Editor’s Note: Harry Benson is an internationally renowned photographer. Here, he shares an excerpt and photos from his new book, RFK: A Photographer’s Journal (powerHouse Books).

Wednesday, June 5th and Thursday, June 6th, 1968

Ambassador Hotel, Los Angeles

I don’t know why I covered Bobby’s speech that evening. I hadn’t planned to go to the celebration because everyone knew he would win the California primary. I was planning to have dinner with friends, and I hurt my wrist in a fall that afternoon on the hotel tennis court, but something told me not to miss it. A band made up of young kids was playing, providing the upbeat background music. Everyone was jubilant, shouting in unison, “Bobby, Bobby.” It was very crowded. I stood on a chair to get some photographs of Bobby’s sister, Jean Smith, and to capture Bobby’s victory speech from the podium. Bobby ended his speech in the early hours of June 6th with a victory sign and “On to Chicago,” which brought a roar from the crowd.

Click here to see Harry Benson’s photographs of Robert F. Kennedy’s life and death.

Bobby started to work his way toward the kitchen exit and I started the other way, but it was so crowded I decided to follow Bobby. As I neared the kitchen door I heard a girl scream — a horrifying scream — and I instinctively knew what happened. Sometimes I think I heard the shots, but I don’t think I actually did. The scream told me everything I needed to know.

We had walked out of happiness and into hell.

I had covered all the civil-rights violence, all the riots in this country, and I’d been to the Congo and Nigeria and Cyprus. There’s something about violence — you feel it; there’s no mistaking it. So I knew at once he’d been shot. After that, I kept telling myself, “Pull yourself together, pull yourself together.”

Bobby was lying on the floor with blood coming out of the back of his head. Ethel was well behind me, but she was brought over to him somehow. By then I had climbed up and was standing on a flat table in the center of the room — it was the warmer where food was placed before being taken in to the dining room. Jesse Unruh threw me off the hotplate and I found myself two feet from Bobby. That’s when I saw Ethel bend down and heard her scream, “I’m with you, Bobby, I’m with you.” His eyes glazed over and a rosary was placed in his hand. He did not say anything. Ethel turned around and screamed, “Give him air, give him air!”

The whole room started to move. It was hell. People were screaming, crying, beating their heads against the wall, yelling, “Fuck this country — not again! Not again!” Others were yelling, “Oh my God!” and some were throwing up.

The campaign speechwriters, Bud Schulberg and Jimmy Breslin, were trying to take charge and stop the hysteria in the room, but everyone was shouting. No one even thought to wrap Bobby’s head to try and stop the bleeding. Off to the side, I saw Rosey Grier and George Plimpton grabbing at Sirhan, but no one could stop this tiny guy from emptying his revolver. It was only when the agonizing melee subsided that I realized that others around me had been shot. When I looked around there were people vomiting all around me.

I was stuffing the exposed rolls of film into my sock so no one would take them away if the police came up to grab my camera. I was thinking about Dallas the whole time. I kept thinking that everything in the room was important. And I kept talking to myself, saying, “Please, God, let me do it right. Don’t fail. This is what I’ve come into the business for. Stay at the center. Bobby is the center. This is for history. Please, God, don’t let me mess up today. Mess up tomorrow, but not today. Bobby will understand my doing this, doing my job.”