Murder at the FBI

by Margaret Truman

  Stein said, “What could we know about them, Ross? They’re not FBI. Who are they?”

  “We know some of them,” Chris Saksis said. “They’ve been around a while—the ones in training here, regular contacts who were in the building.”

  “What about the other list?” Perone asked.

  “FBI personnel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Forget it,” Lizenby said. “Right now Gormley wants suspects who aren’t bureau people. Let’s not complicate this more than we have to.”

  Stein leaned back and did an isometric exercise with his hands. “I assume we’re cross-checking names with .22 pistol permits.”

  Lizenby looked at Saksis. “We’ll get to that as soon as we have the names and backgrounds coded,” she said. “There’s also a list of people on the sign-in sheets who came here that day to see George. That’s probably the best place to start building a list for Gormley.”

  “What about his family?” Stein asked. “He was married, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” said Lizenby. “Her name’s Helen. She lives out in Arlington with their daughter.”

  “Who’s talked to her?” Perone asked.

  “I don’t know. Gormley said a team had been sent out as soon as we knew it was George, but I haven’t had any feedback. I thought you might go see her, Chris.”

  “All right.”

  Lizenby stood and stretched. “Dr. Okawa’s working with Forensics on further studies of the body. Again, let me stress that no one is to discuss this with anyone outside this special unit. No excuses, no reasons for breaking the blackout. Let’s meet here at eight Monday morning.”

  Saksis followed Lizenby into the reception area, where the TV was now alive with a sit-com. Lizenby snapped it off.

  “You going home?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll go see Helen Pritchard first thing Monday.”

  “Good. I’d tell you what I know about his personal life, but I’d rather you start clean. Fill me in when you get back.”

  “Sure. Ross, I talked to Gormley about getting off this.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said what you said he’d say, that he’s not interested in my personal needs.”

  Lizenby smiled. He stepped close and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t sweat it. It’ll all work—be over before we know it.” He felt a sudden rush of desire. “Want to come over?” he asked.

  “No, not tonight. I’m beat, have all sorts of things to do, starting with paying my bills.”

  “I’ll see you Monday then.”

  ***

  Ross Lizenby checked in with the Office of Congressional and Public Affairs on his way out of the building. “Any new guidelines from Assistant Director Gormley?” he asked the special agent on duty.

  “Nope. All press inquiries are on hold until further notice.”

  “They don’t buy the accident story, do they?”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure. It’s the Federal Bureau of Investigation talking. Take it easy.”

  He drove his car, a new silver-blue Toyota Supra, to a telephone booth on a corner in Georgetown. A woman answered. “This is Mr. Adler,” he said. “I’d like to make an appointment.”

  “When?”

  “I’m not far away. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “All right.”

  He parked in a fashionable area of Georgetown and climbed a set of steps to an ornate door. A buzzer and a speaker talk-box was set to one side. After buzzing, a woman’s voice crackled through the box.

  “Mr. Adler,” Lizenby said. “I made an appointment.”

  There was a loud buzz, which unlocked the door. He pushed it open and stepped into a hallway. The floor was covered with expensive red Oriental rugs. The walls were stark white; prints of naked women from another era engaged in exotic sexual situations were handsomely framed.

  He walked to the end of the hall and turned right into a parlor decorated and furnished out of the Victorian period. Three girls in revealing negligees, none older than sixteen, sat on a red velvet couch. A heavy mulatto woman dressed in a flowing royal blue caftan said, “Ah, Mr. Adler, how nice to see you again. The choice is yours.” She indicated the three young women with a sweep of her hand.

  “I’d like a drink,” Lizenby said.

  “Of course. Do I remember right? Scotch—a splash of soda?”

  “Yeah, you remember right,” he said, sitting in a Belter Chair upholstered in a heavy flowered purple fabric. “And no more than a splash.”

  6

  Chris Saksis called Helen Pritchard at eight o’clock Monday morning and was met with the widow’s icy-cold voice: “Why bother asking if you can see me? You’ve already made me a prisoner here.”

  Saksis arrived at the Pritchard condominium in Arlington, Virginia, at nine. A few press people were hanging around the front of the building. She rode the elevator to the penthouse and knocked. Another female special agent, who’d been assigned to stay over at the condo, opened the door. Her name was Pat Busch; she’d graduated from the FBI academy at Quantico with Saksis.

  They exchanged greetings and went inside. The penthouse was big; the living room was easily twenty by forty feet. Glass doors led to a terrace that overlooked the Potomac. The furniture was modern and expensive, with lots of chrome, steel, and leather; the carpeting was thick. Saksis wasn’t an art expert, but the large oils and pastels on the walls looked very valuable to her.

  A miniature gray poodle with a big red bow around its neck trotted into the room, yapped at Saksis, sniffed around her feet, and sat up. Saksis bent over to pet the dog and heard Helen Pritchard’s voice: “Her name’s Billie. Don’t get too friendly. She’ll pee all over you.”

  Saksis straightened up and smiled. She approached Helen Pritchard and extended her hand. “I’m Christine Saksis. I called.”

  “I know you did. Now there are two of you. There was an army yesterday.” She walked past Saksis to a table where a silver coffee service was set up. “Coffee?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  Helen Pritchard poured herself a cup and sat in a leather-and-chrome director’s chair near the sliding glass doors. She wore a bright yellow dressing gown trimmed with white lace, and sandals. Blond hair hung loose around a thin but pretty face. She looked to Saksis like a woman who was fanatic about her appearance, constantly dieting and exercising, but not living a particularly healthy life. That was confirmed when she lit a cigarette. It wouldn’t have surprised Saksis if there were brandy in the coffee. Helen Pritchard talked in a whiskey-nicotine voice.

  Saksis sat in a matching chair across the table. “This must be very difficult for you, Mrs. Pritchard,” she said.

  “Not any more difficult than when he was alive. What I can’t stand is having bureau people here day and night. It’s a joke.” Her laugh was forced. “What are you afraid of, that I’ll say something nasty about your precious FBI?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything, Mrs. Pritchard. I’m here because I’m part of a special investigatory unit dealing with your husband’s death.” She looked over at Pat Busch, who’d chosen a chair in a far corner. “Pat, could I have a few minutes alone with Mrs. Pritchard?”

  “Sure. Is the kitchen okay or—”

  “The kitchen’s fine. Thanks.” She wasn’t comfortable dismissing another special agent, but she remembered Lizenby’s order that no one outside of Ranger was to know anything.

  “Well, Mrs. Pritchard, I might as well start big and go from there. Any idea who might have killed your husband?”

  Helen Pritchard laughed, then coughed. “I was hoping you’d ask who might have wanted to kill him. Then my line would have been, ‘Everybody, including me.’”

  “I see. But let’s deal with my question.”

  “No idea. Besides, it was an accident. I watch TV.”

  “It probably was.”

  Another laugh. “That’s bureau PR, my dear. You know, my
deceased husband mentioned you once. He talked about the squaw around headquarters.”

  “Did he?”

  “Actually, he didn’t call you a squaw. That’s me talking. I think he called you an Indian goddess who had every guy in the bureau tripping over his own feet.”

  “That’s flattering. An Indian I am, a goddess I’m not.”

  “Apache?”

  “Passamaquoddy.”

  “I’ve never heard of that. I only know Apache and Navajo.”

  “It’s a tribe from Maine. Let me ask you about your husband’s activities the day of his death. What time did he leave the house that morning?”

  “Eight, but not that morning. He hadn’t been home in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Maybe four. He seldom slept here.”

  “You were—”

  “Estranged? That’s a kind word. The fact is we hated each other and saw as little of one another as possible.”

  “Were you separated? Legally, I mean.”

  “No. We just went our own ways.”

  Saksis nodded, then said, “You have a daughter.”

  “Right. I’m impressed with your investigatory prowess.”

  Saksis stifled a reaction. “Her name?”

  “Beth. Elizabeth. Named after her father’s sister.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Sixteen, and never been kissed. Sure you don’t want coffee?”

  “I’d love some.”

  “Help yourself.”

  Saksis poured a cup. “Where is your daughter?”

  “Sleeping, a teenage disease.”

  “Would she know anything of her father’s activities the day he was killed?”

  “The day he was murdered?”

  “As you wish.”

  “No. He didn’t spend much time with her, either.” She leaned forward and exaggerated every word. “George Pritchard was a special agent of the FBI, a G-man, an undercover hero who worked day and night to keep America free, and to keep us womenfolk safe at night.”

  Saksis had started taking notes. She lowered her pad and pen and said, “You’re very bitter.”

  “Me?” She laughed. “No, just realistic. Besides, what’s to be bitter about? I chose to marry a servant of J. Edgar Hoover. I made my bed—”

  “Was your husband that dedicated that it ruined your marriage?”

  Helen Pritchard crossed one shapely leg over the other and dangled a sandal from her foot. “It had nothing to do with dedication, Miss—”

  “Saksis.”

  “Nothing at all to do with it. If George was dedicated, it was to living the undercover life with impunity from his family. Think about it. You walk around with unlimited cash in your pocket, you tell your wife you’ll be away for a few months on ‘official business,’ but don’t ask questions. It’s for my country, for my leader. You run with all sorts of women, but God help your wife for questioning it. It’s always official business. Little boys playing cops and robbers and being paid for it.” She saw the tiny smile on Saksis’s face and added, “And little girls, too. Fem lib. You’ve come a long way, baby.”

  Saksis finished her coffee and placed the cup and saucer on the table. She looked directly at Helen Pritchard and said, “There’s nothing you can tell me that might help the investigation?”

  Helen Pritchard shook her head. “Nope, nothing. You want a personality profile of George? That I can give you. He was handsome, self-possessed, and never should have married or had a kid. The FBI was his life, not because of some inner spirit, but because it gave him the freedom to chase broads and to stay away from this one. Add to that his growing paranoia over the past few years and you have a picture of a thoroughly despicable man.”

  “I’m—I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. There were compensations.” She indicated the room with a sweep of her hand. Saksis noticed the heavy, expensive-looking rings on her fingers. Obviously, money was not a problem.

  Saksis hesitated, then asked, “Was there family money, Mrs. Pritchard?”

  “Family money? No. You’re asking because you’ve gotten the feeling that we lived slightly higher than what an FBI agent brings home.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, that is why I asked.”

  “I used to wonder about it, too, but I stopped asking. George told me years ago that he had ‘business dealings’ on the side. When I asked what they were, he told me to mind my own business. I did.”

  “What about personal effects?”

  “Here? I told you he spent very little time here. What there was, one of your earlier teams took with them.”

  “They did?” Saksis was surprised. If Ranger was to be the only unit investigating the death, it didn’t make sense to have others confiscating potential evidence. She asked the names of the other agents.

  Helen Pritchard shrugged and lit another cigarette. “They all look the same to me. Morris. Norris. One of them had a name like that.”

  “Okay. Could I see the bedroom?”

  “Site of the connubial bed? Sure.” She pointed to a door that led to a hall. Saksis thought she’d accompany her, but Mrs. Pritchard didn’t move. Saksis passed a closed door off the hall that she assumed led to the daughter’s room. At the end of the hall was the master bedroom. It was large, a vast expanse of pink and white. A king-size bed was covered by a spread the color of pink begonias. A frilly white canopy covered it. A dressing table was laden with expensive bottles of perfume and cologne. There were two closets. Saksis opened one of them. It was filled with female clothing. Same for the other closet. It was as though a man had never been there.

  Saksis started toward the living room when the door that previously had been closed opened. Standing there was a teenage girl. Her face was puffy with sleep, and long, mousy brown hair hung in disheveled strands over her face. It was a pretty face, pale and round and pensive, a few freckles on each cheek. She wore a man’s T-shirt that barely reached below her behind.

  “You must be Beth,” Saksis said pleasantly. “I’m Christine Saksis. I’m with the FBI.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened to your father. I didn’t work closely with him, but I knew him.”

  “Uh huh. Is my mother here?”

  “Yes, she’s in the living room.”

  Beth picked up a robe from the floor, put it on and walked past Saksis.

  “Well, sleeping beauty has arisen,” her mother said.

  “I was tired,” said Beth.

  “Of course you were. You can’t sit up all night watching television and not be tired.”

  “Mother, I—do we have to stay here again today?”

  Helen Pritchard looked at Saksis. “Ask her, my dear. She’s big brother.”

  “Actually, I know nothing about the FBI watching your movements,” Saksis said. “I’m not here to do anything but to meet you and ask some questions.”

  “Where’s Ms. Busch?” Beth asked.

  “In the kitchen,” her mother answered.

  Beth left the living room. Saksis sat and said, “I know how painful all this must be for the two of you, Mrs. Pritchard, and I don’t enjoy intruding on personal lives. But, I have to. No matter what circumstances surround your marriage to George Pritchard, he is an FBI agent who’s been murdered.”

  “Oh, now the truth comes out.”

  “That doesn’t represent the truth, Mrs. Pritchard. I just used a word.”

  Helen Pritchard’s laugh was the first indication of any warmth. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I know he was murdered, and so do you. So does everybody else in that ugly building, including the director himself. It’ll all come out as soon as the embarrassment factor has been dealt with.”

  Saksis knew she was right but couldn’t say it. She got up and looked out the window. The heat and humidity hung outside the glass like a dirty, gray wet sheet. It was the one thing she disliked about Washington, the summers. They were so unlike summers in Maine. Suffering a tw
inge of homesickness, she turned away from the window and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Pritchard, for talking to me. Here’s my card. Please call me at any time if you think of something that could help, or if you just—well, just want to talk.”

  “Yeah, thanks. George was right.

  “About what?”

  “About you. You are a splendid-looking creature.”

  Saksis felt awkward. She absently smoothed down the sides of her khaki skirt and said, “Thank you for the compliment. We’ll talk again, I’m sure.”

  Special Agent Pat Busch was in the foyer with Beth. “Pat, could I talk to you for a minute?” Saksis asked.

  “Sure.”

  They left the apartment and walked to the elevators. “What’s the story?” Saksis asked. “Are they under house arrest?”

  Busch shrugged. “All I know is that they’re not supposed to leave or talk to anyone except bureau personnel.”

  “Whose order?”

  “Gormley’s.”

  “For how long?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What other agents have been here?”

  “A dozen, in teams, in and out.”

  “Know any of them?”

  “Sure.” She named a few.

  “What do you think of her?” Saksis asked.

  “Mrs. Pritchard? Tough.”

  “That’s for sure. There wasn’t any love lost between them.”

  “That’s a very kind understatement, Chris. I like the kid, though.”

  “I never really talked to her.”

  “Very quiet but smart. Sweet, too. Interesting the difference in how they viewed George Pritchard. Did you notice there doesn’t seem to be a trace of him anywhere in the house?”

  “Sure.”

  “Beth’s room is different. She’s got every award he ever received, pictures of him all over the place, letters from him. Poor kid, I don’t think this has really sunk in yet. She’s in shock. I feel sorry for her because her mother doesn’t seem to be the comforting type.”

  “That, too, is a kind understatement.”

  7

  As Chris Saksis drove back to the Hoover Building, Ross Lizenby sat in Wayne Gormley’s office with Gormley, Special Agent Charles Nostrand, and a high-ranking representative from the Justice Department, Robert Douglas.