Camelot Descending

By Douglas Constant

: It is the summer of 1960. A Hollywood party girl has been murdered, her body dumped in the desert outside of Los Angeles. But this is no ordinary party girl. This girl has connections. Connections to people like Frank Sinatra and Sam “Mo Mo” Giancana. The last person to see her alive may have been John F. Kennedy, the future president of the United States. A murder has been committed, and J. Edgar Hoover sends in his personal attack dog Dave Bannick to solve the crime and ensure justice. But does anybody want the crime solved?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796057287

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I’d been following the congressman for over a month before I got what I needed. I had his phone tapped too, but up until then I’d come up with nothing.

Just a lot of mushy blubbering over the phone and endless apologizing that he was unable to see her because his wife was sick with the flu or that he had a crucial vote that night or that one of the committee meetings had run late again.

This went on for an entire month, until finally he found room in his busy schedule to service her raging libido. I was listening to the whole thing on the tap. He told her that his schedule was free for the entire afternoon and that she should come to his apartment building—it was only five blocks from the capital building—and she should show up promptly at one o’clock.

I was listening to the whole conversation in the apartment right next door to the congressman’s apartment. I had rented it right after I tapped his phone. Then I moved in and made myself comfortable—as comfortable as I could be in such temporary quarters. I logged all of the congressman’s phone calls, both incoming and outgoing. I also logged in all of his visitors, and I paid careful attention to the congressman’s comings and goings, what time he left in the morning and what time he got home at night. When I was good and sure that I wouldn’t be interrupted, and when I was sure that the congressman was gone for the day, off doing the people’s business, I slipped into his apartment and planted the bug.

Getting into his apartment was easy enough. I’d done my fair share of black-bag jobs. It was the middle of the morning, and most of the people in that particular complex were government employees. They had all gone off to work by then, and the building was almost vacant. I slipped out into the hallway. Convinced that the coast was clear, I stepped up to the congressman’s door and picked the lock. I was in in less than fifteen seconds. That was the easy part. The hard part was planting the bug.

Listening devices today are incredibly small, extremely powerful, and incredibly reliable. You can plant a bug today and never have to worry about anybody finding it. And you don’t have to worry about the battery running out on you, or the damn thing just up and dying on you. But the listening devices of that time—we’re talking 1960 here—were big and bulky and extremely unreliable. You had to find a good place to hide the damn thing where the target couldn’t find it, and at the same time you had to have good enough reception to actually hear what was going on.

I looked around the whole apartment before I decided to put it under the end table next to the sofa in the living room. It probably wasn’t the best place to put it. If for some reason the end table was knocked over, the bug probably would have been discovered. But I wasn’t planning on leaving the bug there that long. As soon as I got what I needed, I’d sneak back in and remove the bug. It would be up to the director if he wanted to leave the phone tap on.

So on the appointed day, at exactly one o’clock in the afternoon, I was at my post—the parking garage below the apartment building. I was in my car, slouched down low, out of sight, when she pulled up and got out of her car. The congressman was there waiting for her. He was obviously glad to see her, and she, likewise. The congressman had stepped up to her as soon as she slammed the car door shut. He took her in an embrace and they kissed passionately. I thought she would choke, he had his tongue so far down her throat. His hands roamed up and down her body, finally clutching her ass with both hands and all ten fingers. I had my trusty Nikon out and was snapping away the whole time. Click, click, click.

She was a lobbyist for the national teacher’s union. She was also married with two children at home. The congressman was also married with two children of his own, both grown up with lives of their own. The congressman’s wife was back home in the Midwest, far away from Washington DC and politics, the two things she seemed to despise the most in life.

After the preliminaries in the parking garage, the two illicit lovers moved upstairs to the congressman’s apartment where the main event took place.

I followed them up and was listening to the whole thing next door. The reception on the bug was as clear as a bell. They started on the sofa, and of course the reception there was first-rate. I could hear them ripping off each other’s clothes and then a lot of thrashing and moaning. Then I heard them get off the sofa and move into the bedroom. But the sound quality from the bedroom was still pretty good. They must have left the bedroom door open. I could hear more thrashing and moaning, and the sound of bedsprings squeaking; and then after that, the woman wailing like a banshee. The congressman was a good twenty years older than his young paramour, but he fucked like Errol Flynn wired up on speed. He humped her for a good half hour, and then there was nothing but a lot of heavy breathing, like a couple of long-distance runners who had just staggered across the finish line.

I had all that I needed by that time: the pictures, the phone calls, and a first-rate recording of some world-class fucking. It was more than enough. But still, you could always get more. All you had to do was be patient. So I decided to sit tight and wait it out. You never know what else may come your way. And besides, I didn’t have much else to do. As soon as I was done with this assignment, I’d probably be back to chasing car boosters or maybe teaching another class at the Academy.

A week after their tryst at the congressman’s apartment, the two illicit lovers met again, this time at the woman’s house in Falls Church. Her husband was out of town on business—he worked for the Department of Agriculture—and she found a babysitter for the kids, and she was dying to see him again.

I followed him out there, as I had been following him almost everywhere for the past five weeks. Everywhere except the Capitol Building itself. I figured he couldn’t get into any trouble at the Capitol.

I parked a block down from the woman’s house and watched the congressman as he walked up the front steps and up to the front door. She opened the front door and was waiting for him there. They shared another kiss in the doorway. I got my Nikon out and snapped another picture. Then they stepped inside the house and shut the door behind them.

I settled in and waited. Except I didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for. I never bothered to bug the woman’s house. There didn’t seem to be any need to. I already knew what they were doing in there. I had plenty of tape of them at the congressman’s apartment a week before. There is such a thing as too much surveillance.

So I sat back and watched the sun go down. The red rays of the dying sun spilled through aqua leaves on the trees, and the shadows from the branches of the trees seemed to bounce along the pavement in the soft breeze.

Day turned into night. Shadows from the sunlight turned into shadows from the streetlights up and down the streets. All of the lights went off in the house, except the light in the bedroom. Then the lights in the bedroom went off too. I waited. Then I yawned and yawned again. I was fighting off sleep. There didn’t seem to be much point in waiting anymore. I sat up in my seat and put my fingers on the key in the ignition and prepared to start it up and go home. But then a car pulled up behind me. Its headlights lit up my car like a spotlight in a dingy Las Vegas nightclub. The reflection of the light in my rearview mirror blinded me for a second. The car passed me by and meandered down the street. I watched it go. The car pulled into the driveway of the woman’s house. I laughed out loud. It was the woman’s husband. He had come home early from his business trip.

I started my car, pulled away from the curb and took the first left that I came to. Then I took another quick right. I was in a dirt alley that ran right behind the woman’s house. A tall wooden fence surrounded the woman’s yard. I stopped suddenly at the end of the alley, and with the motor still idling, I waited for the inevitable. No more than five seconds later, a United States congressman came vaulting over the fence. He was carrying his clothes in his hands. At the top of the fence, he lost his balance and came tumbling down in a heap. But he didn’t stay down for long. He was back on his feet in a flash, and in a dash that would have made Jesse Owens proud, he was tearing down the ally. He was in a full gallop, running away from me. His elbows were flapping away from his body like a beheaded chicken, and his butt cheeks were churning up and down like two plastic bags filled with butter.

I was laughing like hell the whole time, but that didn’t stop me from capturing the whole thing for posterity on film. Click, click, click.

After the congressman faded out of eyesight and camera sight, I backed my car slowly out of the alley and headed back to the city. I drove past the Jefferson Memorial and then down Pennsylvania Avenue. It was fully dark by then, and the blue floodlights on the front lawn lit up the grand old building in a soft blue brilliance befitting its stature. As corny as it sounds, I never get tired of looking at the White House. It is a symbol of everything that is good about our country.

The current occupant of the building was a golf-playing former military man named Dwight D. Eisenhower. I had served under Ike during the war, but then again, I guess just about everybody served under Ike during the war. In any event, Ike’s term as president of the United States was coming to an end in seven months, and then we’d have a new president. It would be either the dowdy, dour Richard M. Nixon, the current vice president; or John F. Kennedy, the handsome young senator from Massachusetts.

As strange as it may seem, after considering what I had been up to the past five weeks, I’d really like to think of myself as apolitical. I probably wasn’t even going to vote in the election in the fall. It was all part of the life, I guess. You could get down and roll around in the slimy muck of politics; you just couldn’t choose sides, that’s all.

I rolled down Pennsylvania Avenue. I drove past the Justice Department building at the corner of ninth and Pennsylvania. I looked up at the fifth floor, at the very center of the building. The window was dark, the office empty. The director had gone home. J. Edgar Hoover, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was home in bed. Soon I would be too. It was a helluva way to make a living, I thought to myself, as I drove through the quiet streets of the capital city. I’d just spent five weeks following, photographing, and listening to the most intimate moments and failings of a United States congressman. It sure was a strange way to make a living. Especially when you’re a special agent of the FBI.

CHAPTER 2

I spent the next day writing up my official report, summarizing everything that I’d heard and seen in the past five weeks into a neat short one-page memo that would likely end up in the director’s personal files. When I finished writing my report, I put it in a plain manila envelope, stamped it Personal and Confidential, and sealed it shut. Then I hand carried it over to the Justice Department building and handed it over to the director’s personal secretary, Helen Gandy.

Something for the Director, I said, handing the envelope to Helen.

Thank you, she said with a smile. I’ll see to it that he gets it.

She took the envelope and quickly put it in the top drawer of her desk. The smile quickly disappeared from her face. I didn’t hang around there at all. I glanced at the big wooden door that led to the director’s office. It was imposing and shut tight. I turned on my heels and got the hell out of there. If the director had caught me hanging around there, shooting the breeze with Helen, hell itself would descend upon me.

At that time I was officially assigned to the DC field office, just a few blocks down from the Justice Department building. I had a desk there, with a phone, and that’s where I went after I’d wrapped up my surveillance of the congressman. I didn’t have much to do there. It was more or less a cover for the other, more sensitive matters that I performed for the director.

I went back to my official post and shuffled papers and swatted flies for a couple of days. But mainly, I waited. Waited for the call from up high. The call that I knew was inevitable. Then the call came. It was Helen Gandy.

Special Agent Bannick, she said in that authoritative voice of hers.

Yes, I replied.

Stand by for the Director.

A second of silence passed, and then a click, and then I heard the unmistakable voice of J. Edgar Hoover on the line.

Hello, Dave, Hoover said, in that high-pitched staccato cadence of his.

Hello, sir, I said.

This is some report on the congressman you gave me.

Yes, sir, I said. The congressman has been busy on his off hours.

He certainly has. Do you have it all?

Yes, sir. Audio tape and photographs.

All good quality?

Yes, sir. Very good. There’s no mistaking that it’s the congressman.

Good. Then I think it’s time to break the bad news to the congressman.

Yes, sir.

Do it as soon as possible. And make sure the entire file makes it to Helen’s desk as soon as it’s finished.

Yes, sir. Very well, sir.

Good work, Dave.

Thank you, sir, I said. And then the phone went dead.

I knew exactly what to do after that. I’d done it several times before. I phoned the congressman’s office over at the Capitol and identified myself as a special agent of the FBI. I made an appointment to see the congressman the next morning. His secretary was quick and helpful about the whole thing. She had been in Washington long enough to know that when the FBI requested a meeting, you’d better be as accommodating as possible. Such was the fear that the FBI could instill in a five-term congressman in 1960.

The next morning, I gathered up everything that would go into the official file and drove over to the Capitol Building. A gloomy rain was falling, and the sidewalks were almost empty of people, except for a few hardy souls clutching umbrellas and walking briskly through the rain here and there.

It is truly a miserable morning, I thought to myself. And things weren’t likely to get any better for the congressman.

I was ushered quickly into the congressman’s office and he came out from behind his desk with his hand outstretched to greet me.

We shook hands. He had a good, firm handshake. He was smiling the whole time he was shaking my hand.

So what can I do for the FBI? he said, sitting down in his chair back behind his desk.

I took a seat in a chair off to his right and said, Well, sir, it has come to the attention of the FBI that someone may be trying to blackmail you.

Blackmail me, the congressman said, the smile disappearing from his face. Who would want to blackmail me?

We don’t know for sure, I said. But some photographs of a very damaging nature have come into our possession.

A small bead of sweat started to form on his upper lip, and his hands started to tremble slightly.

What kind of photographs? he asked.

I took the pictures out of my briefcase sitting next to me and handed the photos to the congressman. They were the same photographs that I took of him while he was making his escape from his mistress’s home. They were some of my best work, actually. You could make out the congressman’s face perfectly as he was climbing over the fence, holding his clothes in one hand and his dick in the other. It was quite a comical sight. Except the congressman didn’t think it was funny at all.

Where did you get these? he asked, staring down at the pictures.

I’m not at liberty to say. It would compromise certain confidential sources. But we have other materials in our possession that depict you in a compromising way with the young lady, who lives at the address where those pictures were taken.

The congressman looked as though he were going to faint straight away. He had gone completely white by then, and his hands shook violently. Small torrents of sweat were flowing freely down his face in small rivers.

Oh my god! he muttered.

The Director of the FBI wants me to inform you personally that the FBI will do everything in its power to prevent any possible blackmail of you or your family, and we will do everything possible to arrest anyone who may try.

The congressman sat up in his chair and wiped the sweat off his face with a handkerchief. Well, you tell Mr. Hoover that I appreciate that, and that I’m glad that he brought this whole thing to my attention.

I stood up. Congressman, I said, the Director also wants you to know that anything that comes into the FBI’s possession regarding you and your relationship with this young lady will be kept strictly confidential, and that you have the Director’s assurance that no one outside the FBI will ever know about it.

That didn’t seem to help any. The congressman hung his head and began to breathe in long gasps, but then he recovered a little, looked up at me with a pale face and puffy, sad eyes and said, You can tell Mr. Hoover that I understand.

Yes, sir, I said.

And without another word I left his office. I closed the door silently behind me, and I didn’t look back.

I drove back through the rain to my desk in the DC field office. Once there, I shuffled some more papers. But I was just passing the time. Finally I gave up altogether and went out and had an early lunch at a small bistro a few blocks from my apartment in Georgetown. I had a ham sandwich and a Coke.

Blackmail, I thought to myself as I ate the sandwich. The only case of blackmail being committed against the congressman was by J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI. The whole thing was a scam, and the congressman knew it. My little visit to the congressman that morning was Hoover’s way of informing the unfortunate lawmaker that Hoover had goods on him. It was Hoover’s way of telling the congressman that he knew all about the affair the congressman was having, and that in the future, whenever a vote came up in Congress that would or could possibly benefit the FBI, that Hoover knew he could always count on the unwavering support of the congressman. The congressman, an important member of the Appropriations Committee, knew the score too. From that time on, he would be in Hoover’s pocket, voting in favor of the FBI on every single matter that came up in front of him.

By 1960, J. Edgar Hoover already had spent more than thirty years as the director of the FBI, and he had spent a good deal of that time using the FBI’s publicity machine to create the myth of the FBI as an infallible law enforcement agency dedicated to enforcing federal law and upholding and protecting the Constitution. I wonder what people would say if they knew that the nation’s premiere law enforcement agency was spying on its own citizens. That every day, it corrupted the very laws and principles that it had been created to protect. It was engaging in blackmail, political subterfuge, and was keeping lengthy and detailed files on innocent citizens that delved into their most private and personal lives. Citizens who had committed no crime other than to fall