6th Floor Shooter || #Wattys2017

I

PART I
//22 November 1963// 12:31 // Dealey Plaza// Dallas, Texas//

"You can't say Dallas doesn't love you, Mr. President."

  The  shockwaves of what had just occurred rang out freely throughout the nation, much like the gunshots which had reverberated through Dealey Plaza. The tense confusion on the street was thick enough to cut with a knife, but he simply sat back in the shadows, emotionally barricading himself from the hysteria. Shrieks and sobs pierced the air, alternating between a dull noise and a deafening roar, like waves lapping at the ocean shore. Yet, his pale face, branded with worry lines embedded like trenches in his skin, remained emotionlessly indifferent. He glanced down at his trembling hands.

Finely gritted powder clung to his palms. His nostrils twitched at the betraying sour and metallic stench radiating from his clothes and fingers. Darting around the field, his eyes searched for someone, anyone, to single him out ... but he was invisible in the chaos.

He motioned to flip a scraggly lock of dark hair from his eyes, but it stuck in place with syrupy perspiration under the relentless Dallas sunlight. His screaming heartrate wailed guilty with every beat. Guil-ty. . .  guil-ty . . . guil-ty . . .  But through the devastated commotion, not one of the traumatized onlookers paid him anything even vaguely resembling attention. Their efforts were fixated exclusively on finding themselves to safety. The motorcade itself had long since sped away, taking all traces of the catastrophic sequence with it.

Across the street, he observed as another man was approached by uniformed officers, guns drawn from patent leather belts on standard issue khaki uniforms. After a brief, but decidedly animated discussion, projectile saliva from the officer's mouth matted into the mottled hair of the shorter man. The action was otherwise lost in the sea of dazed disorder, witnessed only by him. He looked up. Pencil thin lips arched into a condescending smirk as the officers slunk away, guns still drawn, muttering under their breath. He only caught tail end of the conversation:

". . . would be so much easier without scum like him to fuck things up. . . "

They left, heads down, determinedly trudging through the now eerily desolate plaza. Chaos still reverberated through the palpable air, but he had grown accustomed to it long ago. Manipulating his smirk into a conceited- yet charismatic- sneer, he strutted smoothly to the shorter man, all the while following the officers with his knowing eyes.

They look comical... almost like poor illustrations of a 'Tom and Jerry' cartoon, he mused. But aerosolized crimson sprayed their once pristine attire, like paint. If only they weren't trying to find who shot the goddamn President.

He continued across the street, polished cowboy boots scuffing against the pavement. The other man looked up as he approached, his pale and hollow eyes clouded in defeat.

"What seems to be the issue, mister?" His deeply rehearsed drawl camouflaging the end of his sentence into 'missa'. Once again, his features twisted into a carefully manufactured alluring grin. Except it didn't quite reach his secretive  eyes.

"Damn cops, can't they see I got nothin' to my name? Ain't got a pot to piss in, or a window to toss it . . . all I want ta do's is ta be a concerned citizen and find what hap'nd to Pres'dent Kennedy, but they talk to me like a condemned crim'nal! There ain't no crime in that, is there?" Pale grey eyes briefly met commanding black ones before falling to the pavement below.

"That's too bad, it really is. I woulda thought this is America. Y'know, land of the free?" Charged, snarling words floated through the air. He nodded slightly, maintaining his assertive attitude. Inside his brain, he contemplated the blonde man's accent. It was largely local, but with little something extra . . . something not so American.

"You're tell'n me. Say, what exactly were they sayin' to ya?" The redolence of copper and gunpowder gagged him.

"Just 'cusing me of knowin' somethin' about what happened. 'Tis a real tragedy. Real sad day. You know anythin' 'bout what happen'd?" Darker hair shuffled his tattered work boots against the curb, drawing lines in the gravel with his toe. Still no eye contact.

He knew exactly what happened. He was more than aware of the unsteady hand that lined up the shot, and against all odds, pulled the trigger. He understood the violent lurch of the rifle in the seconds after a determined finger compressed the metallic trigger. He knew better than anyone how the cool, tarnished wood felt as it was passed through determined fingertips. He witnessed as the President's head erupted vehemently into innumerable shards of scalp and skull. And only he bore the guilt of knowing how much suffering had been inflicted on an entire country.

"Can't say I do . . .  I was just over there by the Depository, watched the car get hit, then speed 'way." It wasn't entirely a lie; it could be true for someone, but it sure wasn't his truth.

"Damn... tha's jus' the last thin' I need. The only place tha'd hire me involved in some kind a investiga'n." Work boots kicked a splay of gravel into the grass.

"Say, I think I could help you out with some 'a that... What do ya say about fifty bucks, cash righ' now if you do me one small favour?" Determination flooded into his dark, unfeeling eyes.

"I dunno. . .  what are you askin' of me?" Scrawny posture straightened up almost immediately at the mention of money.

He scanned the crowd with his unaffected demeanour. Only now were citizens beginning to calm down from the sheer panic of the situation.

"One quick task. . . alls you gotta do is hold onto somethings for me. I got a gun o'er in my bag. I don't need it no more. I'd take it, but if anyone sees me, I'd be shot dead quicker than the President. You said you worked in the Depository, huh? Take it in there an' hide it. It won't look su'picious if you has it . . . just say its for protection if anyone asks. An' you can keep it if you want. It's a real nice Italian rifle. Oh, and hold onto this, would ya?" Dark eyes glared at the meek and defeated one. He reached into the deep pocket of his wool trousers and ran his fingers over the blunt tip of the copper artifact.

"Is that all? Gimme the cash an' it's a deal." Dark hair reached a tentative hand to receive his payment... and the condemning pellet.

"There you go. And one other thing, what's your name, fine man?" Crumbled bills changed hands before being discreetly shoved into the breast pocket of an oversized blazer.

"Oswald. Lee Oswald. And yourself?" He introduced himself and reached out a hand to shake.

"None of your damn business. If ya truly care, I'm known 'round here as Ed. But if anyone asks, the gun 'nd other stuff don't belong to me. Got it?" He stared deeply into Lee's eyes, intimidating hatred radiating from his face.

"Y-yes. O'course. Take care now, Ed." Lee stuttered in disbelief of the sudden and dramatic change in the other man's demeanor.

"Get goin' then." Ed cocked an eyebrow and his conceited grin returned. "Scum like him indeed. . . " he muttered as he slunk out of the plaza. He continued up the grassy incline ahead, vaulted his lanky body over the white fence, and trudged away through the steelworks, towards the parking lot...  all undetected.