The Hand of Truth

If walls could talk, could you keep their secrets? I should have. The last six months prove I should have kept their damning words to myself.

Why am I wearing gloves? No, I'm not a germaphobe. Mysophobia would be a blessing compared to this scourge. The walls that surround me share horrid, mundane, and invasive stories of its previous tenants, guests, and construction workers when I touch them. Its tales would exhaust your mind. Arguments, sexual exploits, and cheating partners are the tip of the iceberg. My faith in human nature has sunk to the depths of the deepest ocean, and I'm drowning in its duplicity and dishonesty. You may feel envious and say, "Oh, to be a fly on the wall." I say you do not know the curse you speak of. If you continue and read my story, you will change your mind.

***

6 Months Earlier

A local Chicago station news alert chime caused me to look up from my evening meal. A banner flashed on my T.V. screen below the photo of a young blonde-haired boy.

Breaking News -Sheriff's Office needs help in the search for a missing child!

"A search is underway for a five-year-old boy in Newbury Heights. The kindergartener has been missing since yesterday evening. The Sheriff is asking for volunteers as they comb the woods near the family's house. If you have any information or would like to volunteer, please call 1-555-762-3333," said the reporter from WCNP news.

I lived in Newbury Heights but didn't recognize the boy. After I tossed my T.V. dinner tray into the trash, I walked the neighborhood and discovered the Sheriff's patrol cars lining the street two blocks away. I approached a deputy and gave him my driver's license to volunteer for the search.

"Our office will vet you tonight. Be here tomorrow morning at six thirty a.m. If you’re cleared, you will be asked to sign a waiver and be given instructions. Wear boots and warm clothing. Once you are signed in you will not be allowed to leave until the search for the day is over. Thank you for volunteering," the deputy said.

The morning search failed to find the boy, and a local fast-food company supplied box lunches.

"If you must use the bathroom, go now. The downstairs half bath is cordoned off for your use. Do not attempt to go past the yellow tape, or you will be charged with obstruction," a deputy said.

I entered the bathroom, stubbed my toe on the threshold, tripped, and banged my forehead into the sheetrock. My hands had flown to the wall but were too late to stop the collision.

"Ouch," a voice rang out. "Don't I suffer enough as it is? For years I suffer the earthy sounds coming from my visitors. My wallpaper is sotted with the remnants of methane, cheap perfumes, and vomit. For years I've been peed on by the kid next door when he comes over to play. The holidays are rough when Uncle George visits on New Year’s Eve. He must save all his crap for this one family gathering. Suzie, the college age daughter and her boyfriend sneak in here when her parents are upstairs and have sex. Am I the only one who can hear them. Geez, tell them to get a hotel room. No one listens to me."

"Is this a joke," I said as I searched the room for a speaker box. "This is a sick joke to play with a child missing and in danger."

"Child missing? Little Joey? Wait! You can hear me?" the voice said.

"Who is this?" I said.

"This is the soul of the house, the core nervous system that is alive in every building. You wouldn't understand," the wall said.

I lifted my hand as the dizziness passed and pushed the door handle down to escape. The door wouldn't budge. With one hand, I pulled on the door, and the other pushed on the wall to no avail.

"You're back. Keep your hand on me and listen, please," the wall said, "there is a black safe under the parent’s bed. Tell the police and they will know where to find my sweet little Joey."

Hours later, Joey had been found safe, the stepfather arrested, and myself in handcuffs in a law enforcement holding cell. They wanted me to explain how I provided the crucial lead that solved the case. No one believed me, and I’m not sure I did either.

Seventy-two hours of brutal interrogation had passed, and the District Attorney ordered my release due to the lack of evidence. A good deed never goes unpunished pervaded my mind as I was Baker Acted under a judge's seal for a three-day involuntary psychological evaluation. I lost six days of my life because I had to pee.

***

Once home, I showered to flush the prison's stench and the hospital's harsh odors. I stood under the hot spray and placed my hand on the shower wall.

"Yes, yes, yesssss," a woman cried out. "Don't stop, Herman."

I lifted my hand, and the passionate pornographic voice ceased. I replaced my hand on the wall.

"The grout is all wrong James. Strip it and do it again. It will never pass the buyer's inspection," a gruff man's voice said.

I lunged from the shower and stumbled across the bathroom floor to my bedroom. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stared at my hands.

"What the hell? I’ve lost my mind."

Appropriate for the state of my mind, I scrambled eggs for a quick dinner. To reclaim my sanity, I placed my hand on the kitchen wall hoping for silence.

"Hey Johnny, you want cheese on your burger?" a woman's voice said.

The first few days were fun and entertaining. Every wall I touched spoke to me or replayed sound bites from its stored memory. I learned to stay out of my friend's bedrooms because that was too much information. I had discovered my brother Johnny wasn't the Casanova he proclaimed.

I must confess, I eavesdropped on my boss's office wall from paranoia that my six-day absence would cost me my job. He wasn't concerned and considered me a victim of the system. The wall did confirm his dalliance with his assistant was more than a rumor.

My newfound talent was intriguing at first but soon became annoying and would soon become a liability. To manage the walls and shut them off, I bought a pair of stylish EMF radiation protection gloves from a medical supply store. The hand apparel blocked the walls signals so I could live in peace.

***

Five Months Earlier

The Sheriff's detective who had interrogated me stood on my porch knocking. Reluctant to speak to him in front of my nosy neighbors, I invited him inside.

"Mr. Tally, I know we didn't treat you very well but if it weren't for you the missing boy wouldn't have been found in time," he said.

"Are you apologizing Lieutenant Downey?"

"Look, we were just doing our job. What would you have done if I came to you and told you a wall told us where to find a new insurance policy, detailed plans to off the kid, and frame his biological father?"

“What do you want from me? Why are you here?"

"We need your help. A mother of three is missing. We suspect her boyfriend but can't prove anything."

"And you want me to break another case for you. Is that it? After branding me the Wall flower, the Fly, and nut case? Lieutenant, you called me crazy, threatened me, and interrogated me for days. Why should I help you now?"

"We are desperate. There may be a chance this woman is still alive. We will hire you as a consultant and pay you a three thousand dollar a month retainer. Your name will be excluded from any reports, and you will never be called to testify."

My new career as a consultant with the Sheriff's office allowed me to quit my job. Three months later, every cold case in the department had been solved, and the FBI came calling. I rejected their offer to consult on their cases and opened a private investigative firm. Three retired police detectives were hired to front all my cases. At one thousand dollars an hour, I only accepted domestic disputes, and missing children cases. I continued to consult with the police on murders. Lt. Downey and I became friends, but he never invited me to his house. He was an intelligent man.

***

One Month Earlier

My limo driver picked me up at my newly built house and dropped me off at my high-rise office. The investigative service had made me wealthy in a very short time. With a fresh mug of coffee, I greeted my assistant and entered my office to find a black-suited man behind my desk.

"Excuse me. How did you get in here?" I made a mental note to address the need for better security with my assistant.

The salted hair man opened a wallet and displayed the badge and I.D. of the National Security Agency. He handed me a card with his name and number.

"Feel free to call the Agency to verify who I am," he said.

I stepped from the room and made the call. My assistant stared at her shoes and avoided eye contact with me. I placed my hand on the wall and learned the NSA officer had threatened her with the exposure of her location to a former whacko boyfriend she had evaded. I returned to my office, where Agent Tom Blackstone waited.

"What do you want?" I said, pointing him to the chairs in the corner.

"We have a lot in common Mr. Tally, we both listen to people for a living."

"Why are you here?"

"We understand that you have an extraordinary ability and would like to retain your services for a cold case that is of the upmost importance to National Security."

"I only accept certain cases and have no interest in getting involved with the federal government Mr. Blackstone."

"Are you a patriot or not, Mr. Tally? Your four years of decorated service with the U.S. Navy say otherwise.

The agent pulled a manila envelope from his briefcase and laid both on the coffee table between us.

"That briefcase contains one hundred thousand dollars cash as a good faith retainer. Solve the case in the sealed envelope, and we will compensate you fifty million dollars tax free."

I lifted the packet and read the label.

_________________

Top Secret

Lancer – 11/22/1963 Dallas, Texas.

_________________

"Before you open that packet. I need you to sign this National Security Waiver. You need to understand any breach could lead to life imprisonment or execution for treason. Your assigned code name is The Fly. I will be your handler with the code name Skywatcher."

I stared at the packet. Lancer was John F. Kennedy, the thirty-fifth president of the United States, who was assassinated when I was five. They want me to solve the case. Geez, what have I gotten myself into? Like millions of Americans, I wanted to know the absolute truth, too.

***

One Week Earlier

My flight landed in Dallas on a typical summer day of ninety-eight degrees. An airport taxi deposited me in front of the Adolphus Hotel across the street from 1321 Commerce St. The luxury hotel had been built by Adolphus Busch, co-founder of Anheuser-Busch, in 1912. Across the road on the second floor had been The Carousel Club, owned by Jacob Leon Rubenstein, aka Jack Ruby, in 1963. Agent Blackstone had provided photos, at my request, of the buildings as they were known on November 22, 1963.

Once I checked into my suite, I pulled the investigative documents and four photos from my briefcase with the addresses I would scan.

A. The Carousel Club (Jack Ruby’s Bar)

1312.5 Commerce St.

B. Jack Ruby's Apt Residence

223 Ewing Ave, Dallas, Texas

C. Dallas County Administration Building (The Texas School Book Depository.)

411 Elm St. Dallas Texas

D. Lee Harvey Oswald – Boarding house

1026 N. Beckley Ave. Dallas Texas

My abilities expanded when I held a photograph in one hand while I touched a wall with the other. The photo rewound the wall's memory to the time period it had been taken. Not all walls spoke to me, but those that didn't replayed the sounds and voices of the time.

***

The morning came, and I crossed Commerce Street to the former site of The Carousel Club. I touched the wall with the photo in my hand.

"That was before my time. Sorry," the wall said.

I traveled to Jack Ruby's apartment building the following morning. The apartment building had been demolished long ago, and The City Inn and Suites now operated on the property. The wall was happy to assist me, but I received the same response as I did at The Carousel Club, "It was before my time."

On the third day, after taking a guided tour by a local historian, I crossed Dealey Plaza to the Texas School Book Depository. The locals called it The Depository. It was now a Dallas County Administration Building.

Arrangements had been made through the NSA for uninhibited access. I bypassed the offer of the elevator and walked the steps to the sixth-floor museum exhibit created in 1989. Oswald had worked packing orders for six weeks before taking the fatal shots that ended the president’s life and changed the world as we knew it.

I viewed the 6th-floor photo and touched the wall by the window in the corner where Oswald had fired the shots with his Italian-made Carcano Model 1891/38 rifle.

"What do you want?" the wall said.

"I am investigating the assassination of the President of the United States," I said.

"Oh, another amateur sleuth like the thousands who have come before with your conspiracy theories?"

"I'm here to listen to you. What do you remember?

"Isn't it bad enough that I was once a building that taught children by providing books and now my walls are the icon of horror and death to a nation?"

"What can you tell me about that day and Lee Harvey Oswald?"

"Listen for yourself," the wall said.

_______________________

Booted steps approach, and the screech of wood crates skid across the floor. A man grunts with a window squeal as it slides open. Then silence. A metallic clack snaps the air, and the ominous sound of a bolt clicks in place, chambering a bullet. "Khoroshy," a man's wispy voice says.

A cigarette lighter snaps shut, and Oswald exhales, whistling the Vice Roy jingle. After a period of silence, the rattling of a paper bag crinkles and the man smacks his lips and says, "Khoroshy," again, "Chicken is good."

"Dammit Marina, I told you Pepsi, not Dr. Pepper," as the wisp of carbon escaped from the opening of a soda bottle. A paper bag crumples, and another cigarette is lit. Cheering can be heard in the background, "JFK, JFK, JFK."

Then came a deafening BOOM, click-click and a shell casing tinked on the floor. BOOM, click-click tink, BOOM, click-click tink tink.

The bang of a heavy metal object clunked on the wood floor, and the booted steps of a fleeing man faded into the distance.

________________________

I could barely breathe as I thanked the wall for the assistance. I had just listened in real time to the murder of John F. Kennedy.

"Is there any way you can close off this space so I can exist in the silence that once existed?" the wall said.

"I'm sorry but that isn't within my power."

***

Rattled by the reality of the experience, I returned to the Adolphus Hotel and slumped at the bar. I sipped my second whisky after tossing the first in one gulp. Why was I cursed with this ability? I should have kept the secret to myself. I had ordered a third round when a classy blonde-haired woman, who appeared my age, slipped into the stool beside me.

"Slow down Mister the bottom of the bottle is a place called misery," she said.

"I'm already there. This just numbs it a bit," I said.

"You're the VIP private investigator touring all the JFK assassination sites? I’m curious as to why you are under the protection of the government. Is it super-secret?" she said.

I sat up straight in panic. "How would you know that and who are you?"

"Calm down Mr. Tally, your little secret is safe with me. I’m Patricia Busch and part owner of the Adolphus. All government requests come across my desk for approval. I find it curious not one investigation has been sanctioned by the U.S. Government in the last fifty years and here you are. It's like they don't want to know the truth or maybe they already do."

"I can't disclose anything as I'm under a National Security agreement."

"How can I help?" she said. "I was five years old on November 22, 1963 and lived here in the Penthouse suite with my father."

"I'm here to investigate Jack Ruby's business and apartment, but they have been demolished," I said, giving in to the whisky. "When I touch walls, I hear things."

"Mr. Tally, I think you talk too much when you're drunk. Come to my suite, it will be safer there. I have something of interest to show you. Don't worry, I promise not to molest you."

I woke on a couch overlooking a panoramic view of the Dallas nighttime sky. The massive suite was decorated in modern art deco except for one antique brick wall. My cotton mouth demonstrated I wasn't up to the Texas standard for downing whiskey straight.

"He awakes," she said and handed me a bottle of water.

"Edward or is it Eddie? Do you mind? My father was raised in Chicago and was friends with Jacob Rubenstein aka Jack Ruby. The Carousel Club was my father’s hideaway from the pressures of a large hotel. When Jack’s building was demolished my father collected the bricks from the walls and created this memorial. He thought of him as a hero when he killed Oswald. We all did. You needed a wall from the Carousel Club? Well, there it is?" and pointed to the antique bricks that stood out from the rest of the room.

I walked to the wall and placed my hand on its rough surface while I looked at the photo Blackstone provided. The wall told me of Jack Ruby's rage at Kennedy’s murder. He had shattered dozens of shot glasses against its bricks. Two men who had never been to the club before met Jack late at night and delivered a note from their bosses in Chicago.

"What did the wall tell you?" she said.

"Other than Jack Ruby's blind rage I learned nothing new," I lied.

"What a shame? I ordered a late dinner if you care to join me. You will find a good Texas steak is the best remedy for your hangover."

***

An eighties-style corded phone blared in my room, and I jumped up, thinking a fire alarm had sounded. A woman's voice said, "Please hold for Skywatcher."

"Has the Fly caught anything yet?" he asked.

"As you know the locations A and B have been demolished. Location C didn't glean any new information but to confirm the cigarettes, soda bottle, and bag of chicken bones found at the scene. The subject sounded like a bad Slavic version of Pee Wee Herman. I am investigating location A today," I said.

"I am flying out there in two days. We will meet at the decommissioned train depot at three p.m. on Trade St. You can find it. Fly, you better have something concrete, or the fifty-million dollar deal is off. Do you understand?" The phone disconnected with a click.

"Goodbye to you, you ass."

The stress of the investigation was taking its toll. I couldn't get Oswald's voice out of my head. A nightmare from the night before still haunted me, where Oswald was shooting at me. BOOM, click, click, tink and yelling, "Pepsi, dammit."

***

My Uber ride stopped a block away from Oswald's former boarding house. I wore a badged Dallas Water Service uniform and carried a meter scanner in my hand. It was Blackstone's clandestine idea. I knocked on the door, prepared to explain our bill analysis suggested a slow leak on the premises. No one answered. I stuck a prepared memo to the door in case the residents came home and walked to the back of the property. A floor plan provided by the NSA showed me where to place my hand on the wall nearest Oswald’s room while I held the 1963 photo.

I received nothing through my hand. Frustrated, I slapped the wall.

"Ouch, who hit me?" the wall said.

"Hi, sorry to wake you but I am Eddie Tally and I'm seeking answers from the past."

"1963? I don't remember anything."

"Who said 1963?

"Damn," said the house, "You got me."

"What do you remember about November 1963?"

"I'm not saying. If I talk they will come and burn me down."

"Who are they?

"Damn, you got me again."

"You don't have to say anything. Just let me listen."

"Yeah, good idea. Then I can't be accused of spilling the paint."

"You mean beans, don't you?

"Dammit, you got me again."

_____________

The wispy voice of Oswald spoke to another man.

"Please, I know you don't know me well, but I'm in a bit of trouble. If I don't return home tonight will you please give this letter to my wife Marina? She will come looking for me and there are some truths she needs to know. Thank you."

“Sure bud. I can do that?” said the other man.

“Thanks Jimmy,” said Oswald.

A long silence passed, except a clock rang each hour from eight a.m. to twelve p.m.

"Kennedy's been shot. Oh my God," Jimmy shouted at twelve thirty-five p.m.

"No! I don't know if he’s alive or dead. They won’t say. He's at Parkland Memorial."

Silence ensued until the clock struck one p.m. Just over a half hour later the television blared with the voice of CBS anchor Walter Cronkite,

From Dallas, Texas, the flash apparently official, President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time - 2 o'clock Eastern Standard Time - some 38 minutes ago. Vice President Lyndon Johnson has left the hospital...

"Oswald did it?” Jimmy said. “Are you sure? He left me a note for his wife this morning."

An enraged woman said, "Get rid of the letter Jimmy or you will be blamed along with him. With your record you won't stand a chance. I won't have them tainting the reputation of my boarding house and shutting me down. It's going to be bad enough as it is."

Moments later, she said, "Put it in this coffee can Jimmy and bury it under the large rock in the back."

__________________

In total shock, I felt I was in 1963 as tears streamed down my cheeks. I found a large granite stone in the backyard, lifted it, and found the coffee can buried ten inches in the ground.

I returned to the Adolphus and scanned the letter written in Russian into the hotel's concierge computer. The online translator transposed the letter into English. I read the letter and began hyperventilating as my heart pounded in my chest. The contents of the letter would shock the world. My hand had discovered the truth.

Hours later, I made the decision to speak with Patricia. I had scanned her walls with my hand and trusted her. She agreed that I could not meet with Skywatcher, or the world would never know the truth. A meeting was arranged with a local network station through her personal contacts.

I read the letter aloud, and their attorney took the original and retranslated it to authenticate its validity. A palpable silence filled the station manager's office as the attorney validated Oswald’s handwriting from an online document database.

The station manager and the attorney agreed an on-air interview and quick release of the letter were paramount due to the high probability of government interference. The special report was scheduled for the next day at 1 p.m. standard time. The exact date and time President John F. Kennedy had died sixty years earlier. Until then, only four people would know the contents of the letter that would set the world on fire.

***

Three Days Earlier - 11/22/2023

Two bodyguards provided by the station escorted me through the back door into the studio. The lights were set, my body microphones installed, and the producer counted down three, two, and one and pointed his index finger to the news anchor.

"Thank you for joining us for this special report from WCFV Dallas. Today we have catastrophic breaking news regarding the assassination of John F Kennedy. Joining us is Edward Tally a private investigator. The evidence of truth you are about to hear has been validated. This is not a hoax. Mr. Tally, please tell us what you have discovered." the anchor said.

"In my investigation, I have uncovered indisputable truth about the…."

The lights, cameras, and monitors all went black as the station lost all power.

"Don't panic. The generators will kick in, and we will be back on the air in a few minutes," a voice said. I sat in the dark as the minutes passed when another voice said. "The generators have been sabotaged, destroyed."

In a panic, I felt my way through the dark to the rear exit as a flash-bang grenade detonated in the studio. I pushed through the door to the parking lot and was met by Skywatcher, who sprayed a white mist into my face. I collapsed to the pavement. He loomed over me as dark shadows in my peripheral vision closed like curtains on the stage of my life.

"You were warned Tally."

***

One Day Earlier - 11/25/2023

I woke with a splitting headache to seagulls squawking and the decayed scents of an ocean nearby. Through the bars of my prison cell, I could hear and feel the salty wind blowing. It reminded me of my long-ago visit to the Caribbean, and I knew I had failed.

I stood on my bunk and viewed the double perimeter fence topped with razor wire outside my cell. Two Marines in full combat gear paced between guard towers at each end of each hurricane fence.

Male voices warbled, sing-song Arabic prayers in the distance that blended in with the orchestrations of nature. This was no resort. I was imprisoned in Guantanamo Bay, where no one knew my name or existence.

Ironically, today was the anniversary of John F Kennedy’s funeral sixty years ago, and I have been buried like him with the truth. The prison door clanked open and disrupted my thoughts. Blackstone the Skywatcher stood in the doorway.

"You're screwed Tally. We have the letter, and you will never be free again. No one knows where you are because you do not exist. The station manager died in a car accident this morning. The attorney is your new neighbor. By the way, he's a bit pissed so I'd stay clear of him. Patricia Busch has disappeared, but we will find her. The world will never know your secret Eddie. I hope you enjoy your permanent Caribbean vacation," as he slammed the cell door shut.

***

Today

Whoever is reading this, do you still want to be a fly on the wall? I'd be ecstatic to trade places with you as I wither in this prison. I’d share what the letter said, but you would never believe me and label me a conspiracy nut.

If you are cursed with this scourge of talking walls, please keep it a secret. Your life, liberty, and happiness may depend on it; mine did. I have lost all hope.

***

Epilogue

Senator Evans, the favored candidate for the President of the United States and upstart Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, entered the Dallas studio for an arranged interview with the syndicated T.V. magazine, Show the Nation. His popular platform was transparency and reform. The makeup artist had finished his work, and an assistant producer alerted him of the fifteen-minute warning to air time.

The Senator stepped down the hallway to use the bathroom and tripped on the door's threshold. He stumbled into the wall and caught himself with his hand.

"Ouch," said the wall, "We need to talk."

****** ***** ***** *****

Author’s note and Other photos—

This story is fiction embedded in actual history. The places and photos below are real. Many questions still exist unanswered to this day in regard to the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. If only walls could talk.