A Conspiracy Theory
The entire nation was in mourning, conservatives and liberals, Republicans and Democrats alike. Not since Kennedy was shot in Dallas had a United States president been assassinated. Of course, JFK was not the only slain commander-in-chief. The first was Abraham Lincoln, followed by James Garfield, William McKinley and, finally, John F. Kennedy. There was little doubt who their assassins were, that is until rumors of an unknown gunman on the grassy knoll in Dealy Plaza gave rise to one of the greatest conspiracy theories in history.
It is often said that the death of John Kennedy marked the end of innocence in America. Citizens, for the most part, were shaken out of the complacency of the Fifties. Still, as the old saying goes, time heals all wounds. Eventually, Americans were lulled back into a false sense of security. Then another assassin's bullet rang out.
"I don't believe it," tabloid journalist Blair Cummings declared as she watched the up-to-the-minute coverage of the assassination on CNN. "This is far more incredible than anything we've ever printed in The National Tattler."
Her fellow writers agreed. There was little doubt that President Ramsey M. Harris being shot and killed in the Oval Office of the White House was far more newsworthy than celebrity gossip and sensational murder trials.
Blair stared at the television in the cafeteria of the Tattler's Boston office and watched the tragic story unfold. Admittedly, she had mixed feelings about the assassination. Like most Americans, she feared for the stability of the government, mourned the senseless death of a man not yet fifty years old and felt compassion for his grieving widow.
Yet she was also a reporter, and as such she jealously watched her colleagues from The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe and other respectable newspapers posing questions in the White House briefing room. Not for the first time in her career, she regretted working for a rag like the Tattler.
As most of the tabloid's employees sat glued to the TV screen, into the cafeteria walked Dex Malloy, the managing editor.
"All right, people," he declared with ill-concealed annoyance, "we have a paper to get out, or did you forget that? You can watch the news coverage on your own time."
Back in her cubicle, Blair looked at the article she had been writing when she received word of the assassination. In light of the world-shaping events going on in Washington, she felt she was wasting her time writing a piece on Lindsay Lohan's latest brush with the law.
"As if anyone cares," she grumbled with disgust, turning away from her computer monitor.
She was searching her desk drawer for a copy of her latest resume when the editor called her into his office.
"I have a special assignment for you," Malloy informed her, "one that comes along only once in a lifetime."
"I take it you're not referring to Lindsay Lohan's arrest?"
"No. I want you to see what you can find out about the Secret Service agents who were on duty when President Harris was shot. I've just received an anonymous tip that one or more of them were not doing their job that night."
Blair's pulse raced. This was the assignment she had always longed for. Even if the lead went nowhere, she would at least be working on a bona fide news story.
No sooner had Blair learned the names of the agents on duty that night than the White House issued a press release: Riley McGraw, a thirty-two-year-old Secret Service agent and highly decorated former marine, had shot and killed the president of the United States. Following the startling announcement, Malloy sent a memo to his reporters that said, in short, any and all information on Riley McGraw was urgently needed.
"I don't care what you dig up," the editor stressed in his staff meeting later that day. "His Little League batting average, the name of the first girl he kissed, his shoe size, whether he wears boxers or briefs—whatever you find out about this guy get it on paper, so we can print it. For now, I want you all to forget about Brad and Angelina and concentrate on Agent Riley McGraw."
* * *
It was Sunday, a day of rest for millions of people across the country. Blair sat at her kitchen table with a large mug of coffee, a cinnamon raisin bagel and a stack of tabloids. She always bought copies of the Globe, Star and National Enquirer to keep abreast of what the competition was printing. In most cases, the other tabloids were essentially running the same stories found in The National Tattler.
Since the assassination, all newspapers—the respectable ones as well as the tabloids—have been covering the funeral, the swearing-in of the new president and the progress of the investigation into the assassination. The major difference between the ways the two types of press handled the coverage was that the tabloids were sensationalizing the life of the suspect, Major Riley McGraw. It seemed to Blair that every photograph ever taken of the Secret Service agent had appeared in the pages of The National Tattler and its competitors: baby photos, school photographs from his childhood in West Virginia, graduation pictures and dozens of snapshots taken while he was in the Marine Corps.
"He's the quintessential All-American boy," Blair noted as she looked at the high school picture of a clean-cut, church-going, patriotic teenager. "Of course, appearances can be deceiving."
Above a photograph of blond-haired, blue-eyed Major McGraw in full dress uniform, a headline proclaimed LONER SHOOTS PRESIDENT IN OVAL OFFICE. Below that line in a smaller font was the subheading DOCTORS QUESTION SECRET SERVICE AGENT'S SANITY. A familiar phrase came to Blair's mind: a lone nut. Wasn't that what they called Lee Harvey Oswald?
A chill went down the reporter's spine. What if the Secret Service agent hadn't killed President Harris? What if McGraw was a patsy as Oswald claimed to have been? If that were so, then who could have shot the president?
"I'm being ridiculous!" Blair exclaimed and tossed the newspaper aside. "I think I've worked at the Tattler far too long. I'm beginning to see plots and conspiracies everywhere."
* * *
When Agent Riley McGraw was declared incompetent to aid in his own defense, Americans grumbled with frustration. Without a trial, there would be no definitive answers; without answers, there could be no closure.
"Twenty years from now Oliver Stone may be making a movie about this," Blair said during a weekly staff meeting.
"Surely you're not suggesting there might be a conspiracy here?" a fellow reporter asked with an amused laugh.
"What's so funny about that?"
"It was an open-and-shut case. Agent McGraw went nuts when his brother was killed in Iraq. He blamed the president for the young man's death and shot him."
"Oh, and how do you know that's what really happened?"
"Because everybody involved said so."
"When you say everybody, you mean the White House staff and the other Secret Service agents—in short, the government. And they would never lie to us, would they?"
Everyone at the staff meeting cringed at Blair's biting sarcasm.
* * *
When Blair wrote an article hinting that there was a possible conspiracy and cover-up in connection with the assassination of the late Ramsey M. Harris, the Tattler buried it on one of the back pages of the paper. Dex Malloy would not have printed her story at all, had she not been one of his most valued writers.
After finding her article on page forty-seven, Blair was angry at first. Eventually, however, she cooled down and agreed with the editor's decision. The story was outlandish; there was no doubt about it. Not surprisingly, not one of the other newspapers wrote of a conspiracy, not even the other tabloids.
Months passed and readers began to lose interest in the assassination. The "lone nut" who had killed President Harris was in a high-security wing of a hospital run by the U.S. military. The former vice president was performing his duties as Commander in Chief admirably—some citizens even felt he was doing a better job than his predecessor. Even interest in the late president's widow, the former first lady, had dwindled. This was surprising because not since Jacqueline Kennedy had the country been so enamored of a politician's wife.
Miranda Harris née Vigne, the only child of Rutherford Vigne, one of the wealthiest industrialists in the Northeast, had married the future president when the two were still in college. Theirs was not a politically motivated marriage but rather one based on love. After her husband was killed, Miranda was devastated. In the days following the assassination, the first lady appeared as though she were heavily sedated. In the wake of the president's death, the world empathized with her terrible loss, and even the press took uncharacteristic pity on her and left her alone in her grief.
When the public ordeal was finally over and President Ramsey Harris was interred in Arlington National Cemetery, Miranda left Washington and took refuge on her father's estate in Massachusetts.
* * *
Having exhausted the topic of former agent Riley McGraw's blemish-free childhood, his commendable service record, his deteriorating mental condition and the tragic death of his younger brother that catapulted Riley into the role of assassin, the tabloids returned to covering the latest Hollywood scandals.
One day, while she was writing a story on Oprah's latest weight gain, Blair received a newspaper article in the mail. There was no cover letter with the clipping, nor was there a return address on the envelope. The piece concerned the death of Annalise Viera, a White House secretary, who had been found dead in her Arlington apartment. The cause of death appeared to be an overdose of sleeping pills.
It was odd that someone should send such an article to Blair without an explanation. Not knowing its importance at the time, the reporter shrugged her shoulders, put the clipping in her desk drawer and returned to her writing.
The following week a second unidentified envelope was sent to Blair at the Tattler. This one was marked PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL. Inside was a candid photograph of Ramsey Harris sitting on a sofa next to an attractive young woman. The late president had his arm around the woman's neck in a gesture of affection.
Who is she? Blair wondered. And what was her relationship to the president?
According to all accounts, Ramsey Harris and his wife had a strong, happy marriage. Unlike many former presidents, there were never rumors about Harris having an extramarital affair. But perhaps he had just been more successful at keeping his personal life safe from the prying eyes of the press.
Upon seeing the photograph, Blair's first inclination was to write an article for the Tattler suggesting President Harris might not have been the loyal, loving husband he was thought to be. Then she reconsidered and decided against such a course of action, not because it would be blackening the former president's name—tabloid writers were never squeamish about speaking ill of the dead—but because she had so little information to go on. She had no idea who the woman in the photograph was. For all Blair knew, she might be a close friend or relative, and there might not have been anything inappropriate in her relationship with President Harris. After her article suggesting a conspiracy and cover-up was received so poorly, Blair didn't want to write another based on her intuition alone.
I'll keep the picture, just in case, she told herself.
When she opened her desk drawer, she saw the clipping she'd received the previous week.
Could there be a connection? she wondered.
Blair carefully reread the article. Then she typed the name Annalise Viera on her computer terminal and searched the Tattler's online sources. A few moments later, she found a copy of the deceased woman's driver's license. The reporter caught her breath when she saw the picture. It was the same woman who was sitting next to Ramsey Harris in the Polaroid snapshot.
* * *
When Blair took the photograph and the newspaper clipping to her editor, she assumed he would be as enthusiastic about the possibility of a major exposé as she was. He wasn't, however.
"I want to see where this lead goes," Blair announced with a good deal of excitement.
"Maybe you should just forget about Ramsey Harris and concentrate on this year's contestants on American Idol," Dex suggested. "I'll give you a four-page spread, and you can go to California to meet them all."
Blair groaned with frustration.
"Do you honestly believe those kids on American Idol are more important than the former president of the United States?"
"They certainly get more votes," the editor laughed.
"Enough with the lame jokes, okay? I want to find out if Harris was having an affair with Annalise Viera."
Malloy's good humor abruptly faded.
"Why? They're both dead. What would it matter now?"
"As our esteemed colleagues from the Post might say, the people have a right to know what went on."
"That's bullshit, and you know it. What difference does it make to the people who their commander in chief sleeps with so long as he does his job while in office?"
"I can't believe you feel that way. This is The National Tattler, not The New York Times. This is just the type of story we would die to get."
"It might just come to that," the editor declared ominously. "If this Annalise Viera was sleeping with the president, how can we be sure her death was an accident or a suicide? There are still a lot of questions regarding the death of Marilyn Monroe, or hadn't you thought of that?"
"All the more reason I should investigate a possible relationship."
"No!" the editor bellowed. "It could be dangerous. You forget I'm old enough to remember the Kennedy assassination. Too many witnesses met with accidents or sudden fatal illnesses. I don't want the same thing to happen to you."
Blair smiled. It was nice that someone worried about her safety.
"I appreciate your concern, but I'm going to follow through on this lead whether you assign the story to me or not. If you don't, I'll write the article on my own time and take it to one of our competitors."
Dex sighed with resignation.
"All right. I'll put you on the story. You can leave for Washington first thing in the morning, but you'd better be careful. I can't afford to lose my best reporter."
* * *
For more than three weeks, Blair had been in the capital questioning Annalise Viera's friends and coworkers, yet there was little she learned about the dead woman. Apparently, the former White House secretary kept to herself, and even her closest friends were not in her confidence. No one mentioned Ramsey Harris's name, and Blair didn't ask any questions specifically referring to him.
Frustrated and hungry, she stopped at a restaurant in Alexandria, Virginia. After ordering herself a hamburger, she sat alone at a table for two, reviewing her notes.
Not much here, she thought with disappointment.
All that hounding her editor to get the assignment and she couldn't find anything worth writing about!
As Blair hungrily took a bite out of her burger, a nervous-looking young woman sat down at a nearby table.
"Are you Blair Cummings?" she asked in a barely audible voice.
"Yes, I am."
"Shhh!" the woman cautioned. "I don't want anyone to hear or see us."
"Who are you?"
"I'm a close friend of Annalise Viera. At least I was before she was murdered."
"Murdered? Your friend's death was ruled an accident."
The young woman laughed bitterly.
"Accident! She was killed because of Ramsey Harris."
Blair tensed with anticipation and asked, "Are you the one who sent me the photo?"
"And the newspaper clipping. Did you get that, too?"
"Yes. Tell me what you know."
"Not here. It's too dangerous. Meet me tomorrow at the Smithsonian's Natural History Museum."
"What time?"
"Around ten in the morning, near the IMAX theater."
"I'll be there."
"And be sure no one is following you."
* * *
"Miss Cummings?"
Blair turned and saw the young woman from the diner.
"I'm sorry. I didn't get your name yesterday," the reporter said.
"Just call me Sunny."
"All right, Sunny. Now can you tell me about your friend's connection with the late president?"
"They were having an affair."
"I figured as much when I saw the picture, but presidents have had affairs before—Harding, Clinton, Johnson, Eisenhower, Roosevelt, Kennedy, and God knows how many others. So why would someone want to kill Miss Viera just because she slept with President Harris?"
"Probably because she was with him when he was shot."
"She was a witness to the assassination?"
"I think so. I know she went to the White House to meet him that night."
"But there were other witnesses, too: the Secret Service agents and several members of the White House staff. It doesn't make sense for someone to kill Miss Viera and not the other witnesses."
"Maybe she saw something the others didn't," Sunny suggested.
"Like what?" Blair asked anxiously.
"I don't know. The last time I saw her was the afternoon of the assassination. She was found dead the following morning."
Blair's hopes deflated like a punctured balloon. Sunny had only vague suspicions. What Blair needed was some concrete proof.
"That's not all," Sunny said hesitantly. "Annalise was pregnant, and I believe Harris was the father."
* * *
Malloy looked at the snapshot of Ramsey Harris and Annalise Viera while Blair told him everything she'd learned from the young woman called Sunny.
"An autopsy will confirm if she was pregnant," Blair said.
"True," Malloy agreed, "but even if it does, we have no way of proving the baby was the president's."
"What about a DNA test?"
"Do you honestly believe the Harris family will cooperate with our request for a DNA sample?"
"We could go to the police. In a homicide investigation involving a young woman and her unborn child, they might exhume the body."
The editor was exasperated.
"Exhume an assassinated president from Arlington National Cemetery! We have no proof Viera was murdered and only the word of this Sunny and a not very incriminating photo to connect her to the president."
Blair was adamant.
"I'm not giving up. If we stir the pot enough, something will rise to the top."
"Go home and get some sleep. I'll think about your story, and we'll discuss it further in the morning."
* * *
Blair reported to work early the following day. Malloy was already in his office with the door closed when she arrived. Shortly after nine, the editor buzzed her on the intercom.
"I'll be right there."
The reporter literally jumped up from her chair, she was so eager to speak with her boss. The editor frowned when she came through the door.
"It's a no-go on the Viera story."
Blair was crushed.
"Why? This could be the scoop of the century."
"It's too dangerous, and not just for you," Malloy said and then pushed a copy of a fax across his desk. "I received this ten minutes ago."
Blair read the message. A woman by the name of Rita Fulton had been killed in a single-car accident on Interstate 95 just outside of Fredericksburg, Virginia. She looked at Malloy questioningly.
"That's your secret source. What did she call herself? Sunny?"
Blair's knees buckled, and she fell into the chair opposite her editor.
"She was so young."
"So was Annalise Viera, and they're both dead. That's why you're going to drop this story, tear up your notes and burn this photograph."
"I can't."
"That's an order!" Malloy insisted as he handed her the picture. "Now, I'm putting you on the tsunami survivors story."
"Sure, boss," Blair said dully. "Anything you say."
The reporter diligently plugged along on her assignment, but her heart wasn't in it. Her mind was on one dead president and two dead young women. Sunny's words suddenly came back to her. Annalise Viera had been with the president when he was shot. If that were true—and Blair believed it was—then was the secretary killed because she was pregnant or because she had witnessed the assassination? If the latter were the case, she would only have been killed if she had seen something that would contradict the official story of the president's death.
Could my first hunch of a conspiracy and cover-up actually be true? Blair wondered. What if the Secret Service agent was not the lone nut the press made him out to be? If only I could talk to Riley McGraw.
* * *
Blair Cummings adjusted the ill-fitting nurse's uniform she'd bought at a second-hand clothing store. Then she drove up to the gate and handed the guard her forged credentials. She held her breath as the marine checked her identification.
"Okay, Miss Gottfried," he said, handing her back her fake ID. "Park in visitor lot B. The administrator's office is on the third floor."
Blair parked her car and walked toward the entrance of the military hospital as security cameras tracked her every move. Surprisingly, she made it inside the building without being caught.
So far, so good, she thought. Now let's see if I can find where they're holding Riley McGraw.
As the reporter was debating where she should begin her search, she spotted a familiar face in the crowded lobby.
"It can't be!" she told herself and then hurried to follow the woman.
Blair ducked out of sight when she saw the woman stop in front of a doorway guarded by the military police. The M.P. opened the door, and the woman went inside.
"Damn it!" the reporter swore under her breath. "If I could just get into that room."
To Blair's astonishment, the guard left his post and walked to the men's room. Seizing the unexpected opportunity, she ran down the corridor, opened the door and quickly slipped inside. In the center of the private room, she discovered a patient lying in a hospital bed amidst a mass of tubes, electrodes, monitors and IV drips.
Beside the bed was the woman Blair had seen in the lobby. She had not mistaken the woman's identity: it was Miranda Harris, the former first lady. Also in the room were four men in dark suits, most likely the Secret Service agents assigned to protect the late president's wife. The one standing closest to the hospital bed was none other than Riley McGraw, the alleged lone nut who had assassinated the president.
No one in the room—not the former first lady nor the Secret Service agents—seemed surprised by Blair's sudden appearance. On the contrary, the reporter soon realized, they had all been expecting her.
"I should have realized something was wrong when I got past the guard at the gate so easily."
"I'm sure you thought you were being clever with your nurse's uniform," Miranda Harris remarked in her pronounced New England accent. "But you're really an incredibly foolish woman. We ignored that article you wrote for the Tattler. You should have stopped there, but I suppose some people must learn the hard way."
"Learn what?"
"That the old adage is true: curiosity does kill the cat."
"And what about Annalise Viera and her friend, Rita Fulton? Were they killed because they were curious?"
The former first lady's eyes glistened with hatred at the mere mention of Annalise's name.
"You knew about your husband's affair, didn't you?"
It was more a statement of fact than a question.
"Yes, I knew. My husband, the Honorable Ramsey M. Harris, President of the United States of America, arguably the most powerful leader in the free world, was carrying on with a common secretary. Good God! He was worse than Jack Kennedy and Bill Clinton."
Miranda Harris began to shake uncontrollably. Agent McGraw left his post beside the hospital bed and went to her aid.
"Now see what you've done with your infernal snooping," he shouted. "You've upset the first lady."
Blair didn't care; she persisted with her questions.
"Did you know Miss Viera was pregnant?"
The Secret Service agents looked away with discomfort while the former first lady broke into loud, heart-rending sobs.
"I couldn't have children," she cried. "But that ... that slut was going to have one. I told my husband to break things off with her, to send her packing, but he wouldn't listen to me. He kept on seeing her. He even had the audacity to meet her at the White House, right under our very roof! After all my family and I had done to advance his career and get him elected, he repaid me by subjecting me to the grossest form of humiliation!"
As the former first lady cried out vituperations against her late husband, her eyes traveled from the reporter's face to the patient lying on the bed. Blair turned to see what Miranda Harris was looking at. With profound shock, she realized the patient with his head wrapped in bandages, connected to several life-sustaining machines, was the former president, Ramsey Harris.
"He's still alive!" Blair cried in wonder. "But the funeral?"
"It was necessary for the world to believe he was dead," Agent McGraw explained. "His injuries have left him incapacitated and unfit to hold office."
"But he wasn't assassinated. The people have a right to know that. They shouldn't be forced to swallow such an outrageous lie."
"The people needn't know everything that goes on in the White House," McGraw argued. "There's a fine man in the Oval Office now, one who is doing a good job of running the country. Let the people believe Ramsey Harris is lying peacefully in his grave."
"And what about you, Agent McGraw? History will brand you an assassin, a murderer!"
"But I know better and so does God. I am doing what is best for my country. I would rather have everyone believe that I shot the president than have them discover the truth."
"And what is the truth? What exactly happened to President Harris?"
"Not that it's any of your business," Miranda Harris said haughtily, "but I shot him—right there in the Oval Office. I would have shot her, too, but Agent McGraw barged in and took my gun."
"And Annalise Viera? What happened to her?"
Agent McGraw's face hardened.
"We had to eliminate her. It was a matter of national security."
"Regrettably," the former first lady added with a mocking smile, "they must now eliminate you, too."
* * *
Dex Malloy looked at the vacant desk and then at his watch. It wasn't like Blair to be late without phoning in. He had called both her home and her cell phone, but there was no answer at either number. As morning turned to afternoon with no word from his reporter, the editor began to fear the worst.
When he looked through Blair's desk, he found her notes on the Harris-Viera story, the newspaper article on Annalise Viera's death and the snapshot of President Harris and his young girlfriend. He took the file into his office, away from the watchful eyes of the Tattler's reporters and copy readers, and ran the documents through his paper shredder.
Tears came to his eyes as he remembered Blair's infectious smile and her youthful exuberance. With difficulty, he got his emotions under control. He dried his eyes and reassigned the tsunami survivors story to another reporter, for his instincts told him he would never see Blair Cummings alive again.
Salem starts every day with a cup of coffee and The National Tattler.
