News With sickening familiarity there was the same fell scene all over again—the crack of the gun, the crumpling body, the screams, the kaleidoscopic pandemonium, a voice that cried, “Get a doctor! Get a doctor!” and another that wailed in anguish, “Jesus Christ! Oh, Jesus Christ!” and then trailed off in a series of broken sobs. Thus in Los Angeles was Robert Kennedy cut down by a bullet in the brain, the third great U.S. leader to die at the hand of an assassin in less than five years. And there was in Kennedy’s death a chilling completeness—a fulfillment he himself seemed to understand and even to expect. Beneath all the wealth and Camelot glamour, the Kennedy family record was a catalogue of ill fortune: the violent deaths of Joe Jr., Kathleen, and finally Jack; the sister born hopelessly retarded, the stroke that lamed and silenced patriarch Joe Sr., the plane crash that nearly dispatched Ted. John Kennedy’s death particularly seemed to haunt Bobby, even as he set out to re-create his slain brother’s career as senator and then President. It made him even more the fatalist, reckless of the risks of climbing mountains or running rapids—or plunging into the… Read full this story
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