You couldn’t do . . .
You took their word:
They had no clue.
You couldn’t do . . .
You took their word:
They had no clue.
Proof of the FBI and OIC cover-up was published in a 538-page book Failure of the Public Trust (2006 ed.) available to download here.
Corresponding exhibits of documents to footnotes in the book are available here.
As Foster’s ghost
Haunts clinton halls,
Themselves at balls.
Laissez Faire Electronic Times ^ | January 2, 1998 | P.J. Gladnick
Posted by PJ-Comix
(President Clinton is sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. A voice is heard on his intercom. It is his secretary.)
SECRETARY: Mr. President, Lieutenant Columbo is here to see you.
(The Oval Office door opens a bit. Columbo peeks in tentatively.)
COLUMBO: I hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr. President.
CLINTON (smiling broadly): Not at all! I heard that you were visiting the White House. That’s why I had my people take you off the tour line to see me. I’ve always been a big fan of yours.
(Columbo, puffing on a cigar and wearing a wrinkled raincoat, walks in a slouching manner up to Clinton. A beaming Clinton stands up from behind his desk and heartily shakes Columbo’s hand.)
COLUMBO: Mr. President, this is indeed an honor. Let me tell you, my wife is a big fan of yours. Sir, I don’t mean to impose but do you think you can autograph a photo for my wife?
CLINTON: Heck, that’s no problem. I’ll be happy to oblige.
(Clinton pulls a photo of himself from his desk, signs it, and hands it to Columbo.)
COLUMBO: This is terrific! You don’t know what this will mean to my wife. Uhh, before I go, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?
CLINTON: Huh? Okay, sure.
COLUMBO: Could you tell me how much you paid for your suit? I really admire the material.
CLINTON: I, umm, think it cost about $500.
COLUMBO: And so clean too. With a suit like that you must send it out to the cleaners after each time you wear it.
CLINTON: Of course.
COLUMBO: Well, this is what’s bothering me. I heard that your good friend, the late Vincent Foster, was also a nice dresser yet there were carpet fibers discovered all over his suit when they found him after his tragic suicide in Fort Marcy Park.
(Clinton’s smile turns a bit tense.)
COLUMBO: So it seems like a mystery how all these fibers ended up on his suit. You might pick up a few carpet fibers around the bottom of the pants but not all over the suit.
CLINTON: I think the FBI determined that the carpet fibers probably came from his home.
COLUMBO: That is only an assumption because the FBI never actually took samples from the carpet fibers at his home. With all those fibers on his suit, you would think that they would make a comparison.
CLINTON (Slightly exasperated): Look, Lieutenant Columbo, there have already been three investigations into this matter and they all ruled that Vince Foster committed suicide.
COLUMBO: Oh, I’m not questioning the investigations. I’m sure Mr. Foster died just the way they said but there are still a few loose ends.
CLINTON: Such as?
COLUMBO: Such as the autopsy X-rays.
CLINTON: What about the X-rays?
COLUMBO: Dr. James Beyer, the Deputy Medical Examiner for Northern Virginia, conducted the autopsy but no X-rays were taken.
CLINTON: No X-rays were taken? That’s absurd! They must have been taken in a case of this importance.
COLUMBO: Dr. Beyer checked off a box on the autopsy report stating that he took X-rays yet he later claimed the X-ray machine was inoperable.
CLINTON: Aren’t you forgetting the suicide note that Foster left behind?
COLUMBO (slaps forehead with his hand): That’s right! The suicide note! Obviously, it must have been suicide if Foster left behind a suicide note.
(Clinton looks cheerful again.)
CLINTON: I guess that closes the case then.
COLUMBO: It sure does! Mr. President, you don’t know how relieved this makes me feel. I’m sorry to have taken up your time with this matter.
CLINTON: Think nothing of it.
(Columbo leaves through the door and Clinton returns to his desk. A few moments later the door opens again and Columbo leans just inside the doorway.)
COLUMBO: Uhh, there’s just one little point that I overlooked.
CLINTON (looking irritated): What is it, Lieutenant Columbo?
COLUMBO: How do we know that the suicide note was actually written by Mr. Foster?
CLINTON: The suicide note’s handwriting was analyzed and judged to be authentic.
COLUMBO: Yes, by a Capitol police sergeant who only studied handwriting as a hobby. The fact of the matter is that three renowned handwriting experts including Reginald Alton of Oxford University determined that the note, supposedly written by Mr. Foster, was an obvious forgery.
CLINTON: Lieutenant Columbo, are you one of those conspiracy kooks? The autopsy report, even without the X-rays, proved it was a suicide.
(Columbo reaches inside his raincoat and pulls out a couple of sheets of paper.)
COLUMBO: The strange thing is that the official finding says it was a mouth-to-head wound yet take a look at the report of the Fairfax County Medical Examiner, Dr. Haut. It came from the National Archives and was placed on the Internet from where I downloaded it.
(Columbo hands the papers to Clinton.)
Clinton: Hmm . . . It says that the wound was “mouth-head” just like the official report.
COLUMBO: Yes, but look at the word “head.” It’s obvious that was typed in after another word just to its left was whited out. Then if you look on the second page of Haut’s report it actually says the wounds were “mouth to neck.” I submit, sir, that the first page was altered to change the wound location.
CLINTON: The bottom line is that, despite these discrepancies, the investigators have determined that Vince Foster committed suicide in Fort Marcy Park.
COLUMBO: Oh, sir. I’m not disputing their expertise. It’s just that professional police officers are trained to treat every death as a homicide until suicide is proven. In this case, however, Cheryl Braun, the senior Park Police Officer, testified that they determined that Foster had committed suicide before they had even inspected the body.
CLINTON: This is all very interesting theory but the fact is that the Foster case has been ruled a suicide. Case closed.
COLUMBO: I’m sure you’re right about that. After all, if those in authority say it was a suicide, then it must be so. Well, good day, Mr. President. Sorry for troubling you about details that must have some logical explanation.
CLINTON: Thank you for visiting, Lieutenant Columbo, and goodbye.
(Columbo leaves the room. Clinton returns to his desk and begins writing on some papers. A little while later we see Columbo looking from the outside into the Oval Office through a window just behind Clinton. Columbo begins tapping on the window. At first Clinton doesn’t hear him. Then he turns around and opens the window.)
CLINTON: Columbo! What is your problem?
(Columbo bends over and then stands back up again holding his shoes.)
COLUMBO: See all that dirt on the soles of my shoes?
CLINTON: Okay, they’re dirty. So what?
COLUMBO: It’s just like when my cousin Guido visits me. He likes working in my yard which is great but my wife throws a fit when Guido tries to walk into the house because of all the dirt on his shoes.
CLINTON: Will you please get to the point, Columbo!
COLUMBO: Well, the FBI scraped Mr. Foster’s shoes thoroughly but found no traces of soil. Everybody else who walked in the area of Fort Marcy Park where Foster was found came away with lots of dirt on their shoes.
CLINTON: You’re wrong, Columbo. A forensic expert found soil on Foster’s shoes.
COLUMBO: Oh yes. Henry Lee thought he found microscopic quantities of the soil on the shoes long after the FBI carefully went over them. Lee was the same fellow who determined that OJ Simpson must have been innocent because he thought he saw another footprint which never existed at the murder scene. Somehow I don’t think Mr. Lee is the most reliable expert in this regard.
CLINTON: Are you trying to say that Foster did not commit suicide in Fort Marcy Park?
COLUMBO: I think that could be a distinct possibility, sir. I’m sure that you, having been a friend of Mr. Foster, would want to leave no stone unturned to get to the bottom of this matter.
CLINTON: Just what do you expect me to do?
COLUMBO: It would be helpful if you could make the videotape from the White House parking lot surveillance camera available. We need to see Mr. Foster entering his car on the day he died.
CLINTON: That tape is missing from the White House vault where it was stored.
COLUMBO: Then how about the videotape from the vault surveillance camera? Maybe we can find out who removed the parking lot video from the vault.
CLINTON: The vault video is missing too. Perhaps the parking lot camera never caught Foster entering his car?
COLUMBO: At the most guarded building in the world? Not likely. As a matter of fact I’m sure that cameras are watching me right now and that Secret Service guards should be apprehending me at any moment.
(Suddenly several uniformed guards grab Columbo and haul him away.)
COLUMBO (shouting from the distance): This has been a really enlightening conversation, Mr. President! I hope we can pick up where we left off in the near future!
(Clinton slams the window shut.)
Vince Foster, man I never knew, I ask:
Into what pit of secrets did you fall?
Now that you’re dead, I wonder what dark task
Caused you to earn a bullet in your skull.
Ever a conscientious man, the mask
Washington made you wear along the Mall
Aggravated the doubts– and in that flask,
Soiled worldly power, they made you guzzle, crawled
Known venom, closer, closer to the blood
In line of fire, until your heart was numbed
Like Arctic toes and fingers. So the mud,
Like flooded cities, swirled and squished the scum
Ever nearer to those you thought were friends . . .
Dust you are, Vince, and they’ll make no amends.
Vince Foster II
What did Foster do,
That he should end up dead?
Was it some person that he knew
Or something that he read?
What did Foster do,
That he should end up dead?
I will punish the world for its evil, and the wicked for their iniquity; I will put an end to the pomp of the arrogant, and lay low the pompous pride of the ruthless.
~Isaiah 13:11 (ESV)
Everywhere Hillary goes, evidence goes missing.
You’re free to worship as you please, and speak
Your mind about your leaders, travel where
You want to go, associate with weak
And strong, with poor and rich, to share and care
With others, to begin an enterprise,
To start or join a group, to marry one
You love and raise a family, to buy
And sell a house, a car, some land, a gun,
To run for public office, to delight
In privacy at home, humble abode,
To be tried fairly if you’re charged with crimes
And have a lawyer for defense, to fight
The government for rights, for changing codes:
You’re free, freer than men in any time.
When Eve asked him
To take a bite,
He could have said,
“Go take a hike.”
You want more power,
So sure you’re right;
But I’m not sure
You’ve seen the light.
The Circus Animals’ Desertion
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
What can I but enumerate old themes,
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride.
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
‘The Countess Cathleen’ was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
Players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.
William Butler Yeats (13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Won’t save the race;
‘Tis best to seek
Christ Jesus’ face.
Among School Children
I I walk through the long schoolroom questioning; A kind old nun in a white hood replies; The children learn to cipher and to sing, To study reading - books and histories, To cut and sew, be neat in everything In the best modern way - the children's eyes In momentary wonder stare upon A sixty-year-old smiling public man. II I dream of a Ledaean body, bent Above a sinking fire, a tale that she Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event That changed some childish day to tragedy - Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent Into a sphere from youthful sympathy, Or else, to alter Plato's parable, Into the yolk and white of the one shell. III And thinking of that fit of grief or rage I look upon one child or t'other there And wonder if she stood so at that age - For even daughters of the swan can share Something of every paddler's heritage - And had that colour upon cheek or hair, And thereupon my heart is driven wild: She stands before me as a living child. IV Her present image floats into the mind - Did Quattrocento finger fashion it Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind And took a mess of shadows for its meat? And I though never of Ledaean kind Had pretty plumage once - enough of that, Better to smile on all that smile, and show There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow. V What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap Honey of generation had betrayed, And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape As recollection or the drug decide, Would think her Son, did she but see that shape With sixty or more winters on its head, A compensation for the pang of his birth, Or the uncertainty of his setting forth? VI Plato thought nature but a spume that plays Upon a ghostly paradigm of things; Solider Aristotle played the taws Upon the bottom of a king of kings; World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras Fingered upon a fiddle-stick or strings What a star sang and careless Muses heard: Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird. VII Both nuns and mothers worship images, But those the candles light are not as those That animate a mother's reveries, But keep a marble or a bronze repose. And yet they too break hearts - O presences That passion, piety or affection knows, And that all heavenly glory symbolise - O self-born mockers of man's enterprise; VIII Labour is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul. Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance?
Speak truth to power;
Be strong and brave;
When millions speak,
They’re bound to cave.