Murder at the FBI

by Margaret Truman

  So much over the years to disillusion me. It takes such faith to continue with enthusiasm when things like this occur. But, should it impact on me to the extent that I give up what I love and believe in? I think not. Still, it makes it difficult, especially when you must work side-by-side each day with the source of it. Then, too, I must question whether this is unique enough to send me fleeing the bureau in search of something less volatile and crushing. Again, the answer is always a resounding NO. The bureau is my life, and despite its occasional (I’m being kind, I suppose) “slips,” it is still an organization to be looked at with pride by every man and woman. It is, after all, nothing more than a gathering of human beings who happen to work in law enforcement, rather than in banks or advertising agencies, the post office or a computer giant. People; the problem is people, but a towering organization that has done so much good should not be brought down by a person or persons. Enough of my rationalization—one last note to myself. Should I ever decide to write the book based upon this inflammatory material I’ve ended up with, this sort of incident must not be part of it. It is, after all, just a person who has created this irony within SPOVAC.

  Chris Saksis scrolled the lines of text on the screen and read Pritchard’s recollection of the genesis of SPOVAC, at least from the perspective of his involvement. He discussed the need for an organization to tackle the increasing number of serial and recreational murders across the country, to codify what information could be gathered on patterns and geographical links, psychological profiles of those who killed serially and for pleasure and programs to combat the increasing phenomenon of such killings.

  He went on page after page, and Saksis began to get bored. Until—

  …at first, when Ross told me of what he’d done, I was incapable of believing it, or him. It was too monumentally horrible to accept, too bizarre, too close to home because of my own daughter for whom I would kill—all too ironic. But then I realized that he was telling the truth, and that his reaction to it was not the horror I felt but one of almost amused IRONY. Which it was, of course, but…

  Chris Saksis’s heart beat fast as she continued reading. According to Pritchard, “Ross” had admitted to having killed a young Indian girl near the reservation in Arizona. It was a mistake, he claimed. He’d met her, taken her for a drive, and an argument had developed. He’d been in Arizona at another SPOVAC conference (Saksis remembered Bill Tse-ay trying to interview him there), had an evening “to kill” (Pritchard’s emphasis), met the girl, drove to a place where he intended to have sex with her, ended up in a fight and…

  She turned away from the screen as the grim details were spelled out paragraph after paragraph, then forced herself to continue reading. At the end, Pritchard made comments about the incident, about his dilemma; report Ross or forget about it? He chose the latter course of action. He went on to say that he’d known of certain sexual proclivities on Ross’s part but ignored them. What a man did in the privacy of his own home was no one’s business, not even the FBI’s. But, said Pritchard, the doubts persisted and would until the day he died.

  The irony of a SPOVAC team member killing a teenage girl and having it appear that the murder was just another in a series of killings in Arizona—I decided it was good that I knew about it because, at least, I wouldn’t be searching for clues to link her death with the others. I believed him. It WAS an accident, but it’s ironic, that’s all. What else can I say?

  Saksis hadn’t been aware that Kneeley had entered the room again and was standing a few feet behind her. The sudden realization made her start.

  “Shocking, isn’t it?” he said. “And ironic, as Pritchard recognized. I think about it a lot, Miss Saksis, that this man Ross, whoever he is, is still functioning as a special agent of the FBI, carrying his weapons and his shield and protecting America.” He laughed. “Actually, I think Pritchard did the right thing by forgetting about it. What was to be gained by sullying the bureau’s reputation? ‘Don’t embarrass the bureau.’ You’ve heard that more times than once, I’m sure.”

  Saksis silently nodded and closed her eyes against tears that were forming.

  “George told me more about the incident. He said one of the reasons he hadn’t reported the confession, if you can call it that—it happened when both of them were quite drunk one night in a bar in California—was that this agent named Ross was good, a real credit to SPOVAC and the bureau. Pragmatism at work. Sometimes it makes my skin crawl but—well, it has its moments, I’m sure.”

  Saksis composed herself before she asked, “Why, Mr. Kneeley? Why show me this thing?”

  He sat on the edge of his desk and played with the chains around his neck. “Because I like you? Perhaps. Because I have this burning need to cleanse my soul of what I know of the house that Hoover built? Absolutely not. Because—because, Miss Saksis, I want you out of here and off my back. I did not kill George Pritchard. We had a business arrangement—”

  “You and his wife had the arrangement, as I understand it.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It certainly could where Pritchard’s murder is concerned.”

  “Why? Are you suspecting his widow, poor thing, bereaved and despondent over the death of her beloved husband?”

  “That’s not the way it is.”

  “Of course it’s not. She hated his guts.”

  “Did she kill him?”

  “Ask her.”

  “I did.”

  “And she denied it.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “What does?”

  “Denying you murdered an FBI agent. That can get you in big trouble.”

  She had difficulty asking it, but managed. “This ‘Ross’ mentioned in what I read. Could he have—” It was impossible to finish.

  “Killed Pritchard to keep him quiet? I doubt it.”

  “But it’s possible.”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  There was the faint sound of the doorbell. Kneeley went to the window and squinted as he tried to see who it was through the mist and rain. He turned quickly and said, “Well, Miss Saksis, I’m about to have another visitor.”

  She looked blankly at him.

  “The bereaved widow is here.”

  “Helen Pritchard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you expect her?”

  “Today, no. One day, yes.”

  “I’m not sure I want to—”

  “You won’t have to confront her. Go rest in another room.” He saw her dilemma and said, “Use that room over there and leave the door open a few inches. You won’t miss a thing.”

  Saksis gathered up her purse and papers and went to a small room off the study. Once she was in it, the question of why he was being so helpful hit her. There was only one answer, it seemed, and that was that he hadn’t killed George Pritchard and wanted to put the question to rest. His involvement with the deceased naturally kept him in the spotlight as a suspect, and he knew it. But, it didn’t matter what his motives were, she decided as she looked around the twelve-by-twelve, thickly carpeted room. There was a minimum of light through gaps in curtains over a small window that faced the ocean. There was a copper-colored love seat and two straight chairs. The overall effect was of a doctor’s waiting room. She opened the curtains and looked out over the ocean, then went to the door. She could see Kneeley’s desk and the immediate surrounding area, but not much more. The door to the study opened and Helen Pritchard stepped into the room. She wore an aquamarine raincoat and floppy rain hat, stylish ankle boots, and carried a large leather handbag. Saksis wondered whether she carried a gun in it. Silly. Saksis touched her own purse, in which was a bureau-issued .357 magnum. Cops and robbers. For the first time since her training days at Quantico she wondered what she was doing with her life.

  “Tea?” Kneeley asked Helen Pritchard.

  “No.”

  “Something stronger? It is after noon.”

  “I’d like a bo
urbon on the rocks. Do you have Blanton’s?”

  Kneeley laughed. “Yes, of course.”

  Helen Pritchard removed her wet coat and tossed it over the chair Saksis had been sitting in. She shook her hat over the rug and put it on top of the coat. She wore a tight jumpsuit the color of tangerines. Her wrists jangled with bracelets. Kneeley returned carrying her drink and one for him. She took it without saying anything and downed a healthy swig.

  “So, Helen, to what do I owe this unexpected and thoroughly delightful visit on such a threatening day?”

  “Money.” She stood over the chair containing her coat and hat as though she didn’t know where to sit.

  “Ah hah,” Kneeley said, picking up her clothing. “Let me hang this for you where it will dry.”

  “The chair’s wet,” Pritchard said.

  “Terrible,” he said, dragging over another director’s chair. She sat and looked directly at Saksis. Saksis was certain she noticed her. It wasn’t true.

  Kneeley sat behind his desk and smiled broadly. “Money,” he repeated. “For what?”

  “For what I’ve been through.”

  “Poor Helen.”

  “Yes, damn it, poor Helen. You swine, Kneeley, you turned right around and tried to sell me out.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Don’t sit there like some smug clown without a worry in the world. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  She guffawed and finished her drink.

  “Another?”

  “Yes.”

  “I put the bottle over there, on the table by the door.”

  “The gracious host.”

  “More gracious than some.”

  Pritchard went to fill her own glass, and Kneeley looked in Saksis’s direction. Did he wink at her? Probably not, although it seemed that way.

  Pritchard again took her seat and said, “You’re trying to kill the book, aren’t you?”

  “Kill the—? That’s absurd.”

  “No it’s not. I’ve heard.”

  “From whom?”

  “That’s my business, and so is the book. I put my neck a mile out to see this book happen and I’ll be damned if I’ll see you bury it.”

  Her vehemence had an effect on Kneeley. Saksis could see his face twist into anger, and a hand that hung loose at his side knotted into a tight fist.

  Helen Pritchard continued: “You don’t fool me, Richard. I know you went to Shelton and offered to burn the book for a fee.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “No, Richard, the truth. You figured you could get more from blackmailing the bureau than from taking a chance on the book being published. What did Shelton offer you—a half million, a million?”

  The anger in Kneeley’s face slowly relaxed into a pleasant, contented, smug expression. “He didn’t offer a penny. Mr. Shelton and his FBI are incorruptible.” He laughed. “You know something, Helen,” he said, rising and coming around the desk so that he loomed over her, “you give women a bad name. You drove your husband into an early grave with your greed.”

  “Oh, Christ—”

  “What did it feel like to shoot the man you’d been married to for so many years?”

  His question caused Saksis to suck in her breath. Pritchard’s answer caused it to rush out of her mouth with such force that she was sure everyone had heard.

  Helen Pritchard said calmly, “You should know, Richard, you were there.”

  He seemed to ignore what she’d said. “Come on, Helen, tell me what it’s like to murder a loved one. I can use it in the novel I intend to write.”

  She started to reply, then pulled up short and quickly looked around the room. “What the hell are you doing,” she asked, “getting me to talk for the camera?”

  Kneeley’s laugh was forced.

  “You bastard,” she said, getting up and walking from Saksis’s view. When she returned, she stood toe-to-toe with Kneeley and said, “You’d better not ever think about selling me out, Richard. Remember, I—”

  He held a finger up to her face. “Are you about to say something like, ‘I killed for you’? Careful. Remember the camera.”

  She brought her half-filled glass up from her waist and tossed its contents into Kneeley’s face. He sputtered, wiped it away with his hand, and pushed her out of Saksis’s line of vision. Saksis was tempted to open the door further but was afraid of being seen. She listened as they argued about the book and Pritchard’s contention that Kneeley had tried to extract a payment from the FBI in return for not writing it. Their voices became muffled, and lower, until Saksis could only hear the sound, not the words. She surmised they’d settled on a couch in a far corner of the study.

  She backed away from the door until she reached the window twelve feet away. Until then she’d been totally absorbed with what was being said in the study. Now, all she could think of was Ross Lizenby and Pritchard’s allegation that he’d killed the Indian girl. Allegation! Police talk. “The perpetrator was alleged to have…” She thought of his former wife who’d disappeared and had never been found. She thought of many things about Lizenby and their relationship.

  A sound in the study brought her back to the present. She looked through the gap in the door. Kneeley had returned to his desk, where he slammed his glass down on its top, then stormed across the room, opened the door, and slammed it behind him.

  Helen Pritchard came to the desk, looked back at the door through which Kneeley had departed, came around behind, and opened a bottom drawer. She pulled out a sheath of papers, placed them on the desk, and then opened her purse. Her hand went into it and came out holding a .22 caliber revolver.

  Helen Pritchard placed the weapon in the drawer, covered it with the papers, and closed it. Seconds later Kneeley returned.

  “I meant it,” Pritchard said, pointing a finger at him.

  “You don’t frighten me, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, drawing out her name. “You entered into a business deal that’s gone sour, no matter what steps you took to keep it alive. Murder! Drastic step to take for money. Passion is a much more attractive motive. Money! Shabby, Helen, tacky.”

  Pritchard seemed to be shifting gears as Saksis watched. She managed a smile and placed her hand on Kneeley’s forearm. “Richard, we killed George. That the gun happened to be in my hand is irrelevant. Let’s sit and talk. I think that if we act like reasonable people we can work this out for both our benefits.”

  Kneeley cast a fast glance at the room in which Saksis hid. “All right,” he said, “sit down.”

  “Over there on the couch, where it’s comfortable.”

  “I’d rather stay here.”

  Pritchard got up and walked away. Kneeley reluctantly followed her.

  Saksis tried to hear what they were saying but could make out only an occasional word. She thought she heard the doorbell, then the sound of a car door slamming. She went to the window and pushed aside the curtains. A dark blue sedan had stopped on the beach side of the house and two men wearing raincoats and hats had gotten out. One of them carried an M-16 rifle. Saksis watched as they stood next to the car, their eyes trained on Kneeley’s house.

  She returned to the crack in the door and listened. Kneeley and Helen Pritchard were still talking. Then, the door to the study opened and Jubel came in, followed by four men. Saksis stood frozen; she recognized two of them. One was Paul, the bartender who’d befriended her. The other was Ross Lizenby.

  Kneeley shouted, “What the hell is going on? How did—? Jubel, why did you—?”

  “Relax, Mr. Kneeley,” Lizenby said. “We’re FBI.”

  Kneeley spun around and yelled at Saksis, “You set this up!”

  Everyone looked as Saksis pushed open the door and stepped into the study. Lizenby smiled. “I figured you’d be here,” he said.

  Saksis looked over to the couch where Helen Pritchard sat, legs crossed, a sneer on her face. “Even Pocahontas is here,” Pritchard said. “Should be some party.”
>
  Lizenby turned to the two men Saksis hadn’t recognized and said, “Go ahead.” They went behind Kneeley’s desk and started opening drawers.

  “Get out of there,” Kneeley said, making a move toward them.

  Paul, the bartender, brought up a shotgun and pressed it into Kneeley’s belly.

  Saksis said, “What’s going on?”

  “You tell me,” he said.

  “Do you have a warrant?” Kneeley asked Lizenby.

  “Sure.” He handed Kneeley a piece of paper.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Kneeley snarled. He said to Saksis in the same voice, “You’re good, Miss Saksis, coming in here like a little lost lamb and getting me to talk.”

  “I didn’t know anything about them,” Saksis said.

  They continued to empty Kneeley’s desk, piling papers on one side, floppy disks on the other. One of the men tried to open a locked disk box on the credenza. “Key?” Lizenby asked Kneeley.

  “Go to hell.”

  “Break it.”

  Each of the seven disk storage boxes was broken open and the disks tossed in a pile on the desk. Saksis looked at the computer screen. It was blank; the machine had automatically removed all text and lines in order to avoid burn-in. The disk containing Pritchard’s story about Ross Lizenby was still in the disk drive. Please, don’t touch that one, she thought.

  “You’ll hang for this,” Kneeley said to Lizenby.

  Lizenby laughed. “Not before you hang for George Pritchard’s murder.”

  The bottom drawer containing the .22 was emptied, and one of the agents picked up the weapon with a handkerchief. “Look at that,” Lizenby said.

  “That’s not mine,” said Kneeley.

  “We’ll see,” Lizenby said.

  “It doesn’t belong to him,” Saksis said. “She put it there.” She pointed to Helen Pritchard.

  “Stay out of it,” Lizenby said.

  “No, I won’t,” Saksis said. “I was here and saw her take the gun from her purse and put it in that drawer.”

  “You’re a liar,” Pritchard said.