During a visit to the Sixth Floor Museum at Dealey Plaza, a 3-year-old gazed up from her stroller at a black-and-white photograph picturing a dark-haired man in his late 20s. The portrait was taken almost a half-century ago, but the child recognized that face instantly.
"Grandpa!" Marianne Jackson cried.
Her gray-haired grandfather smiled in delighted surprise.
Yes, Bob Jackson said, that's me.
Through a child's eyes, the 75-year-old former newspaper photographer was reminded of the magic of the camera — the power of a lens and the click of a shutter to freeze time and preserve it forever.
Jackson's award-winning career was defined in one captured fraction of a second.
The moment arrived on a Sunday, Nov. 24, 1963.
It was 11:21 a.m.
"Here he comes!" a voice called out.
Jackson looked through his raised camera, pre-focused on a spot about 10 feet away. And there he was, flanked by detectives, a slender figure dressed in a dark sweater, walking toward him in the basement of Dallas police headquarters, his pale, tight-lipped face washed in bright lights.
The man accused of assassinating the president.
Here came Lee Harvey Oswald.
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