Murder at the FBI (6 page)

As Chris Saksis drove back to the Hoover Building, Ross Lizenby sat in Wayne Gormley’s office with Gormley, Special Agent Charles Nostrand, and a high-ranking representative from the Justice Department, Robert Douglas.

Douglas had just come from a meeting with FBI Director Shelton. “It’s our opinion at Justice,” he said, “that too much is being made of this Pritchard matter. Instead of it being handled for what it simply is, an unfortunate murder of an FBI agent, it’s turning into a national scandal.”

Gormley grunted. “You have to admit, Mr. Douglas, that there are circumstances surrounding this ‘simple murder’ that make it difficult to contain, at least from the standpoint of the press and public. If it had happened in some office or house somewhere, that would be one thing. But this simple
murder happened in front of two hundred American tourists on hand to witness our firing-range exhibition. That adds a bizarre element that the press loves.”

Gormley looked to Nostrand, who realized the assistant director wanted him to say something. He shifted in his chair and said to Douglas, “Sir, the press is a vindictive bunch. Mr. Nixon found that out with Watergate. Keep something back from them, stonewall information, and they camp outside your door and make a cause célèbre of it.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Douglas said.

Gormley coughed, rubbed his eyes, and said, “You have to realize, Mr. Douglas, that we’ve been operating under orders from Director Shelton that, I understand, originated with Justice.”

“Of course,” Douglas said. He was a small, slight man with a pinched face and disproportionately large ears. He wore eyeglasses with stainless steel rims and might have been the chairman of the board of a medium-size manufacturing company except for the rumpled, inexpensive tan wash-and-wear suit just a little too small for him. It was a junior executive suit. “Initially, it was prudent to keep a lid on things until the facts could be ascertained,” he said, “but now, there’s no question that Agent Pritchard was murdered. It’s our opinion that steps should be taken immediately to get this thing off the front pages and the nightly news.”

Gormley said, “If my orders are to reveal to the press all we know at this juncture, then that’s what we’ll do.” He looked at Lizenby. “Will that hamper or hinder the investigation?”

“I haven’t given that much thought, Mr. Gormley.
Off the top of my head I’d say it might get in the way, but not seriously so.”

“That’s really not a consideration,” Douglas said. “What we want at Justice, and I’m sure Director Shelton agrees, is to get the spotlight off this mess. Any investigation into the murder should be low-key and without fanfare. By the way, how
is
the investigation progressing?”

All eyes turned to Lizenby, who said, “We’re in the information-gathering phase of it now. We’re trying to develop a list of possible suspects from which to work.”

“I know one thing,” Douglas said.

“What’s that?” Gormley asked.

“There had better be a complete evaluation of security in this building. Obviously, someone from outside the bureau killed Agent Pritchard. There was a lapse somewhere along the security line.”

“Exactly,” Gormley said. “A review is already in the works.”

“Good.” Douglas stood. “Thank you for your time,” he said to Lizenby and Nostrand.

They stood and shook his hand. “Good luck,” Douglas said to Lizenby. “It’s a most unusual case.”

“Yes, sir, it is. We’re doing our best.”

When Douglas was gone, Gormley told Nostrand to prepare a release stating that Pritchard had, in fact, been murdered, and that a full-scale investigation was under way. “Stress that all preliminary indications point to someone outside the bureau as the perpetrator, and focus on the security review we’re initiating to see that it doesn’t happen again.”

Nostrand left. “Sit down,” Gormley said to Lizenby. “Would you like coffee?”

“No, sir, thank you.”

“I think I’ll have some.” He called his secretary, settled back in his high-back leather swivel chair, and slowly turned left and right. He made a pyramid with his fingers, leaned his chin on it, and said, “Well, you heard. We’ve gone from dark secrecy to total disclosure. Your name will be part of the statement we release, which will put the media pressure on you. I suppose that’s good, but it causes me some concern.”

Lizenby laughed. “Me, too, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose it would, considering your background with the bureau.”

Lizenby straightened up and asked what Gormley meant.

“Well, Mr. Lizenby, I’ve reviewed your file and was struck with how much of a loner you’ve been over the years, all the special assignments without ever staying in one place very long.”

Lizenby said, “That’s mostly because the bureau found me more useful in those situations and, frankly, I—”

“You enjoyed it.”

“Yes. I like being on my own.”

“Being here with SPOVAC must have been confining.”

“Yes. That’s why I asked for a transfer.”

“And Pritchard promised it to you.”

“Yes.”

“What about Pritchard? You worked closely with him. What’d you think of him?”

“Well, I—I respected him.”

“Liked him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Probably because—sir, is there a reason for these questions?”

Gormley laughed. The door opened and the secretary delivered his coffee. “Sure?” he asked Lizenby. Lizenby shook his head. “Thank you,” Gormley told the secretary, who backed away from the desk, turned, and silently left the office.

“Okay,” he said, sipping his coffee, “back to the question of your opinion of Pritchard. I would have assumed you two would have hit it off. His career with the bureau was pretty much that of a loner, too, undercover a lot of the time, using disguises, staying away from this bureaucracy as much as possible.”

“Maybe that was the problem, sir, that we were
too
much alike.”

“Maybe so.”

“Again, sir, I wonder why you’re exploring this.”

“Because I might have made a mistake in assigning you to head Ranger. It made sense in the beginning because you knew him well and worked in similar ways, but I’m trying to anticipate the critics. I can hear one questioning why we didn’t go with a completely impartial investigator, one who didn’t have any bones to pick with the deceased.”

Lizenby sat back and smiled. “You know, sir, you could make me a very happy man.”

Gormley’s eyebrows went up. “How?”

“By listening to that unknown critic and assigning someone else.”

“Nobody wants to be involved in this. Agent Saksis requested being taken off it.”

“I know.”

“I denied her request.”

“I know that, too.”

“I’m denying your request.”

“It wasn’t a request, actually. You brought up the possibility of criticism at having me involved.”

“Just venting thoughts, Mr. Lizenby. I suggest we get on with it. You can use Nostrand where the press is concerned, but not on an exclusive basis. Maybe he can assign somebody to you out of Public Affairs. Mention it to him. And remember what Douglas said… keep it low-key, no fanfare, and no public statements without clearing through me. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Check in with me twice a day. I hate surprises.”

“Right. Is that all?”

“Yes. Thank you. At least I feel better about one aspect of this.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“That it wasn’t someone from the bureau who killed George Pritchard.”

Lizenby thought, He’s believing his own press releases. He said, “We’ll keep working on that assumption.”

Chris Saksis filled Lizenby in on her interview with Helen Pritchard. He was unimpressed; he already knew of the strained relationship between Pritchard and his family, knew that Pritchard spent very little time at home. What did interest him was that teams of agents had removed Pritchard’s personal effects from the apartment. “Who?” he asked.
Saksis gave him the name she’d caught—Morris or Norris.

Lizenby called Gormley’s office but was told the assistant director had been called to a meeting and was not expected to return until the following morning. He went through a directory of special agents until finding the one Chris had mentioned. The agent confirmed over the phone that he’d been part of a team dispatched to Pritchard’s home. “What did you get?” Lizenby asked. “Can’t tell you,” the other agent said. Lizenby reminded him that he was in charge of Ranger. The other agent said, “I just work here, Ross, like you do. Check with Gormley.”

Barbara Twain poked her head into the office and told Saksis she’d finished a computer run on .22 caliber pistol permits issued to FBI personnel who were known to be in the building the day of the murder, or had been in Washington, D.C., that same day. The length of the list didn’t surprise anyone. Although special agents were not issued .22 caliber handguns, most agents purchased them on their own, for two reasons—they were easier to carry, and they were more effective in certain situations. That lesson had been learned from the mob, whose hit men found that the smaller bullet did more internal damage because of its tendency to tumble within the body. The list ran to more than a thousand names and included George Pritchard, Ross Lizenby, Assistant Director Wayne Gormley, and virtually every other special agent assigned to headquarters.

“That sure narrows it down,” Lizenby said, shaking his head.

Saksis laughed. “It eliminates me,” she said.

“What about the list of people who signed in to see Pritchard that day?” Lizenby asked Barbara Twain.

“I gave it to you,” Twain said to Saksis.

“I have it,” she said.

“Let me see it,” Lizenby said.

“Sure. I forgot.”

She returned minutes later with the list and handed it to Lizenby. He quickly scanned it. “Who’s this Raymond Kane?” he asked.

“Beats me,” Saksis said. “He signed in at 11:30 that night and signed out at 2:30.” She handed Lizenby a second list. “This is what we got from Shelly up in SPOVAC. She really doesn’t keep a detailed roster of everyone who comes in to talk to SPOVAC people, but she put this together from the appointment book and memory.”

“She has the mind of a rock,” Lizenby said.

“Shelly? She’s okay,” Saksis said.

“She’s a birdbrain.”

The list drawn by SPOVAC’s head secretary contained twenty names, most of them familiar to Lizenby. “Doering was there that day?”

“Evidently,” said Saksis.

Bert Doering was a CIA operative who functioned as liaison between the Central Intelligence Agency and the FBI on a program that brought foreign law enforcement professionals into the United States for training. George Pritchard’s objections to the program were well known, as was his disdain for Bert Doering.

“Loeffler, Nariz, and Teng, the fearsome foreign trio. What did they talk to Pritchard about?”

Saksis held up her hands. “Ross, I have no idea. Obviously, they have to be questioned, along with everyone else on that list.”

“What are we waiting for?”

“For the list to be completed. Want me to do it?”

Lizenby shook his head. “No, put Perone and Stein on it.” He realized Barbara Twain was still there and said, “You have something else?”

“I’d like to get together with you, Chris, about the next step.”

“Sure. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

“You look exhausted,” Saksis said to Lizenby when Twain was gone.

“I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about this. Christ, all I wanted was to escape Washington and get back to the field. Now, this comes up. I hate it.”

“I don’t blame you. Look, I’ll do all I can to help. Just tell me what you need and I’ll be there.” She heard herself speaking not as an assistant but as a woman standing beside “her man.” It filled her, simultaneously, with pleasure and doubt.

“I appreciate that,” he said.

“It does make me a little uneasy, you talking about leaving.”

“Why?”

“Well, Mr. Lizenby, we do have a certain relationship that might make the person being left behind somewhat unsettled.” She was sorry she’d said it the moment it passed her lips.

“Yeah, well, sometimes my mouth works overtime and the mind is on vacation. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She smiled and said, “What you mean is exactly what you’re thinking, and I have no business reacting the way I did. There are no strings either way. Forget I brought it up.”

“Like hell I will,” he said, going to the door and closing it. He came to her, looked into her eyes, and asked, “What do you have on for tonight?”

“Nothing special, unless duty calls.”

“It won’t. Dinner? Stay at my place. We both need an early night together.”

Her immediate reaction was to decline, for reasons she couldn’t, or didn’t want to, identify. Instead, she said, “Yes, that would be nice.”

They were about to leave the Ranger offices at six when Assistant Director Gormley appeared in the reception area carrying a large, sealed interoffice envelope. “Thought you’d want to have this,” he said to Lizenby.

“What is it?” Lizenby asked.

“Various things from Pritchard’s office and house. There’s a personal phone book that should be checked.”

Lizenby weighed the envelope in his hands and grappled with the question of why it had taken so long to deliver it. He opted not to ask. Gormley wished him a pleasant evening and left.

“What’s that?” Saksis asked when Lizenby walked into her office carrying the envelope.

“Gormley just delivered it. Pritchard’s personal effects.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Really? Let’s take a look.”

“Tomorrow. We have an early night for us, remember?”

They put the envelope in the safe, turned off the lights, and went to Le Pavilion, recently relocated to the second floor of a new office building on Connecticut Avenue, where they dined on galette of wild mushrooms with a ballottine of pigeon, fillet of lamb with white asparagus and sage butter, and dense, rich raspberry tarts.

“So expensive,” she said after they’d gotten in his car.

“We deserve it,” he said. “I missed you.”

She slid closer and rested her hand on his leg.