Murder at the FBI (10 page)

“I know. Again, about his contact with the terrorist group he’d infiltrated a few years ago. My information is that he might have had lunch with him the day he died.”

Carter’s eyebrows went up and he poured more tea. He said, “But he wasn’t killed at lunch.”

“But maybe whoever he had lunch with came back to see him that night. There are a number of names on the sign-in sheets that we can’t trace. They were visitors to see Pritchard who might have used false names. Does ‘Raymond Kane’ ring any bells?”

“No.”

“How about anyone George knew with the initials R.K.?”

“No, sorry.”

“His terrorist contact? R.K.?”

“Miss Saksis, you’re a good interviewer. I admire that. But, I already told you that George kept his contacts to himself.”

“But everyone shares information like that with someone else, at least one other person.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. Maybe Helen.”

“His wife? No chance.” She was sorry that a bit of an adversarial relationship had developed. Carter didn’t have to talk to her. She said, “I really
appreciate the chance to talk to you about George Pritchard. I’m trying very hard to understand the sort of man he was.”

Carter motioned for a check. “He was one of the best, Miss Saksis, strange, a brooder and loner, but a totally dedicated and skilled special agent. That’s why Director Shelton brought him in to run SPOVAC.”

“There’s a lot of questions about that, though.”

“Why? Because the director was known to not like him personally? That’s true, but Mr. Shelton is the type who can put personal feelings aside in the interest of the bureau.”

He walked her to her car. “It was good seeing you again,” he said. “I remember you from when you were training at Quantico.”

“I loved it.”

“You know, I’ve only heard scuttlebutt about how George died, but one thing bothers me.”

“What’s that?”

“That whoever did it would take the time to prop him on a target trolley hook. Why? Why not just shoot him, let him fall, and walk away.”

“I’ve wondered the same thing, but there are so many questions at this stage that I can’t deal with them all at once.”

“I know what George would have said.”

Saksis cocked her head.

“George would have said, ‘You never eat a whole pie at once. You eat it piece by piece and pretty soon you’ve eaten the whole damn thing.’”

It occurred to Saksis as she drove home that Carter’s final words were probably the best thing that came out of the evening. She was trying to eat
the whole pie instead of in little pieces. It was time to start nibbling.

But then she thought of Ross Lizenby and everything seemed jumbled again.

Saksis asked the secretary the next morning where Ross Lizenby was. “Coming in later,” was the answer. She’d been tempted to call him when she got home from dinner with Joe Carter but resisted it. It wasn’t easy. She hoped he’d call her, but that didn’t happen, either.

She walked into the office shared by Joe Perone and Jake Stein. Stein had his feet propped up on a desk and was reading the
Washington Post
.

“Jake,” Saksis said, “has anyone run a re-creation of the crime scene?”

“I don’t think so. I do know that somebody’s head’s on the block for removing the body before they had a chance for pictures and sketches.”

“I guess the panic was on.”

“With the help of two hundred gaping tourists.”

“Let’s go down to the range,” Saksis said.

“Sure.” He checked his watch. It was 8:30. “We have time before they run the first marks through.”

Special Agent Paul Harrison was there when they arrived.

“How goes it?” Stein asked.

“Not bad, but every time a group comes through I get the feeling they’re looking for another spectacular.”

The three of them walked to where the paper target hung forty feet from the firing station. “This is where he came through,” Harrison said.

Saksis looked past the target to the far wall. She approached it, with Harrison and Stein following. The target trolley originated against the wall. A platform approximately four feet high and six feet square was directly beneath where the targets were attached to the trolley.

“Why the platform?” Saksis asked.

“Makes life easy, especially for short agents.”

“Careful,” Stein said.

“No offense, Jake,” said Harrison.

“Maybe he was killed here,” Saksis said.

“They ruled it out,” Harrison said. “No blood.”

“The .22 slug never exited his body,” Stein said.

“What blood there was dripped from the wound down onto his coat and pants,” Saksis said, “which meant he must have been leaning forward after he died.”

Harrison shrugged, said, “All I know is that rushing the body from here to Forensics wasn’t the best idea. The brass isn’t happy.”

“Yeah, we heard,” Stein said.

“Jake, do me a favor,” Saksis said. “What?”

“Sit up there on the platform with your back facing the wall.”

“Why?”

“Please.”

Stein perched on the platform’s edge. “Want me to really back up against the wall?”

“No, just stay where you are.” She came around in front and faced him, then glanced up at an empty target hook that dangled behind him, a foot over his head. “What about this, Jake? Whoever shot Pritchard is standing where I am. Pritchard is sitting where you are. They’re arguing. It’s dark here, quiet, all the sound-absorbing materials taking care of that. Whoever killed him made a point of getting him down here because of the circumstances and surroundings.
Or
, maybe Pritchard suggested it because
he
intended to kill the other person. Either way, he’s sitting just like you. I pull out a .22 revolver and shoot him in the chest. He leans forward and clutches at the wound. I’m not sure which way he’s going to fall but I see the empty hook, slide it forward the short distance needed to reach his body and jam it under his jacket collar. The point had come right through the fabric, remember?”

“Yeah, I read the report.”

Saksis looked at Harrison. “But what happens then?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Harrison asked.

“Would the body, supported by the hook, naturally slide forward until it reached the target down the trolley?”

“Probably not,” Harrison responded. “The trolley’s level with the ceiling. Everything moves electronically. I control it from the firing station.”

She looked at Stein.

He jumped down from the platform. “Don’t get ideas,” he said. “The suit’s new.”

Saksis laughed, turned to Harrison, and asked, “Do you have a bulletproof vest down here?”

“Sure.”

Ten minutes later Jacob Stein had removed his jacket and replaced it with the vest, and was again sitting on the edge of the platform. Saksis climbed up behind him and brought the target hook to where it could be attached to the portion of the vest behind his neck. She did it, then said to Stein, “Go ahead and dangle. Slip off the edge.”

“Come on, Chris, this is—”

“Please.”

“Okay. Just make sure I get a letter of commendation in my file.”

Saksis and Harrison watched as Stein allowed his body to hang from the hook. His feet barely touched the ground. Slowly, the hook on the trolley started to slide forward, dragging Stein along with it. They followed him until he came to rest against the paper target Harrison would use for the first firing range demonstration that morning.

Harrison helped Stein down and handed him his suit jacket.

“Maybe,” Stein said, “but so what?”

“Thanks, Paul,” Saksis said. “Really appreciate it.”

When they were back in Ranger, Stein again asked her what point she’d made.

“It makes it less bizarre and crazy,” she said, “for someone to go to the trouble of hanging him up there. It wasn’t any trouble.”

“True.”

“And, it means we don’t rule out a woman.”

“I didn’t know we had.”

“Not literally, but there’s always been that question in my mind whether a woman was capable of hoisting him up onto that hook. Now we know there’s no hoisting involved. I did it. Any woman could.”

Stein smiled and put his feet up on the desk again. “Got one in mind?” he asked.

“No, but it’s nice to know there won’t be any discrimination based upon sex in this case. Thanks, Jake. You’re a trouper.”

***

Ross Lizenby arrived an hour later. Saksis asked if she could see him. “In a half hour,” he said brusquely.

Thirty minutes later she sat in his office and filled him in on what she and Jake Stein had done that morning on the firing range. He looked at her blankly.

“It resolves the question of whether it had to be a man to hook Pritchard up to the trolley,” she said. “And, it explains why anyone, man
or
woman, would have bothered. It wasn’t difficult.”

“Yeah, okay. What else have you got?”

She debated telling him about her dinner with Joe Carter and decided to. “Sounds like a waste of time,” Lizenby said.

“I don’t think it was. I learned a little about George Pritchard, what made him tick.”

“I knew what made him tick. I worked with him.”

“I know that but—”

“Why didn’t you ask me about him instead of Joe Carter? We’re supposed to keep this inside Ranger.”

“Ross, I was told to follow whatever leads I felt might be fruitful.”

“Fine, fine. What else?”

“Pritchard’s .22. Where is it?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t in any of his effects.”

“Why?”

“How the hell do I know? Check it out.”

“I will. I also wonder where that elaborate disguise and makeup kit Barry Croft mentioned ended up.”

Lizenby shrugged.

Joe Perone knocked. “I talked to Hans Loeffler again,” he said. “He admits he disappeared for an hour that night, claims he found an empty office with a couch and took a nap because he wasn’t feeling well.”

“Do you buy it?” Lizenby asked.

“Sounds reasonable enough,” replied Perone. “I just wish he’d told me up front.”

Perone left and Saksis was about to follow.

“Dinner?” Lizenby asked.

Just as though nothing had happened between them.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Why? Is your friend in town?”

“No.”

“Then let’s have dinner. I’m sorry if I’ve been testy this morning. There’s a lot on my mind.”

“I can understand that.” She paused. “Okay.”

“Let’s make it late, around eight. I don’t see getting out of here before then.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Want to stay at my place, or yours?”

“Ross, I—let’s just plan on dinner.”

“Oh, come on, Chris, get rid of the pout. It’s not becoming.”

“I’m not—dinner at eight. I’ll talk to you later.”

***

Saksis kept calling Helen Pritchard all afternoon but didn’t get an answer until seven that evening.

“Mrs. Pritchard, this is Christine Saksis from the bureau.”

“Yes?”

“Your husband had a .22 caliber revolver registered to him.”

“He did?”

“You didn’t know that?”

Helen Pritchard laughed. “Oh, sure, I forgot. George bought it for me because I was alone so much.”

“You had it at home?”

“That’s right. But it disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yup. One day it was gone.”

“How long ago?”

“Must be a year at least.”

“You never reported it?”

“I told George. He said he’d take care of it.”

“And? What did he do?”

“I have no idea. I never gave it another thought until now.”

“I see. Thanks. I take it the bureau people with you have been recalled.”

“Yes, thank God. Things are back to normal around here again.”

“That must be a relief. Thanks again.”

***

Lizenby stopped by Saksis’s office at eight. “Another fifteen minutes, okay?”

He was no sooner gone than her phone rang. It was Bill Tse-ay. “I tried you at home but no luck. Thought I’d take a chance at the office.”

“I was just on my way out. Bill.”

“Putting in overtime, huh?”

“Yes. It’s been this way since—well, it doesn’t matter. You’re in town?”

“Uh huh. I got here a couple of hours ago. Had dinner yet?”

“No. As a matter of fact, that’s where I was going when you called.”

“Damn. I should have called earlier. Any chance of getting out of it?”

“No, Bill, it’s—it involves a case I’m on. How about tomorrow?”

“Sounds good. I’m staying at the Gralyn on N Street.”

“Free for lunch?”

“No. I’m tied up with some people from Interior. I’ll call you later in the afternoon and we’ll set something up.”

“Fine. I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Saksis and Lizenby went to Suzanne’s, a noisy but pleasant café that Chris Saksis liked when she was in the mood for something light. They stood
around the downstairs take-out section until a table was available, then went up a narrow staircase to the restaurant, where they had a cold platter of smoked chicken and beef fillet with herbed mayonnaise, two individual portions of cold pasta with pesto, and a bottle of white wine. Lizenby was in good spirits, more gregarious than usual. He was affectionate during dinner, frequently holding her hand across the table and complimenting her. “You have such a great smile,” he said.

“So do you, but you don’t use it enough,” she said.

He appeared to be hurt at her comment, then broke into a wide grin. “Yeah, I suppose I don’t. It’s the Scandinavian in me.”

He talked a little about his childhood in Seattle, about his father, who he characterized as humorless and unbending, in contrast to his mother, a nervous, giddy woman who he remembered as always laughing. “She had to placate the old man all the time,” he said. “She was good at it, which was good for me. It took the edge off.”

Chris knew he’d been married once and that it had ended in divorce. She’d asked on a couple of occasions about it, but he offered little: “It didn’t work,” or, “We were too young,” or, “It was a mistake we caught in time.” When she asked where his former wife was now, he shrugged and said, “I don’t know and I don’t care.”