THE CASE OF THE ANONYMOUS SOURCE

By

John DeDakis

       The name’s Chadwick. Lark Chadwick.

       I’m a twenty-something young woman, written by a guy who’s neither.

       I’m a freelance investigative reporter in Richmond, Virginia—the cradle of the Confederacy.

       My motto: you name ’em, I’ll nail ’em.

       I was scrolling through my inbox on a slow Tuesday afternoon when an unusual subject line caught my eye: “I need help,” it read.

       I opened the missive and began to read.

       “Meet me at the bar at the voir for some noir,” it began. “I’ve got something for you that’ll make Watergate look like a two-bit break-in.”

       Hooked, I followed the writer’s instructions.

       When I got there, I paused at the door and looked around. The bar at the voir was populated by a vast array of suspicious people, any one of whom could have been my quarry. Just who could this mystery source could be?

       In a darkened corner, a man stood, looked my way, and pointed. At me.

       I pointed at myself, just to be sure. “Me?” I mouthed.

       He nodded curtly and motioned dramatically for me to join him.

       I took a seat, my back to the entrance—a rookie move, I know. Wild Bill Hickock would never make a mistake like that.

       “So, what’ll it be?” he asked.

       “I’ll start with water,” I said. “You’ll need to convince me it’s worth my time to stay.”

       “Suit yourself,” the guy shrugged.

       “You seem to know me, but I don’t know you,” I said.

       “Call me Arty.”

       “Call you? You mean Arty’s not your real name?”

       “Arty.” A simple declaration.

       “Fine. Arty. What have you got for me that’s bigger than Watergate?”

       “Let’s go slow, Lark. Get to know each other.”

       “You already seem to know me. Who are you?”

       “A friend of a friend.”

       “Care to be more specific?”

       He smiled, Cheshire-cat-like, and shook his head.

       My water arrived. Arty was nursing something amber—and neat.

       I took a sip and sucked on an ice chip. “Look, Arty. If you want to get to know each other, you’re doing a piss-poor job of coming through for me.”

       Another shrug.

       “I don’t need this shit.” I stood. “It’s been great. Arty. See ya around.”

       “I know who killed JFK,” he blurted before I could escape.

       I looked down at him and took his measure. He was grizzled, early eighties. He would have been a young man on November 22, 1963, the day Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas. Conspiracy theories had begun to sprout before the ink was dry on the Warren Report, and I’d heard ’em all. Yet I was intrigued.

       In spite of myself, I sat back down. And sighed. “All right. I’ll bite, Arty. Who. Killed. Kennedy?”

       He looked around to see if anyone was listening. Satisfied, he leaned toward me and whispered, “I did.”

       I let out an involuntary snort. “Yeah. Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

       “No. Really. And I can prove it.”

       “But why? Why’s it so important to come clean now after so many years? There’s no statute of limitations on murder, ya know.”

       “I need to get it off my chest. It’s been gnawing away at my guts for sixty years.”

       “Why tell me?”

       “I’ve followed your career. I can trust you.”

       “Trust me to what?”

       “Keep my secret.”

       “Keep your—what are you talking about?”

       “I want you to tell my story, but keep my name out of it.”

       “Uh huh . . . .”

       He took a sip of his amber concoction and sat back, considering a new tack.

Meanwhile, I flagged down our waiter and pointed at Arty. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

       In the silence, I considered my options—and Arty. Who is this guy? Why’s he talking to me? What’s his angle? Did he really kill JFK?  Is it even possible? And, if he did, why? So many questions, so few answers. He looked normal enough, even harmless, like my grampa.

       The waiter returned with my own amber libation. When I sampled it, it burned the back of my throat. I’m a red-wine girl. Whatever this was, it would never do.

       “So, lemme get this straight.” I paused dramatically. “Arty.”

       He lifted his glass, toasted me, and downed what was left in a single gulp.

       I continued: “You want to come clean, confess to the murder of the last century, but continue to hide anonymously in the shadows. Have I got that right?”

       He nodded. “You’re good.”

       I shook my head. “Arty. It doesn’t work like that. No editor would ever let me get away with this. I’d be laughed out of a job and the profession.”

       “What if I told you I have photographic evidence?”

       I squinted at him, skeptical. “Of you shooting the president?”

       He nodded and reached into the inside breast pocket of his navy-blue sport coat. “I’ve got it right here.” He held up his cell phone and waved it.

       I gave him my best I-don’t-believe-this-shit side-eye.

       “I’ll show ya.” He cupped the phone in his two hands, then dabbed at the screen. “Ah. Here it is.” He tapped it, then turned it so I could see.

       I’ve studied the famous Zapruder film of the assassination for hours. This was not that. It was way better, not jerky and grainy.  The vantage point was to the right of where Abraham Zapruder had stood on a concrete balustrade in Dealey Plaza. I was looking through the scope of the gunman behind the stockade fence on the so-called grassy knoll, Kennedy’s head literally in the crosshairs.

       Mesmerized, I watched as the bullet caught Kennedy in front of his right ear and propelled his head back and to the left rear of the presidential limousine.

       I glanced up to look at Arty. He wore an expression of . . . pride.

       “C’mon, man,” I said. “This is too good to be true.”

       Arty’s face darkened. “You doubt me?”

       “How do I know you even recorded this, that you were the triggerman?”

       He snatched the phone from my grasp as if I were no longer worthy of it. “You will tell my story.” He clenched his teeth and repocketed his phone, but when he brought his hand into view again it was holding a snub-nosed revolver, like the kind Jack Ruby used to silence Lee Harvey Oswald. “You will tell my story,” Arty repeated.

       So, dear reader (or listener) that’s what I’m doing now. But I’ve got to level with ya. The so-called “photographic evidence” is a deepfake. And “Arty” is good ole Arty-ficial Intelligence. Now, I’ve gotta get outta here before he shoots. 

John DeDakis is a former editor on CNN''s "The Situation Room with Wolf Blitzer." DeDakis is the author of six novels in the Lark Chadwick mystery-suspense-thriller series. A former White House correspondent, DeDakis is also a writing coach, manuscript editor, and podcaster.  Originally from La Crosse, Wisconsin, DeDakis now lives in Baltimore, Maryland with Cindy, his wife of 46 years.

Website: www.johndedakis.com