hearing on the other end of the line, as an inside joke intended to freak out strangers. This time I simply replied with a word or two of bewilderment, and the caller hung up.
Within seconds, the phone rang again. Now a male voice — not Roger’s — said very clearly, “Kerry, do you know who this is?” When I answered in the negative, he said, “Good!” — and again the caller hung up.
Enough similarity existed between that voice on the phone and the voice of the man I had talked to all those years earlier about assassinating John F. Kennedy, that I became increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of keeping my suspicions to myself much longer.
I nevertheless persisted in my silence for more than another year. That was more than a little uncharacteristic of me, to consciously nurture something without talking or at least writing of it. But, while I was no longer as worried about going paranoid as in years past, I remained concerned that others would think me paranoid.
Then, too, there was another thing. This suspect of mine more than once had claimed a connection with the Mafia. Even if he was innocent of assassination, were I to accuse him in public, he might have what he considered a good motive for getting me killed. Until I was certain of his guilt, I didn’t want to open my mouth.
Meanwhile, I continued to think about the phone calls. Was the caller trying to determine indirectly whether or not I’d spoken recently with Roger Lovin? Could Roger have known something that I happened to guess in my Bird article?
As a matter of fact it was not so long before that Roger Lovin had called me, making an appointment to come by the house while he was in town for a visit. On the day of his expected arrival, the woman I was living with and I went out for a brief interval. We returned to find all her jewelry missing, and Roger never showed up. I recalled that when I had known him in New Orleans, in the same year Kennedy
Although he even looked something like pictures of E. Howard Hunt, his bald head diminished any direct physical similarity to that now-famous spy. More a matter of style than anything else seemed pertinent then. Also relevant were links between the CIA and organized crime that were coming to light in the wake of the Watergate revelations. For the man I spoke to used to let on that he was somehow associated with New Orleans mobster Carlos Marcello.
Already I had been suspecting tie-ins between Watergate and the J.F.K. murder because both crimes seemed connected to the Southern Rim or Cowboy faction of the American Establishment — the so-called military-industrial complex. I had, however, been bending over backwards not to jump to conclusions. Something about those photos of that man
The Yipster Times
argued was Edward Howard Hunt made such restraint harder. What, exactly, it might be continued to elude me.
Something else occurred that same summer that wore at my ability to keep believing this is the least conspiratorial of all possible worlds. Again, it was nagging rather than sensational.
After I wrote an article published in Atlanta’s underground paper,
The Great Speckled Bird,
titled “Did the Plumbers Plug J.F.K., Too?” — I got two unusual phone calls.
First was a male voice imitating the sounds of a speeded-up tape recorder or a gibberish-talking cartoon character. Ten years earlier a Quarterite named Roger Lovin and I used to address one another in the Bourbon House with identical noises to those I was now hearing on the other end of the line, as an inside joke intended to freak out strangers. This time I simply replied with a word or two of bewilderment, and the caller hung up.
Within seconds, the phone rang again. Now a male voice — not Roger’s — said very clearly, “Kerry, do you know who this is?” When I answered in the negative, he said, “Good!” — and again the caller hung up.
Enough similarity existed between that voice on the phone and the voice of the man I had talked to all those years earlier about assassinating John F. Kennedy, that I became increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of keeping my suspicions to myself much longer.
I nevertheless persisted in my silence for more than another year. That was more than a little uncharacteristic of me, to consciously nurture something without talking or at least writing of it. But, while I was no longer as worried about going paranoid as in years past, I remained concerned that others would think me paranoid.
Then, too, there was another thing. This suspect of mine more than once had claimed a connection with the Mafia. Even if he was innocent of assassination, were I to accuse him in public, he might have what he considered a good motive for getting me killed. Until I was certain of his guilt, I didn’t want to open my mouth.
Meanwhile, I continued to think about the phone calls. Was the caller trying to determine indirectly whether or not I’d spoken recently with Roger Lovin? Could Roger have known something that I happened to guess in my Bird article?
As a matter of fact it was not so long before that Roger Lovin had called me, making an appointment to come by the house while he was in town for a visit. On the day of his expected arrival, the woman I was living with and I went out for a brief interval. We returned to find all her jewelry missing, and Roger never showed up. I recalled that when I had known him in New Orleans, in the same year Kennedy
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