![]() ![]() Penn Jones hustles over dodging traffic, and drags the cover back into place. I get the picture,” I say, hastily scrambling out, visions of the glowing eyes of sewer rats sending shivers through me. “Well, actually, Elaine, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Ron, you’ll see that even in the dark you’ll be able to feel your way to one of those runoff tunnels he used to squirm his way under the plaza to the getaway.”Įlaine begins to lug the heavy seal over the hole. “Okay, Elaine, now pull that manhole cover back over on top of him. “See what a clear shot he had?” Penn Jones yells out. “That’s the storm drain in the curb side you’re lookin’ out now,” says Elaine. In total darkness, except…well, damned if there isn’t a perfect little rectangle of daylight coming through an opening in the pavement right in front of my eyes, and damned if Penn Jones’ face isn’t framed right in it. I follow her instructions and find myself completely under the overhang of pavement. Sort of the Stations of the Cross Fire in conspiracy-theory gospel. This manhole is the first stop on a grand tour of Dallas assassination shrines, during which, among other things, Penn has promised to show me the exact locations from which, he says offhandedly, the nine gunmen fired at John F. This is the historic Dealey Plaza manhole that a certain faction of assassination buffs-led by Penn Jones, Jr., the guy in the middle of Elm Street-believes sheltered a sniper who fired the fatal frontal head shot on November 22, 1963. While it is nice to escape the pounding of the direct sunlight, this is not my idea of summer fun. It’s kind of cool down here, though some might call it dank. ![]() So here I am, out in the midday sun, lowering myself into this manhole. “Elaine,” he calls out to the woman, “you show him how to position himself.” ![]() Now I want you to get down in that manhole,” he yells at the younger guy, who, not to be coy, is me. I’m standing right where the president was when he took the head shot. He walks out into the middle of Elm Street traffic, heads uphill between two lanes of oncoming cars, and plants himself in the middle of the road about 25 yards upstream. At last he has yanked the massive iron seal clear of the opening that leads down to the storm sewer system honeycombing the underside of Dealey Plaza. Waits for a Dallas Police Department squad car to cruise by and disappear into the darkness of the Triple Underpass. The older guy is bending down and-demonstrating remarkable vigor-pulling the hundred-pound manhole cover out of its recess in the sidewalk. There’s an attractive young blond woman, a spry, grizzled older fellow in a Coors cap, and a guy in his thirties with a tape recorder. Three people have gathered around a manhole at the foot of the famous grassy knoll. It’s a hot morning in August of this year, and motorists whizzing down Elm Street are witnessing a curious, if not sinister, phenomenon.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |