Murder at the FBI (3 page)

“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.”

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 aftermath 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.”

“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.”