The President's Killers Read Online Free PDF

whose obsession with civil liberties had made it impossible to get lunatics off our streets and into mental institutions.
    He typed two copies of the letter on a battered old typewriter he’d picked up at a second-hand store and signed each letter with the name Clay Willis. He mailed one to the Newark Star-Ledger and the other to the Livingston News-Record.
    Four days later, the big Newark daily ran three paragraphs. On the following Wednesday the small suburban weekly printed the entire letter.
     
    When Denny arrived at Congressman Stewart’s storefront office in Livingston, eight men and three women, all decked out in camouflage vests and hunting caps, were parading back and forth in front of it with placards denouncing him. Two other men were leaning against a pickup truck.
    Denny parked his car across the street from them and went over to the pair beside the pickup. “What’s happening?”
    They told him about Stewart’s efforts to prevent hunters from using lead bullets.
    “He’s a flaming fag,” the taller one said.
    “And we’re paying his goddamn salary,” the other one added.
    One of the women, a plump blonde, gave Denny a big smile. “We’re fed up with people trying to take away our Constitutional rights,” she yelled.
    “So am I,” Denny responded. He showed the two men a clipping of his letter in the Livingston paper.
    The taller man nodded approvingly as he read it. “Hey, this is great! You wrote this?”
    The other one was equally enthused. “Way to go, man!”
    They showed the clipping to the others. They loved it, too.
    The blonde thrust her placard into Denny’s hands. “Come on, honey,” she said. “Join us. We need all the help we can get.”
     
    The field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Newark shocked Denny.
    It was hidden away on an upper floor of a tall office building in downtown Newark. The reception area looked like a misplaced post office, its walls decorated with color photos of the President.
    The room was divided by a thick glass wall. Two black women stood at a counter behind it, talking to visitors through a two-way microphone.
    Ten minutes after Denny asked to speak to an agent, a balding man with a bushy red mustache emerged from behind a locked side door. His name was Morris. He led Denny into a small, bare room.
    “What can we do for you?” he asked.
    Morris had never heard of the New Jersey League of Gun Owners.
    “They’re kooks,” Denny said. “They’re convinced the politicians want to take away their guns. One of these days they’re going to start planting bombs and shooting people.”
    “What do they call themselves?”
    Denny repeated the name.
    Morris wrote it down. “You a member?”
    “I know a couple of people in the group, that’s all. They’re trying to get me to join. But I think they’re dangerous. I think someone ought to keep an eye on them.”
    “And your name again?”
    “Clay Willis.”
    Lott had fixed him up with a driver’s license with his photo and the phony name and address. He told Denny not to mention SIG because there was bad blood between the two agencies. The FBI regarded SIG as an intruder and rival. For years, it had lobbied to try to persuade Congress to eliminate SIG.
    SIG had already gone through channels in Washington to alert the FBI to the gun-owner groups, Lott said, but there was no evidence the Bureau was taking any action.
    Morris got to his feet.
    “I understand you folks use informants,” Denny said. “I’d be willing to do that, if there’s any money in it.”
    The agent was noncommittal. “Sometimes we pay. It depends. I’ll pass the information on. If there’s any interest, someone will be in touch.”
     
    Lott was outraged. “They don’t give a shit?”
    “No, no,” Denny said, “That’s not what I’m saying. Morris said he’d pass the information on. He didn’t seem to feel it was a big deal, that’s all.”
    They were sitting in Lott’s car, a white Chevy this