The Last Confessions of E Howard Hunt

Once, when the old spymaster thought he was dying, his eldest son came to visit him at his home in Miami. The scourges recently had been constant and terrible: lupus, pneumonia, cancers of the jaw and prostate, gangrene, the amputation of his left leg. Long past were his years of heroic service to the country. In the CIA, he'd helped mastermind the violent removal of a duly elected leftist president in Guatemala and assisted in subterfuges that led to the murder of Che Guevara. But no longer could you see in him the suave, pipe-smoking, cocktail-party-loving clandestine operative whose Cold War exploits he himself had, almost obsessively, turned into novels, one of which, East of Farewell, the New York Times once called "the best sea story" of World War II.

Diminished too were the old bad memories, of the Bay of Pigs debacle that derailed his CIA career for good, of the Watergate Hotel fiasco, of his first wife's death. But his firstborn son -- he named him St. John; Saint, for short -- was by his side now. And he still had a secret or two left to share before it was all over.

They were in the living room, him in his wheelchair, watching Fox News at full volume, because his hearing had failed too. After a while, he had St. John wheel him into his bedroom and hoist him onto his bed. He asked St. John to get him a diet root beer, a pad of paper and a pen.

There were a couple of days back in 1972, after the Watergate job, when the boy, then eighteen, had risen to the occasion. The two of them, father and son, had wiped fingerprints off a bunch of spy gear, and Saint had helped in other ways, too. He was E. Howard Hunt, a true American patriot, and he had earned his while serving his country. As he once said, "I had always assumed, working for the CIA for so many years, that anything the White House wanted done was the law of the land."

Now, in August 2003, propped up in his sickbed, paper on his lap, pen in hand and son sitting next to him, he began to write down the names of men who had indeed participated in a plot to kill the president. He had lied during those two federal investigations. He knew something after all. He told St. John about his own involvement, too. It was explosive stuff, with the potential to reconfigure the JFK-assassination-theory landscape. And then he got better and went on to live for four more years.

In the early days of the cold war, the CIA's mandate was simple: to contain the spread of communism by whatever means necessary; it was tacitly given permission to go about its dirty business unfettered by oversight of any kind. For much of the Cold War, it was answerable to no one. And if you were lucky enough to become one of its agents, you had every right to consider yourself a member of an elite corps, a big swinging all-American dick like no other. The middle-class son of a Hamburg, New York, attorney, E. Howard Hunt graduated from Brown University in 1940 with a bachelor's in English, joined the Navy during World War II, served in the North Atlantic on the destroyer Mayo, slipped and fell, took a medical discharge and wound up in China working under "Wild" Bill Donovan in the newly formed Office of Strategic Services. When the OSS was transformed into the CIA, Hunt jumped onboard. He loved action as much as he hated communism, and he soon began operating with a level of arrogance entirely typical of the CIA. He was instrumental, for instance, in planning the 1954 coup in Guatemala that overthrew the left-leaning, democratically elected president, Jacobo Arbenz, and ushered in forty years of military repression, which ultimately cost 200,000 Guatemalans their lives. Years later, when asked about the 200,000 deaths, E. Howard said, "Deaths? What deaths?" Like Saint says, he never felt guilt about anything: "He was a complete self-centered WASP who saw himself as this blue blood from upstate New York. 'I'm better than anybody because I'm white, Protestant and went to Brown, and since I'm in the CIA, I can do anything I want.' Jew, nigger, Polack, wop -- he used all those racial epithets. He was an elitist. He hated everybody."

In the early Fifties, his father could often be seen cruising around in a white Cadillac convertible; he loved that car. He also loved his cigars and his wine and his country clubs and being waited on by servants and having his children looked after by nannies. He was full of himself and full of the romantic, swashbuckling, freewheeling importance of his government mission. He had quite an imagination, too. When he wasn't off saving the world from Reds, he spent much of his time in front of a typewriter, hacking out espionage novels, some eighty in all, with titles such as The Violent Ones ("They killed by day, they loved by night") and I Came to Kill ("They wanted a tyrant liquidated, and cash could hire him to do it").

Wherever E. Howard was stationed -- he'd pop up Zelig-like in hot spots from Japan to Uruguay to Spain -- he and his family lived lavishly and well, all presumably to lend credence to his cover job as a high-ranking embassy official. One estate was as large as a city block, and one dining table as long as a telephone pole, with the parents sitting at distant opposite ends. Sadly, he treated his children the way he and the CIA treated the rest of the world. They were supposed to bend to his will and otherwise be invisible. God forbid during a meal one of them should speak or rattle a dish.

That same year, his father retired from the CIA after being relegated to the backwaters for his role in the Bay of Pigs. He went to work as a writer for a PR firm. He was bored and missed the hands-on action of the CIA.The following year, however, his lawyer pal Chuck Colson, who was special counsel to Nixon, called him up with an invitation to join the president's Special Investigations Unit as a kind of dirty-tricks consultant. He signed on. He really thought he was going places.

Around the time of St. John's Miami visit in 2003 to talk to his ailing father about JFK, certain other people were also trying to get things out of E. Howard, including the actor Kevin Costner, who had played a JFK-assassination-obsessed DA in the Oliver Stone film JFK and had become somewhat obsessed himself. Costner said that he could arrange for E. Howard to make $5 million for telling the truth about what happened in Dallas. Unbeknown to St. John, however, Costner had already met with E. Howard once. That meeting didn't go very well. When Costner arrived at the house, he didn't ease into the subject. "So who killed Kennedy?" he blurted out. "I mean, who did shoot JFK, Mr. Hunt?" E. Howard's mouth fell open, and he looked at his wife. "What did he say?"

And that ended that meeting, with E. Howard grumbling to himself about Costner, "What a numskull."

But then St. John got involved, and he knew better how to handle the situation. For one thing, he knew that his stepmother wanted to forget about the past. She didn't want to hear about Watergate or Kennedy. In fact, E. Howard swore to Laura that he knew nothing about JFK's assassination; it was one of her preconditions for marriage. Consequently, she and her sons often found themselves in conflict with St. John.

"Why can't you go back to California and leave well enough alone?" they asked him. "How can you do this? How dare you do this? He's in the last years of his life."

But Saint's attitude was, "This has nothing to do with you. This stuff is of historical significance and needs to come out."

So when Saint arrived in Miami to talk to his dad, the two men spent a lot of time waiting for Laura to leave the house. Saint painted the living room and built a wheelchair ramp. In the mornings, he cooked breakfast. In the afternoons, he plopped a fishing hat on E. Howard's head and wheeled him around the neighborhood. They drank coffee together. And watched lots of Fox News. And when Laura finally left, they talked.

Afterward, another meeting was arranged with Costner, this time in Los Angeles, where the actor had fifty assassination-related questions all ready to go. (The actor declined comment for this article.) Though the $5 million figure was still floating around, all Costner wanted to pay E. Howard at this point was $100 a day for his time. There would be no advance. St. John called Costner.

"Nobody calls me a cheapskate," said Costner. "What do you think I'm going to do, just hand over $5 million?"

"No. But the flight alone could kill him. He's deaf as a brick. He's pissing in a bag. He's got one leg. You want him to fly to Los Angeles and for $100 a day? Wow! What are we going to do with all that money?!"

"I can't talk to you anymore, St. John," Costner said. And that was the end of that, for good. It looked like what E. Howard had to say would never get out.

One evening in Eureka, over a barbecue meal, St. John explains how he first came to suspect that his father might somehow be involved in the Kennedy assassination. "Around 1975, I was in a phone booth in Maryland somewhere, when I saw a poster on a telephone pole about who killed JFK, and it had a picture of the three tramps. I saw that picture and-- like a cartoon character, my jaw dropped, my eyes popped out of my head, and smoke came out of my ears. It looks like my dad. There's nobody that has all those same facial features. People say it's not him. He's said it's not him. But I'm his son, and I've got a gut feeling."

He chews his sandwich. "And then, like an epiphany, I remember '63, and my dad being gone, and my mom telling me that he was on a business trip to Dallas. I've tried to convince myself that's some kind of false memory, that I'm just nuts, that it's something I heard years later. But, I mean, his alibi for that day is that he was at home with his family. I remember I was in the fifth grade. We were at recess. I was playing on the merry-go-round. We were called in and told to go home, because the president had been killed. And I remember going home. But I don't remember my dad being there. I have no recollection of him being there. And then he has this whole thing about shopping for Chinese food with my mother that day, so that they could cook a meal together." His father testified to this, in court, on more than one occasion, saying that he and his wife often cooked meals together.

St. John pauses and leans forward. "Well," he says, "I can tell you that's just the biggest load of crap in the world. He was always looking at things like he was writing a novel; everything had to be just so glamorous and so exciting. So my dad in the kitchen? Chopping vegetables with his wife? I'm so sorry, but that would never happen. Ever."

Not that it was all bad back then, in Potomac, at Witches Island. E. Howard played the trumpet, and his son was into music too, so sometimes the pair went down to Blues Alley, in Georgetown, to hear jazz. Back home, E. Howard would slap Benny Goodman's monster swing-jazz song "Sing, Sing, Sing" on the turntable, and the two would listen to it endlessly. And then, sometimes, during the stomping Harry James horn solo, E. Howard would jump to his feet, snapping his fingers like some cool cat, pull back his shirt sleeves, lick his lips and play the air trumpet for all he was worth. It was great stuff, and St. John loved it. "I would sit there in awe," he says. But the best was yet to come. It was well past midnight on June 18th, 1972. Saint, eighteen years old, was asleep in his basement bedroom, surrounded by his Beatles and Playboy pinup posters, when he heard someone shouting, "You gotta wake up! You gotta wake up!"

When he opened his eyes, Saint saw his father as he'd never seen him before. E. Howard was dressed in his usual coat and tie, but everything was akimbo. He was a sweaty, disheveled mess. Saint didn't know what to think or what was going on.

"I don't need you to ask a lot of questions," his father said. "I need you to get your clothes on and come upstairs."

He disappeared into the darkness. Saint changed out of his pajamas. Upstairs, he found his father in the master bedroom, laboring over a big green suitcase jumble-filled with microphones, walkie-talkies, cameras, tripods, cords, wires, lots of weird stuff. His father started giving him instructions. Saint went to the kitchen and returned with Windex, paper towels and some rubber dishwashing gloves. Then, in silence, the two of them began wiping fingerprints off all the junk in the suitcase. After that, they loaded everything into E. Howard's Pontiac Firebird and drove over to a lock on the C&O Canal. E. Howard heaved the suitcase into the water, and it gurgled out of sight.

They didn't speak on the way home. St. John still didn't know what was going on. All he knew was that his dad had needed his help, and he'd given it, successfully.

The next day, dressed in one of his prep-school blazers, he drove to a Riggs Bank in Georgetown and met his father inside the safety-deposit-box cage. His father turned him around, lifted his blazer and shoved about $100,000 in cash down the back of his pants. The boy made it home without picking up a tail. Then his father had him get rid of a typewriter. Saint put the typewriter in a bag, hoofed it across the Witches Island property onto the neighboring spread and tossed it into the pond where he and his brother David used to go fishing.

"Don't ever tell anybody you've done these things," his father said later. "I could get in trouble. You could get in trouble. I'm sorry to have to put you in this position, but I really am grateful for your help."

Everything he had done, he'd done because his father and his gang of pals had botched the break-in at the Watergate Hotel. Soon his mother would be killed in a plane crash, and his father would be sent to jail, and Nixon would resign, and his own life would fracture in unimaginable ways. But right now, standing there with his father and hearing those words of praise, he was the happiest he'd ever been.

Years later, when saint started trying to get his father to tell what he knew about JFK, he came to believe the information would be valuable. He both needed money and thought he was owed money, for what he'd been through. Also, like many a conspiracy nut before him, he was more than a little obsessed.

"After seeing that poster of the three tramps," he says, "I read two dozen books on the JFK assassination, and the more I read, the more I was unsure about what happened. I had all these questions and uncertainties. I mean, I was trying to sort out things that had touched me in a big way."

Touched him and turned him upside down, especially the death of his mother. He had been particularly close to her. She was part Native American and had sewed him a buckskin shirt that he used to wear like a badge of honor, along with a pair of moccasins. At the same time, Saint feels that he never got to know her. She told him that during World War II, she'd tracked Nazi money for the U.S. Treasury Department, and Saint believes that early in her marriage to his father, she may have been in the CIA herself, "a contract agent, not officially listed." But he isn't sure about any of it, really.

"In our family, everything was sort of like a mini-CIA," he says. "Nothing was ever talked about, so we grew up with all of these walls, walls around my father, walls around my mother, walls around us kids, to protect and insulate us. You grow up not knowing what really happened. Like, who was my mom, for Christ's sake? Was she a CIA agent? What was her life really like?" The one thing he does know is that when she died, so in large part did the Hunt family.

That time in Miami, with Saint by his bed and disease eating away at him and him thinking he's six months away from death, E. Howard finally put pen to paper and started writing. Saint had been working toward this moment for a long while, and now it was going to happen. He got his father an A&W diet root beer, then sat down in the old man's wheelchair and waited.

E. Howard scribbled the initials "LBJ," standing for Kennedy's ambitious vice president, Lyndon Johnson. Under "LBJ," connected by a line, he wrote the name Cord Meyer. Meyer was a CIA agent whose wife had an affair with JFK; later she was murdered, a case that's never been solved. Next his father connected to Meyer's name the name Bill Harvey, another CIA agent; also connected to Meyer's name was the name David Morales, yet another CIA man and a well-known, particularly vicious black-op specialist. And then his father connected to Morales' name, with a line, the framed words "French Gunman Grassy Knoll."

So there it was, according to E. Howard Hunt. LBJ had Kennedy killed. It had long been speculated upon. But now E. Howard was saying that's the way it was. And that Lee Harvey Oswald wasn't the only shooter in Dallas. There was also, on the grassy knoll, a French gunman, presumably the Corsican Mafia assassin Lucien Sarti, who has figured prominently in other assassination theories.

"By the time he handed me the paper, I was in a state of shock," Saint says. "His whole life, to me and everybody else, he'd always professed to not know anything about any of it. But I knew this had to be the truth. If my dad was going to make anything up, he would have made something up about the Mafia, or Castro, or Khrushchev. He didn't like Johnson. But you don't falsely implicate your own country, for Christ's sake. My father is old-school, a dyed-in-the-wool patriot, and that's the last thing he would do."

Later that week, E. Howard also gave Saint two sheets of paper that contained a fuller narrative. It starts out with LBJ again, connecting him to Cord Meyer, then goes on: "Cord Meyer discusses a plot with [David Atlee] Phillips who brings in Wm. Harvey and Antonio Veciana. He meets with Oswald in Mexico City... Then Veciana meets w/ Frank Sturgis in Miami and enlists David Morales in anticipation of killing JFK there. But LBJ changes itinerary to Dallas, citing personal reasons."

David Atlee Phillips, the CIA's Cuban operations chief in Miami at the time of JFK's death, knew E. Howard from the Guatemala-coup days. Veciana is a member of the Cuban exile community. Sturgis, like Saint's father, is supposed to have been one of the three tramps photographed in Dealey Plaza. Sturgis was also one of the Watergate plotters, and he is a man whom E. Howard, under oath, has repeatedly sworn to have not met until Watergate, so to Saint the mention of his name was big news.

In the next few paragraphs, E. Howard goes on to describe the extent of his own involvement. It revolves around a meeting he claims he attended, in 1963, with Morales and Sturgis. It takes place in a Miami hotel room. Here's what happens:

Morales leaves the room, at which point Sturgis makes reference to a "Big Event" and asks E. Howard, "Are you with us?"

E. Howard, "incredulous," says to Sturgis, "You seem to have everything you need. Why do you need me?" In the handwritten narrative, Sturgis' response is unclear, though what E. Howard says to Sturgis next isn't: He says he won't "get involved in anything involving Bill Harvey, who is an alcoholic psycho."

After that, the meeting ends. E. Howard goes back to his "normal" life and "like the rest of the country . . . is stunned by JFK's death and realizes how lucky he is not to have had a direct role."

After reading what his father had written, St. John was stunned too. His father had not only implicated LBJ, he'd also, with a few swift marks of a pen, put the lie to almost everything he'd sworn to, under oath, about his knowledge of the assassination. Saint had a million more questions. But his father was exhausted and needed to sleep, and then Saint had to leave town without finishing their talk, though a few weeks later he did receive in the mail a tape recording from his dad. E. Howard's voice on the cassette is weak and grasping, and he sometimes wanders down unrelated pathways. But he essentially remakes the same points he made in his handwritten narrative.

Shortly thereafter, Laura found out what had been going on, and with the help of E. Howard's attorney put an end to it. St. John and his father were kept apart. When they did see each other, they were never left alone. And they never got a chance to finish what they'd started. Instead, the old man set about writing his autobiography. He asked for his JFK memos back, and Saint returned them, though not before making copies. There is no way to confirm Hunt's allegations -- all but one of the co-conspirators he named are long gone. St. John, for his part, believes his father. E. Howard was lucid when he made his confession. He was taking no serious medications, and he and his son were finally on good terms. If anything, St. John believes, his father was holding out on him, the old spy keeping a few secrets in reserve, just in case.

..unfortunately, the computer animation does not match the wounds. JFK was hit in the back...and supposedly the magic bullet comes out his neck...on a bullet that was coming from above.

didn't happen...

His jacket was bunched up-that's why the wound appears lower on the back of his jacket in relation to the exit wound. Everybody knows this, but conspiracy buffs refuse to mention thes things. Just like the "doctored" photo of Oswald holding the rifle. There might be something to that if there had been only one photo, but there were several poses with the rifle, and they were taken by his wife. Again, conspiracy buffs ignore this. And we are supposed to believe that all the gruesome autopsy photos have also been "faked" because they reveal that the fatal head entry wound was in the back of the head and exitied from the upper front right. Sheesh.

I used to be a JFK conspiracy buff, too. I now believe one lone commie punk named Oswald did the killing.

"Even if it's true, why would LBJ want that ?"

The book "The Texas Connection" by Craig Zirbel powerfully corroborates E. Howard Hunt's de facto deathbed confession and also exaplins LBJ's multiple motivations for wanting to usurp the Office of the Presidency.

In 1963 LBJ faced a number of dilemmas that were on the verge of ending his political career and sending him to prison. Among his problems were the following:

*The Bobby Baker and Billy Sol Estes
scandals were being investigated by the
Justice Department with increasing
urgency. These scandals were also being
picked by the National Press.

Booby Baker was Johnson's chief of staff
and he had orchestrated a particularly sordid
influence peddling scheme, apparently under
Johnson's direction, in exchange for legislative
favors.

Billy Sol Estes was a "good old boy" and Johnson
confidante who had been paid millions of dollars
by the Agriculture Department to manage farmland
under the Department's Crop Support program. The
only problem with this arrangement was that 99%
of the "farmland" was under a huge lake somewhere
in Texas.

The revelation of Johnson's involvement in either
of these emerging scandals would have undoubtedly
led to a conviction and long prison sentence ala
Spiro Agnew.

*The Kennedys hated Johnson and considered
him an embarrassment and a political liability;
JFK planned to dump Johnson from the 1964
Presidential ticket.

*Johnson nurtured a messianic conviction that
he was entitled to be President that it has been
stolen from him by the Kennedy Familiy's money and
the political influence of Joseph Kennedy.

JFK's death by assassination solved all of these problems for Johnson in a unique way.

After Johnson became President he immediately ordered the Justice Department to terminate the Bobby Baker and Billy Sol Estes investigations. Johnson avoided the humiliation of being dumped from the ticket and a hated political rival was gone.

Right-hand man assassinations are, by far, the most common types of political assassinations observed in World History. Tons of ink have been spilled on all sorts crazy assassination theories (the CIA, the Cubans, the Mafia) while ignoring the most obvious prime suspect.

"Cui Bono" should always be the primary focus of any murder investigation. Lyndon Johnson was the man who uniquely benefited from the death of JFK and a competent investigation of the assassination should have put him on the top of the list of suspects.

You don't believe a word of it? This sort of response goes to the heart of my argument against scientism. (Scientism is the belief that the only truths that exist are those that are scientifically demonstrated.) I'm not going to criticise you for not believing this article, of course; what I'm criticizing here is the process by which most people determine the truth.

What is truth? That was Pilate's question to Jesus. Today, we claim to be able to discern the truth without asking God; we rely on something called "the scientific method". To modern people, truth is that which can be supported by evidence. This method works fairly well as far as inanimate objects are concerned; that statement that "water is composed of hydrogen and oxygen" is held to be true in a certain sense because anyone can combine hydrogen and oxygen and view the result. But what about other truths? Social, psychological, historical truths? Can these be determined to be genuine using the scientific method?

I don't see how. let's take the JFK assassination, for example. The statement "JFK was shot in Dallas on 22 November 1963" is a historical fact; JFK was alive on 21 November and dead on 23 November, during which time he was in Dallas, and examiners did find wounds consistent with gunshot wounds. On that we all agree. But who shot him? And why? We cannot determine the answers to these questions using the scientific method. There is no impartial court of cosmic data examiners in the sky who have analyzed the scientific facts of the case and come to a conclusion. Instead, what we have is a government-approved "finding" created by a panel of political insiders — the Warren Report. Now, the Warren Report might be the Gospel truth about the JFK assassination — but it also might not be. Yet for most people, the Warren Report is the truth, and that's that. We accept a certain version of events as true on the basis of authority alone.

That's fine as far as it goes. But it is important to realize that the Warren Commission's job was not to investigate the murder of the President of the United States. Its job was to prevent the shock and chaos created by the assassination from causing disruption of the social and political order of the United States. Bearing this in mind, it becomes easy to see why the Commission ultimately issued the finding that the JFK assassination was the result of a "lone nut". Let's say you're a member of the Commission, and you are presented with a clear, color 8mm sound film of LBJ hiring Lucien Sarti to kill JFK. Do you publish it for all the world to see?

Hell, no. Why not? Because you are an authority figure. If the American people hear from you that the President was killed as part of a coup d'etat instigated by his own Vice President, they'll go nuts. They will stop trusting in the government. They will lose all their psycholical bearings. The financial system will undergo a critical loss in investor confidence and crash. The military will no longer be certain who (if anyone) is their Commander-in-Chief. Foreign powers might choose such a moment to stike. No, as a patriot what you do in that case is to bury the evidence and say whatever you have to say to keep the country together.

But even that scenario doesn't strike at the heart of the queation. What IS Truth? Is it what we see on TV? Is it what the government tells us? Is it what the history books say? How can we know? Back to the JFK affair: a good question to ask oneself is "What evidence would it take to convince me 100% that JFK was shot from the front?" Color photos of a second gunman? Photos can be faked. A sound recording? Ditto. The testimony of witnesses? Dozens have testified to hearing shots from the Knoll. They could be mistaken, delusional, or lying. So much for evidence.

We need to admit it: in some cases, no amount of evidence, no matter how incrminating it might be, would be enough to get Oswald off the hook. In fact, for most people, even a signed, notarized affadavit stating "I had Kennedy killed" written on White House stationery and signed by LBJ would not be enough. Do you see my point?There IS no 100% certain way to know the truth regarding the JFK assassination — OR ANY OTHER HISTORICAL EVENT.

Therefore, the scientific method is useless in determining historical truth. As thinking people, we are forced to examine ALL the evidence — ALL — and then apply our reason and intuition to come up with a statement of belief that seems to fit. We cannot KNOW exactly what happened to JFK on that fateful November day; the best we can do is pick from a menu of interpretations and choose one to believe in.

And, in a larger sense, this is true for life.The scientific method proves nothing; evidence taken on authority can be faked, and even directly-observed evidence may not be true (since our senses can food us). So how do we know what we know? The only things we can know are those things that do not rely upon evidence or observation. We can know that we ourselves exist, because we do not "see" or "hear" ourselves; we ARE ourselves. And we can know that God exists through reason and (for a blessed few) through personal Communion. Everything else — the sun, gravity, that chair over there — we accept on the basis of faith.

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