Pencil

It was ten after noon that Friday. Lee sat in the lunchroom and stared hard at the words Person who is easily manipulated. Five letters across. The fourth one had to be an "S", or the other clue, "sarsaparilla", wouldn't work. He sat and stared and pondered. Manipulated, he thought.The heck does that mean again?

"Lee?" said a chirpy female voice across the room, sporting a thick, drawling Texas accent. "Ain't you comin' outside?"

He put the tip of his pencil – his favourite pencil, a bright purple souvenir one he'd bought at the state fair – on the first box, but paused. "Dummy"? No, that wouldn't fit.

"Lee? The president'll be here soon."

What about "Fussy"? No, that ain't right either...

"Lee!" the voice called. "Lee Oswald!"

He looked up from the newspaper. Carolyn, the Book Depository secretary, was staring at him with a baffled, amused expression.

"Everybody's outside to see the parade!" she said. "Ain't you comin' too?"

Lee blinked. Then he gave an embarrassed chuckle.

"Aw," he muttered, "that's okay. I ain't really interested. I just wanna stay here and do the crossword." He chuckled again and shyly held up his writing tool. "With my favourite pencil!"

Carolyn rolled her eyes and shook her head, her curly hair bobbing. "All right then," she said, "suit yourself. But you're missin' out on a chance of a lifetime."

She turned to leave the lunchroom – and knocked over the long, brown, bulky, rifle-sized paper bag that Lee had leaned against the wall. It fell to the floor with a thunk.

Lee gasped. "My curtain rods!"

"Oops," said Carolyn, "sorry." And she left the room.

"Doggone it!" He jumped out of his seat and ran to the bag on the floor. "Hope they ain't broke or damaged. I was gonna put 'em up at the roomin' house tonight."

Lee whipped off the bag.

There were ten silver-coloured, metre-long, metal curtain rods.

They didn't appear to be damaged. "Well, thank God," he mumbled to himself. He turned around and then stopped in confusion.

"Say," he said, "where'd the bag go?"

* * * * *

A few minutes later, the bag was five floors above Lee, in a large storage area of the Depository. A young man in a soldier's uniform was holding it in metal tongs while wearing surgical gloves.

"Got the bag from Oswald?" said FBI director Hoover, standing in the centre of the room in a grey suit.

"Sure did, sir," said the soldier. "It was tricky – I had to slip in and out real quickly and quietly – but here it is."

"Lots of fingerprints?"

"Yes sir. Absolutely covered with 'em."

"Fantastic," said Hoover. "When this is over, just toss it on the floor somewhere randomly." He sighed with stress, looking forward to the time when the mission would finally be over – when he could fly home and finally try on that new pink dress from Macy's.

By the corner window sat another man in a suit, holding a Mannlicher-Carcano rifle in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.

"Come in, B Team!" the corner man yelled into the walkie-talkie. "A Team leader here! Badge Man, are you there? Are you and the B Team in position? Over."