Murder at the FBI (28 page)
Authors: Margaret Truman
He sighed and touched the window pane with the five fingers of his right hand. “Are you happy with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
“Happy?”
“Content with your job and the way you’re treated.”
“Yes.”
He glanced at her. His face reflected cynicism. “It isn’t the nicest organization in the world, Miss Saksis. With all its highpower PR, it’s really quite tough underneath.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Of course you would.”
“Mr. Kneeley, if you think that by damning the FBI you’ll manage to get me on your side, you’re operating under a big misconception.”
He thought for a moment, then crossed the room to his desk, sat in front of his computer, and clicked it on. He looked back at Saksis and motioned with his hand. “Come, come, let me present lesson number two in the
real
FBI.”
She stood behind him as the screen came to life—a vertical green line on the right side, a horizontal one along the bottom. He looked up at her and said, “Ready?”
“For what?”
“An eye-opener.”
He took a floppy disk from a locked case next to the computer, inserted it in one of the disk drives, and pushed a key on the keyboard. A long list of files stored on that disk filled the screen. He moved a cursor to one labeled
G.P. Notes
;
SPOVAC
—“
Irony
,” pressed a key, and waited. A moment later the screen was filled with text.
Kneeley got up and offered Saksis the chair. “Sit, Miss Saksis, read and enjoy. You scroll through it using these keys.”
“I’m familiar with it.”
“Oh, of course, you must be. Take your time and digest it, my dear. When you’re done with this, there are dozens more disks that spell out in exquisite detail that dark and rotten underbelly I spoke of.”
“Mr. Kneeley, why are you showing this to me?”
“Because I almost consider you a collaborator by now, a partner. You’ve already managed to see some of it through your illegal tapping of my phone. You might as well see the rest. Besides, I have a feeling that once you do, you might view me in a slightly more positive light.”
“But even if I do,” said Saksis, “it doesn’t change things. If you murdered George Pritchard, all the dirt in the world about the bureau won’t—”
“Scroll and read, Miss Saksis. Then we’ll talk. This particular disk contains the verbatim transcripts of long, introspective notes George Pritchard had made about his career. He was a remarkably fastidious man, describing everything in his daily diaries, neatly printed and quite literate for a cop. Enjoy. I’ll be back.”
He went to the door and flipped a switch that killed all lights in the room. It was very dark outside because of the storm; her face was illuminated by the green phosphorescent light from the screen.
Chris stared at the screen. The text displayed on it was the beginning of a new diary entry, according to Pritchard’s notes as to the time and place it was entered, the subject—“The Irony of SPOVAC”—and some general comments about his state of mind at that moment. He’d written:
So much over the years to disillusion me. It takes such faith to continue with enthusiasm when things like this occur. But, should it impact on me to the extent that I give up what I love and believe in? I think not. Still, it makes it difficult, especially when you must work side-by-side each day with the source of it. Then, too, I must question whether this is unique enough to send me fleeing the bureau in search of something less volatile and crushing. Again, the answer is always a resounding NO. The bureau is my life, and despite its occasional (I’m being kind, I suppose) “slips,” it is still an organization to be looked at with pride by every man and woman. It is, after all, nothing more than a gathering of human beings who happen to work in law enforcement, rather than in banks or advertising agencies, the post office or a computer giant. People; the problem is people, but a towering organization that has done so much good should not be brought down by a person or persons. Enough of my rationalization—one last note to myself. Should I ever decide to write the book based upon this inflammatory material I’ve ended up with, this sort of incident must not be part of it. It is, after all, just a person who has created this irony within SPOVAC.
Chris Saksis scrolled the lines of text on the screen and read Pritchard’s recollection of the genesis of SPOVAC, at least from the perspective of his involvement. He discussed the need for an organization to tackle the increasing number of serial and recreational murders across the country,
to codify what information could be gathered on patterns and geographical links, psychological profiles of those who killed serially and for pleasure and programs to combat the increasing phenomenon of such killings.
He went on page after page, and Saksis began to get bored. Until—
…
at first, when Ross told me of what he’d done, I was incapable of believing it, or him. It was too monumentally horrible to accept, too bizarre, too close to home because of my own daughter for whom I would kill—all too ironic. But then I realized that he was telling the truth, and that his reaction to it was not the horror I felt but one of almost amused IRONY. Which it was, of course, but
…
Chris Saksis’s heart beat fast as she continued reading. According to Pritchard, “Ross” had admitted to having killed a young Indian girl near the reservation in Arizona. It was a mistake, he claimed. He’d met her, taken her for a drive, and an argument had developed. He’d been in Arizona at another SPOVAC conference (Saksis remembered Bill Tse-ay trying to interview him there), had an evening “
to kill
” (Pritchard’s emphasis), met the girl, drove to a place where he intended to have sex with her, ended up in a fight and…
She turned away from the screen as the grim details were spelled out paragraph after paragraph, then forced herself to continue reading. At the end,
Pritchard made comments about the incident, about his dilemma; report Ross or forget about it? He chose the latter course of action. He went on to say that he’d known of certain sexual proclivities on Ross’s part but ignored them. What a man did in the privacy of his own home was no one’s business, not even the FBI’s. But, said Pritchard, the doubts persisted and would until the day he died.
The irony of a SPOVAC team member killing a teenage girl and having it appear that the murder was just another in a series of killings in Arizona—I decided it was good that I knew about it because, at least, I wouldn’t be searching for clues to link her death with the others. I believed him. It WAS an accident, but it’s ironic, that’s all. What else can I say?
Saksis hadn’t been aware that Kneeley had entered the room again and was standing a few feet behind her. The sudden realization made her start.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” he said. “And ironic, as Pritchard recognized. I think about it a lot, Miss Saksis, that this man Ross, whoever he is, is still functioning as a special agent of the FBI, carrying his weapons and his shield and protecting America.” He laughed. “Actually, I think Pritchard did the right thing by forgetting about it. What was to be gained by sullying the bureau’s reputation? ‘Don’t embarrass the bureau.’ You’ve heard that more times than once, I’m sure.”
Saksis silently nodded and closed her eyes against tears that were forming.
“George told me more about the incident. He said one of the reasons he hadn’t reported the confession, if you can call it that—it happened when both of them were quite drunk one night in a bar in California—was that this agent named Ross was good, a real credit to SPOVAC and the bureau. Pragmatism at work. Sometimes it makes my skin crawl but—well, it has its moments, I’m sure.”
Saksis composed herself before she asked, “Why, Mr. Kneeley? Why show me this thing?”
He sat on the edge of his desk and played with the chains around his neck. “Because I like you? Perhaps. Because I have this burning need to cleanse my soul of what I know of the house that Hoover built? Absolutely not. Because—because, Miss Saksis, I want you out of here and off my back. I did not kill George Pritchard. We had a business arrangement—”
“You and his
wife
had the arrangement, as I understand it.”
“Does it matter?”
“It certainly could where Pritchard’s murder is concerned.”
“Why? Are you suspecting his widow, poor thing, bereaved and despondent over the death of her beloved husband?”
“That’s not the way it is.”
“Of course it’s not. She hated his guts.”
“Did she kill him?”
“Ask her.”
“I did.”
“And she denied it.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Makes sense.”
“What does?”
“Denying you murdered an FBI agent. That can get you in big trouble.”
She had difficulty asking it, but managed. “This ‘Ross’ mentioned in what I read. Could he have—” It was impossible to finish.
“Killed Pritchard to keep him quiet? I doubt it.”
“But it’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible.”
There was the faint sound of the doorbell. Kneeley went to the window and squinted as he tried to see who it was through the mist and rain. He turned quickly and said, “Well, Miss Saksis, I’m about to have another visitor.”
She looked blankly at him.
“The bereaved widow is here.”
“Helen Pritchard?”
“Yes.”
“Did you expect her?”
“Today, no. One day, yes.”
“I’m not sure I want to—”
“You won’t have to confront her. Go rest in another room.” He saw her dilemma and said, “Use that room over there and leave the door open a few inches. You won’t miss a thing.”
Saksis gathered up her purse and papers and went to a small room off the study. Once she was in it, the question of why he was being so helpful hit her. There was only one answer, it seemed, and that was that he hadn’t killed George Pritchard and wanted to put the question to rest. His involvement with the deceased naturally kept him in the
spotlight as a suspect, and he knew it. But, it didn’t matter what his motives were, she decided as she looked around the twelve-by-twelve, thickly carpeted room. There was a minimum of light through gaps in curtains over a small window that faced the ocean. There was a copper-colored love seat and two straight chairs. The overall effect was of a doctor’s waiting room. She opened the curtains and looked out over the ocean, then went to the door. She could see Kneeley’s desk and the immediate surrounding area, but not much more. The door to the study opened and Helen Pritchard stepped into the room. She wore an aquamarine raincoat and floppy rain hat, stylish ankle boots, and carried a large leather handbag. Saksis wondered whether she carried a gun in it. Silly. Saksis touched her own purse, in which was a bureau-issued .357 magnum. Cops and robbers. For the first time since her training days at Quantico she wondered what she was doing with her life.
“Tea?” Kneeley asked Helen Pritchard.
“No.”
“Something stronger? It is after noon.”
“I’d like a bourbon on the rocks. Do you have Blanton’s?”
Kneeley laughed. “Yes, of course.”
Helen Pritchard removed her wet coat and tossed it over the chair Saksis had been sitting in. She shook her hat over the rug and put it on top of the coat. She wore a tight jumpsuit the color of tangerines. Her wrists jangled with bracelets. Kneeley returned carrying her drink and one for him. She took it without saying anything and downed a healthy swig.
“So, Helen, to what do I owe this unexpected and thoroughly delightful visit on such a threatening day?”
“Money.” She stood over the chair containing her coat and hat as though she didn’t know where to sit.
“Ah hah,” Kneeley said, picking up her clothing. “Let me hang this for you where it will dry.”
“The chair’s wet,” Pritchard said.
“Terrible,” he said, dragging over another director’s chair. She sat and looked directly at Saksis. Saksis was certain she noticed her. It wasn’t true.
Kneeley sat behind his desk and smiled broadly. “Money,” he repeated. “For what?”
“For what I’ve been through.”
“Poor Helen.”
“Yes, damn it, poor Helen. You swine, Kneeley, you turned right around and tried to sell me out.”
He didn’t respond.
“Don’t sit there like some smug clown without a worry in the world. You know what I’m talking about.”
“I haven’t a clue.”
She guffawed and finished her drink.
“Another?”
“Yes.”
“I put the bottle over there, on the table by the door.”
“The gracious host.”
“More gracious than some.”
Pritchard went to fill her own glass, and Kneeley looked in Saksis’s direction. Did he wink at her? Probably not, although it seemed that way.
Pritchard again took her seat and said, “You’re trying to kill the book, aren’t you?”
“Kill the—? That’s absurd.”
“No it’s not. I’ve heard.”
“From whom?”
“That’s my business, and so is the book. I put my neck a mile out to see this book happen and I’ll be damned if I’ll see you bury it.”
Her vehemence had an effect on Kneeley. Saksis could see his face twist into anger, and a hand that hung loose at his side knotted into a tight fist.
Helen Pritchard continued: “You don’t fool me, Richard. I know you went to Shelton and offered to burn the book for a fee.”
“Nonsense.”
“No, Richard, the truth. You figured you could get more from blackmailing the bureau than from taking a chance on the book being published. What did Shelton offer you—a half million, a million?”
The anger in Kneeley’s face slowly relaxed into a pleasant, contented, smug expression. “He didn’t offer a penny. Mr. Shelton and his FBI are incorruptible.” He laughed. “You know something, Helen,” he said, rising and coming around the desk so that he loomed over her, “you give women a bad name. You drove your husband into an early grave with your greed.”
“Oh, Christ—”
“What did it feel like to shoot the man you’d been married to for so many years?”
His question caused Saksis to suck in her breath. Pritchard’s answer caused it to rush out of her mouth with such force that she was sure everyone had heard.