The White House
Washington, D.C.
Monday, December 2, 1963
7:18 A.M.
The Oval Office no longer felt unfamiliar.
It felt occupied.
For the first time since taking the oath, Landon Bryce realized there was a difference.
The portraits had not moved. The flags still stood in their corners. Morning light spilled through the south windows exactly as it had the week before. Even the desk remained untouched except for the growing stacks of folders that now covered nearly every inch of its polished surface.
Everything looked the same.
Nothing was.
Bryce stood alone beside the windows with a cup of coffee that had already gone cold. The South Lawn shimmered beneath a thin December frost while Secret Service agents moved quietly along their familiar routes. Outside, the White House appeared as calm as it always had.
Inside, every telephone seemed to ring before another one had finished.
The first briefing of the morning waited on his desk.
The second was already late.
By noon he would meet congressional leaders demanding answers.
By afternoon foreign ambassadors would be asking questions he couldn't answer.
By evening another memorial service would dominate every television screen in America.
He hadn't been president for two weeks.
It already felt like two years.
A knock interrupted the silence.
"Come in."
His chief of staff stepped inside carrying another leather binder.
"I'm afraid this couldn't wait."
Bryce smiled tiredly.
"They've all said that."
"This one means it."
The binder landed on the Resolute Desk with a heavy thud.
Across the cover someone had stamped one word in black ink.
DALLAS
Bryce stared at it for several seconds before opening the cover.
The first page wasn't evidence.
It wasn't witness testimony.
It wasn't intelligence.
It was a list.
Federal Bureau of Investigation.
United States Secret Service.
Dallas Police Department.
Texas Department of Public Safety.
Department of Justice.
Central Intelligence Agency.
Congressional requests.
Military Intelligence.
State Department inquiries.
Foreign diplomatic cables.
Each agency had begun assembling its own investigation.
Each expected access to every witness.
Every piece of evidence.
Every report.
His chief of staff remained standing.
"They're already asking each other for files."
Bryce looked up.
"And?"
"They're refusing."
Silence settled over the room.
Bryce turned another page.
Requests.
Subpoenas.
Jurisdictional disputes.
Competing timelines.
Arguments over custody of evidence.
The assassination had ended ten days ago.
The government's struggle over it had only begun.
"How many active investigations?"
The chief of staff didn't need to count.
"Officially?"
Bryce nodded.
"Nine."
Bryce leaned back slowly.
"Nine."
"And that's before Congress decides whether to open hearings."
He closed the binder.
"What are the newspapers saying?"
The chief of staff hesitated.
"Depends which one you read."
"Meaning?"
"Every morning brings another theory."
Bryce looked toward the television mounted in the corner of the office. The morning news played silently while photographs of James Michael Kincaid filled the screen.
Anchormen spoke gravely.
Experts pointed toward charts.
Reporters stood outside government buildings waiting for answers that did not yet exist.
The volume was turned down, but Bryce didn't need to hear the words.
He already knew the questions.
Who fired the shots?
Was Logan Harvey Harlow acting alone?
Who failed to protect the President?
Could it happen again?
The same questions reached him every hour from senators, governors, newspaper editors, foreign leaders, and grieving citizens.
No one wanted possibilities.
Everyone wanted certainty.
His chief of staff cleared his throat.
"There's something else."
Bryce looked back.
"The British ambassador called again."
"What does he want?"
"The same thing everyone else wants."
Bryce almost smiled.
"Answers."
"Confidence."
The room grew quiet again.
Confidence.
That single word lingered in the air long after it had been spoken.
Confidence in the presidency.
Confidence in government.
Confidence in the Constitution.
Confidence that America still understood what had happened in Dallas.
Bryce walked back to the window.
The White House grounds were beginning to fill with staff arriving for another day.
Cars rolled through the gates.
Marine guards changed posts.
Tourists gathered behind the fence along Pennsylvania Avenue, pointing cameras toward the Executive Mansion as if history had become something that could be photographed.
Behind him, the binder remained open on the desk.
Nine investigations.
Nine chains of command.
Nine separate searches for the truth.
His chief of staff spoke quietly.
"What would you like us to do?"
Bryce didn't answer immediately.
He watched a maintenance worker sweeping frost from a sidewalk below.
One path.
One direction.
Everything else branched from it.
Finally he turned.
"Schedule the congressional leadership."
"They're already coming at eleven."
"The Cabinet?"
"One o'clock."
"The intelligence briefing?"
"Three."
"And after that?"
"Nothing."
Bryce nodded.
"Good."
His chief of staff looked surprised.
"I'd like one hour with no meetings."
"For what?"
Bryce looked down at the binder once more.
"I need time to think."
The chief of staff gathered his notes and headed toward the door.
He had almost reached it when the telephone on the president's desk rang.
Not one of the ordinary lines.
The secure line.
The chief of staff stopped.
Bryce crossed the room and lifted the receiver.
The White House operator's voice came through, calm and practiced.
"Mr. President..."
She paused.
"Director Holt is on the secure line."
Bryce looked at the red telephone in his hand.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he drew a slow breath.
"Put him through."