(San Diego, 6/3/68)
Bobby soared.
He jabbed the air. He tossed his hair. He praised Dr. King. He co-opted him. He out-orated him. He made his praise sing.
It all worked. It all sang—the sunburn/the bray/the rolled sleeves.
The crowd soared. The crowd roared. The crowd cheered in sync. Two thousand people/crowd ropes up/parking-lot streams.
Littell watched. Littell willed Bobby: Please look at me.
See me. Don’t fear me. I won’t hurt you again. I’m a pilgrim. I fear for you. My fear’s justified.
Bobby stood on a flatbed. The tailgate shook and dipped. Aides stood below him. Aides steadied him.
Look over. Look down. See me.
His fear boiled over. It popped two weeks back. His fear stretched and peaked. He linked fear dots. He plumbed fear lines. He read fear hieroglyphs.
The news pic/the El Encanto/suite 301. The Sam line: “Box of goodies.” The Carlos line: Pete’s “small favor.” Fear connections/hieroglyphs/puzzle chips.
It got bad. It ate him up. It ruined his sleep. He split Vegas. He flew to D.C. He called Paul Horvitz.
Paul hung up. He called Mr. Hoover. He called Dwight Holly. They hung up. He drove to the Bureau. Door guards ejected him.
He flew to Oregon. He approached campaign staffers. Staff guards restrained him. He saw his name on a list—all “Known Enemies.”
He told the guards I sense things. He said please talk to me. They said no. They manhandled him. They ejected him.
Chips dovetailed. He sensed things. Mr. Hoover knows—just like he knew about Jack.
He flew to Santa Barbara. He got a hotel room. He staked out the El Encanto. He watched 301. He followed wires. He found the listening post.
Suite 208/fifty yards up/manned twenty-four hours per day.
He staked it out. He wore disguises. He worked six days and nights. He waited. The post stayed manned—all day/all night.
He went schizzy. He gave up sleep—six days/six nights. He lost weight. He saw goblins. Spots torqued his eyes.
It rained on day 7. One agent stayed on-post.
Luck:
Said agent goes off-post. Said agent visits suite 63. Said agent has a prostitute.
Littell hit 208. Littell picked the door lock. Littell locked himself in. Littell tossed the post.
He found a transcript log. He found a routing log. He found transcripts stacked. He skimmed back through mid-March. He saw:
March 15/16. Two three-way talks transcribed. Bobby plus Paul Horvitz. One man un-ID’d. Bobby’s voluble. Bobby’s effusive. Bobby talks anti-Mob.
He skimmed the routing log. He hit 3/20. He saw tape copies routed. The tapes for March 15/16. Said tapes routed to the Boys.
To Carlos. To Moe D. To John Rosselli. To Santo and Sam G.
That was this morning. That was twelve hours back.
He tracked Bobby’s schedule. He drove south. He hit San Diego. He called the Bureau office. The ASAC hung up. He called SDPD. He told his story. A sergeant blew up.
The sergeant yelled at him. The sergeant said, “You’re on a list.” The sergeant hung up.
He drove to the rally. He got there early. He saw sound men set up. He braced them. He braced staffers. He got the bum’s rush. He left. He came back. The crowd ate him up.
Littell watched Bobby. Littell waved his hands. Look at me please. Bobby soared. Bobby waved. Bobby loved up the crowd. Bobby spread contact thin.
Littell waved his hands. Something jabbed him—a needle/a pin/a stick. He went woozy—BOOM like that—he saw Fred Otash thiiiiiinnn.