The assassination of President John F. Kennedy has become something far larger than a historical crime. It has evolved into a cultural obsession, a symbolic rupture in American trust, and what many describe as the “mother of all conspiracy theories.” Unlike other presidential assassinations, this one refuses to fade. The name Lee Harvey Oswald still provokes reactions that the assassins of Garfield or McKinley never could. Even John Wilkes Booth, infamous as he is, does not trigger the same visceral unease. Kennedy’s death is not remembered as an ending—it is remembered as a beginning.

Part of that power lies in timing. Kennedy was young, charismatic, and seen as the embodiment of American optimism. He was the first true television president, someone whose image mattered as much as his policies. When he was killed, it was not only a man who died, but an idea of what the future might have been. The nation did not simply lose a leader; it lost confidence. Vietnam, Watergate, and later scandals would deepen that cynicism, but November 22, 1963, was the first crack in the foundation.

The assassination also unfolded in a way uniquely suited to haunt generations. It happened in broad daylight, during a political motorcade meant to project openness and strength. It was captured on film by Abraham Zapruder, an amateur with a camera who unintentionally created one of the most analyzed pieces of footage in history. For the first time, Americans could watch the moment of a presidential death again and again. That visual repetition transformed tragedy into obsession.

Gerald Posner, author of Case Closed, argues that the fixation on conspiracies says as much about America as it does about the assassination itself. He points out that Kennedy’s death coincided with a broader loss of faith in government. The idea that a lone, unstable individual could change history so violently felt unsatisfying, even insulting. It was far easier to believe in hidden hands—shadowy agencies, foreign powers, or organized crime—than to accept chaos.

Motives, after all, were everywhere. The CIA had reason to resent Kennedy after the Bay of Pigs disaster and the firing of its director. Anti-Castro Cubans felt betrayed by his refusal to fully back their cause. The Soviet Union had been humiliated during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The mafia was under siege by Robert Kennedy’s Justice Department. Even Fidel Castro himself could be imagined as seeking revenge. The list of those who might have celebrated Kennedy’s death is long. But motive alone, Posner emphasizes, is not evidence.

At the center of the storm remains Lee Harvey Oswald. He was not a conventional communist, nor a simple pawn. He was a confused, angry young man with a fractured ideology—part Marxist, part anarchist—who despised both the United States and the Soviet Union for failing to live up to his imagined ideals. Cuba, to him, represented the “real” revolution. Months before Dallas, he had already attempted to assassinate General Edwin Walker, whom he saw as a fascist threat. Violence, for Oswald, was not theoretical.

On November 22, 1963, Oswald found himself in a position that history rarely offers: opportunity. Working at the Texas School Book Depository, he brought his rifle into the building disguised as curtain rods. When his coworkers left for lunch, he stayed behind. From the sixth floor, he prepared what investigators later called a sniper’s nest, carefully choosing a position that minimized visibility from other buildings.

The assassination itself unfolded in seconds. The first shot missed. The second struck Kennedy in the upper back, passing through his neck. The third, fired as the limousine slowed inexplicably, shattered the back of the president’s head. The wounds, confirmed by autopsy X-rays and photographs, show unequivocally that the shots came from behind. Despite decades of claims that these images were forged or altered, multiple investigations—including the House Select Committee on Assassinations—found them authentic and untouched.

Eyewitness confusion added fuel to the fire. Dealey Plaza was an echo chamber, and people reported hearing shots from different directions. Some later claimed to see gunmen elsewhere, but none provided contemporaneous accounts supporting a second shooter. The only immediate eyewitness description of a gunman came from a construction worker who saw a man in the sixth-floor window—the description that led police to Oswald.

After the shooting, Oswald fled. He left the rifle behind, understanding that being caught with it would be fatal to any chance of escape. He was briefly stopped by a police officer inside the building but was vouched for by his supervisor. He returned to his rooming house, retrieved his pistol, and later killed Officer J.D. Tippit. These actions, Posner argues, reveal consciousness of guilt. An innocent man would have been drawn to the chaos, not running from it.

Two days later, Oswald himself was murdered by Jack Ruby, a nightclub owner with mob connections. For conspiracy theorists, Ruby’s act sealed the case for a cover-up. For Posner, it did the opposite. If Oswald were merely a patsy with no real knowledge, there would have been no need to silence him. Killing him only guaranteed endless speculation.

Over the years, theories expanded into ever darker territory, including claims of Israeli or Mossad involvement. Posner dismisses these as baseless and rooted more in modern political narratives and antisemitism than historical fact. He notes that Israeli government records released decades later show confusion and shock, not complicity. Like many conspiracies, this one survives not because of evidence, but because of suspicion.

Even minor details, like the mysterious “umbrella man” seen in the Zapruder film, became symbols of hidden plots. Though later identified as a protester making an obscure political statement, his presence on a sunny day remains one of history’s strangest coincidences—proof that randomness often feels conspiratorial in hindsight.

Ultimately, the tragedy of Kennedy’s assassination lies not only in his death, but in the mythologizing that followed. Had he lived, Posner suggests, Kennedy would likely have been remembered as a good president, not a flawless one. Vietnam, civil rights struggles, and social upheaval would not have vanished under his leadership. Death froze him in time, allowing each generation to project its hopes onto his unfinished presidency.

That is why the story endures. The assassination is not just about who pulled the trigger, but about a nation confronting its own disillusionment. Kennedy died young, and with him died the comforting belief that history is guided by reason. In its place came suspicion, doubt, and a question that still echoes: was this really all the work of one man?