Developed Conspiracy

“She sure is a beauty,” Tuck Emberson said, his hands running along the gleaming red hood, “a ‘63 you say?”

“Yep.” I replied, “Ever since I was eighteen I always wanted to own a 1963 Impala, just took 30 years to get one.”

Tuck jumped back in, “She is a real good looking car, how does she run?”

“She doesn’t. The lady I bought her from said the car has been sitting in her detached garage since late 1963,” I tell Tuck. “She said it belonged to her brother and he went missing around Thanksgiving of that year.”

“I can’t believe you stumbled across this,” Tuck laughed, “Jimmy, you always had the best luck. How did you find it?”

“Luck for sure,” I say back. “The lady brought her car into the shop to get some new plugs put in. We got to talking and she mentioned she had an old car she was looking to finally sell.”

“They never found her brother?”

“Nope. She said when he first went missing local cops looked into and even a couple of Hoover’s boys came by with questions, but in the end no trace of her brother was ever found.”

Tuck laughed again, “Someone else’s bad luck turns into your good luck. What are you going to do with the car now?”

“Now that I got it towed over here to my shop I figure I’ll work on getting it up and running between customers,” I say to Tuck as he shakes his head and waves goodbye.

Two weeks of nursing these old parts back to life and some new tires and I finally think I have her ready to take a test drive. Turning out of the shop after closing up for the day, I aimed the Impala for a drive out down county road 25. There are some nice straight aways to get my speed up and some good curves to see how she handles.

She purrs along with her engine matching her flawless outer beauty. As I take my first sharp curve I hear a clunk sound coming from inside the dashboard. It sounds like something has come loose and every curve sends whatever it is ping ponging around. No big deal I think, she is running good so it must be something minor.

I turn around at Steadman’s Overlook and head back to the shop and my tools. It does not take long to find out what the mystery is all about. Down inside one of the air vents I fish out a small metal canister. I pop the lid on it and inside is an undeveloped roll of film. I quickly put the lid back on, unaware if being out will ruin the film.

The mystery has another layer now. Why was there a roll of film hidden in a car that hasn’t been driven since 1963. I decide to pursue the trail that this is leading down and call my friend Dennis who dabbles in vintage photography. One phone call later and not only is his interest piqued by my story, but he has a darkroom that would be capable of developing the film if it is salvageable.

I drop off the film and he says he will work on it in the morning and have something for me by the afternoon. With that taken care of, I head home for a shower, some dinner, and tv. I close out my day with the first half hour of the Tonight Show. This Leno guy is funny but I still miss Johnny.

I am jarred awake a few hours later by the bedside phone ringing and I snatch it from the cradle intending to let the person on the other end have it.

Before I can even answer, Dennis is almost incoherent, “Couldn’t wait… developed that film… get over here… ”

My curiosity shuts down my anger and thirty minutes later I am walking into Dennis' house. He doesn’t even speak just points at the stack of developed pictures. 

The first couple are shots of an empty city street with a crowd lined up along the side. The next one shows an open top car coming into view with… wait… that is President Kennedy. The next few pictures seemed to be panicked reactions. You can almost feel the tension that must have been going on. The second to last picture is a picture of some trees. The last picture is zoomed in on a figure standing next to the tree area.

Before I can say anything to Dennis there is a loud pounding on his door. I look at Dennis and ask, “Did you tell anyone else about this?” 

I can already tell by the surprised look on his face that the answer is no before the words even leave his mouth.

The knock resumes on the door, but this time it’s accompanied by a voice I don’t recognize, “Jimmy, I would like to have a word with you.”

I move to stand next to the door, “Who is this?”

The speaker doesn’t answer my questions, but adds to the mystery, “I know you just came into possession of some interesting pictures.”

Dennis is looking panic stricken and confused as to how anyone could even know about these events that should be known to only the two of us. No one else could even be in the loop about them.

I ask through the door, “Even if what you say is correct, how could you possibly even know about something that just occurred?” Quickly correcting himself, “Or may have occurred?”

A silence settled from the mysterious visitor that seemed to stretch for minutes was broken by his own question to me, “Jimmy, remember how you found the film canister, testing driving that sweet ‘63 Impala, the one that you had wanted for your whole life. You heard a knocking in the dashboard and turned around at Steadman’s Overlook.”

This was impossible, how could anyone know those details, I didn’t even say that much to Dennis. “Who are you?” I yell through the door.

“Just a man who has traveled an impossibly long way to warn you,” more mystery from the mystery man.

“Warn me about what?” I ask.

“Not what, who,” the mystery man corrects me. “In those photos sitting there on Dennis’ table is a clear view of the man in the grassy knoll, the real assassin of President Kennedy.”

Dennis and I stand in stunned silence. The idea of what we thought we saw in the pictures is not fiction, but fact.

With nothing but revelatory silence from our side of the door, the stranger is spurred to start speaking again, “Three days from now you will sell those pictures to NBC News, immediately afterward the pictures go worldwide and become the story of the century. This attracts the attention of the man from the picture and he will travel back here to kill you before the events of today can occur.”

“What are you talking about? Travel back? What do you mean you have traveled an impossibly long way?” I have heard enough. I jerk the door open and standing in front of me, is me. An older me, but it is me nonetheless.

He, or is it I, says to me, or is it us, “We don’t have much time.”