The details, the fluidity. I think back a month to Bill’s hesitations, contradictions, and final breakdown. I think of Gene Wilcox, the data processor who remained at his desk those forty-eight hours without a break, absorbing all the intel and pouring it into his machine. A month and a half ago I flew to Dallas to find him working for a firm called Global Security, making twice as much as he did schlepping for the government, and listened to his automaton drawl as he told me, step by step, what occurred that day. No editorializing, no detours, just the facts culled from his rather incredible memory. “Yes, Ms. Harrison—Favreau, I suppose—was around that day. I think she arrived around nine thirty in the morning—at least, that’s when I saw her. You can check the records for the exact time. She was in and out throughout the day, but when she was in the office she was usually with Mr. Compton. Now, he came late. That I remember. Something to do with his wife.” “But Celia.”
