Murder at the FBI Page 2
A dozen men in white medical coats surrounded the steel table. Each was a forensic specialist, most were medical examiners from cities around the country who happened to be in the lab that morning as part of an FBI training seminar on new techniques of using lividity to determine the time of death in murder victims. The FBI did little actual forensic work, functioning more as a statistical and research center, but it was fully equipped and staffed for autopsies. Two other steel tables against the wall held corpses the visiting physicians had been working on when Pritchard was rushed into the lab.
“Boy, oh, boy,” one of the doctors muttered, referring to the gaping hole in Pritchard’s chest, created by the series of bullet wounds in a circle three inches in diameter. “Some shot.”
“Look here,” another doctor said, pointing to a single bullet hole slightly higher than the rest. It had been made by a small-caliber weapon. “A .22,” the doctor speculated.
By now, the doorway and hall were jammed with people who’d heard about what had happened. Ross Lizenby, Pritchard’s assistant on the SPOVAC team, pushed through the crowd. “Let me through, come on, move,” he said as he gained access to the lab. He couldn’t see past the wall of white coats. “Is it George Pritchard?” he asked.
Lizenby wedged himself between white coats. “It is,” he said to himself. He looked around. “I’m Special Agent Lizenby,” he announced in a loud voice. “Director Shelton is awaiting my report. I want everyone to vacate this room with the exception of the lab chief and any agent who happened to be here when the deceased was delivered.” When no one moved, he shouted, “Now, damn it!”
Soon, Lizenby stood next to the steel table with the head of the forensic lab and a young agent who’d been there observing the seminar out of curiosity. Lizenby picked up a phone and dialed the office of the director of the FBI, R. Bruce Shelton. He identified himself to a secretary and was immediately put through. “The deceased is Special Agent George Pritchard, sir. Death appears to have been caused by multiple gunshot wounds to the chest.” He listened for a moment, said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up. He said to the lab chief, “Seal this room off, and that means to everyone. Get a staff together for an autopsy, but wait until I get back to you. I’m meeting with the director now.” He started to leave and then glanced back at the young agent. “You were here?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on.”
They went to the seventh floor and entered the reception area of the director’s office suite. A middle-aged woman behind a desk immediately said, “He’s in the dining room, Mr. Lizenby. He said for you to go there.”
They walked thirty feet to the executive dining room and knocked. “Come in.” They opened the door. Seated at an oval dining table having his hair trimmed by the kitchen’s head chef was R. Bruce Shelton, director of the FBI since his appointment by the president four years ago. It was a ten-year appointment, but rumors had been thick lately that he intended to resign within the year.
“Good morning, sir,” Lizenby said.
“Good morning,” Shelton answered. He pulled off the cloth that kept hair from falling on his white shirt and said to the chef-barber, “That’s fine, thanks, Joe.” When Joe was gone, Shelton asked of Lizenby, “Who’s this?” nodding at the young agent.
“He’s, uh—”
“Special Agent Jankowski, sir.”
“Agent Jankowski was in the lab when the body arrived,” Lizenby said.
“And?” Shelton said to Jankowski.
“Well, sir, I was just there for a few minutes. I was on my way to my office and stopped in because I was curious. They’re having a seminar on forensic medicine and—”
“Please, get to the point,” Shelton said.
“Yes, sir. Two gentlemen from building security, accompanied by a special agent, brought the deceased in and placed him on the only empty table. He appeared to have been shot numerous times in the chest.”
“And?”
“And… that’s all I know, sir. I intended to leave but—”
“Who were the security men and the agent who accompanied the body?”
“Names? I don’t—” He looked to Lizenby.
“We’re getting those, sir,” Lizenby said.
Shelton swiveled in his chair and brushed away loose hair from the back of his neck. “It happened on the firing range? On our own goddamn firing range? Who did it?”
“We don’t know that yet, sir,” Lizenby said.
“It was an accident,” Shelton said, standing and walking to a large window.
“We presume that, sir, but at this stage it’s impossible to know what did exactly happen.”
“Witnesses?” Shelton asked, his back to them.
Lizenby took a few steps toward the director and said, “Sir, I think we need a little more time to come up with the answers. It just happened. I suggest I get back downstairs and—”
Shelton slowly turned. He fixed Lizenby with steel-cold gray eyes and said, “I want this entire matter resolved before the day is out. I want nothing said to anyone about this except for those who must know. There is to be a total blackout about this. Does anyone outside this building know what’s happened?”
Lizenby hesitated before saying, “Sir, there were two hundred tourists at the range as part of the tour.”
“Two hundred—where are they?”
“I believe they were allowed to leave the building.”
Shelton slammed his fist against the wall. “I hope that’s not true, Mr. Lizenby. If it is, I hold you personally responsible.”
“Sir, I wasn’t even—”
“Get me answers. Good ones, and fast.”
“Yes, sir.”
Shelton said to the young agent, “Mr. Jan—what was your name?”
“Jankowski, sir.”
“What office are you in?”
“A temporary assignment to administration, sir.”
“Go to your office and stay there. Talk to no one. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ross Lizenby went directly to the firing range. He took the back stairs instead of the elevator, thinking with each step that he wished he hadn’t been where he was, and when, at the time Pritchard’s body was discovered. He’d just walked into his office at SPOVAC when his phone had rung. It had been Wayne Gormley, one of three assistant directors named by Shelton shortly after his appointment as director. Gormley’s division was investigation. SPOVAC came under it. The other two directors managed the administration and law enforcement areas of the bureau. Gormley’s message to Lizenby had been short and to the point. There had been a shooting death on the firing range. The deceased appeared to be a special agent. “Check it out and report to the director and me immediately.”
Lizenby was tired. He’d been in the building until two that morning working on a SPOVAC report that was due on Gormley’s desk that afternoon. He’d planned to spend the night with Chris Saksis, but when he called her at two she vetoed the idea. Breakfast would have to suffice. He was tired, edgy, and irritable. And he didn’t like R. Bruce Shelton, hadn’t from the day he arrived as director. He hadn’t particularly liked George Pritchard, either, but that didn’t matter anymore.
He opened the door to a closet-size office just off the firing range where Paul Harrison was cleaning a revolver. “Hello, Paul,” Lizenby said.
Harrison slowly shook his head. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
“You might as well. Pritchard’s dead. What in hell happened?”
Harrison shrugged. “I was giving the demo and—Hey, Ross, are you here on official business?”
“Official?”
“You taking statements?”
Lizenby nodded. “The director has me on this.”
Harrison raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I never saw him,” he said. “I fired and wondered why the back light wasn’t coming through the holes. Then, he falls off the track, right through the target.”
“You never saw him?”
“He didn’t move?”
“No.”
“He was hanging there knowing he was going to get a gut full of bullets and he never said anything?”
“Nothing. I never saw him. Look, Ross, I was late, didn’t have much of a chance to look around. I ran in, the folks were out there in their seats and I did my thing.”
Lizenby looked down at the magnum Harrison had been cleaning. “Did you fire that?”
Harrison laughed. “Hell, no. The weapons I used are on the table in the range. Come on, Ross, give me credit for some smarts.”
“What about the tourists who saw it?”
Another shrug. “They left.”
“Shelton will hang whoever let them leave.”
“It wasn’t me. I called security, that’s all. They arrived and I checked the body with them. It was George. I couldn’t believe it. They canceled all tours for the rest of the day.”
Lizenby nodded. “Hang around, Paul. Shelton might want to talk to you.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I really can’t believe it. Can you?”
“Shelton isn’t interested in what we believe. He wants answers, and for Chrissake, don’t talk to anybody about it unless you hear from me.”
“You’re heading this?”
“I hope not. Right now I’m on the griddle because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Check you later.”
***
Special Agent Charles Nostrand, who, as director of the Office of Congressional and Public Affairs for the bureau, was responsible for handling the press, called the office of Director R. Bruce Shelton.
“Sir, we’re being swamped with press about the incident this morning. There’s a couple of dozen reporters waiting outside, and the phones are ringing nonstop.”
“It was an accident, an unfortunate accident,” Shelton said softly.
“Yes, sir, but they want details.”
“They’ll get details when we have them.”
“I know sir, but—”
“Prepare a short release and get it up to me right away. An accident on the firing range resulted in the unfortunate death of a dedicated and exemplary special agent of the FBI. Couch it. It’s the first time anything like this has happened. It was purely an accident. Special Agent Pritchard was—”
“Sir, I’m getting all this, but my instincts tell me that to admit that one of our special agents was gunned down by another of our special agents on our own firing range might—well, it might open us up to ridicule.”
There was silence on Director Shelton’s end. Finally, he said, “Yes, you’re right. Issue nothing until I talk to you again. I appreciate your candor and professional thinking. Tell the press they will be fully informed in short order. Thank you.”
***
Ross Lizenby returned to his office and made three phone calls. The first was to Wayne Gormley, to whom he recounted what he knew to date. The second was to Director Shelton. The third was to Special Agent Christine Saksis. She was on her way out to her meeting.
“You heard?” Lizenby asked.
“Just fragments. It was George?”
“Yeah. Shelton’s had me running.”
“Why?”
“I was there. I’d like to see you tonight.”
“You said—”
“Forget what I said. Dinner?”
“What time?”
“Eight.”
“All right. You’ll come by?”
“Meet me. At La Colline.”
“All right. Ross, what did happen?”
“Pritchard got himself killed. That’s all I know.”
4
By two o’clock, it was evident to Director Shelton that the death of Special Agent George L. Pritchard could not be considered simply an internal problem. He called a meeting of his three assistant directors, who in turn held their own departmental meetings. Naturally, any agency investigation of Pritchard’s death came under Assistant Director Wayne Gormley’s jurisdiction. Gormley, in turn, charged Ross Lizenby with quickly establishing a special unit, whose only responsibility was the Pritchard case.
Lizenby managed to arrange a second meeting with Gormley at four. At the first meeting, he hadn’t expressed his feelings about running the special unit. Now, as the afternoon progressed, he decided to make them known. He said to Gormley, “Sir, I don’t want this.”
Gormley, whose round face and red cheeks testified to his fondness for vodka, stared at Lizenby with small blue eyes that were in constant motion. “Why?” he asked in a voice that indicated he really didn’t care.
“Because I’m up to my ass in SPOVAC, that’s why. Besides, I was supposed to be taken off SPOVAC and sent back out in the field.”
Gormley popped a hard candy in his mouth. “That’s right, I forgot. Ross Lizenby, the floater, the hired gun, one assignment to another, keep moving so they can’t catch up with you.”
“You can view it that way, sir, but—”
“I’m not interested in your personal view. I am interested in finding out who killed Pritchard. It happened right here, on our own firing range with two hundred goddamn tourists taking it in. The director is damn near hysterical, and you know that’s not his style.”
R. Bruce Shelton had been a federal judge. He came from old money in Philadelphia, was most at home at intimate dinner parties with Washington’s arts and socialite crowd, and was known as a man who never raised his voice or lost his cool.
“I understand,” Lizenby said, “but—”
“No buts. You worked closely with Pritchard, which should be an advantage. You’ve spent your career with the bureau as an investigator. You do it. Inform me every step of the way. Keep it as internal as possible, use what staff you need, and get it over with.”
“No choice?”
“No choice.” Gormley sat back in his leather chair, rubbed his eyes, and sighed deeply. He looked across the desk at Lizenby and asked in a soft voice, “Remember the first rule—the only rule they hammered into you at Quantico?”
Lizenby smiled. “Sure. Don’t embarrass the bureau.”
“Never embarrass the bureau. This thing is one goddamn and unfortunate embarrassment for everybody around here, and that’s why the director’s so upset. Don’t screw up.”
Lizenby knew it was futile to argue. He started for the door. Gormley stopped him. “Ross, get back to me at six. I’ll have some ideas on staffing the unit by then.”
“Staffing? You told me to staff it.”
“Personnel is providing a list for me in an hour. We’ll go over it.”
“Whatever you say.”
The autopsy was conclusive. Special Agent George L. Pritchard had been killed by a single .22 caliber bullet fired at close range. All the other wounds had been caused by Paul Harrison’s weapons during the demonstration, and had been inflicted about ten hours after the initial, fatal wound. Time of death was established between nine P.M. and two A.M. the previous night. Pritchard had died instantly. The .22 caliber bullet, although slightly higher than the cluster of holes from Harrison’s weapons, had still struck the heart.
Special Agent Charles Nostrand, who’d been fielding press inquiries all day, met with Director Shelton at five.
“What’s the situation?” Shelton asked. He’d showered and changed clothes in a bathroom off his massive office. He and Mrs. Shelton were to attend a cocktail party and benefit dinner that night for the Opera Society of Washington. Funds raised would be used to replace the old wooden seats in the opera house, an ungodly red structure whose massive Austrian chandelier was considered its most redeeming feature, architecturally and, too often, even musically. The seat backs reached the floor, making it impossible for spectators to stretch their legs. It was Shelton himself who suggested a fund-raiser after having spent a painful evening watching a touring company perform a spirited but agonizingly long version of Wozzeck.
“The press has been interviewing tourists who saw it, at least the aftermat
h of it. The word murder is being used in all reports.”
Shelton, who’d made the best-dressed list every year since arriving in Washington, fingered the knot in his burgundy silk tie and gently ran his fingers down its length, as though checking for lumps. He was sitting behind his desk and had carefully crossed his legs. The crease in the trousers of his granite-gray British suit, custom-tailored for him by P. A. Crowe of London, was featheredged—looked like it could cut beef. He smiled at Nostrand. “It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?”
Nostrand, who hadn’t smiled all day, joined the director. It felt good. “Yes, it has, sir,” he said.
“They’re calling it murder?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re calling it an unfortunate accident, aren’t we?”
“That’s what we’ve been saying, pending, of course, a fuller investigation.”
“It will continue to be an accident until further notice.”
“Yes, sir.” Nostrand had heard scuttlebutt about the autopsy result. Should he ask? He decided not to.
Shelton stood and offered his hand to Nostrand. “You’ve done a good job. Keep it up.”
Nostrand stood and eagerly accepted the director’s handshake. “Thank you, sir.”
“Nothing changes. Simply tell them that it was an accident.”
“All right. But I should mention that the press doesn’t seem to be buying it, sir.”
Another smile as Shelton came around the desk and slapped Nostrand on the back. “The hell with the press, Mr. Nostrand. The press wants to embarrass the bureau, and we won’t let that happen. Will we?”
“Absolutely not, sir.”
Shelton walked him to the door. He said as he poised to open it, “Interesting, isn’t it, that we stand here in a building named for J. Edgar Hoover, a man who certainly was controversial but who built something more lasting and solid than anything any member of the press ever dared dream about. What we have to preserve, Mr. Nostrand, is infinitely more valuable to America than the sale of newspapers.”