From The Death of a President, a second-by-second account of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy and the immediate aftermath:

An Oklahoma City physician beamed at a grief-stricken visitor and said, “Good, I hope they got Jackie.” In a small Connecticut city a doctor called ecstatically across Main Street — to an internist who worshiped Kennedy –” The joy ride’s over. This is one deal Papa Joe can’t fix.” A woman visiting Amarillo, the second most radical city in Texas, was lunching in the restaurant adjacent to her motel when a score of rejoicing students burst in from a high school directly across the street. “Hey, great, JFK’ croaked!” one shouted with flagrant delight, and the woman, leaving as rapidly as she could, noticed that several diners were smiling back at the boy. In Dallas itself a man whooped and tossed his expensive Stetson in the air, and it was in a wealthy Dallas suburb that the pupils of a fourth-grade class, told that the President of the United States had been murdered in their city, burst into spontaneous applause.

Once the identity of the assassin had been established elaborate attempts were made to sponge away the memory of these incidents. The Radical Right wasn’t contrite. Its initial glee was confirmed and reconfirmed; during a meeting in the Cosmos Club which was brought to the attention of the FBI in Washington six months after the tragedy, a retired Marine Corps general told an admiring group of retired military officers that “It was the hand of God that pulled the trigger that killed Kennedy.” But the radicals were content to leave the guilt in Oswald’s grave. Their goal had been achieved, and they were anxious to avoid the undertow of public disapproval.

The Death of a President by William Manchester, pp. 249-250