Murder at the FBI

by Margaret Truman

  “I only heard bits and pieces. I do recall Director Shelton giving him a commendation.”

  “Yeah. Funny, but what sticks in my mind is that the terrorists had ties to Paraguay.”

  “They did?”

  “Yup, and George maintained a contact within the group, a Paraguayan. In fact, I think they got together the day he was killed.”

  She sat forward on her chair. “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know it for certain, but I’d bet on it. Just something he said that morning before he went to lunch that made me think he was meeting up with the guy.”

  “Do you have his name?”

  “No. George Pritchard had refined to an art form the concept of keeping it to yourself. Even mentioning that the guy was a Paraguayan was a slip. I did a little research on the group he infiltrated. There’s strong evidence that it’s hooked up with a faction of Paraguay’s national police force that’s dedicated to overthrowing the government down there.”

  “Nariz?”

  “Maybe. What about the others on the list?”

  “Nonbureau types? There aren’t many. I had Barbara run a comparison of the initials and names in Pritchard’s phone book with everyone who was known to have seen him that day.”

  “Anything?”

  “No, except for that set of initials, R.K., which matches up with Raymond Kane, who signed in to see Pritchard at 11:30 that night.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. He listed himself as a consultant. I checked with the guard who was on that night and he remembers that Pritchard had left word to admit Mr. Kane the moment he arrived.”

  Lizenby leaned his head far back and stretched his arms in front of him. “Check out the number in the phone book.”

  “I am. There was no area code, and the exchange isn’t from around here. We’ll try them all tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” He got up and did a series of waist bends. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

  “Going home, soaking in a hot tub, and getting to bed early. I had a tennis game tonight but I canceled.”

  “Maybe you’d feel better if you played.”

  “I doubt it. You?”

  “I need gym time. I’m tight. Want to meet for breakfast?”

  “Sure. Au Pied De Cochon?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  ***

  Chris Saksis decided to jog once she got home. She ran for an hour along Massachusetts Avenue, past the stately mansions of Embassy Row, then back by way of Dumbarton Oaks Park. As she was letting herself in her apartment, the phone started ringing. She ran to it and picked it up. “Hello,” she said.

  “Chris. It’s Bill.”

  “Bill, it’s so good to hear from you.”

  “I wanted to touch base and let you know I’ll be in Washington in a couple of days.”

  “That’s wonderful. Tell me about it.”

  Bill Tse-ay and Chris Saksis had been lovers. His father was an Apache, and had started a national newspaper covering American Indian affairs. When his father died, Bill continued to publish it. He was even more of a crusader for Indian rights than his father had been, and it was his single-mindedness that contributed, in part, to the relationship with Chris ending. Bill had been quietly critical of Chris’s decision to join the FBI. He considered it, in some symbolic way, selling out. She saw it differently, felt that a good way to help her people was to achieve status and influence within the prevailing power structure. There were other factors, of course, that caused them to drift apart, at least romantically, but there remained a strong bond that each of them understood.

  Bill gave her his travel plans and said he’d call the minute he arrived. They started to exchange stories about their current lives but decided to save them for when they were together. He did ask before hanging up whether there was anyone new in her life.

  “I guess not, Bill, although I have met someone who—well, I am interested, but it’s early in the relationship. You?”

  “Afraid not. Once you’ve met a Christine Saksis, everybody else pales, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  They laughed. “I forgive you. Can’t wait to see you.”

  9

  “Bill called last night,” Chris said as she and Ross lingered over a second cup of coffee at Au Pied De Cochon.

  “Bill?”

  “Bill Tse-ay.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s coming to Washington in a couple of days. I’d love you to meet him.”

  Lizenby looked past her to an adjacent table.

  “Ross.”

  He returned his attention to her. “What?”

  “I said I’d like you to meet Bill.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because—because he’s a nice guy and he’s part of my life and—”

  “We’ll see. What are you doing today?”

  “Specifically? Well, I’m running down the phone number for Raymond Kane and following up on some other aspects of the list of people who’d seen Pritchard the day he was killed and—”

  Lizenby waved for a check.

  “Ross, are you angry about something?”

  The waitress brought the check and Lizenby pulled money from his wallet. When the waitress was gone, he stood and said, “Let’s go.”

  She started to ask again whether he was angry, decided to drop it, and walked to her car.

  “This thing is dragging on too long,” he said as she put the key in the lock.

  “What thing?”

  “Pritchard, this whole Ranger crap. The guy wasn’t worth it.”

  She cocked her head and looked at him. “What does that matter?”

  “It matters to me. I want this resolved fast so I can get the hell out of this fiasco called Washington, D.C.”

  She was hurt, but she fought against demonstrating it. “I’ll see you at the office,” she said curtly.

  “Yeah. Let’s have a meeting and shake up the troops.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. Everyone’s doing what they’re supposed to be doing.”

  “Are they? I’m not sure about that.”

  He turned and walked away. He hadn’t bothered to close the door behind her, to kiss her on the cheek, to display anything that might have smacked of caring. She watched him walk, erect and sure, eyes straight ahead. She hoped he’d look back, wave, do something to acknowledge her. He didn’t.

  She felt the sting of tears in her eyes, willed them away, and started the car. It doesn’t matter, she told herself as she joined the flow of traffic on Wisconsin. But then she had to admit that it did. She was in love with him. “Damn it all,” she said as she cut off a cab and made a right turn.

  10

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  An autopsy performed by FBI forensic specialists on the body of deceased Special Agent George L. Pritchard has confirmed that the cause of death was a .22 caliber bullet wound to the heart.

  Numerous other bullet wounds found in the body had been inflicted accidentally after the initial fatal wound.

  Special Agent Pritchard’s assailant has not, as yet, been determined. At the time of death, a number of individuals not employed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation were present in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Strict security measures insure that each of these individuals had some valid and official reason for having been admitted. However, because they are not under direct bureau control, the background of at least one was of a nature to provide a motive for killing Special Agent Pritchard.

  A full-scale investigation is under way to determine the perpetrator and to bring him to justice. The investigation is headed by Special Agent Ross Lizenby, a ten-year veteran of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and a former attorney, who has been directly involved with numerous difficult investigations in the past.

  All inquiries should be directed to the Office of Congressional and Public Affairs. Progress reports will be issued on a regular basis.
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  Chris Saksis scanned the release when she arrived at Ranger, tossed it aside, and concentrated on the name Raymond Kane. The phone number next to the initials R.K. in Pritchard’s phone book did not include an area code.

  She asked Barbara Twain to pull up from the bureau’s central computer a list of cities where the first three digits of the number were used as an exchange. Once she had it she instructed Melissa Edwards, the tour guide and fledgling special agent, to start calling, and to tape-record each call.

  Lizenby spent the morning in his office with the door closed. He emerged at noon, casually mentioned to those within earshot that he was going to lunch, and started to leave.

  “Can I have a contact?” one of the secretaries asked.

  Lizenby shook his head. “I’m not sure yet where I’ll be. I’ll call in.”

  Fifteen minutes later Saksis told the secretary, “I have an appointment at the academy at Quantico.” She laid a neatly typed itinerary on the desk and left.

  As she drove the forty miles south on I–95 she thought about the confusion she’d been experiencing since breakfast. Her instincts about not working so closely with Ross had been right. She should have insisted on being removed from Ranger. She knew, of course, that Gormley would not have changed his mind unless she had admitted the personal relationship with Lizenby. That probably would have done it, but it would also have tainted her in Gormley’s eyes. The bureau was not a place for romance. A lecturer had made that point during her training. “Keep the boy-girl games out of the office,” he’d said. “Keep them far away from the bureau. It can cause potential embarrassment.” To say nothing of personal anguish.

  She drove through rolling woodlands until reaching the entrance to the United States Marine Corps base at Quantico, a sprawling facility that had been the center of all FBI training since June 1972. The facilities constructed on the bureau’s end of the base were ultramodern—two seven-story dormitories, a well-stocked library that also contained the latest in audio and video equipment, cafeterias and a large dining room, indoor and outdoor rifle ranges, a thousand-seat auditorium, a bank, post office, dry cleaner and laundry, and a physical training center all linked together by enclosed walkways.

  Saksis found a parking space near the administration center, turned off the engine, and looked around, recalling vividly her training as a special agent. She’d enjoyed it, found its intensity a stimulating challenge physically and mentally. She’d done well—right up near the top of her class—and she’d nearly burst with pride the day FBI Director R. Bruce Shelton shook her hand in the auditorium and welcomed her to the bureau.

  She’d been back every six months since graduating three years ago, for refresher courses and twice to lecture on FBI jurisdiction over American Indian reservations. She felt she’d found a home at the FBI, a tight-knit community of professionals who were the best in the world at what they did and who exhibited unbridled pride at it. Of course, many within the bureau had become jaded and cynical, which she understood. The bureaucracy could be smothering, and monotony was not unknown. Still, she accepted that. Maybe one day she’d be put off by it. Not now.

  She went to the office of the academy’s director of personnel, Barry Croft, a tall, handsome, gentle man who was like a dean of students to recruits. He could be tough when the occasion demanded it. She remembered a fellow student being summarily dismissed from the program because he’d lost his ID. At least they hadn’t tacked “with prejudice” on his dismissal. There had been a few of those in her class, too, usually for breaking regulations, major or minor, or for failing to match up to bureau “image,” as perceived by any member of the staff. Simply not being a “team player” was enough to do it. J. Edgar Hoover had promised that the FBI would only have the best.

  Croft greeted her warmly and suggested they go to a small briefing room down the hall from his office. “Let’s get away from the phone,” he said.

  Once they were seated in chairs with writing arms, Croft smiled and said, “They put you on a tough one, huh?”

  “They sure did. To be honest, I tried to cancel the assignment, but no dice.”

  “Assistant Director Gormley told me.”

  She was surprised and showed it.

  “He called yesterday and filled me in on things. You’ve got total cooperation from me. Here.” He handed her file folders he’d carried with him. “George Pritchard’s files from here. They go back to his student days and cover his teaching duties as well. He was down here about a week before it happened.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You know, this whole SPOVAC project is hot. The director himself is high on it. We’ve been weaving aspects of it into the curriculum and Pritchard was the one who pretty much handled this end of it.”

  “He was good, wasn’t he?”

  “Pritchard? Yes, damn good. A strange man, as I assume you’ve already gathered.”

  “Strange? I suppose so. He wasn’t especially liked, that’s for certain.”

  Croft laughed. “A charmer he wasn’t. A good agent, though. From what I understand there wasn’t a better undercover man in the field. I remember him holding an impromptu seminar one night on the use of disguises. He was remarkable. He had his own collection of disguises and makeup to rival MGM.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she said, wondering where it was. She certainly hadn’t seen any evidence of it in his home.

  “Yeah, George Pritchard was a piece of work. Shocking what happened. Any leads?”

  “Not a one.”

  “It couldn’t have been a—well, it may sound naive but it couldn’t have been someone from the bureau.”

  “We’re hoping it wasn’t.”

  “Yes, let’s hope not. Had lunch?”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you take a half hour and skim what’s in the folders. I’ll pick you up and we’ll grab something.”

  In the brief time she had, Saksis focused on records of Pritchard’s days as a student. At that time, the academy at Quantico didn’t exist. Training took place in Washington’s Old Post Office Building, in the Justice Department, and at scattered sites around the area. She was surprised to see how the training had changed over the years. In Pritchard’s student days the course material was limited. Every time there was a new technological advance, it was incorporated into the curriculum. Still, some things stayed the same, especially in the areas of firearms and physical conditioning. Pritchard had been good with weapons, not great but respectable. He’d barely managed to pass the fitness requirements, was top of his class in courses dealing with psychology and covert activity, and did well in the investigative techniques program.

  There were negative notes in his file. One had to do with his dress, which the critic felt was not up to bureau standards. Too, he’d been criticized for displaying a tendency to follow an individualistic path at times, and to be too outspoken.

  It all fits, Saksis thought.

  Croft returned and they went to the dining room.

  “Interesting?” Croft asked after they’d been served chef salads.

  “Yes, of course, but I feel guilty peeking into another agent’s file.”

  “Never happens except under these circumstances. He was an interesting guy, Pritchard, a real loner, which got him in occasional trouble. Never seemed to be comfortable on the team.”

  Being in the dining room and eating a chef salad brought back many pleasant memories. It had been her favorite thing on the menu when she was a student. Usually, she ate in the cafeteria, but once a week she’d splurge at a local restaurant. She smiled. “I enjoyed the training,” she said.

  “You must have,” Croft said. “You excelled. I have an idea.”

  “Yes?”

  “We have an instructor here named Joe Carter.”

  “I remember him,” Saksis said. “He taught investigative techniques.”

  “Right. Joe’s one of our best at the academy. He’s almost got his Ph.D. in psychology, really knows his stuf
f. The reason I bring him up is that he was a classmate of Pritchard’s during training. I think Joe is the only one who ever got really close to Pritchard. You might gain some insight from him.”

  “I’d love to talk to him.”

  “I told him you were coming today. He had to be in Washington for a briefing but said he’d be free tonight if you wanted to catch up with him.”

  “I’ll make a point of it.”

  “Good. I’ll get a hold of him. Want to meet at headquarters?”

  Saksis started to say yes, then shook her head. “No, I think it’s better to keep these interviews out of headquarters. Like you said, stay away from the phones.”

  “Got a suggestion?”

  “Depends on what he likes to eat. I’ve been dying for Chinese all week.”

  “I’m sure that will be fine with Joe.”

  “Okay, tell him to meet me at Ted Liu’s, on Twentieth, Northwest.”

  “Good. He said he’d be free by six.”

  “Six it is.”

  Chris stayed at the academy until four going through Pritchard’s files. Then she drove to her apartment, changed into a plain taupe jersey dress, and reached Ted Liu’s at 5:45. Joe Carter arrived at six straight up. They had a drink at the bar, then were ushered to a teal blue banquette where the table was set in pink.

  “I’ve never been here before,” said Carter. “Doesn’t look like a Chinese restaurant.”

  Saksis laughed. “No red dragons here. I like it.”

  They ordered Hunan beef cooked with fresh ginger and pepper, and jumbo shrimp grilled in their shells and served with scallions, cashews, and a spicy tomato sauce.

  “I couldn’t believe it when I heard about George’s death,” Carter said. He was a short, stocky man with a square face and thick fingers, hardly the stereotype of the academician. Chris would have pegged him as an outside investigator, a special agent who hated desks and books and who liked to be where the action was.

  “What’s new on it?” he asked.

  “Nothing, really. We have a special unit set up to investigate—”