The Hours After

Listen to this chapter, read by the author →

The first hour

The first words on Dallas police radio after the shooting were not about a building. Officers reported shots, and men on the ground moved toward the railroad yard behind the fence. The description of a man in a sixth-floor window did not go out until twelve forty-five. For the first fifteen minutes, the search was pointed at the knoll. Where people run first tells you what they thought they heard.^{1, 2}

For several minutes after the shots, people walked out of the Texas School Book Depository and nobody stopped them. The building was not sealed immediately. Employees left, came back, stood on the steps. By the time there was a guard on the doors, an unknown number had gone. That is not sinister. It is what happens when nobody yet knows where the shots came from, which is exactly what the radio log shows.^{3, 4, 5}

Nobody spotted the suspect leaving. He was identified by a headcount. The building superintendent, Roy Truly, went through his list of employees and found that exactly one man was missing. That name went to police within the hour, and it is why a description was circulating across Dallas long before anyone in the Depository knew what had been found on the sixth floor. A clipboard did the work.^{6, 3}

Deputies searching the sixth floor did not find the rifle where you would expect. It was not at the window. It was pushed down between stacks of boxes near the stairs at the far end of the floor, covered over, about forty-five feet from the nest. Seymour Weitzman and Eugene Boone came across it more than fifty minutes after the shots. If it had been an inch further under, that search might have gone very differently.^{7, 3, 8}

The official account has the suspect leaving by the simplest route imaginable. Down the stairs, through the second-floor lunchroom where a policeman drew on him and let him go, out the front entrance of the building, and away on foot into a crowd that was still standing in the street. No car. No plan visible in it. Whatever else that day was, the exit from it was improvised.^{9, 10}

The distance from Dealey Plaza to Parkland Hospital is about four miles. The lead car and the limousine covered it in roughly four minutes, at speeds reported around eighty miles an hour, with a motorcycle escort clearing junctions. It was one of the fastest things anyone did that day, and it made no difference at all. The wound was not survivable, and everyone in that car already knew it.^{11, 12}

There are photographs taken two minutes apart. In the first, the curbs are three deep with people. In the second, the grass is scattered with figures lying flat and the rest are running. Up the knoll, toward the underpass, away down Houston. A crowd of several hundred came apart in about a minute and a half. Almost every witness account we have was formed while its author was moving.¹³

Dozens of people ran up the grassy knoll in the seconds after the shots. Police, deputies, railroad men, ordinary spectators. If you want a single measure of what the crowd believed in the moment, it is that: the mass of people moved toward the fence, not toward the building. It does not prove where the shots came from. It proves where several hundred people thought they came from before anyone told them otherwise.^{14, 15}

The first people taken into custody after the assassination of a President were three men riding a freight train. Officers pulled them from a boxcar behind the fence, walked them through the plaza past photographers, and released them the next day. They were never suspects in any meaningful sense. They became famous anyway, purely because someone took their picture.^{16, 17}

There was no cordon for weeks. Traffic was running on Elm Street the same afternoon. Within days people were standing on the curb taking photographs of each other where the car had been. The crime scene of the century was a public road, and it went back to being a public road almost immediately. Everything learned about that ground since has come from film, photographs, and a survey done months later.^{18, 19}

Ninety minutes after the shooting, police walked three men out of a boxcar in the rail yard behind the grassy knoll. Those photographs became some of the most argued-over images of the century. People named them as intelligence officers, as Watergate burglars. In 1992 the arrest records were released. They were three homeless men, released the next day.^{16, 20}

†Fifteen minutes before the motorcade, an eighteen-year-old on Houston Street looked up and said he saw two men on the sixth floor. Arnold Rowland told the Warren Commission there was a man with a rifle at the west end, and a second man at the other end of the same floor. Parts of his account did not hold up. He never changed the part about two men.^{21, 22}

One witness watched a bullet hit the road. Virgie Rachley was a book-keeper at the Depository, standing on the south side of Elm. She testified she saw sparks come up off the sidewalk behind the limousine, and thought a firecracker had gone off in the street. It is one reason the record accepts that one shot missed the car entirely.^{23, 24}

One photograph taken during the shooting shows the front door of the Depository. James Altgens was an Associated Press photographer standing on Elm. In his picture, in the doorway, is a man who looks a great deal like Lee Harvey Oswald, who was supposed to be six floors above. It was Billy Lovelady, another employee. He spent the rest of his life explaining that.^{25, 26, 27}

The detail witnesses kept returning to was not the sound. It was the birds. Pigeons roosted on the roof of the Depository, and at the first shot they came off the building all at once. Several people said they looked up because of the pigeons, not the noise. In a plaza where nobody agreed on how many shots there were, everybody saw the birds.²⁸

The most important piece of physical evidence in this case was washed with a bucket and sponge within the hour. SS-100-X was the crime scene. At Parkland, while the President was inside, staff washed out the back of the car. Within months it was stripped, rebuilt and repainted black. Then it went back into presidential service for another decade.^{29, 30}

And since I have used its name twice without explaining it, here is how the Service talked that day. Every protectee had a code name and a family shared a letter. The President was Lancer. His wife was Lace. The children were Lyric and Lark. The car was SS-100-X and the follow-up car full of agents was Halfback. The Vice President was Volunteer, a different letter for a different family, and by that evening the V names were the ones that mattered.³¹

The next hour

The first thing he did was get on a bus. Seven blocks from the Depository, a city bus heading east. Back toward Dealey Plaza, into the traffic that was already seizing up because of what had just happened. He sat down and paid his fare. Whatever else that afternoon was, the escape began with a man queuing for public transport.^{9, 32}

The bus did not get far. Traffic downtown had jammed solid, because a president had just been shot a few streets away. After a couple of blocks he asked the driver for a transfer, got off, and walked. The single biggest obstacle to leaving Dallas that afternoon was the emergency he had just created.^{3, 33}

He took a taxi. The driver, William Whaley, remembered the fare because the man offered his seat to a woman looking for a cab and because he was quiet the whole way. Ninety-five cents for a ride across the river to Oak Cliff. Whaley later picked him out and testified about it, and spent the rest of his life as the man who drove him.^{34, 3}

He went to the room he was renting under a false name, and he was inside it for three or four minutes. The housekeeper saw him come in, saw him leave zipping up a jacket. She said afterwards that he did not say a word to her, either time. That is the entire visit. A man collecting something from a rented room in the middle of the afternoon.^{35, 3}

Forty-five minutes after Dealey Plaza, a Dallas police officer was shot dead on a residential street in Oak Cliff. J. D. Tippit was thirty-nine, had been on the force eleven years, and had three children. He is the second person killed that day and he is almost never mentioned. Several witnesses saw the shooting. It is, in evidentiary terms, a far better documented crime than the one everyone argues about.^{36, 37, 38}

He was caught because a store manager was paying attention. Sirens were going past, and a man ducked into the doorway of a shoe store with his back to the street until they had gone. The manager, Johnny Brewer, thought that was odd, watched him walk on and slip into a movie theater without buying a ticket, and told the box office to call the police. That is the whole mechanism of the arrest.^{39, 3}

The arrest happened in the dark, in a movie theater in Oak Cliff, during an afternoon showing of a war picture. About fifteen officers came in and the lights went up. There was a struggle in the seats. The words witnesses agree he said, loudly, as he was taken out, were: I am not resisting arrest. Ninety minutes after Dealey Plaza, in front of an audience.^{40, 41}

Over the next two days he was questioned for about twelve hours. No tape was made. No stenographer was present. There is no transcript of a single one of those sessions, only notes written up afterwards by the men who had been in the room. The most consequential interrogation in American history exists solely as the recollections of its interrogators.^{42, 43}

He never confessed. Across every session, by every account of every man who questioned him, he denied shooting the President and denied shooting the policeman. In front of reporters in a corridor he said he had not been charged with anything and that he was, in his words, just a patsy. Whatever you believe happened, it is a fact that the only suspect denied all of it until he was killed.^{3, 44}

He was alive in custody for about forty-seven hours. In that time he was questioned without a recording, paraded in front of press in a basement corridor, and never given the lawyer he asked for by name. Then he was shot dead on live television. Every argument about this case for sixty years exists because a defendant was killed before anyone could cross-examine him.^{45, 46}

Put the afternoon on a scale people can feel. From the Depository he walks east about seven blocks to a bus, which is roughly nine football fields end to end. The bus gets stuck, so he walks another four blocks or so to a bus station and takes a taxi. The taxi puts him down five blocks past his own front door and he walks back, another five. That is around eighteen football fields of walking before he has even got home, and it is only twenty-five minutes past the shooting.^{47, 48}

Then comes the stretch the whole argument turns on. From the rooming house on North Beckley to the corner of Tenth and Patton, where the policeman was shot, the Warren Report puts it at nine tenths of a mile. Say that in fields and it is sixteen of them, laid end to end, and he has about twelve minutes to cover it. Every claim that he could not have killed that officer is really a claim about those sixteen fields and those twelve minutes.^{49, 47}

Add the last leg to the movie theater and the afternoon comes to roughly two and a half miles, about forty-four football fields, nearly all of it walked, in eighty minutes, by a man with no car who could not drive. Whatever else that route is, it is not the movement of somebody with a plan for afterwards. It is a man crossing a city on foot because he has no other way to cross it.^{47, 49}

The suspect

The rifle was bought by post in March 1963, from a Chicago mail-order house, under the name A. Hidell. The order coupon is in his handwriting. He was carrying a forged identity card in that name when he was arrested. It is one of the strongest single pieces of evidence in the entire case, and it hangs on a signature on a magazine coupon.^{50, 51, 52}

The photographs of him in a back garden holding the rifle and two left-wing newspapers were taken by his wife, in the yard of the house they were renting, at his request. She testified to it. He looked at one of them in custody and said the head was his but the body was not, that somebody had faked it. Analysts have examined those pictures for sixty years and found no sign of a fake.^{53, 54}

Seven months before Dallas, somebody fired a rifle through the window of a house in Dallas at a retired army general, and missed. It went unsolved. After the assassination his wife told investigators he had come home that night and admitted it, and that she had hidden a note he left. That note exists. It is the single fact that makes the rest of the case cohere, and it comes from his wife.^{55, 56, 57}

The rifle was kept wrapped in a blanket in a garage in a Dallas suburb, in a house where his wife was staying with a friend. Police found the blanket there that evening, empty, still holding the shape of something long. Fibers from it matched the weapon. For weeks before the assassination, the rifle sat in a garage a few feet from where people parked their car.^{58, 59, 60}

†Seven weeks before Dallas he traveled to Mexico City and went to the Cuban and Soviet embassies trying to get a visa to Cuba. He was refused. That much is documented from several directions. Everything beyond it, who he met, what was said, whether anyone was impersonating him on a surveillance tape, is the single murkiest area in this whole case, and it is where most of the withheld files lived.^{61, 62, 63}

In custody he repeatedly asked for a specific lawyer, a New York attorney known for defending people charged under a law against advocating the overthrow of the government. He wanted that man and no other. Calls were attempted. The lawyer was away for the weekend and could not be reached. By Monday the man asking for him was dead, and he had never had counsel of any kind.^{3, 64}

Think about what a trial would have produced. Every piece of evidence tested by an adversary. Every witness cross-examined under oath, in public, within two years of the event rather than thirty. A verdict people could argue with on the record. Instead there is a commission with no defense counsel and no cross-examination. The killing of the suspect did not hide the truth. It removed the machine designed to find it.^{65, 66}

The transfer was announced in advance and televised. A local nightclub owner, known by sight to many of the officers present, walked down a ramp into the police basement carrying a revolver and shot the prisoner in front of cameras. No plan was needed for that, which is exactly why it is so hard to argue it was one. The security failure was total and it was ordinary.^{67, 68}

†Notice how much of this comes from one person. The backyard photographs, the earlier shooting, the rifle in the blanket. The chain runs through his wife’s testimony. She was twenty-two, foreign-born, barely spoke English, had two small children, and was being questioned by the government of a country she could be deported from. Her account may be entirely true. It was also given under as much pressure as a person can be under.^{53, 69}

Line it all up and the case against him is strong. His rifle, his prints, his workplace, his absence from the roll call, his wife’s account, and a policeman dead an hour later. It is also a case that was never once put to a jury, never cross-examined, and never answered by the accused beyond a flat denial. Strong and untested are not opposites. They are just both true here.^{70, 71}

Four notebooks

Picture that interrogation and you probably picture a detective and a suspect at a table. It was not like that. In and out of that room across those twelve hours were the captain of homicide, at least two F.B.I. agents including the one whose note had been left for him weeks earlier, a Secret Service inspector, postal inspectors, and a rotating audience of Dallas officers. It was crowded, it was interrupted constantly, and nobody was writing it down as it happened.^{72, 73}

So what exists instead is several men reconstructing the same twelve hours from memory, at different times, for different organizations, with different reasons to emphasize different things. The homicide captain made handwritten notes. The Bureau men filed their own reports. The Secret Service inspector wrote his. Four or five separate accounts of the same conversations, none of them verbatim, none of them made in the room.^{74, 75}

And they disagree, not on atmosphere but on content. On whether he was asked about the package and what he said about it. On what he said about the identification card in his own pocket. On whether he was shown the rifle and how he reacted. On what he said about where he was standing when the shooting happened. These are the load-bearing answers of the whole case, and the record of them is four men’s recollections that do not line up.⁷⁶

There is a provenance problem on top of that. The homicide captain’s handwritten notes were not part of the record the Commission worked from in 1964. They came to light decades later, during the review board’s work, out of private hands. Whatever they contain, a document that spends thirty years outside the official collection and then arrives is a different kind of evidence from one that was there all along.⁷⁷

And I want to head off the exciting version. There is no missing recording. In 1963 an American police force was under no obligation to record anything, most did not, and the equipment in that building was a stenographer who was not called. That is not sinister, it is 1963. What it means is that the most important interrogation in American criminal history produced no primary record at all, because nobody in that building thought to make one.⁴⁷

So consider what that costs, permanently. Everything the accused is supposed to have said in the last forty-eight hours of his life reaches us through other men’s memories, written days later, by people who already believed he was guilty. He denied it, and we have that. But not one sentence he spoke in that room can be quoted with confidence, and the only person who could ever have corrected the record was shot in a basement on the Sunday morning.⁷⁸

The photograph on the plane

Two hours and eight minutes after the shooting, in the stateroom of an aircraft standing on the tarmac at Love Field, a federal judge administered the oath of office to Lyndon Johnson. A White House photographer was in the cabin and made a picture of it. That photograph is the only image in American history of a presidential succession. There is no other. Every other transfer of power happened in front of crowds or in front of nobody.⁷⁹

Cecil Stoughton had been the President’s photographer that morning and was the only photographer on that aircraft. The cabin was small, hot and full of people. He got up on a seat to see over them, arranged the group so that faces would not be hidden, and made his exposures knowing he would not get a second chance at it. In the rear of the same aircraft, behind a bulkhead, was the coffin.⁷⁹

The part I would have you look at is on the left of the picture. She did not have to be in that room. She had been asked to change and had refused, and she stood beside him for the oath still wearing the suit she had been sitting in on Elm Street, with what was on it plainly visible. This book has already shown you a woman who decided, in seventy-two hours, what the world would look at. This is the first of those decisions, and she made it inside two hours.⁷⁹

And there is a reason a photographer was standing on a chair rather than being told to get out. The oath itself was legally unnecessary; the office had already passed the moment the President died. The purpose of the ceremony was the picture. A country that had just watched its head of state killed on a public street needed to see, that same afternoon, that there was a president. The photograph was not a record of the succession. It was the succession.⁷⁹

It works as evidence too, which is easy to forget about a picture that famous. It fixes who was aboard, where they stood, and what time it was. It places a federal judge, a widow, a new president and his wife in one cabin at a known minute. In a case where the record of those hours is thin and mostly written from memory days afterwards, that photograph is one of the few things from the afternoon that cannot be misremembered.⁷⁹

What they did to him

You have seen the photographs and you have probably had the thought without saying it. He does not look untouched. In the corridor pictures from that weekend there is a cut over one eye and swelling on his face, and he is being walked past reporters like that, over and over, for two days. It is one of the most persistent impressions this case leaves, and this book has never once addressed it.^{47, 78}

So here is what happened to his face, and it did not happen in an interrogation room. It happened in a movie theater in Oak Cliff about forty minutes after the policeman was shot. Officers went in and closed on him, he swung at the first one and connected, and he pulled a revolver. Several men took him down together. That is described the same way by the officers involved and by civilians who were sitting in that theater watching it.^{47, 78}

He did not let it pass, either. Being moved through that corridor with the cameras running, he said out loud that he protested the police brutality. It is on the recordings. That single sentence has done more to shape how people picture those two days than anything else he said, and it is completely genuine. He said it, in public, with his face marked, in front of the American press.^{47, 78}

And then the part that almost never gets quoted with it. When reporters got the chance to ask him directly how he was being treated, he did not describe a beating in a cell. He complained that he had not been allowed to wash or change his clothes, that he was being paraded, and above all that he had not been given legal representation. A man who was being worked over in a back room had a live microphone in front of him repeatedly and did not say so.^{47, 78}

The lawyer is worth staying on, because he was specific about it. He asked for a New York attorney called John Abt, by name, because Abt had defended people prosecuted under the laws used against American communists. That was a considered request from a man who had thought about his own situation. Abt was away for the holiday weekend and was never reached. The local bar offered him someone else and he kept asking for Abt.^{47, 78}

Which means the thing I told you about those twelve hours has one more piece in it. No recording, no stenographer, four men writing it up later from memory, and no attorney in the room at any point, on any of the three days. The most important interrogation in American criminal history was conducted with nobody present whose job was to protect the person being questioned.^{47, 78}

Now the context, because outrage without a calendar is useless. The rule that a suspect must be told he can have a lawyer and that questioning stops if he asks came from a Supreme Court decision in 1966, three years after this. The case that began moving the law in that direction was decided in 1964. So Dallas in November 1963 was not defying the rules. There essentially were not any yet. Everything about those interviews that looks lawless now was ordinary then.^{47, 78}

So no, I do not think he was beaten in custody, and the marks on his face have an explanation that everyone in that theater agreed on. But I understand completely why the picture will not leave people alone. A visibly injured man, no lawyer, no recording, no transcript, walked past the world’s cameras a dozen times in two days, and shot dead before anybody could test a word of it. Every single one of those is true, and none of them requires a conspiracy.^{47, 78}

The other man

Two men were murdered in Dallas that afternoon and this book has given one of them fourteen chapters. So here is the other. J. D. Tippit was thirty-nine years old. Those are not initials for anything, they are his name. A farm boy from a cotton family in northeast Texas, one of seven children, who left school to work and joined the Army at nineteen.^{47, 80}

In the last spring of the war he went into Germany as a paratrooper with an airborne division, in one of the largest airborne operations ever mounted, and came home with a Bronze Star. Then he married a girl from home, joined the Dallas police in 1952, and spent eleven years in a patrol car. He and Marie had three children. He worked a second job on weekends because a patrolman’s pay did not cover it.^{81, 82}

Here is why he was where he was, because people make it stranger than it is. When the shooting happened every available unit went downtown, which emptied the residential districts. So the dispatcher ordered a handful of cars to move into central Oak Cliff and hold, precisely so that a large piece of the city was not left without a patrol. He was doing what he had been told to do, in a place he had been told to go.⁸³

About a quarter past one, on a quiet street of small houses, he pulled his car alongside a man walking. They spoke through the passenger window. Then he opened his door and got out, and as he came around the front of the car the man drew a revolver and shot him four times, and stood over him for the last one. Several people saw it from windows and from cars. He was thirty-nine and he was dead before the ambulance moved.^{84, 85}

And then something that always stays with me. A man in a pickup truck who had watched it happen got out, went to the police car, reached in, and worked out how to use the radio. He pressed the button and told the dispatcher an officer was down. He was a mechanic and he had never touched one before. The first report of the second murder in Dallas that day was made by a stranger who had to figure out the equipment.^{86, 87}

†Now the question that has never been answered and I am not going to pretend it has. The description on the radio was a slender white man, about thirty, around five foot ten, a hundred and sixty-five pounds. That is thousands of men in that city. So why did an experienced patrolman pull over beside this particular one, on a side street, and get out of his car? Something made him do it, and nobody has ever established what.^{83, 78}

It is worth being blunt about what he contributes. Four cartridge cases came off that road and firearms examiners matched them to the revolver taken from a man in a movie theater thirty-five minutes later, to the exclusion of every other weapon on earth. That is the single strongest piece of physical evidence in this entire case, and it does not come from Dealey Plaza. It comes from him. He is load-bearing and he is barely in the literature.⁸⁸

There is one part of all this that is simply good and I want to end on it. When people learned that a patrolman with three children had been killed and that his family had almost nothing, they sent money. Small amounts, from all over the world, for months. It came to a sum that would have taken him decades to earn. And among the people who gave was Abraham Zapruder, who handed over a large part of what he had been paid for the film, because he did not want the money.^{89, 90}

† disputed   ‡ theory   § reconstructed — everything unmarked is established. Superscript numbers key to the sources below. Corrections

Sources for this chapter

90 sources. Every claim above is keyed to one of them. The complete list for the whole book runs to 1,276.

1. DPD radio logs, 22 Nov 1963
2. Warren Report ch.4 (the 12:45 broadcast)
3. Warren Report ch.4
4. DPD statements on securing the TSBD
5. employee testimony
6. Truly WC testimony (3H212)
7. Boone and Weitzman WC testimony (3H291, 7H105)
8. DPD scene photographs
9. Warren Report ch.4 (Oswald's movements)
10. Baker and Truly WC testimony
11. Warren Report ch.2
12. Secret Service reports on the run to Parkland
13. Bond, Willis, Betzner and Murray photographs of the aftermath
14. Zapruder, Nix and Bond films/photographs of the aftermath
15. DPD and Dallas County statements
16. Dallas Police arrest records released 1992
17. rail-yard photographs, 22 Nov 1963
18. contemporary press photographs of Dealey Plaza, late Nov 1963
19. CE 884 survey conducted 1964
20. the Dealey Plaza rail-yard photographs, 22 Nov 1963
21. Rowland WC testimony (2H165)
22. Warren Report ch.3 (assessment of Rowland)
23. Virgie Rachley (Mrs Donald Baker) WC testimony (7H507)
24. Warren Report ch.3 (the missed shot)
25. Altgens AP photograph, 22 Nov 1963
26. Lovelady WC testimony (6H336)
27. HSCA photographic panel findings
28. multiple WC witness statements describing pigeons leaving the TSBD roof
29. Warren Report / Secret Service accounts of the limousine at Parkland
30. records of the SS-100-X rebuild (Hess & Eisenhardt, 1964)
31. United States Secret Service code name assignments, 1963
32. bus transfer found in his pocket, CE 381
33. bus driver Cecil McWatters WC testimony (2H262)
34. Whaley WC testimony (2H253)
35. Earlene Roberts WC testimony (6H434)
36. Warren Report ch.4 (the Tippit killing)
37. Dallas Police records
38. eyewitness testimony (Markham, Benavides, Scoggins and others)
39. Brewer WC testimony (7H1)
40. Warren Report ch.4 (arrest at the Texas Theatre)
41. arresting officers' testimony
42. Warren Report ch.4 (interrogation)
43. Captain Will Fritz's notes and later reports
44. filmed press corridor exchanges, 22-23 Nov 1963
45. Warren Report ch.4 and ch.5
46. Dallas Police custody records, 22-24 Nov 1963
47. Warren Report, chapter IV
48. Warren Commission testimony of William Whaley and Cecil McWatters
49. Warren Report, appendix XII
50. Warren Report ch.4 (Klein's order coupon, CE 773)
51. FBI handwriting analysis
52. the Hidell identity card, CE 795
53. Marina Oswald WC testimony (1H1)
54. HSCA photographic panel on the backyard photographs
55. Warren Report ch.4 (the Walker shooting)
56. Marina Oswald WC testimony
57. the undated note, CE 1
58. Warren Report ch.4 (the blanket, CE 140)
59. FBI fibre analysis
60. Ruth Paine and Marina Oswald testimony
61. Warren Report ch.6
62. HSCA findings on the Mexico City station
63. CIA surveillance records released under the Records Act
64. Dallas Bar Association contacts, 23 Nov 1963
65. Warren Commission procedure (no adversarial examination)
66. Warren Report ch.5
67. Warren Report ch.5 (the shooting of Oswald)
68. Dallas Police internal review
69. her immigration status and circumstances, 1963-64
70. Warren Report chs.4-5
71. HSCA final report 1979
72. Warren Report, chapter IV, interrogation
73. Warren Commission testimony of participants
74. Captain Will Fritz's notes
75. FBI and Secret Service reports of the interrogation, November 1963
76. comparison of the surviving accounts of the interrogation
77. Assassination Records Review Board records concerning the Fritz notes
78. the author's assessment
79. Cecil Stoughton photograph aboard Air Force One, Love Field, 22 November 1963
80. biographical accounts of J. D. Tippit
81. United States Army service records
82. Dallas Police Department personnel records
83. Dallas Police radio transcripts, 22 November 1963
84. Warren Report, chapter IV, the Tippit killing
85. Warren Commission testimony of witnesses at Tenth and Patton
86. Warren Commission testimony of Domingo Benavides
87. Dallas Police radio transcripts
88. Warren Report, chapter IV, firearms identification
89. contemporaneous reporting on the Tippit family fund
90. accounts of Abraham Zapruder's donation