Murder at the FBI (25 page)

Her anger gave way to sadness again as she said, “And what’s
my
routine—the bureau slut?”

“Nobody ever said that, Chris,” Perone said.

“No? What do you think about it?”

“About what, a little office romance?” Stein laughed to show how insignificant it was.

“How about conflict of interest, Jake? That’s what I was really accused of by Gormley, investigating the Pritchard murder without being unbiased.”

Stein said, “It’s water over the dam, Chris. It’ll all blow away and be forgotten.”

“Tell me that when you read my evaluation reports,” she said.

“You can always protest. There’s a system for it.”

She went to the door, drew in a deep breath, turned, and said, “So, officially, who did it?”

“Who did what?” Perone asked.

“Who killed George L. Pritchard?”

Stein turned his back on her and said flatly, “It’ll be announced this afternoon, at five.”

“Oh, really? A press conference?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s announcing it?”

“Director Shelton.”

“Right from the top, huh? Do
you
know, Jake?”

He looked at her. “Yes.”

“And I can’t be told?”

“That’s right, only don’t take it personally. No one is to be told until Shelton’s announcement.”

“Except you.”

“There were reasons.”

“Give me two. I was in charge of Ranger right up until today.”

“Until Saturday,” said Stein in a voice that indicated he was losing patience with the conversation.

“Until the ‘revelation’ that I’d been sleeping with the deceased. Who came up with that? Rosemary Cale at someone’s behest?”

“Whatever you say, Chris,” said Stein. “I have to go. I’m late for a meeting.”

She looked at Perone. “Joe, this is all wrong.”

He nodded and fell into step behind Stein.
Perone’s final words to her over his shoulder were, “Cool it, Chris. Don’t make it worse.”

She sat in her office for twenty minutes with the door closed. Someone knocked. It was one of the secretaries. “Miss Saksis, the building maintenance crew is going to start packing things up here. I’ve been told to inform everyone to have their personal effects in order before three.”

“Thank you.”

Ten minutes later she was summoned to Assistant Director Wayne Gormley’s office. He was pleasant and warm as he said, “Now that Ranger is dissolved, the question of reassignment for its staff has to be settled. I’ve decided to assign you to a resident agency office in Montana.”

“Montana?”

“Yes. We have a definite need there for someone of your background and experience in Indian and reservation affairs. It will give you a chance to get right back into an important area of bureau jurisdiction.”

“I see.”

“Frankly, I think I owe you an apology.”

Her heart beat faster and she said, “About—about the accusation that I—”

He smiled broadly. “Yes, Miss Saksis. I think I overreacted. I can claim many things, primarily the pressure of the past few weeks because of the Pritchard matter, but I won’t fall back on excuses. I realize that I’d come on rather strong to you on Saturday, and that was wrong. As concerned as we are—as everyone in the bureau is about maintaining strict discipline over special agent conduct—the capacity to understand and to accept human
frailty isn’t unknown. Up until this unfortunate incident, your record has been exemplary and we respect that sort of performance.”

Her excited anticipation of a moment ago was replaced with the sardonic anger she’d felt all morning. She said, “But you don’t want to deal with the question of whether what I was accused of is false.”

Another smile. “I don’t think it’s germane to the larger issue, Miss Saksis.”

She didn’t know what to do, to argue it further with him or to accept graciously his offer of leniency.
Leniency
! I haven’t done anything, she thought. But then Ross Lizenby came to mind. She’d broken bureau regulations with him. Did Gormley know about their affair? Did it matter?
Montana?
It represented banishment in bureau terms. Resident agency offices were filled with special agents who’d broken a rule, stepped on big toes, fouled up in some way, major or minor.

“I’d enjoy talking further with you, Miss Saksis, but I have other appointments. Thanks for coming by. I spoke with the agent in charge of the Montana office and he’s anxious for you to arrive and lend a hand. I told him I’d see that you were there no later than Friday.”

“Friday? Sir, that’s impossible.”

His eyebrows went up as he escorted her to the door. “It is short notice, Miss Saksis, but that’s often the way it is with the bureau. Good luck on your new assignment. I’ll be taking a personal interest in your development out there. And give my best to Bill Thompson. You’ll be reporting to him. We go back a long way together.”

The maintenance crew was busy emptying out
Ranger when she returned. She entered her office and absently began putting some personal effects in a box she’d found outside. Her phone rang. “Christine Saksis?” a voice asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Sergeant Flynn at MPD. We had an assault and robbery last night and are trying to trace people who might know the victim.”

“Who is it?”

“His name’s—I’m not sure how to pronounce it. It’s spelled Tse-ay.”

“Bill?”

“Yes, ma’am, William Tse-ay. Your name and number was on a slip of paper we found in his wallet.”

“What happened? Is he hurt?”

“I’m afraid so. He’s critical at Doctors Hospital.”

“Oh, my God.”

“They performed surgery last night. The doctor’s name is Goldberg, Leslie Goldberg.”

“Thank you, I—you say he’s critical.”

“Yes. Miss Saksis, because you’re with the FBI, I was wondering whether the victim had any dealings with you and the bureau.”

“Dealings. Yes, he was—no, nothing official. We’re very close friends.”

“I see. Well, thank you. If you think of anything that might help us trace his movements leading up to the assault, or that might help identify his assailant, I’m here at headquarters, detective division.”

“I’ll call if I think of anything.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Have a good day.”

She didn’t bother with her car, grabbed a cab in front of the Hoover Building and went to the hospital,
where she was referred to Dr. Goldberg’s office. He was there, and when she explained who she was, he told his receptionist to send her in. He explained quickly and simply what damage had been done to Bill’s brain.

“Will it be permanent damage?” she asked.

“Hard to say. I’m optimistic about him. I can see signs of improvement already, but they’re small.”

“Can I see him?” she asked.

“He’s still in Intensive Care, but I think it would be all right for you to spend a few minutes with him.”

“Is he conscious?”

“In and out. I talked with him this morning and he”—the doctor grinned—“made sense, but he slipped back into what’s basically a comatose state pretty quickly. Go on up. I’ll call ahead and tell them to admit you, but only for a few minutes.”

Saksis was ushered into one of the rooms in Intensive Care, where Bill was hooked up to a variety of tubes and machines. His head was completely bandaged. Only his face was visible. It was purple, but relaxed, serene, as though he’d entered another dimension. “Just a few minutes,” a nurse said.

Saksis stood at the side of the bed and tentatively touched Bill’s hand. She’d expected it to be cold; it was warm and soft. She twined her fingers into his and said, “Bill.” He didn’t move, and his eyes remained closed. “Bill, it’s Chris.”

There was a flutter in his eyelids, and his chest
heaved. He opened his eyes and looked directly into hers. “Hi,” he said, a small smile forming on his parched lips.

“Hi,” she said.

“Boy,” he said, “I—”

“Don’t talk, I just wanted you to know I was here. Dr. Goldberg said you’re going to be fine.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s—he operated on you.”

“My head hurts.”

“I’ll tell the nurse.”

“Okay.” He squeezed her fingers and said, “You have to get the stuff I was supposed to get.”

“What stuff?”

“For Joey Zoe.”

“Bill, forget about that. What’s important is that you—”

“You have to. Please.”

She didn’t want to upset him. “Sure,” she said. “What do I need?”

He pointed to a sheet of paper on his nightstand, on which he’d listed everything before being attacked.

“Fine. You rest. They told me I could only stay a few minutes. Go to sleep.” She kissed his forehead.

“Get the stuff and hook in. It’s important.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Get a print-out. I want to see it.”

“Okay.”

“Chris.”

“What?”

“If I don’t make it, be sure to pay Joey Zoe
what I promised. I don’t want to leave any bad debts behind. It’s $300.”

“I love you, Bill,” she said, quickly turning and leaving so that he wouldn’t see the wetness in her eyes.

Chris Saksis spent the afternoon racing around Washington in search of the items Bill said she’d need to crash Kneeley’s computer transmission. She didn’t bother returning to the Hoover Building, nor did she call in. It all seemed irrelevant, her responsibilities to the FBI. It left her with an emptiness in her stomach. She loved being a part of her country’s most prestigious law enforcement organization. It was her family, gave her a sense of worth and motivation in her life. But the organization that fostered so many positive feelings had turned its back on her, like a mother or father who misunderstood and who refused to forgive, to listen, to give the benefit of the doubt.

She read the instructions that came with the telephone modem and the Gutenberg software, hoping that she understood and hadn’t incorrectly
hooked the components together—for Bill’s sake. It had become a cause of sorts for him, and she wanted to have a clean print-out of whatever Kneeley transmitted to his publisher. It didn’t matter how it affected the Pritchard case. What
did
matter was Bill Tse-ay. Her mind had been filled all afternoon with visions of him being rendered mentally incapacitated for the rest of his life—of their life. It couldn’t happen, she told herself when those fears struck. He’d talked to her, had, as Dr. Goldberg said, “made sense.” That caused her to smile, just as it had for the doctor. Bill would be fine and, with any luck, so would she. Montana! It wasn’t fair, but she forced herself to view it positively. If it did involve working with crimes on reservations, she’d attack it with spirit and dedication. That would please Bill. She could stay with the FBI and help her people at the same time.

It was all so confusing—getting her computer ready, the mess at the bureau, George Pritchard, Beth, Helen Pritchard, Rosemary Cale, the dirty rumors, the truth about her and Ross Lizenby…. What sense did it make?

She turned on her television at six to the Cable News channel, where a longer report on the Pritchard press conference was likely to be carried. The conference was the third story. Director Shelton stood at a podium alongside a spokesman from the State Department. Shelton spoke first.

“It is with relief, and sorrow, that I announce today the resolution of the unfortunate death of one of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s finest special agents, George L. Pritchard. A thorough investigation of the circumstances surrounding his
death has resulted in an understanding of what occurred, which I know each of you in the media, and in the American public, has been anxious for.

“Special Agent Pritchard’s death has led to one of the most exhaustive investigations in the bureau’s history. It did, after all, involve one of our own, and everyone in law enforcement knows that when a
brother
is killed in the line of duty, there is no let-up until the case is solved.

“Before I proceed, I wish to extend my heartfelt thanks to the dedicated and professional men and women who worked night and day to identify the persons responsible for this loss, which we all feel very deeply at the FBI. Special Agent Pritchard was a credit to this bureau and was an inspiration to every special agent, man and woman, black and white, and to every person who strives to make the bureau the exemplary organization it is, both here at home and in the world community.”

Saksis shifted in her chair and silently wished he’d get on with it.

“Unfortunately,” Shelton continued, “the facts as they’ve emerged do not close this case with finality. It involves not the simple act of murder, but an international conspiracy that Special Agent Pritchard spent much of his career with the FBI pursuing in the interest of wiping out world terrorism. His efforts were fruitful and rewarding to all Americans. Unfortunately, those same efforts also led to his death.

“Special Agent George L. Pritchard was murdered in cold blood by the remnants of an international band of terrorists dedicated to the overthrow of democratic governments. In this particular case,
the people responsible for his death are the same people Special Agent Pritchard had infiltrated a few years ago. The group is tied to South America, particularly Paraguay. In a few moments I will introduce to you Mr. Sergio Nariz who, fortunately, has been with us in Washington over the past few months establishing closer links between his native country, Paraguay, and the United States. Mr. Nariz is a respected and ranking member of Paraguay’s law enforcement community, and we have agreed upon a joint effort to bring to justice those responsible for the murder of Special Agent Pritchard, and those responsible for terrorism in our hemisphere.

“The murder of George L. Pritchard has, ironically, its positive aspects. Because of it, not only has an international bond of law enforcement been forged with Paraguay, but a similar one has been established with other nations equally as committed to stamping out terrorist acts. It is of little comfort, I realize, to the loving wife and daughter left behind by Special Agent Pritchard, but his death has not been in vain.”

Cable News cut away just as Director Shelton was about to introduce an undersecretary for Latin Affairs from the State Department. Saksis shut off the TV set and slumped in her chair. “What garbage,” she said. “What a crock.”