Murder at the FBI Page 3

  “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Shelton.”

  “Mrs. Shelton and I will be out. Mr. Gormley will be here throughout the night. Please confer with him in the event you have any questions.”

  “Yes, sir. I planned to be here, too.”

  “Fine, fine. Let’s bury this thing and get on with more important business.”

  ***

  Ross Lizenby checked with the forensics lab before meeting with Wayne Gormley at six. Pritchard’s body had been stored in a body-bin freezer. The autopsy, which had been performed in isolation by the lab director, had been sealed. Lizenby asked a question about it and was told it was for Director Shelton and Assistant Director Gormley’s eyes only.

  “I’ve been put in charge of this investigation,” Lizenby said, not trying to disguise the pique in his voice.

  “That may be true, Ross, but I know what I’ve been told. Straighten it out with Gormley.”

  Lizenby brought it up the minute he entered Gormley’s office.

  “Relax,” Gormley said. “It’s better to keep it tight. I’ll fill you in on everything you need to know.”

  “Look, sir, I want to make my point again about not wanting this assignment. I didn’t like Pritchard. I enjoyed SPOVAC, but even that got old. I want out of headquarters, and I was promised that.”

  Gormley waved pudgy hands in the air. “I’m tired, Ross, and I didn’t need this, having an agent murdered in this building. I was going on vacation next week. That’s out. The wife’s mad, I lost a deposit on the cruise we were taking, and my stomach is raising hell. Frankly, as Clark Gable said, I don’t give a damn about what you want. Here.” He slid a list of names across the desk.

  Lizenby picked it up and read it. One name jumped up at him—Christine Saksis.

  “That’s your team,” Gormley said. “Run with it.”

  “I don’t want some of these people.”

  Gormley shook his head and mumbled, “Shit.” He ran his hand over stubble on his chin and yawned. “Who don’t you want?” he seemed to ask the ceiling.

  Lizenby shrugged. “Saksis, for one.”

  “The Apache?”

  “She’s not—it doesn’t matter. Why her?”

  “Because she’s free and because she’s good. There’s nothing earth-shattering going on on the reservations these days, some drunks, petty crime, that’s about it. Who else don’t you like?”

  “Well, all right. Let me think about this overnight.”

  “Yeah, do that. But don’t consider changing anything. It’s a team—bodies—use them and let’s get on with it.”

  ***

  Chris Saksis had escalope de veau tante Marie at La Colline. Lizenby had minute steak with béarnaise sauce. He told her of her assignment to the Pritchard case.

  “I’m uncomfortable with it,” she said as they finished what was left of a bottle of Pinot Noir.

  “So am I. I told Gormley that.”

  “And?”

  “He told me not to make changes.”

  “I can ask to be relieved.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “I will, first thing in the morning.”

  “What reason will you give him?”

  She shrugged and sat back. Light from a candle on the table played off her thick black hair. Lizenby stared at her across the table. He’d been with lots of women since his divorce ten years ago, maybe hundreds of them. The marriage had lasted less than a year. He’d been a struggling attorney then, trying to establish a private practice because he hated the thought of joining a law firm and having his individuality stifled. It hadn’t worked; he hadn’t given it much time. The moment the marriage failed he applied to the FBI and was accepted for special agent training.

  Yes, he’d been with lots of women during those ten years, but none had approached Chris Saksis’s beauty. She was exotic. He liked something different in women. So many of the others had simply been attractive, but there was such sameness.

  He reached and took her hand. “Maybe it won’t be so bad working together. Frankly, I think this will all blow over sooner than we think.”

  She frowned. “How can the murder of one of our agents ‘blow over,’ Ross? Somebody killed him.”

  Lizenby smiled. “What’s the old line?” he said. “The suspect list includes everybody he ever met?”

  “It doesn’t matter that Pritchard wasn’t very popular with a lot of people,” she said. “An FBI agent murdered another agent. That doesn’t blow away very easily.”

  “Why assume it was an agent? Could have been a lot of people.”

  “In the Hoover Building?”

  “Sure. The place is crawling with outsiders. You know that. Maybe it was a secretary or a lab technician. He was known to play around a little.”

  “How many secretaries walk around with .22 revolvers in their purses? Besides, you said he was hanging from a hook on the target trolley. Pritchard wasn’t a lightweight. Somebody had to put him up there.”

  Lizenby sighed. There had been enough talk all day and into the evening about George Pritchard’s death. What he wanted was to go home, with Chris, and lie naked with her.

  “Your place or mine?” he asked.

  She looked as though a painful thought had crossed her mind. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  She managed a smile. “I guess I’m more uncomfortable than I realized about what’s happening between us, especially now that we’ll be working so closely.”

  He came around the table and pulled out her chair. “Let’s not worry about it. Let’s take it a night at a time.”

  When she awakened the next morning, he was staring intently at her. She blinked, propped herself up on her elbows, and said, “Something wrong?”

  He grinned. “Of course not. You’re so beautiful, that’s all. I’m admiring.”

  “You embarrass me.”

  “I don’t mean to.” He flopped his head back on the pillow and put his hands beneath his head. Now, it was her turn to scrutinize him. Handsome—no doubt about that, more handsome than most men. His Slavic-looking face was composed of chiseled planes, a strong chin, perfect teeth, a hairline that promised to remain in place throughout his life. His hair was brown and fine, closely cropped; his eyes pale blue.

  She laid her hand on his chest and absently played with the hair there. He kept in superb shape, not an ounce of fat, muscular upper arms and shoulders, a flat, hard belly and long, tapered legs. Even his feet were nice to look at.

  “Are you happy?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Last night? Did I make you happy?”

  “Oh, Ross, of course you did. Why do you ask?”

  He smiled. “Because I want you to be happy.”

  “I am. I must say, though, that you were—well, you were almost savage.”

  He laughed. “That’s a strange term for you to use.”

  “Oh, stop it. You know what I mean.”

  “You weren’t exactly comatose yourself.”

  “Ross?”

  “What?”

  “We’d better be up and out of here in an hour. I have a feeling this day isn’t about to be run-of-the-mill for either of us.”

  5

  The unit assembled to investigate George L. Pritchard’s murder was designated “Ranger.” An empty suite of offices in a corner of the second floor was given over to it, and the team—Ross Lizenby; Christine Saksis; a Japanese-American pathology expert from Forensics named Raymond Okawa; a short, chunky blond computer whiz named Barbara Twain; Dr. Perry Prince, a psychologist borrowed from a statistical profile unit; two young special agents, Joe Perone and Jacob Stein; two secretaries; two clerks; and a tour guide named Melissa Edwards, who was working toward her master’s degree in decision science and had applied for acceptance as a special agent—gathered together for the first time at ten o’clock that morning. The suite wasn’t large enough to comfortably accommodate all of them, but Lizenby assured them it wouldn’t be for long. “I just l
eft Assistant Director Gormley,” he said once everyone had dragged chairs in from adjoining offices. “He wants this investigation wrapped up as quickly as possible. I’m sure no one here would argue with that.”

  They started to ask questions, but he cut them off. “Look, this investigation obviously is unique. We have the entire FBI to draw upon, but we also have to keep in mind that this is the FBI. There are going to be certain restrictions that we’ll all have to live with. Here’s the first: Agent Pritchard’s death will continue to be referred to as an accident. I’m sure you’ve all heard through the grapevine that he might have been murdered, but until I tell you otherwise, we stick with the accident story. There’s to be no talk about this with anyone outside this special unit, and that means anybody, family, friends, other agents, bureau employees. A total blackout on information. Understood?”

  There were nods and affirmations.

  “Administration promises furniture and equipment by this afternoon. Tech Services will have us on-line with the computers by noon. We’ll have two terminals up here.” He glanced at Chris Saksis before saying, “I’ve been put in charge of Ranger. Special Agent Saksis will be my assistant.” He checked her reaction. She started to respond, but cut herself off, looked down, said nothing. Her only thought was that they seemed to be settling in for a longer investigation than Shelton had called for.

  Lizenby gave out assignments that could be pursued elsewhere in the building. “We’ll all meet up here again at four,” he said, smiling as he added, “when we have something permanent to sit on.”

  He walked Saksis to her office in the Indian Affairs section of Investigation. She closed her door and said, “I’m getting off the Pritchard thing.”

  “Did you talk to Gormley?”

  “Not yet, but I will. I’m trying to get an appointment now.”

  “I told him you wanted out.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’d been up most of the night and wasn’t in the best of moods. He said he wasn’t interested in what any individual agent wanted.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Do you mean did I argue your side? No. I don’t think it’ll matter. Let’s just keep our personal lives nice and quiet and ride this through.”

  “I’m still going to talk to him,” she said.

  “Sure. In the meantime, let’s get started. Gormley gave me the lists of everyone who was logged into the building last night. It’s broken down into two categories—bureau personnel and nonbureau personnel. He wants us to start with the nonbureau types. He’s hoping it falls that way, that somebody not connected did Pritchard in.”

  “Don’t embarrass the bureau.”

  “Right. Look, take the list and get together with the computer gal—what’s-her-face?”

  “Twain. Barbara Twain.”

  “Right. Let’s break it down into groups—male, female, other agencies, foreign, domestic—as fine as you can.”

  He started to leave.

  “Ross,” she said.

  He turned. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “So talk to Gormley.”

  “I don’t mean us working together. I mean the fact that an agent was murdered by one of our own. It’s just begun to hit me.”

  “It was an accident. Remember? And if it wasn’t, it was somebody outside the bureau.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  ***

  By five, the Ranger team was together in its cramped suite. Two computer terminals had been installed, desks, chairs, and telephones were in place, and it suddenly looked like a working office. Budget had assigned an expense number: Range-XP-6215873. Two separate phone lines came directly into the suite and a security system had been installed on the door leading to the hallway. Fireproof file cabinets were bolted to the floor. A large color TV, VCR recorder, reel-to-reel and cassette decks, and a multiband radio occupied one wall of the reception area. Lizenby had requested that one office within the suite be set up as a bedroom. Two yellow sleeper couches had been delivered, along with a small refrigerator, hot plate, and toaster oven. It meant losing a working office, but he felt having a place inside in which to stay over would pay off down the road.

  Chris Saksis and Barbara Twain worked out the coding for the list of non-FBI personnel who’d been in the building the night of Pritchard’s murder. It was long—almost 300 names—visitors from other agencies, outside contractors, support personnel with varying levels of clearance, a few friendly journalists being briefed. “I’ll need help,” Twain said. Saksis promised to get someone from Tech Services.

  Lizenby tuned in the six o’clock news on the television set. The lead story dealt with the Middle East. Right after it came coverage of an FBI press conference held in a media room off the public affairs office at four that afternoon. Assistant Director Wayne Gormley conducted it, with Charles Nostrand at his side. Lizenby noticed that the bags beneath Gormley’s eyes seemed to have doubled in size. He looked as though he’d been drinking, but you could never be sure with Gormley. He often looked that way under pressure.

  “This is the statement we have for you at this time,” Gormley said, adjusting half-glasses and looking down at notes on a lectern. “As you all know, a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation has died in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Because of the unusual circumstances surrounding his death, a full investigation has been launched internally, utilizing every resource—manpower and technical—available to us.

  “However, as of this moment, the cause of death has not been established. From what we’ve ascertained so far, Special Agent George L. Pritchard, a veteran of seventeen years of faithful and distinguished service to the bureau, was the victim of an unusual and unfortunate accident.”

  “Accident?” It was a chorus from the press.

  Gormley held up his hands. “If you’ll allow me to finish, Mr. Nostrand will be happy to accept a limited number of questions.” He waited until the noise had subsided, then completed his statement: “Special Agent Pritchard is the twenty-seventh special agent of the FBI to have died in the line of duty. The director, all who knew and served with Special Agent Pritchard, and I wish to extend our deepest sympathies to his family, and to assure the American public that it will know every detail of his death at the appropriate time. Thank you. You may now ask your questions of Mr. Nostrand.”

  “I’d like to ask you a question, Mr. Gormley,” a reporter from Washington Weekly shouted.

  “Sorry, but I have another commitment. Thank you again.”

  Most of the questioners demanded to know why the word accident was being used when, in fact, 200 tourists had seen Pritchard “gunned down” on the firing range.

  Nostrand’s answer: “We are under the impression at this early stage of the investigation that Agent Pritchard died of causes other than the firing-range shots. The tourists you refer to witnessed the unfortunate event from a distance and were not in a good position to see what transpired.”

  The questioning continued along the same lines, and Nostrand’s answers never varied. The final question he took was from a radio reporter who wanted to know the name of the special agent in charge of the Pritchard investigation.

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge that,” said Nostrand. “I can say that he’s one of the bureau’s best, a skilled investigator. Thank you. We’ve prepared a release, which is available to each of you as you leave. You’ll find in it background information on the deceased.”

  The Ranger team worked into the night. Food was ordered in. A second computer operator arrived and joined Barbara Twain in entering the names from the nonbureau list. Simultaneously, whatever background information was in the main computer on each of the names was retrieved and printed out in the bureau’s hard-copy room a floor below.

  Lizenby met with Saksis, and with Special Agents Joe Perone and Jake Stein, in the “bedroom.”

  Perone was a tall, muscular forty-year-old wit
h heavy, sleepy eyes, a beak of a nose, and thick, black curly hair. He’d been an accountant before joining the bureau. Stein was considerably shorter and thinner. He’d been a lawyer before applying to the FBI. His brown hair was thin; most of it was gone from the front and top of his head. He wore round, tortoise-shell glasses; he’d barely met the bureau’s requirements for corrected vision when he’d joined seven years ago, and he was constantly worried that one day his eyesight would deteriorate below the minimums of 20/200 corrected to 20/20 in one eye, and 20/40 in the other. Unlike Perone, who had a reputation as a tough field investigator, Stein was better known for his keen analytic abilities, and for being perpetually bemused at the bureaucracy in which he functioned.

  “First of all,” Lizenby said, “we’ve got to put together an immediate suspect list.”

  Stein laughed and looked at Saksis. “How many names were on that outsider list?” he asked.

  “About three hundred.”

  “Not bad for openers.”

  “Gormley wants a viable list by noon tomorrow.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Perone.

  “Tell him,” Lizenby said. “Look, that list of three hundred has to have on it a core of people whose dealings with Pritchard can be turned into a motive.”

  Stein removed his glasses, blew on them, and carefully polished the lenses with his handkerchief. He said, “Everybody who ever worked with George Pritchard can be said to have had a motive to kill him. Right?”

  “Well, he didn’t top the good-guy list, but you don’t go around murdering an FBI agent because he rubs you the wrong way,” Perone said.

  “You do if you’re crazy,” Stein said, replacing his glasses on his nose. “Who on that list doesn’t play with a full deck?”

  “Perry Prince is evaluating the names on it,” Lizenby said, “on the off chance there’s an obvious wacko. But that’s unlikely. Let’s split up the names and see if anybody jumps off the page based on what we know, or have heard.”