deleted by me

 

 

3 hours ago, Jeremy Bojczuk said:

 

Bernie wasn't wrong, by the way. Far more people believe that the queen is a lizard than believe that Oswald and his mother were each a pair of doppelgangers:

  

The two moms are the running gag of H&L:

Armstrongs book should have the title:

"Harvey and Marguerite plus Lee and Frances Claverie Oswald". Or is it the other way around?

"Harvey and Frances Claverie plus Lee and Marguerite Oswald"?

"Harvey and Lee and Marguerite and Frances Claverie" would also be a possibility ...

... two Ossis and two Moms and Marina Oswald never knew if she was sleeping with Ossi or Lee and to whom she was talking to Marguerite or Frances Claverie ... 

 

H&L is a joke while secret labs to weaponize cancer or viruses are not a joke. 

 

  

12 hours ago, Sean Coleman said:

Gil, great piece, I’m with you.

Do you think a Mauser was ever on site? Roger C was convinced and he seemed to be a good egg and  Seymour W agreed then didn’t….

 

Not only Craig and Weitzman were talking about a Mauser. (Sad enough Weitzman in 1967 was brainwashed by CBS to "confess" on camera he never saw a Mauser ... )

Quote Garrison "On the trail of the assassins" :

"A great deal of confusion surrounded this second-rate Italian rifle because there was compelling evidence that it was not the weapon found in the assassin’s lair shortly after the assassination. Officer Seymour Weitzman, part of the Dallas police search team, later described the discovery of the rifle on the afternoon of November 22. He stated that it had been so well hidden under boxes of books that the officers stumbled over it many times before they found it. Officer Weitzman, who had an engineering degree and also operated a sporting goods store, was recognized as an
authority on weapons. Consequently, Dallas Homicide Chief Will Fritz, who was on the scene, asked him the make of the rifle. Weitzman identified it as a 7.65 Mauser, a highly accurate German-made weapon. Deputy Sheriff Roger Craig was also there and later recalled the word “Mauser” inscribed in the metal of the gun. And Deputy Sheriff Eugene Boone executed a sworn affidavit in which he described the rifle as a Mauser. As late as midnight of November 22, Dallas District Attorney Henry Wade told the media that the weapon found was a Mauser."

Close Quote

At the very time Kennedys manipulative autopsy in the Bethesda-morgue was closed and Oswald was officially accused of killing Kennedy (shortly after the midnight conference  22.11.1963) the Mauser which was in Wades office that Friday, became a Carcano ... and not just one Carcano, as Gil Jesus points out, but three ... 

 

Combing the Internet I stumbled over this database which IMO is a helpful research tool. Never knew that Oswald had the cryptonym GPFLOOR, JFK was  GPIDEAL that RFK was GPFOCUS and Lyndon Johnson GPLOGIC. 

Maybe that's not news , anyhow here's the link, worth a read ... 

CIA CRYPTONYMS

On 6/16/2021 at 4:40 PM, Pamela Brown said:

Kark Kinaski said: "Maybe that too was the reason why CBS all of a sudden canceled their 60 Minute piece on JVB?"

That one is no secret. Despite Haslam and Judyth's attempts to present her story as credible, CBS had her take a psych eval and then quickly slammed the door in their faces...

@Pamela Brown

Are you implying that nurse Ratched should take care of Haslam and Baker? -- And Oliver Stone too who said to Baker, quote: "I believe you?"  close quote. That's really something ... 🧐

 

5 hours ago, Pamela Brown said:

Yes, Chris, it was a farce from start to finish.  I worked on the 2003 FoxNews JFK show and had them stopped in their tracks for an afternoon while I faxed them documents about the reenactment.  Peter Rossi was the producer.  When they realized what a Pandora's box they opened they ended up deleting the entire limo segment...

Maybe that too was the reason why CBS all of a sudden canceled their 60 Minute piece on JVB? Or why Fauci and his gain of function gang are XXXXX? Or Julian Assange is rotting in prison? There is a can of worms in high places ... 

 

 

 

Here are the Connallys in January 1992 on Larry King, with their statements ( start 4min  into the clip), ceushing the SBT implicating more then one shooter and a conspiracy. 

Connally January 1992 on Larry King

An exhumation of Connally would turn to light some remaining bullet fragments in his left thigh. There are no missing bullet fragment on CE 399 (which is presented to the world having caused Kennedys head, neck and all of Conallys injuries.)

5 hours ago, Douglas Caddy said:

JFK wanted to create an alliance with the Soviet Union, the only other great power, to deal with the Alien Presence.  His tentative steps to do this alarmed those who rule above the presidency. The Pentagon Report to be released in about ten days is a modern day step to eventually bring about disclosure. One day the full story will be known. I am 83 years old and expect this to happen before I die.

Alien secrets or not ... I can't prove it. What I can see is that JFK was about to put an end to the cold war, a move, which was not in the playbook of the hawks who surrounded him (and his brother.) Therefore they pushed the "magic button". And another thing: Just like the UFO's tales were always used to distract us to see the more profane reasons of the Kennedy-Killings, I wonder for what reason UFO's are used these days. To distract us from what? Some crazy little viruses, maybe ... 😉

Quote Harvey and Lee, by john Armstrong

" But Oswald was not staying at the Murret's and his whereabouts and activities 
from April 24-29 (1963)are unknown. "  

Close quote.

False.

The whereabouts and activities of LHO from April the 26th to April the 29th a r e known. 

 

Quote ME AND LEE, by Judyth Vary Baker Monday April 29th 1963, NOLA:

 

— CHAPTER 9 —

THE TARGET

Monday, April 29, 1963

 

After a few hours of restless sleep, I took a bus to Royal Castle, where I once again plunged into the hectic morning rush. I was surprised when Lee walked in, since we had agreed to meet later in the day at Woolworth’s on Canal Street. He sat down and ordered breakfast. As I served him, Lee said that the previous morning his Uncle Dutz had moved his stuff by car from the bus station lockers to the Murret’s garage: Lee was now living with the Murrets. Dutz had also given him the car to use today, which is why Lee could meet me so early. We had wheels for the day! After my shift ended, we headed back to town. On the way, he said he wanted to buy some second-hand clothes for me like Marina would wear. I would have “my own set of Marina clothes, whenever I needed them.” That way, she would not be puzzled about missing clothes. Whenever I needed them? Would I have to meet even more people, at other times, pretending to be Lee’s wife? Whoa! But a sense of adventure had risen in me. I was being brought into Lee’s clandestine world! We stopped at the Salvation Army store, and Lee bought me a skirt and blouse. He was going for the Russian peasant look of that period, which was very plain. I put the clothes on, and they fit fine. In the car, Lee brushed my hair and put it into a ponytail. He said that my hair was finer in texture than Marina’s, but it was the same color and length. He wanted to pass me off as Marina in Banister’s office, so Banister’s staff would not know I existed. It was, after all, a private detective agency, full of nosy and observant people.

(…)

We got back in the car and Lee drove us to Lafayette Square, located in the 600 block of St. Charles Avenue near the old federal courthouse. He pulled over and let me off on Camp Street, telling me to wait there while he parked the car. He came back on foot in a few minutes and then walked me around the corner to Mr. Banister’s office.

Inside, the air was musty from old air conditioners, and the décor reminded me of an out-dated attorney’s office. I saw several people who looked like secretaries working at their desks. Swinging doors guarded the entrance to the file room, providing some privacy for people handling the confidential files. A door which led to Guy Banister’s office was clearly marked with his name. It was closed.We approached the middle-aged secretary and, Lee introduced us by saying “Mr. and Mrs. Oswald are here to see Mr. Banister.” The secretary greeted us in a friendly manner and made a comment to me, but I kept my head down, as Lee had directed, and softly said something back in Russian. “Mrs. Oswald doesn’t speak any English,” Lee explained to the secretary, “so she can’t really talk to you.” The secretary kept talking to me anyway, as women often do. This annoyed Lee, so he stressed the point again by saying, “I am sorry, but Mrs. Oswald does not speak English.” After a few minutes, Mr. Banister came out and invited us into his private office. Once inside, I saw even more file cabinets and piles of papers stacked on the floor. Mr. Banister was alert and businesslike, with a commanding presence. “So, this is Mrs. Oswald, is it?” he said, as he shook my hand. Then he smiled at Lee, as he closed the door. Banister’s sly smilemade me realize that he already knew I wasn’t really Mrs. Oswald. “I understand you needed to meet me,” he said sternly. I was now standing face to face with a man who was supposed to allay my fears and instill trust in me. His craggy visage was framed by a square jaw and wavygrey hair. His eyes glared with authority that was almost arrogant. And one could not help but notice that he was wearing a shoulder holster which held a large silver pistol. This man was armed and wanted those around him to know it. I was almost speechless, but managed to acknowledge his comment, as my eyes studied the room. The walls were covered with certificates and awards from his years in the FBI, alerting his visitors to his former greatness.

(...)

Lee gave me a nod to let me know it was time to tell Mr. Banister why I was there. So I explained to Banister that I had misgivings after hearing Dave Ferrie and his Cuban friends talk about killing both Castro and Kennedy. I needed to know if the project that I had been asked to work on was really a secret project for the American government. Mr. Banister assured me it was, and added that Ferrie would often floatideas like that to measure the Cubans’ reactions. It was part of his job as an undercover agent working within the Cuban exile community. He said they were working on a get-Castro project, and that summaries of Ferrie’s cancer research reports were photocopied on the Xerox machine in his office before being sent on to Georgia. Banister said I was needed for this special medical project, and then urged Lee to take me upstairs, gesturing to the room above his head. The only access to this inner chamber was a staircase along one wall. The stairs were newly installed and the wall had not yet been sheetrocked, leaving the wooden studs exposed. He said these stairs would soon be concealed behind a normal-looking wall of sheetrock, so people wouldn’tknow they were there. Not even Banister’s own staff had access to the room above without passing through his private office. We climbed upstairs, where there were even more filing cabinets. These were Banister’s “high treasures.” He proudly explained that these were the secret files that David Ferrie had been helping him with. Information was his business, Banister boasted, and these files were the really important ones. There, in his secret upstairs room, Guy Banister told me Lee Oswald was also working with him, and was being groomed to do his part to save Cuba from Communism. With these comments, my concerns about Lee and Ferrie’s loyalties and Ferrie’s outlandish claims about Kennedy and Castro were put to rest.

(...)

Once we were back in the car, I asked Lee what in those files was so important. Lee explained Banister’s situation to me. After leaving the FBI, Banister had come to New Orleans to be the Deputy Chief of Police, supposedly to root out corruption. His stay was brief. There was an incident which led to Banister’s dismissal from the NOPD. Lee suggested that Banister may have been framed. But being publicly fired disgraced this proud man, who was determined to get his revenge. In response, he started a private investigation agency and hired spies to gather incriminating information on the New Orleans police and the city’s politicians, concerning their connections to the Mafia. He updated his secret files constantly to chronicle the deep and persistent state of corruption. Ironically, Banister was being paid for these efforts by Carlos Marcello’s attorney. But, Lee cautioned, despite Banister’s moralistic veneer, he was now drinking too much and had taken one of his secretaries as a mistress, both of which made him vulnerable. Lee said Dave Ferrie was concerned about Banister’s drinking, as it increasingly loosened his lips about their secret operations. At last, I understood how Dave could work for the former head of Chicago’s FBI and Carlos Marcello at the same time, despite the apparent conflict of allegiance.

(...)

We were still in the downtown area, and Lee wanted us to check in with two employment agencies. We did so quickly and then, since we still had his uncle’s car, Lee suggested we go to Pontchartrain Beach, the amusement park on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain that had just opened for the year. I was quite ready for some fun, and my trust in Lee was re-established, so I agreed.

(...)

We had reached Pontchartrain Beach, and Lee parked the car.

(…)

After a wonderful day, Lee dropped me off at the place I was now calling “The Mansion.”

(...)

That night, I was left to myself in my romantic new home. As I looked around, I was shocked to see an eye at the keyhole. Mrs. Webber! That nosy old bat! I stuffed it with paper. Then I locked the sliding doors and went to sleep.

 

End of Monday, April 29^th 1963, NOLA.

 

Close Quote LEE AND ME, by Judyth Vary Baker

 

 

 

And don't forget that Howard Hunt told you that JFK was killed because he gave the US-UFO secrets away to the Russians. 🛸

IMO Marina Oswald was (is) a low level IC-assett completely out of the loop and not knowing what is going on around her. The Warren Commission  was kneading her like a piece of wax till she fit into the cover ... all her statements and interviews are rather useless ... 

BTW: With a stroke of her pen she could give permission to release LHOs tax records ... 

 

Quote Harvey and Lee, b< j. Armstoing: 

" But Oswald was not staying at the Murret's and his whereabouts and activities from April 24-29 (1963)are unknown. "  

Close quote.

The whereabouts and activities of LHO a r e known. 

Quote ME AND LEE, by Judyth Vary Baker:

 

— CHAPTER 8 —

THE PARTY

Sunday, April 28, 1963

 

The next morning, I worked my two-hour shift at Royal Castle and returned to the boarding house on St. Charles Ave. Lee arrived by midmorning as we had planned. First he wanted to locate his father’s grave, then show me the sights of his city. His Uncle Dutz had given him the names of a few relatives who might be willing to help him find the grave. One was an elderly aunt. We caught a streetcar and transferred to a bus. As we rode, Lee pointed to a street and said, “My cousin’s visiting over there. I can use his car later today to show you around the city.” “Why can’t we use it now?” I asked. “They need it to go to Mass, but later, it’ll be okay.”

(...)

We arrived in the neighborhood where his elderly aunt lived. As we approached her home, Lee thought it best for me to wait a few houses away.“If she blows up at me,” he said, “at least she won’t blow up at you, too.” After half an hour, Lee came out. I could tell by the expression on his face that the meeting had not been pleasant. She had been soured by the news of his defection, but after scolding him she grudgingly gave Lee information concerning his father’s gravesite. We got back on the bus and went to pick up the car. I thought to myself, “At least one of his cousins still likes him.” By now, I knew his relatives shouldn’t be seeing me, so I waited beside the car, while Lee got the keys. Then we got in the car and drove off to find the cemetery. As he drove, Lee talked about his aunt’s bitter rejection.1’ “It’s the price I have to pay,” he told me, “but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” ending with “I hope someday my children will know the truth about me. “ Lee stared straight ahead as he revealed more about his difficult childhood. His father died two months before he was born. When the insurance money ran out, his brother Robert and his half-brother, John Pic,

were taken to the Lutheran Bethlehem orphanage in New Orleans. Lee, at first too young to go there, was sent to stay with his Aunt Lil and Uncle Dutz Murret until he was three years old. Then Marguerite placed Lee with his brothers in the orphanage “to keep the boys together,” visiting them only on weekends. “My aunt and uncle cried when I left. So did I,” Lee admitted.

(...)

We reached the cemetery, and wandered through a fascinating maze looking for his father’s grave. 

(…) And we were in a cemetery with no one around. I considered asking him to take me back to the boarding house, but decided to wait until he found his father’s grave.

(...)

Lee turned the conversation back to his wife Marina. He said Marina had repeatedly been unfaithful to him since the early days of their marriage. “It almost destroyed me when she cheated on me the first time,” he admitted. “But she did it as easily as drinking a bottle of beer.”

(...)

Lee told me how their relationship began back in the Soviet Union and described it as a marriage of convenience. Lee had feared deportation, and needed to marry a Russian girl to stay in the country. Marina, on the other hand, wanted to marry an American man so she could go to America.

(...)

Lee drove us to the French Quarter, where we walked around Jackson Square and looked at the artists’ paintings hanging on the fence. There we saw the majestic St. Louis Cathedral, flanked by the historic Cabildo buildings which hold much of the city’s colorful history. We walked down Pirate’s Alley and windowshopped our way down Royal Street’s antique stores and fine art galleries. When we got to Bourbon Street, Lee pointed out a restaurant where he’d swept floors and washed dishes as a teenager. “It was my first lucrative job, working for my uncle’s friends,” he joked, explaining that he spent the money he made on comic books and playing pool. Lee noted that he wasn’t much richer today, though he did have enough change for buses and hoped to have enough money for a trip to the zoo.

(…)

We were both planning to attend Dave’s party that night, but I needed to get some sleep first, so Lee dropped me off at the boarding house and gave me a brotherly kiss on the cheek.

(...)

A loud tapping on my window woke me up. It was Lee. He had broughtsome groceries from a deli. I put the perishables in Mrs. Webber’s refrigerator, and then we sat together on the porch swing and ate oranges. Long shadows on the lawn foretold the sunset.

(...)

Lee had returned the car to his cousin, since I had nixed plans to drive around with him after Dave’s party was over. Now we were on our way by streetcar and bus, sitting quietly together as we traveled.

(...)

I wanted very much to meet Dr. Sherman, who was slated to make an appearance at the party, but I was still feeling uncertain about Lee.  

(...)

 We walked arm-in-arm up to Dave’s apartment. The upstairs porch was brightly lit, with rock and roll music announcing the party. Competing with it was the sound of many loud voices. A number of older cars were parked in the street. I saw two men sitting in one of the cars, kissing. Lee noticed them, too.“Be prepared,” he said. “There will be some unusual people here.” “I’m beginning to notice,” I confirmed. “Dave has to cultivate a variety of contacts,” Lee explained. “You can’t have an information network in this city without running into some of these characters.” “I’m glad you’re with me,” I said, as we walked around to the back door, climbed the stairs and navigated around a pair of boys who were smoking pot and smooching. As we entered Dave’s kitchen, Lee said, “I say, to each his own. It’s a human right to have sex, whatever way you wish, so long as it doesn’t hurt anybody. Is that offensive to you?” “No, no,” I answered. “But my preferences are totally traditional.” “Have you explored other options?” Lee countered. “Not interested,” I assured him. “I am happy with the male variety, thank you very much.” “As for me,” Lee said, “I observed that the original blueprint was successful. Men and women were built to fit together like a puzzle. But if that doesn’t work for somebody, let them do whatever pleases them. I used to tear pictures of pretty women from comic books and catalogs, and take them to bed with me,” he confided, smiling. “I just never had the tendency to tear out pictures of good looking men and fantasize about them. So I guess I’m not gay.”The apartment was filled with people. Dave had put the paraphernalia out of sight, so no one would guess he had a lab in his kitchen.

We grabbed some goodies, then moved to greet Dave, who stood between the crowded dining room and the kitchen, chain smoking. He was talking earnestly with some young white males who looked like students. The air was thick with smoke, mingling the sweet aroma of marijuana and illegal Cuban cigars with cigarette tobacco.  Dave introduced us as “friends” to several people, but the music was so loud I could hardly understand a word. Most of the guests were fit looking adult males, mostly Cuban and Mexican, some with their girlfriends in tow. 

(...) 

Lee and I had fun dancing to a couple of rock ‘n’ roll songs and then took time to rest. I noticed a pair of thin, nervous looking men dressed in black suits. Lee said David Ferrie called them “Martin and Lewis,” a nickname that referred to the comedian Jerry Lewis and his singing pal, Dean Martin. “They look like they’re from the FBI,” I commented. “They should,” Lee answered. “They work for Guy Banister, and he was a big FBI hotshot. They’re probably here to pick up information for Banister.”

Lee introduced me to the strange pair. Both apparently had wives who were not present. As Jack Martin continued to drink, he became increasingly obnoxious and started flirting with some of the gay men. David Lewis ignored him and got out one of Ferrie’s chess sets. I didn’t want to play because Dr. Sherman might arrive at any moment. So I sat in a corner with a book and kept an eye on the party while Lee played Lewis.The party was still in full swing when Dr. Sherman arrived. You couldn’t miss her. She was by far the best-dressed person in the room. She was a professional, middle-aged woman with attractive features. Her hair was pulled back severely in a French twist. Dave Ferrie brought me over to her. She was speaking fluent Spanish to two dark men. “Mary, this is Miss Vary,” Dave said.  “She’s been anxious to meet you.” “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to her now,” she told him, without looking at me. “Dr. Sherman,” I interjected, “Has Dr. Ochsner spoken to you about me yet?” “I can’t talk to you now!” she repeated, sharply. “Please excuse me.” She then turned around and resumed talking to the two men in Spanish, as if I were not even there. She led them onto the porch, leaving Dave looking perplexed. My insecurities swelled. Why didn’t Dr. Sherman want to talk to me? “Is she upset with me about something?” I asked Dave. “Let it go, for now,” Dave said. “She must have her reasons.” I felt crushed. “Can I go in your bedroom, and just read until she leaves?” I asked.“I wouldn’t recommend going in there,” Dave said. “Just go back to your corner, if you want to read. Nobody will bother you.” I curled up with my book again. I thought about asking Lee to take me home, but I didn’t. Dr. Sherman did not stay long. As she prepared to leave, I saw her open the refrigerator and remove the container of mouse tumors. Were they the real reason she had come to the party? (…) David Lewis worked several part-time jobs, mostly handling luggage, but his passions were politics, chess, and classical music. These were interests he shared with Lee. He said that his wife Anna was a waitress at Thompson’s Restaurant on St. Charles Avenue, and he invited Lee and me to stop by the restaurant for a free piece of pie. In the same breath, he warned us not to mention anything about his working for Guy Banister to Anna, because he’d told her he had quit.  

(...)

Things started getting pretty crazy. Ferrie physically ejected Jack Martin from the party, calling him a drunk and telling him to go home. Around two A.M. the police arrived and ordered Ferrie to shut the party down. The music suddenly stopped, and people left. The place was a wreck. Ferrie looked at his disheveled apartment and muttered that he wasn’t going to have another party for a long time.

(...)

… I was having deep reservations about Dr. David Ferrie and his cancer research project. He was a blatantly suspicious character, who had made subversive remarks against President Kennedy, and claimed that hewas ordered to kill Fidel Castro. This, in combination with the wild nature of the party, Dr. Sherman’s refusal to speak to me, Dave’s drunkenness and the assortment of shady characters made me want to run in the opposite direction. So I put him off, saying I couldn’t make any decisions until I talked to Dr. Ochsner. “That’s fine with me,” Ferrie said. “After all, Ochsner’s the boss.” Dave then offered to drive us home, but Lee, seeing Dave was too tipsy to drive safely, declined the offer. Lee called a cab, and we went outside to wait for it. I said I didn’t believe Ferrie’s project was secretly sponsored by the CIA. I thought it was all a dream in his messed up head. Lee said soothingly, “Dave might sound like he is exaggerating, but he’s not. I don’t know all the details yet,” he went on, “but if Ferrie says it’s that important, it is.”

I informed Lee that I wasn’t all that impressed with him, either. As far as I knew Lee could be a spy for the wrong side, right along with this socalled “Dr. Ferrie,” and I wouldn’t agree to anything until I met with Dr. Ochsner later the next week. “It’ll be too late by then,” Lee said, “to get you into the proper position.” “What proper position?” I asked. “I don’t even know if Dr. Sherman will accept me into her lab now.” I was frightened at the thought. Soon we arrived at the boarding house, but the hour was very late. Mrs. Webber, whose schedule seemed to include staying up all night and sleeping until noon, would surely notice. “There’s no law against attending a party,” Lee said firmly, escorting me up the steps. “You have the right  to come and go as you please. But I can’t leave you upset like this. What can I do?” “I don’t know,” I told him. “I need proof that Dr. Ferrie isn’t lying and  that Dr. Sherman isn’t going to dump me; and that I’m not getting into the wrong crowd.”

(...)

“I have a solution to your problem. You should meet Guy Banister. He was the head of the FBI’s Chicago office and can verify the legitimacy of our project. Would that make you feel better?” “I would very much like to meet Mr. Banister,” I admitted. “Then you must play a bit of a role,” Lee said. “We don’t want you seen there, so we need to disguise you as my wife. Nobody in Banister’s office has seen her so far. I can fix your hair into a ponytail, like Marina. We can take off your makeup. You can wear her clothes.” “You have her clothes?” “A box or so,” he said. “I’ll look through them.”

(…)

 

End of Sunday 28^th of April 1963.

 

Close quote ME AND LEE, by Judyth Vary Baker

 

Quote Harvey and Lee, b< j. Armstoing: 

" But Oswald was not staying at the Murret's and his whereabouts and activities 
from April 24-29 (1963)are unknown. "  

Close quote.

The whereabouts and activities of LHO a r e known. 

 

 

 

On 6/12/2021 at 3:56 PM, John Butler said:

 

 deleted by KK 

 

More about the woman McAdams labeled as just another orthopedist:

Quote, Dr Marys Monkey, by Ed Haslam
CHAPTER 6

THE  WOMAN  ENTERS  OUR  STORY  as  an  enigma.  Considered  “absolutely brilliant”  by  her  medical  colleagues, Mary Sherman rose rapidly to the very top ranks of the male-dominated hierarchy of American medicine in bone
and joint surgery a field that to this day has extremely few female physicians. Self-made,  financially  successful,  and  professionally  respected,  Dr.  Sherman was  a  sophisticated  and  powerful  woman  during  an  era  when  the  future feminists of the 1960s were still sitting at home watching Leave it to Beaver.
Yet the glimpses we see of her very private personal life show a complex and sensitive  woman  who  loved  theater,  literature,  music,  wine,  flowers,  and international travel, and who carried with her some terrible personal burdens.
But we see no discernible political interest. None of this seems to explain, or even hint at, her involvement with a politically violent, emotionally unstable, drug-addicted  social  outcast  like  David  Ferrie,  who  had  no  formal  medical training. Most  of  what  we  know  about  Mary  Sherman  comes  from  newspaper articles, an unusual police report, and her will. To that we add insights from a few medical articles, and a handful of interviews with people who knew her, to
produce  a  sketch  of  an  unusually  talented  woman  who  met  an  unusually horrible end. Born “Mary Stults” in Evanston, Illinois in 1913, she was one of several daughters  of  a  musical  voice  teacher.  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  Mary  went  to France for two years to study at L’ecole de M. Collnot, and later taught French while  working  on  a  masters  at  the  University  of  Illinois.  Marrying  ThomasSherman, she became Mary Sherman. The pattern of an academic superstar is immediately obvious from her Phi Beta Kappa membership to her graduate work at the University of Chicago. For  those  unfamiliar  with  this  institution,  please  note  that  within  academic circles, the University of Chicago is an intellectual powerhouse which rivals Harvard, Stanford, and any other famous university one might name. It was founded by a grant from the Rockefeller Foundation, and was designed on the model of the European research university, rather
than  the  American  teaching  college.  This  was done at a time when the Rockefeller fortune was heavily  involved  in  the  drug  companies,  and their sponsorship of biochemical research helped develop  new  commercial  drugs.  Today,  the University  of  Chicago  continues  on  the  leading edge of genetics and cancer research. As an outgrowth of this biochemical medical research, the University of Chicago became one of the first major centers of nuclear research. The landmark  event  of  this  nuclear  effort  was  the construction of the first “atom smasher,” a huge nuclear accelerator hidden in the bowels of UC’s sports stadium. In 1937, it produced the first sustained nuclear reaction for UC physicist  Enrico  Fermi.  This  is  where  Mary  Sherman  did  her  post-graduate work. She was trained at the headwaters of nuclear, bio-chemical, and genetic research in America. Before she became involved in human medicine, Mary did ground-breaking research into botanical viruses which lived in soil. Her early articles were so profound  and  so  insightful  that  they  were  frequently  quoted  in  the  1940s, 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. Though she had been dead for thirty years, the  Scientific  Citation  Index  shows  ten  medical  articles  published  in  1993 which contained references to her scientific writings published between 1947 and 1965. The names of the journals tell the story of her state-of-the-art use of
radiation for the treatment of bone cancers: 
--- Radiology Acta Radiologia
--- Skeletal Radiology Histopathology
--- Pathologic Research Bone
From  this,  we  can  see  the  evidence  of  her  breakthrough  thinking.  This young woman, who studied in France at the time when Madame Curie’s name was  at  the  top  of  the  scientific  heap,  was  one  of  America’s  most  promising minds. With the proper training, encouragement and opportunities, she could be within striking distance of the legendary Curie herself, and could possibly become the most important woman in science. Maybe it would be Mary, who at such a young age had understood the basic life of viruses better than anyone before her, who would break through “the cancer barrier.” The great minds at UC  saw  her  potential  and  brought  her  along.  During  the  1940s  she  became Associate  Professor  of  Orthopedic  Surgery,  and  practiced  medicine  at  UC’s Billings Hospital. In  the  early  1950s,  Mary  Sherman’s  life changed.  Her  cancer  work  at  the  University  of Chicago had attracted the attention of a famous and  wealthy  doctor  who  was  president  of  the American Cancer Society, president of a famous medical clinic which bore his name, and Chief of Surgery  at  Tulane  Medical  School,  one  of  the most respected medical schools of the day.  The doctor  was  Alton  Ochsner,  M.D.,  of  New Orleans.

Close Quote

 

@Hank Sienzant

Spartacus Educational is a little bit outdated regarding this particular aspect of the Kennedy-assassination puzzle. 

To give you a sense of Haslams book, some quotes:

Quote: DR MARYS MONKEY, by Ed Haslam.
----------
I  (Haslam) even  remember  sitting  on Mary Sherman’s lap once as a child. She and my father worked together at
Tulane Medical School in New Orleans. They had taken a British doctor out to dinner and then to our family’s home for an after-dinner drink.
(...)
In  the  late  1960s,  I  heard  about  Mary  Sherman’s  connection  to  an underground medical laboratory run by a suspect in the murder of President Kennedy. I was told they were using monkey viruses to create cancer. The possibility of this being used as a biological weapon was clear. The dark specter  of  unleashing  a  designer  virus  on  the  world  haunted  me.  I  even offered  a  sarcastic  comment  at  the  time:  “The  good  news  is  if  there’s  a
bizarre global epidemic involving cancer and a monkey virus thirty years from now, at least we’ll know where it came from.”
(...)

-------------------------

IN  1971,  during  what  might  be  described  as  a  deathbed  conversation,  I confronted my father about Mary Sherman. He was getting ready to go to the  hospital.  
(...)  I  had  a  few questions  (...) Questions  that  I  would  never  be  able  to  ask  him again. Questions that I thought were important for him to answer, so that the  truth  would  not  die  with  him.  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  about  Mary Sherman and about all that spooky stuff that was going on at the U.S. Public Health  Service  Hospital.  “Wasn’t  she  some  kind  of  cancer  expert?”  I ventured. He shook his head slowly from side to side, to let me know that he would not tell me. I persisted. I wanted to know why he would not tell me. Solemnly he said, “There might be repercussions. I have to think about the family first. I have to protect them.”
“What if I figure it out myself?” I challenged. “I’m hardly in a position to stop you,” he said with the casual resignation
of  a  man  who  never  expected  to  see  another  football  game.  Then  he collected his thoughts and, in a grave voice, he gave me this warning: “Ed, I need you to listen to me carefully. I will not be able to say this to you again.
If you do figure out what happened down there and decide to tell the world what you found, I need you to realize that you will be crossing swords with the most powerful people in our country. And you should think twice before crossing them.”

-------------------------

The  medical  researchers  of  the  1960s  irradiated  tumors  in laboratory animals, including primates, and shot radiation directly into the tumors  of  human  patients. 
(...)
Three  references  to  the  use  of  radiation  on  tumors  can  be  found  in (the publication) "Tumors  of  Bone  and  Soft  Tissue"  (Chicago:  1964).  In  “Histogenesis  of Bone Tumors,” p. 16, Mary Sherman discusses genetic damage inflicted on cells by irradiation. In “Giant Cell Tumor of Bone,” p. 166, Sherman questions the claim that x-ray therapy turns benign tumors into deadly sarcomas.  On  p.  10  R.  Lee  Clark  says,  “X-ray  therapy  in  the management  of  soft  tissue  of  tumors  is  almost  limited  to  Kaposi’s sarcoma.”

---------------------------
close quote

That's exactly the way they did genetics at the early sixties: Bomarding monkeys (and all kind of labor-mammals), bacteria, viruses, cancer-cells, all kinds o cells with all kinds of rays and particle beams and looking at the "results". It was primitive. Sometimes it worked. 

Acc. to Haslam in NOLA was a later dismantled underground linear particle accelerator where this kind of "genetics" was done. Sherman was deeply involved in this kind of research. She was (acc.to Haslam and Baker) involved in a GET CASTRO WITH CANCER project ... after Sherman was brutally murdered in the summer of 1964 a day before some staff-workers of the Warren Commission arrived in NOLA to investigate, J.Edgar Hoover was sending out a memo to his agents NOT to investigate the murder of Shermann ... this person, Sherman, was more than an ordinary orthopedist ... (And Fauci is more than just an ordinary immunologist serving as director of NIAID. SCNR.😉)

There is a lot of Haslam stuff on Y-Tube. Here is  a link to a short vid.

Haslam about Hoover Memo

OT: McAdams was, after all, working with criminals, when he obtained the stolen manuscript of the unpublished and unredacted Baker-book, and  posting parts of it on the internet was criminal too. Here we have a man posing as another person at a conference, obtaining stolen stuff and using it in an unlawful way ... 

 

Yearslong McAdams was spreading the disinfo that Mary Sherman was just an orthopedist and not a cancer-expert as established by Edward Haslam in his book DR MARYS MONKEY and later by Judyth Baker in her book ME AND LEE ... McAdams was using a stolen unredacted manuscript of Bakers then unpublished book ME AND LEE and quoting out of it on the internet ... 

 

Quote H&L:

" But Oswald was not staying at the Murret's and his whereabouts and activities 
from April 24-29 are unknown. "  

Close quote.

 

Excerpts of ME AND LEE by Judyth Vary Baker

 

— CHAPTER 7 —

THE FAVOR

Saturday, April 27, 1963

 

The next morning at 6:00 A.M. I boarded the bus in downtown New Orleans and headed to the Royal Castle half way out to the airport in Jefferson Parish. Soon, the now-familiar onslaught of men demanding breakfast began and I was taking orders, flipping burgers, scrambling eggs and squeezing oranges for a gallery of gulping Adam’s apples.

These were laborers who needed their breakfast fast, before heading out for a day of exhausting work, like building roads or laying brick. They were basically good men who worked hard. Their voices were loud and bold. They flirted with me and called me “honey,” “babe,” and “sweetie.” They forgave my unimpressive waitress skills and left tips anyway, mostly because they liked how I looked in that uniform and little apron. But the pace was frantic and the work exhausting.

(...)

As the breakfast crowd thinned out, Lee moved to a table and continued to read. I wiped off the counter, then the tables, cautiously moving in Lee’s direction so as not attract my boss’s attention.

(...)

Lee slowly put his book away. “Well, I contacted Dr. Ferrie,” he said. “He wants you to join him for lunch today. Maybe he can help. It’ll be alate lunch, because he was up all night.”

(…)

Lee said his mother was connected to the Mafia through various boyfriends over the years, one of which was Mar-cello’s driver (and bodyguard). She had also worked for a law firm that represented Marcello. Her sister Lillian had married Charles Murret, who had been with Marcello for years. In the early days, “Dutz,” as everybody called him, had been a boxer and union enforcer on the docks and had moved up in Marcello’s ranks. Now Dutz helped handle Marcello’s money, mostly from various gambling operations.

“I had to make a choice early on,” Lee told me. “Whether I was going to be one of Marcello’s soldiers, or be another kind of soldier and join the Marine Corps, like my brother. Either the world can be an influence on you,” he went on, “or you can be an influence on the world. I chose to stay out of Marcello’s world.”

(...)

Ferrie was brilliant, Lee assured me – and in addition to his considerable talents, he was a courageous man.

(...)

Lee said he had asked around about affordable rooms for me. He was looking for something in a safe area that would not require references or a security deposit. He’d be happy to take me to see some of them if I wanted. So, I decided to spend the day with Lee Oswald, looking for a place to live.We caught a bus back into town.

(...)

Next, Lee made a collect call to Dallas from a pay phone. I could overhear his side of the conversation from where I sat on the bench. After another call or two, Lee obtained an address, and we boarded the St. Charles streetcar.

(...)

Several blocks later, we got off the streetcar. Across the street stood a

stately home with gables and grand columns. Flanked by mossdraped oaktrees and emanating dignity, this charming Southern mansion was now a boarding house.

(…)

Then, a red-haired woman well past her prime came plodding down the hall in a rumpled dress and slippers, and opened the door. This was Mrs. Webber.  Lee introduced me as “Mrs. Baker,” adding, “Mr. P sent us.” That was what she needed to know. She invited us inside.

(...)

Mrs. Webber said her parlor rented for $30 a month. I was surprised because this was cheaper than my dormitory room at the YWCA. Not only was it a private room, it had a rosewood wardrobe for my clothes. Mr

(...)

We (Lee and Judyth Baker) boarded a streetcar and transferred to a bus, which took us to his uncle’s house in Lakeview just off Canal Boulevard near City Park. On the way Lee said he didn’t want his aunt and uncle to see me, since they’d soon learn of his rocky marriage and might jump to conclusions, so he wanted me to wait outside.7 As we rode, Lee talked about his efforts to locate his father’s grave. His mother had taken him to the grave site once, but he was too young to remember much detail. His Oswald relatives certainly knew where it was, but they were upset that Lee’s name (and consequently theirs) had been plastered all over the newspapers announcing his so-called defection to the Soviet Union. Therefore, Lee was now estranged from most of the Oswald clan, and they might not be willing to help him find the grave.

But the Murrets were different. They were connected to his mother’s family. For them family trumped politics, and Lee was family. Lee said that he had lived with the Murrets as a child when his mother was having financial problems. Now that Lee had returned to New Orleans, the Murrets had invited him to move in with them again until he could find an apartment for himself and his family.

When we reached the Murrets’ neighborhood, we got off the bus and walked a block or two. As we approached their house, he sat me down on the steps in front of a neighbor’s place, where I waited and watched the children play.

(...)

Then Lee emerged at a quick pace. As soon as he reached me, he smiled and said, “Dutz gave me two hundred dollars for helping him out, so you can forget about the ten I lent you.”

(...)

We left Dutz’s house, got on another bus and headed to a restaurant called the Kopper Kitchen, where we were to meet Dr. Ferrie. As we entered the restaurant, I could hear my stomach rumble.

(...)

“I think Dave might have cancer, himself,” Lee said, referring to Dr. Ferrie. “Maybe that’s why he’s working with Dr. Sherman.” Ferrie’s cancer experiments had begun years earlier in a lab he set up in a big house out by the airport. Ferrie sometimes used himself as a guinea pig, and told Lee thathe blamed his embarrassing hair loss on the chemicals he was using in his experiments.

“Dr. Ferrie might let you do some research of your own with his cancer specimens,” Lee said. “He might even pay you to help keep his lab going.” “Does he need an assistant?” I asked. “Very much so,” Lee replied. “They’ve requested help.” I had to admit that slaving away at Royal Castle for a dollar an hour had lost its charm, and the thought of getting paid to do laboratory work was appealing. “Well, that could be me,” I said, “but I’ll be in Mary Sherman’s bone lab at Ochsner’s clinic.”  “Maybe you’re supposed to be working in both places,”

(...)

Dr. Ferrie finally arrived. He was wearing an airline captain’s cap and jacket, with shabby trousers and scuffed shoes.

(…)

I noticed he was wearing a ring made from an Eastern Airlines pin. So Dr. Ferrie was also Captain Ferrie.

(...)

I indeed knew my way around a medical lab. “I’d be happy to get any equipment or supplies you might need,” he said, “since I hear you’ll be staying in town for awhile. I have connections.” Having heard from Lee that Dr. Ferrie knew Dr. Sherman, I replied that I planned to enter Tulane Medical School in the fall.

(...)

He (Ferrie) then looked around to see who might hear him, and began talking about Dr. Sherman, whom he referred to as “Dr. Mary” to keep her last name out of the conversation. “Of course,” he went on, “the work Dr. Mary and I do is confidential,  

(...)

I promised I would be careful with the information. Then Dr. Ferrie explained that their cancer project was getting results faster than typical research projects, because they did not have to do all the paperwork, and all of this was under the direction of the great man himself, Dr. Alton Ochsner.

(...)

Dr. Ferrie said Dr. Ochsner knew how to get things done. He had access to anything needed and avoided red tape by bringing in some of the materials himself from Latin America. Ferrie described Ochsner’s Latin American connections in more detail, saying that he was the on-call physician for many Latin American leaders. He kept their secrets and got rewarded in return, including big donations to his Clinic. As a result, Ochsner had his own unregulated flow of funds and supplies for every possible kind of cancer research, with no oversight. “We’re using various chemicals, in combination with radiation, to see what happens with fast-growing cancers,” Ferrie said. “We’re using it to mutate monkey viruses, too.” Mutating monkey viruses! Radiation! Fast growing cancers! “That’s exactly what I’ve been trained to handle,” I commented, noting how conveniently my skill set just happened to match their research. “I was told you were,” Dr. Ferrie said.(...)Lee and I got into Dr. Ferrie’s old car and he drove us to the YWCA, where I spent about twenty minutes getting the last few things I had left behind

(…)

We finally reached Ferrie’s house and entered through a back door, which led to a staircase that took us to the second floor. This was the entrance that Ferrie’s friends always used. Now barefoot and dressed in casual clothes, he met us at the screen door. He was busy cleaning up his kitchen for a party to be held the next night. It was a spectacular mess.

Ferrie showed us around his apartment, which was full of his mother’s old-fashioned furniture, plus a hodgepodge of junk reminiscent of a garage sale. The lab, such as it was, resided on utility carts located to the side of the large kitchen. There was distilled water, propane gas, and a fume vent. Several cages of mice and rats sat on the counter beside the sink.17 There was denatured alcohol and acetone for clean up.

(...)

Ferrie explained that most of the mice were kept nearby, where they lived under standardized conditions. They were brought over for the experiments with other equipment, which came and went. Except for the microscopes and some test tubes, the true nature of the place would be unnoticed by untrained eyes. The mini-centrifuge, for example, was a sophisticated little piece of equipment, but to the layman it was just a small metal globe with some holes in it. The blender was a normal kitchen item, and would not be seen as a device for macerating excised tumors. The refrigerator held a collection of mouse tumors that looked vaguely like hamburger meat. Upon seeing it, I decided that I would not be eating anything stored in Ferrie’s refrigerator.

(...)

He would have dropped them off at her apartment himself, but he did not like to be seen there. He pointed out that I could be used as a courier for the harvested tumors, since I could pass as a medical student visiting Dr. Sherman. I was asked to exercise caution, and avoid being seen by outsiders whenever possible, since gossip in New Orleans had a tendency to assume a sexual motive for just about everything, and secretive comings and goings might lead to rumors that Dr. Sherman was conducting a lesbian affair with a medical student.

(...)

It was now close to dawn, and Dave drove Lee and me home. He

invited us to attend his party on Sunday night, dangling the fact that Dr. Sherman would be there as bait. I was anxious to meet Dr. Sherman, so despite my concerns about Dave I reluctantly agreed. When we reached my boarding house, Lee walked me to the door and invited me to see the city with him after lunch the next day. I agreed. I caught a few hours sleep to prepare for another busy day in my new amazing life. But I was beginning to wonder what I was getting myself into.

 

Close quote

ME AND LEE, by Judyth Vary Baker

 

End of Saturday, April the 27^th 1963

 

Maybe Hargrove can tell us whether his Lee or his  Harvey was involved in that GET CASTRO WITH CANCER project? But wait. Armstrong confessed, quote H&L:

"But Oswald was not staying at the Murret's and his whereabouts and activities 
from April 24-29 are unknown. "  

Close quote.

 

 

 

C.B.Cabell an James Walton Moore Mohrenschild Orlov Oswald.pdf 

JFK fired Charles Cabell over the BOP, Cabell was full of hate for JFK, Cabell knew Walton Moore very well,  Moore knew  Oswalds handler De Mohrenschild and  Moore knew Oswald (called him  "harmless lunatic" prior to the assassination). 

Quote H&L: 

"NOTE: But Oswald was not staying at the Murret's and his whereabouts and activities 
fr om April 24-29 are unknown. "  

Close quote.

 

Maybe  Armstrong should update his book a little bit. 

Quote, ME AND LEE by Judyth Vary Baker:

Friday, April 26, 1963

On the fourth day I (Judyth Vary Baker in NOLA))  made the long bus trip once again to Royal Castle for another two-hour  dose  of  stress  and  chaos. (...)  
Back at the YWCA I changed into a dress and high heels for a visit to Ochsner  Clinic,  and  headed  for  the  post  office  once  again,  carrying  the letter  I’d  been  writing  over  the  past  several  days.  At  the  post  office,  I finished the letter at a side counter, addressed it, then got into the line where General  Delivery  service  was  offered.  Under  my  arm  was  a  rolled-up newspaper with the “Jaryo” ad with its red lipstick kiss circling the ad — because  Robert’s  eyes  had  read  those  very  same  words  by  now!  Having
been up since 5:00 A.M., I felt wilted. I was only vaguely aware of a man standing in line behind me.
When it was my turn at the counter I asked the clerk if a letter for “Judy Vary” had arrived from Fort Walton Beach, Florida, from Robert A. Baker.
The postman checked but found nothing. Still hopeful, I inquired, “Would you please see if a letter for a “‘Mr. Rourke’ might be there, from Robert A. Baker?” But the clerk said that only Mr. Rourke would be allowed to pick up Mr. Rourke’s mail, not Judy Vary.
”Do you have any ID with you?” the clerk asked. I got out my Royal Castle pay stub. “You can call Royal Castle about who I am,” I said.
“No, ma’am,” the postman said. “Can’t do that. I’d need something that says Mr. Rourke will let you pick up his mail for him.”
Remembering I had Robert’s first letter with me, I opened my purse and rummaged around until I found it. “How many letters come here to General
Delivery from Fort Walton Beach?” I asked. “And look, right here,”  as  I waggled the letter under the clerk’s nose, “It says I should put Mr. Rourke’s
name on the envelope.”
The clerk agreed to look for something from “Rourke.” As I waited I turned  and  glanced  up  at  the  young  man  standing  in  line  behind  me.  He offered a friendly smile. How clean-cut he looked! The clerk returned to tell me that there was nothing for Mr. Rourke either. Disappointed, I sighed and
bought a stamp. Distracted by the feelings that swamped me, I handed the letter to the postman, and as I did, the newspaper under my arm fell to the
floor. The young man behind me picked up the newspaper, glanced at the lipstick-kiss,  then  handed  it  to  me.  As  I  took  it,  I  gave  him  my  prettiest
smile.
“Karashaw, Tovarisch,” I said to him (Loosely, “Thanks, Comrade.” in Russian).  I  had  frequently  used  my  limited  Russian  as  an  ice-breaker  at
college. It was fun, and since most Americans were not familiar with the sound  of  Russian,  it  generally  started  a  conversation.  It  also  gave  me  an
excuse to keep up my Russian skills so they wouldn’t slip away, but I admit there was more going on. I was mad at Robert for not writing. ConsequentlyI was flirting with this clean-cut young man. Yes, there are other men in the world, and I’m not married yet!
I  was  shocked  when  the  young  man  leaned  close  to  me  and  said,  in perfect Russian, “It’s not good to speak Russian in New Orleans.”
“But  I  like  to  speak  Russian,”  I  protested  in  Russian,  as  politely  as  I could.  As  I  turned  to  leave  the  building,  the  young  man  said,  “Please!
Wait!” — once more in Russian.
“Okay,” I said to him in English, unable  to  recall  the  Russian  phrase.  The  young  man went to the counter and inquired about a letter for Lee H. Oswald.
When we left together, he at first tried to  indulge  me  by  speaking  only  Russian, but his fluency was far more advanced than mine. So we settled into English.
“You  must  be  new  in  town.  I  just  got into town myself,” he said after he offered to  walk  me  home.  “I  was  born  in  New Orleans and lived here as a child, but I’ve been away for nearly ten years. I’m staying at  the  YMCA  right  now,  until  my  family
gets into town.”
I asked him where he learned to speak Russian  so  well,  and  he  explained  that  he had lived there for several years.
I  told  him  about  my  interest  in  all things Russian, and how I read Russian literature and listened to Russian music,  like  Rimsky-Korsakov.  Russia  was  tops  on  the  list  of  countries  I wished to visit. I told Lee how my family called me “Juduffski.”
He confirmed his interest in Russia’s classical culture and asked me if I had  read  Dostoevsky’s  The  Idiot.  It  was  one  of  my  favorites,  and  I  had written  a  poem  about  Prince  Myshkin,  the  title  character.  I  recited  it  for him. As soon as I finished, he translated it for me into melodious Russian. I was impressed. Not only did he know the language, he knew the culture.
“I notice that you have no southern accent,” he remarked. Nor did he, I observed  back.  That’s  when  I  noticed  a  thick  wedding  band  on  his  righthand  and  remembered  that  both  Russians  and  Hungarians  wore  their wedding rings on their right hands.
Curious  as  usual,  I  observed  him  as  we  walked.  Lee  Oswald  was slender, but well built; the type of man who would never get fat. He had intense,  blue-gray  eyes  and  fine  wavy  brown  hair,  with  a  precise  way  of carrying  himself.  As  he  turned  toward  me  again,  I  saw  the  neckline  of  a
clean  white  undershirt  under  his  worn,  but  spotless,  khaki  shirt  which created a sort of military air about him.
His  posture  was  erect,  his  head  held  high.  He  took  his  place  on  the curbside  to  shield  me  from  the  traffic  like  a  gentleman.  When  my  hand
touched  his  accidentally,  he  moved  slightly  away.  What  a  sweetheart,  I thought, and what a nice contrast to other men.
“So what does the ‘H’ in your name stand for?” I asked.
“Henry,” he joked. “Hogan. Herkimer. Horace. Guess,” he teased.
“Hoover,” I replied with bluster.
“That would be even worse!” he laughed. “My middle name is Harvey.
I don’t particularly like it. My Russian friends called me Alek, because Lee sounded weird to them. And half the time, when I wrote it people misread it
as “Henry,” so I started using “H.” I have calculated that will save me many hours during my life by avoiding writing Harvey.”
We continued to walk. After several blocks, I began to question my shoe selection.  Who  invented  high  heels  in  the  first  place,  and  why  would  an
otherwise  intelligent  woman  wear  them?  Finally,  we  found  a  bench  in  a shaded area near the YWCA and sat down. I noticed a U.S. Marine Corps
ring  on  his  left  hand.  “Well,  you’re  a  Marine,  as  well  as  married,”  I commented.
“You’re so observant,” Mr. Oswald replied.
“I am terrible at remembering faces,” I admitted. “And I get lost going around a corner, but I am good at noticing odd little things that other people
don’t.”
“I  won’t  forget  your  face,  because  you  look  like  my  wife.  Are  you married?” he asked.
“Almost. In a few days, if he comes. And if I still want to marry him,” I said, still miffed about not getting a letter.
“If he comes? If you still want to marry him?” he mocked.“I love Robert.” I insisted. “But if he doesn’t show up, I’ll survive.”
“Love — unto the death!” he responded with grand sarcasm.
I  got  his  point.  His  directness  was  penetrating,  but  his  wit  was disarming. I wanted him to know more about me. So I told him I was in New Orleans to do cancer research. Dr. Ochsner himself had invited me, but I would be working with Dr. Mary Sherman, who ran a cancer laboratory at his  hospital.  I  also  said  this  to  show  Mr.  Oswald  that  I  had  important
contacts in town, just in case he wasn’t as nice as he seemed. He surprised me  once  again  by  saying  that  his  friend  Dr.  Ferrie  had  mentioned  Dr. Sherman’s name just the night before. “She’s famous,” I said proudly, while calculating  the  mathematical  odds  of  Lee’s  hearing  her  name  only yesterday, after being out of town for nearly a decade.
Then Lee demonstrated some of his own powers of observation. He said he had noticed the Royal Castle check stub when we were in at the post office. “So why is a cancer researcher working as a waitress in a fast-food restaurant?” he queried.
It was a fair question, so I answered it by explaining my predicament.
We  sat  on  the  park  bench  and  continued  to  talk  for  the  next  hour.  We discussed a variety of subjects from literature to politics. We had both read
Aldous Huxley’s utopian nightmare in Brave New World and Lee contrasted it to George Orwell’s dark view of the future in 1984. I was surprised at how well read he was, and how adroitly he navigated the maze of political theory. We even discussed Bertrand Russell, the British mathematician who became  a  vocal  anti-war  activist,  championed  nuclear  disarmament,
criticized Germany for its fascism, the Soviet Union for its totalitarianism and  America  for  its  international  military  adventures.  I  told  Lee  I  had received a telegram from Russell, and that my father had torn it up because he considered him a Communist.4
Lee Oswald voiced his surprise at my Socialist ideals, which he gently juxtaposed to my anti-Communist attitudes. We were now in his territory.
He was the only person I had ever spoken to who had actually lived in a Communist  country.  It  was  a  subject  he  could  articulate  skillfully  and without prejudice. I admired the clarity of his responses and how carefully he offered me new ideas. Frankly, I was amazed at how one hour of sitting on a park bench in New Orleans had suddenly opened my eyes to the riverof  thoughts  flowing  around  the  world.  I  had  never  had  this  sort  of conversation  with  Robert  or  anyone  else.  I  pondered  the  irony  of  this chance encounter at a post office where I was desperately awaiting a letter from my fiancé, then suddenly became fascinated by a total stranger who
happened to be standing in line behind me!
As  he  spoke,  I  got  a  good  look  at  his  blue-gray  eyes.  A  shame  he’s married,  I  thought,  then  realized  what  I  was  thinking  and  my  Catholic
upbringing kicked in. Guilt swelled up within me.
Lee must have sensed my sudden mood shift, because he said: “My wife is in Texas because, unfortunately, we are not getting along very well right
now.” His sorrowful words rang true. I did not think he was trying to tell me that he might be available for romance if I was interested. It was more like a
friend sharing a burden. Then Lee suddenly changed subjects and asked me if I played chess.
Yes I did, and considered myself quite good at it. Lee said he had never met an American girl who liked chess, wrote poetry, loved Russian literature,
and had even learned to speak some Russian.
“I’d  like  to  play  you  at  chess  sometime,”  he  proposed,  adding,  “Dr. Ferrie  has  a  chess  set  we  can  use.  He’s  involved  in  cancer  research
himself,” he remarked. “I think you two should meet.” Lee ended by saying he  would  definitely  call  Dr.  Ferrie  right  away  and  stood  up  to  leave.  He
went over to pick up a shirt and told me that, if I needed help with anything, I could leave a message for him at the YMCA.
As we parted, Lee gave me a squeeze of the arm, a boyish smile, and then walked away. I just stood there daydreaming. I loved the way he talked and walked. And those eyes! And how he spoke Russian. The way he let me  be  myself.  .  . (...)
Finally the long, tangled day ended and we returned to the Y. As I lay in my  bed  waiting  for  sleep  to  overtake  me  I  pondered  the  events.  New
Orleans was, indeed, a new experience. What to make of this mysterious Mr.  Oswald?  What  an  interesting  man!  So  how  does  such  a  well-read intellectual  emerge  from  this  decadent  French  colony,  speaking  fluent Russian? And why was he returning to this corrupt sin-sick city with his young family after years of international travel?

End of Friday, April 26, 1963

Close quote ME AND LEE, by Judyth Vary Baker

 

 

 

 

 

1 hour ago, Jim Phelps said:

I think the clue is she went to New Orleans----the Marcello nest.   She had some source there and the Marcelllo types spotted her.   Depending on who she met with the Marcello Gang would be all over it.

She got serious spooked in New Orleans and sent her friend away.

It was in fact a "nest" ...

Quote from footnotes of ME AND LEE by Judyth Baker: 

... the House Select Committee
on  Assassinations  discovered  that  Murret  was  an  illegal  bookmaker.
Murret  was  also  an  associate  of  Sam  Saia,  one  of  the  leaders  of
organized crime in New Orleans. Saia was also a close friend of Carlos
Marcello. Another of Murret’s associates, Nofio Pecora, was linked to
Jack Ruby. According to an FBI informant in 1979 Marcello admitted
having  known  both  Murret  and  Lee  Harvey  Oswald .... 

Close Quote

Quote Garrison ON THE TRAIL OF THE ASSASSINS

 

 Roger Craig,
honored in 1960 for his performance as a Dallas deputy sheriff,
remembered that a few minutes after the assassination he observed the
Dallas police questioning a Latin man on Elm Street. As Craig recalled it,
the police, frustrated when the man did not answer their questions because
he could not speak English, released him. Some minutes afterwards, Craig
saw a Nash Rambler station wagon pull up in front of the Depository and
recognized the driver as the Latin man who had just been released by the
police. Before he could do anything, a young white man—whom Craig later
identified as Lee Oswald—came running down from in front of the
Depository, jumped in, and the station wagon tore off.*

Footnote: (ON THE TRAIL ...)

* A few months after I (Garrison) had read his testimony, Craig came to see me in New Orleans. An alert and
idealistic young man who looked more like a cheerleader than a deputy sheriff, Craig had been
driven out of Dallas by the law enforcement establishment. His honest testimony had doomed his law
enforcement career and he had decided to leave Dallas after someone took a shot at him, grazing his
scalp. I got him a job at the Willard Robertson Volkswagen company, and Craig met frequently with
me, reviewing in detail what he had seen at Dealey Plaza and at Dallas police headquarters after the
assassination.
Shortly after he learned that a suspect had been arrested, Craig told me, he went straight to Dallas
police headquarters to see if he could help the homicide department with the identification. He told
Captain Will Fritz, the head of homicide who was running the investigation, about the Nash Rambler
incident he had seen. The two of them then went into Fritz’s private office, where Oswald was sitting.
Fritz pointed at Craig and told Oswald, “This man saw you leave.” Oswald replied, “I told you
people I did.” Fritz told Oswald to take it easy, that he was just trying to find out what happened.
Then Fritz said, “What about the car?” Oswald answered, “That station wagon belongs to Mrs. Paine
—don’t try to tie her into this.”

Close Quote Garrison ON THE TRAIL OF THE ASSASSINS 

 

IMO The reason of the McWatters-Bus-Coverstory-piece was twofold: Blame Oswald and protect the Paines. Note: The tax return records of the Paines are still classified for reasons of "National Security." 

 

On 5/25/2021 at 5:53 PM, W. Tracy Parnell said:

There had been some speculation (with the Covid-19 thing) that Jim was ill. It is indeed good to see that he is alive and kicking, albeit still wrong.

And McAdams was right ... right? "Goong! Round 11 in the shadow boxing event of 2Ossi-Hargrove and McAdams is honest-Tracy Parnell ..." 🤜🤛

Only a Dylan could write and release an assassination-(protest)song half a century too late and than be praised for ... I do it

 

 

14 years ago researcher Gil Jesus wrote on this forum. "

Gil Jesus

• Advanced Member
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