BLACK PRESIDENT- Chapter 88. Did Kissinger know who killed JFK?

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“Henry? Would you mind if I asked you a historical question?” When Kissinger looked up – he'd raised the volume on his hearing aid for the waiter and actually appeared alert – President Little shot it out. 

“Do you know who killed my father?”
Without hesitation, Kissinger answered back, “Oswald.”

John Little-as Jackson-Little, US President , at silently. Kissinger must have known by then (like the entire world did) that he and his dead brother were sons of JFK. It was in all the newspapers. And yet, the overweight Nobel Prize-winning diplomat had answered in almost a callous manner, speaking without any real concern for ‘Jackson’s feelings.’ Henry could play the empathetic friend all day long, but in that instant he had revealed an ice cold inner soul. 

“Who killed JFK?” 

John Little couldn’t help being abrupt by repeating. He was tired of everything being shuffled about by too-polite people, too-comforting amenities, too-rich food and too-good looking people at Bilderberg, a place that masked all the important realities of the world. And at its center was Kissinger. He had pulled the wool over an entire world’s eyes. Not only was he probably one of the greatest still-at-large war criminal, but he was also the one man who connected all the other international political criminals together from the last 60+ years. He knew Kennedy, Nixon, Johnson, Carter, Reagan and the Bushes, with Clinton and Obama rounding out the list. 

“Did you, or one of your bosses, order the hit on my father?” 

Kissinger looked suddenly disheveled. His old cat-eyes seemed less intelligent, his skin more florid. Had he actually heard the question? Wasn’t it all a dream? Was Henry going to answer? Did he know something? 

Like in the various TV shows John had watched lately, cop shows where a Sherlock Holmes-like private eye followed clues to uncover the perpetrator, Little had learned that the first rule in conducting an investigation was to figure out who had the most to gain from a criminal act. Qui bono? 

He had seen a YouTube documentary on Vice-President Johnson’s supposed involvement in the assassination plot. Did President Johnson figure into the whole scheme of things? Had he been a planner in the atrocious act in Dallas, or just a high-paid lackey, someone who did what he was told? 

With regard to Kennedy, John believed it was mostly hawks in Congress, connected to arms dealers and such – members of the military industrial complex and their bankers – who could not tolerate a de-escalation of the war in Vietnam that JFK was proposing. He had already threatened the Federal Reserve with the printing of U.S. Bank Notes that circumvented the twelve Fed banks and their NY headquarters. Just that one move–too bold not to be opposed with full firepower–could have gotten him offed, some believed. 

“What did Johnson know on November 21st? And what did you know, Henry?” 

Kissinger sat silent, now nibbling on a piece of rye toast. What went on inside that old brain? If the human mind was like a computer – a super-powerful one at that – how could John get access to Henry’s mental files? 

“Henry, come on. I’ve just been curious about my dad’s death. Never knew him or met him like you did. Can’t you shed some light on the subject? Not too many people still alive came in as close contact with the man as you did. Many have since died.” 

Kissinger looked up from his plate. He suddenly had on his Cheshire cat smile, his trademark. Someone in high office, the President of the United States, needed something from him, once again. So wasn’t he the cat’s pajamas? He looked forward to startling, informing and amazing his new Presidential friend, with a few anecdotes and perhaps some secret knowledge that could win him points. Points were always good, because they could always be traded in later, for everything from recommendations to high government posts to a Presidential pardon. Few understood the system better than he did. 

“Jackson, my friend, I’ll be happy to talk about your father with you. So sorry I didn’t think of doing that earlier. He was a great man, a special man, and I was privileged to be in the same room with him on several occasions.” 

“Henry, please pass the salt and pepper,” said Merkel suddenly, and Kissinger obliged. Obviously she was well aware of his and President Little’s intense conversation, because she said ‘danke’ under her breath and swung back to her meal. 

“Kennedy – your father – was a very sick man, and yet he continued to run the government as Chief Executive and Commander of the armed services, at the same time as performing the role of husband and lover to a very high-maintenance wife. Sorry to paint Jackie in that manner, but what else would you call her?” 

John said nothing. But images of her spending sprees in New York Los Angeles, and Monaco all came to mind, as Henry continued. 

“Even Aristotle Onassis complained about her spending, and he could well-afford to party on his yacht Christina, which burned 30 tons of fuel every day in operation. Her binges of $300-per-minute spending were legendary. Maybe it was a kind of payback for all of JFK’s affairs, but no one would debate that she was addicted. And we’ve talked in the past about all the drugs her husband imbibed, initially for his Addison’s, later for the party highs. She got aboard as well. So a very out of control White House. And occasionally I was right in the middle of things. But the point I started to make was, Kennedy somehow juggled all this, all at the same time.

“Actually, this reminds me of a South American shaman I’ve heard on a CD–“Soul Vine Shaman.”p his man, in the jungle, performed two or three psychic healings at the same time, while being high as a kite of their version of LSD himself. He even sucked invisible darts out of a sick person and ‘blew’ these psychic projectiles back to the person who originally sent them. Kennedy was a version of that man. He could make love to two prostitutes in the morning while Jackie was shopping, then swim 20-plus laps, shower, take an injection of speed, meet with the President of France or somewhere, confer with top aides, screw his wife for two hours between 1:00 and 3:00PM, meet with National Security Advisors while ordering a custom turkey sandwich – the list goes on. All before 4:00PM teatime. Between his natural inclinations to be thoroughly effectual, and his need to burn off the drugs he was ingesting, he got a tremendous amount of sex and work completed.” 

Kissinger took a sip of cold coffee, glanced at one of the fifteen waiters standing in attendance and, with the raise of an eyebrow, got himself an instant refill. 

“But, I assume what you really are concerned about is who killed him...had him assassinated. And why.” 

“Yes,” said John Little emphatically, as he watched the old man carefully. What could Kissinger tell him that was beyond all the conspiracy theory crap he’d already read? 

“Have you ever come across a man named Roger Craig in your digging around about the assassination?” Kissinger waited. 

“No...don’t think so.” 

“Well, Deputy Sheriff Roger Craig of Dallas was on the scene that day, November 22, 1963. His superior posted him along the parade route, about three blocks from the shooting . His orders were to remain there. When Craig asked why there was such light police presence in the area, he was told that all local Dallas police security details had mostly been withdrawn that day. While this information seemed odd, he didn’t question it any further that morning. 

“A little past noon, Craig heard several loud reports that appeared to be gun shots. He left his post and ran the few blocks. Several pedestrians around the Texas Book Depository were pointing up to a fourth story window He ran in and scaled the stairs.  Several officers were already there when he arrived. They included Captain Fritz, chief homicide inspector, Lieutenant Day and Deputy Constable Whitesman, all staring out the window, looking down at the pavement where Kennedy had just been ambushed. On the window sill he and the others spotted three empty shell casings, lined up neatly in a row, equally spaced and facing out toward Dealy Plaza. Who would have left them like that, the men had all wondered? ” 

Kissinger paused. He looked around the room for a second and noticed some of the guests in the dining room were departing. He then checked his watch and discovered it was 3:00PM. “Jackson, please let me know if I’m boring you?”. 

“No, not all, Henry. Please don’t stop.” The question was mostly for effect, figured John. Of course it wasn’t boring. He’d never heard about the lined-up shells before. 

“So these Dallas lawmen then wondered if there might be a firearm present somewhere in the mess of stacked boxes, and they started looking. In a short bit, Captain Fritz moved some high boxes around and discovered a rifle. He handed it to Deputy Craig, who read what was stamped on the barrel. ‘7.65 Mauser.’ Good, the men thought, we’ve got the weapon. Kissenger gave a quick pause.

“The only problem was that the three shells laid neatly on the windowsill were from a 6.5 Italian rifle, traceable back to Lee Harvey Oswald, the one he famously held in the back yard photo. Oops.” 

“Really?. Two rifles!” exclaimed John Little, giving Kissinger the reaction he expected. “Never heard there were two before. Very interesting, Henry.” 

“But the story’s not over yet, Jackson. Do you have a bit more time to spare, listening to an old Nobel Prize winner prattle on?” 

“Of course.” While Little thought it odd that Kissinger had inserted his Nobel resume, he certainly wanted to hear the rest about his father’s death. Two rifles? 

“Deputy Craig spent the next few years trying to convince people to hear his story, to admit his information to the public record. But to no avail. Following that late November shooting, Craig seemed accident-prone. First, his car mysteriously caught fire and exploded. Fortunately, it happened slowly enough for him to escape without injury. Then, a little later, his car was forced off the road. Again, he got lucky. Have you ever heard the expression, ‘He had more chain than he could carry?’” 

“No Henry, not really.” 

“Well, I’m afraid Craig had too much chain. Two years after telling his story on TV, April, 1974, he was shot in the chest and died. A lot of Kennedy witnesses also followed your father to their graves.” 

“Horrible,” said John, mostly without thinking. His father’s death was still being obfuscated. 

“So how do you know this secret information, Henry? Do you have a special pipeline to Kennedy secrets that the rest of us don’t?” 

“Well, I do have high security government clearance, in a variety of areas, but you can find this one – the Sheriff Craig video interview – right on YouTube. Investigator and author Mark Lane asks the questions. 

“Here’s a pen.” Kissinger removed one from his coat pocket and handed it forth. “Allow me to test my powers of recollection. I love trying to memorize numbers and names. I’ll recite it. I know some things by heart. See if this gets you there: www dot YouTube dot com, slash, then the word watch, question mark, lowercase v, equal sign, lowercase h, lowercase l, number 49, lowercase y, number 3, capital K, number 4, lowercase f, underscore line, then capital Y. That’s it! Hah! The old bean bag still works! 

“Please keep in mind, Jackson, that these YouTube sites close down periodically, so the quickest way to watch something is type in ‘Sheriff Roger Craig,’ along with maybe the name ‘Kennedy.’” 

But Kissinger wasn’t quite done. After a few bites of toast, he finished up with his own brand of nostalgia. “Of course after your dad was killed it all changed. LBJ had his own agenda and I worked for him. I helped him plan the Vietnam War, execute it, and then gave him my points on reversing that buildup. To make an omelet we had to break some eggs.” 

Just as John prepared to confront Kissinger about his bombing of Laos, his Chief of Presidential Security approached, offering a secure cell phone. Little thanked the man, excused himself with Kissinger, and put it to his ear. It was his wife, Cissy. 

“Hello Cissy” was all he got out before she delivered the bad news. 

“Honey, it’s your mother, She had another stroke. I felt you needed to know. We’re not sure how much time she’s got.” 

“Oh God,” said the President. “Tell her I’ll fly out of here as soon as possible. Will rap things up right now. Give her and Rudy my love. Sorry I’m not there.” 

“I know. And John, just please just be careful coming home.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.

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