Reporter, Martha’s Vineyard, Crime
Camelot, a fairytale for modern times
‘Roger, I got you in. Two weeks with Kennedy’s team, get the inside story, classy profile of Jack or Bobby, bit of gossip and you’ll be on your way to the Times or the Post.’
Jim Bent, editor of the Martha’s Vineyard Star beamed, while Roger Oblin grimaced.
‘I do crime, Jim, not features.’
Bent looked at his blotter, a sign he’d moved on. ‘It’s your way outta here. And if you find a crime, then you’re on your way to a Pulitzer.’
The Kennedy set up was glossy and superficial, and while it felt like he’d been given access all areas, Roger knew he was being deflected from the real stories. Something was off.
First there was Hoover’s constant calls, the FBI heavies at the gates, the frowns, papers being burnt late at night and rumours of ‘pinko’ conspiracies. A team of starched white-shirted minions beavered away in obscure rooms.
Then the money men, the hints of links to mafia and the Daley clan in Chicago. Accountants seemed to be everywhere, working adding machines, poring over lists of numbers.
Out at Bobby’s cottage, a doctor visited regularly, attending, Roger heard somewhere, a young woman who he’d seen on the first night, drunk, being taken back there. Something about a scream, some bloodied sheets and maybe some sexual impropriety.
Roger felt he was within an ace of the scoop he deserved, yet it remained elusive. He befriended a cleaner, someone who truly had access all areas. When he confided what he needed, she smiled and let him through the service corridors, finally arriving at Jackie Kennedy’s boudoir. With a glint in her eye she threw open a closet. It was filled with bee-hive wigs. ‘There’s your crime, Mr Reporter. A crime against good taste.’