ONE

In the late hours of August 4, 1962, two phone calls emanated from the same home in Brentwood, Los Angeles. Six hours later, the home was a death scene and the site of not reported child abduction. No charges were ever laid. And no arrests made. Some claim, there was never any real investigation. To this day speculation remains.

Each call attracted immediate response. In the first, a mother pleaded for her baby son. In the second, the same caller threatened to blackmail the child's father, the President of the United States.

The recipient of the first call, an elderly lady in her seventies, widely respected and known for her Christian beliefs and charitable causes, promised and delivered support. Within twenty-four hours the matriarch established a quarter million-dollar trust fund for the grandson she'd never meet.

The second call sparked massive panic. On taking the call, the Attorney General, the President's brother feared the consequences of such a disclosure. It could destroy his brother. And even worse, bring an end to his dreams of Presidential ascendancy.

Protection of the President assumed priority. The threat must be silenced. How could that be accomplished? The man, who'd taken the hysterical actress's call, phoned Massachusetts. His father would know what to do, and more importantly, who could do it.

Within twenty-four minutes, the patriarch advised his son: "Everything's fixed. She'll cause no more problems. Just tell your brother this is the last time. Negotiating with these pricks comes at a heavy cost. We can't afford to allow them to own the President." The old man hesitated. His voice quivered. There was more than concern. The listener thought he detected fear, unprecedented fear.

"If this keeps up, one day your brother may find himself at the wrong end of one of their bullets. And who knows who'll get the blame for that?"

**

One witness to the events of that August Sunday remained alive, Veronica Waters. Now in her mid-seventies, and diagnosed with cancer, she knew her time for confession was dwindling. It was now, or never. She owed it to the actress. She owed it to the world. And most of all, she owed it to the baby boy. Her boy, Veronica's mind swept back more than five decades.

**

Veronica's memories remained as vivid today as on the day of the event, August 2, 1962. Veronica had assisted a doctor in the delivery of a healthy baby. The obstetrician pronounced both mother and child in excellent health.

Forty-eight hours later, Veronica watched another doctor, one she didn't know as he focused his attention on the child's mother. He announced his task was straight forward. The woman was out of control. She had to be sedated. Veronica interpreted his intent. This doctor wasn't talking temporary solution. He was referring to absolute finality. Survival wasn't an option. The truth could never be told. A lie was contrived. It would be told and retold time and again. And sadly, it would, for the most part be believed.

Several days later, Veronica read the coroner's interim report. Her anger exploded. It was no barbiturate overdose. Who was peddling these lies? Who were they protecting? She believed she knew. There was no mention of the baby. She knew why.

That recollection eased her conscience. Veronica remembered the words of the doctor who'd administered the needle. 'The child will not survive the week.' She also remembered the abduction, her brother and the rescue action they mounted. And the little boy they named Carl Lindsay.

**

Her thoughts swept back to the actress. She didn't suicide. She was murdered. Veronica knew. She was there. She recognised the names of the three drugs listed on the glass vial she later extracted from the bedroom waste basket. Veronica had since learned it was the same combination of drugs being considered for use in death penalty executions. Veronica now understood. It wasn't murder. It was a cold-blooded assassination.

Who had authorised it? That was only part of Veronica's dilemma. Who would listen to the claims of a dying woman? Probably no one she realistically surmised. But it was truth and it needed to be told. History needed correction.

Veronica remembered. She closed her eyes and retreated fifty years. Still she could picture the doctor inserting the syringe into the sealed glass vial. She watched it fill with its lethal concoction. Seconds later she saw the needle penetrate Marilyn's skin. The image of the beautiful woman's spasms haunted her every day. Some memories were beyond erasing.

**

1962

A sense of decency forced Veronica's response. She reached her decision. It was irrational, even criminal, but she couldn't sit idly knowing her inaction led to a baby's death. No child deserved to die for the sins of their parents. She made one phone call. It found her brother, Richard, just two days out of prison.

Veronica arranged a meeting with Richard. She pleaded for his assistance. She couldn't do this on her own. And it had to be with a partner she trusted. She could think of no one else. Together they could take the child and raise him as their own. Alone she lacked the courage, the capability and the commitment.

The memory of the doctor's words drove Veronica on. She'd overheard the doctor mention the baby's hidden location and his boast. The child will not survive the week. With or without Richard, she would act. She'd not allow this child to die. Her plan was simple. Grab the baby and disappear. End of story.

Richard offered little encouragement. Instead he outlined the problems.

"Sister, do you have any idea of what you're getting us into? Or the consequences we'll face? Kidnapping is a capital offence, punished by life in prison, or the chair."

"But we're saving the child's life, Richard. We're the good guys here," Veronica argued.

"Good guys go to prison too, Ronnie. Especially, when their actions challenge the authority and reputations of the boys running Washington, and right now, there's no name bigger than Kennedy." She had told him the entire story in the belief he'd assist.

"And there's no one in greater need than this baby," said Veronica. "If you won't help me, I'll do it by myself."

"It's just a kid, Ron."

"An innocent kid," she exploded. Her brother's attitude infuriated her. Then she saw his smile. He was simply winding her up.

"Asshole."

"If we're going to do this," Richard's opening words suggested commitment yet Veronica sensed conditions were forthcoming. "We do it my way. And there'll be no shortcuts. Do you accept I'm in control?"

"We've only got two days."

**

Dressed in her hospital uniform, Richard's idea, Veronica walked unchallenged into the Orphanage. A nurse was a nurse. And the orphanage staff changed regularly. She located the nursery, and the baby. He was sleeping.

Her plan to run in, pick up the baby and run appealed. But as Richard argued, it lacked logic. Credibility was essential. And that is where Richard excelled. His ideas flowed quickly. They were criminal in intent but creative genius in practice. The suggestion to forge a letter in Hoover's handwriting was brilliant. It utilised Richard's criminal skill. Forgery was his area of expertise. Next, he insisted they search the Orphanage for paperwork pertaining to the child. The more detail they possessed the greater their chance of avoiding detection, arrest and prison.

Where would the documentation be stored? The administration office was the obvious starting point. Located adjacent to the main entrance, it was unlocked and it lay in darkness. Security wasn't a practiced necessity back then. The name Lynsie Sanders was stencilled on the door beneath the title, Matron. Her major flaw became obvious, tidiness rated lower than security. Personal papers lay strewn across her desk. Mid pile, Veronica located the documents she sought.

A sealed envelope sat with the unsigned adoption papers and birth certificate. Veronica picked up the envelope and stepped out into the lighted and empty hospital entry. She sliced opened the sealed envelope with her fingernail. It contained a single folded monogrammed sheet of paper. The name embossed in the stationery stunned the reader. But not as much as the message it conveyed. It provided details of a bank account for a quarter of a million dollars. A bank account made out to the child born on August 2nd in the home in Brentwood. Veronica then saw the signature beneath the account details, the mother of the American President. Veronica told no one of its existence. Not even her brother. He would have demanded his share, as payment. She resealed the envelope, minus its contents. Veronica slid the note into her pocket. She'd see the child received the entitlement promised to him by his paternal grandmother.

She then returned to the office and collected the other documents. Richard offered the thumbs up. Veronica next headed to the nursery, grabbed her baby's medical chart, his bedcoverings and the stuffed bear at his feet. After handing them to Richard, she gathered up the child she'd helped deliver a few days earlier and fled into the night.

In its place, she left the note Richard had prepared. In so doing she employed one of her brother's pet theories. When you bluff, bluff big.

'The child of Miss M's has been placed in protective custody at my instructions. Should you have any queries, contact me directly.' The handwriting was the unmistakeable scrawl of the FBI Director. And his signature, J Edgar sat below the message.