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Trauma surgeons poured fifteen pints of blood into him and manually squeezed his faltering heart to revive it, but it simply stopped for good at p.m. Dallas County Medical Examiner Earl Rose started Oswald’s autopsy less than two hours after he was pronounced dead. Blood, no longer being pumped by his dead heart, was pooling naturally in the corpse’s hollows.
Rose’s external examination found nothing remarkable: The average-sized, wavy-haired, slightly balding man on Rose’s slab had slate-blue eyes, decent oral hygiene, a few old scars, no sign of alcohol or drug abuse, a shaved chest and pubic area, and was in otherwise good physical shape, if you didn’t count being dead.
The assassin’s burial – deliberately scheduled the next day around the same moment as the president’s nationally televised funeral, to discourage any public mourning – was attended only by Oswald’s small, destitute, shell-shocked family, a handful of reporters, and a local pastor who didn’t know Oswald but believed no man should be buried without a prayer.
On a hunch that Oswald would someday be exhumed, he pumped a double dose of embalming fluid into the body and dressed him off the funeral home’s private rack: white boxers patterned with little green diamonds, dark socks, light shirt, thin black tie, and a cheap, dark brown suit, its trousers cinched around the waist not by a belt but by an elastic band.
The family was charged for this going-away outfit.
It pierced nearly every major organ and blood vessel in his abdominal cavity – stomach, spleen, liver, aorta, diaphragm, renal vein, a kidney, and the inferior vena cava, a major vein that carries deoxygenated blood from the lower extremities back to the heart.
Oswald bled out very quickly through a dozen or more holes.
He graduated from the venerable Uppingham School but abandoned his dream of attending Oxford in order to help at his ailing father’s London law firm, where he became a full-fledged lawyer himself.