Murder at the FBI

by Margaret Truman

  “But, he’s an FBI man. Hey, Chris, you know what comes with that territory.”

  “Careful. I’m one, too.”

  He laughed. “What are we eating?”

  They ordered red snapper soup for both of them, a combination seafood platter for her, broiled bluefish for him from the four-page menu. They talked during the meal about many things—the worsening plight of the American Indian under the Reagan administration, baseball, the stories Bill was pursuing for his newspaper, Washington gossip, the weather, and a dozen other topics. He eventually asked about the murder of Special Agent George L. Pritchard.

  “I really can’t say much about it,” she said. “You know, it’s—”

  “Top secret. I think that’s what bothered me most about you joining an organization like the FBI. It’s closed. I like openness.”

  She could see the beginning of an old and familiar argument, the one that eventually wedged them apart. She sighed and pushed a few scallops around on her plate. “Bill,” she said, “you do know how I feel about you, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Seriously. I love you very much.”

  “Like a brother.”

  “Yes. And in other ways, too.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not so long.”

  “Too long. Tell me more about Ross Lizenby. He worked for Pritchard in SPOVAC, right?”

  She nodded and frowned.

  “Hey, Chris, I don’t write about the FBI. I write about American Indians. Remember?”

  “Bill, I just can’t discuss it.”

  He shrugged. “I’m curious, like millions of other people. Think about it, a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation is murdered in the J. Edgar Hoover Building in front of two hundred witnesses. Can you imagine what—”

  “There weren’t two hundred witnesses. There weren’t any witnesses.”

  “Whatever. At any rate, the story was played up big all over the world. Are you working on it, directly, I mean?”

  “Please.”

  “With Lizenby?”

  She leaned over the table and said, “My only assignment is to play the token American Indian special agent.”

  “Hooray for a little basic honesty. They do use you, you know.”

  “And I used them, Bill. Besides, there are almost forty of us within the bureau now.”

  “That many? That’s a good story.”

  “Maybe it is. Want to talk about that? I’m ready.”

  “Another time. Right now I’m torn by internal debate.”

  “Over what?”

  “Over whether to fight for the woman I love, to attempt to rekindle the old flames, or to bow out graciously and congratulate the better man.”

  She giggled. “It wouldn’t work. Remember? Two different worlds.”

  “The same world—savages, redskins, selling scalps for bounty.”

  “Are you sure that’s Perrier water you’re drinking?”

  “It ain’t firewater, dearie,” he said. “Us injuns don’t tolerate whiskey too good.”

  “You haven’t changed.”

  “And you have. I wish we hadn’t.”

  “But we did. I have to call it a night, my dear brother and friend. I have a long, tough weekend of paperwork, and I’ll be leaving first thing Monday for New York.”

  “What’s going on up there?”

  “Routine. Do I get to treat, or would that represent compromising a journalist?”

  “If you were with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, I’d decline, but since you’re with an agency I don’t cover, I accept.”

  “What’s new at BIA?” she asked when they’d reached the parking lot.

  “Nothing much. They’re solving the American Indian problem by cutting every program that keeps us alive. Another couple of years and they’ll be out of business because there won’t be any American Indians.”

  She drove him to the Gralyn Hotel.

  “Any chance of enticing you upstairs?” he asked.

  “No.”

  She slid close and embraced him, accepted his kiss, but stiffened when his hand found a breast beneath her cotton dress.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be. Will I see you again before you go back?”

  “You’d better. When will you be back from New York?”

  “Late Monday night.”

  “Breakfast the next day?”

  “Sure, why not?” She thought of Lizenby and their breakfasts together, almost begged off, then decided to stick with what she’d said.

  He was halfway out of the car when he turned and said, “I forgot to tell you, Chris. We got six more computers.”

  “That’s marvelous.” She’d worked with him to find funding to equip the school on his reservation with a couple of computers for the kids. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d finally raised enough money to purchase two.

  “Yeah, I got the computer manufacturer to spring this time. You know, good PR for them, all that stuff. They’ll be coming in next week.”

  “Congratulations,” she said.

  “Now all we need is food, doctors, housing—”

  “I know. Good night, Bill.”

  13

  Saksis’s eastern shuttle flight to LaGuardia Airport arrived in New York a little after eight. She picked up a rental car, checked a map, and headed for Garden City, on Long Island, where one of the bureau’s 416 resident agency offices was located.

  The special agent in charge of the Garden City office, Terry Finch, was waiting for her with fresh coffee and Danish pastries. He was a big, pleasant man with sparkling blue eyes and pronounced jowls, someone who’d feel at home in an authentic Irish bar. “What can I do for you?” he asked once they were seated in his office.

  “I’m not really sure,” Saksis said. “I’m trying to get a handle on George Pritchard, what he was like, who his contacts were before he was killed, his activities leading up to the day of his death, anything that might help.”

  “Let me give you what little input I can on George Pritchard. Of course, he left this office a long time ago.”

  “A year.”

  Finch laughed. “That’s a long time for some people, especially guys like George. He never was comfortable staying with one assignment too long.”

  “So I’ve heard. He must have hated being assigned to SPOVAC.”

  “That’s right. Once he wrapped up his work here, he wanted to head on to another undercover operation. He balked at going to headquarters, but Director Shelton wouldn’t budge.”

  “Tell me about the undercover project he worked on out of this office.”

  “Tricky assignment, but he seemed to thrive on it. The terrorist group originated somewhere up in Vermont, but it moved down here to Long Island when things got too hot up in New England. We knew they’d set up some base of operations here but didn’t know much more than that. George came in from San Francisco and established a cover. He played the disgruntled former military adviser who was looking to sell weapons to Third World countries.”

  “Or to a terrorist group.”

  “Whoever had the money. It took him about six months to make the contact. Once he did, he moved fast. Unfortunately, some details got screwed up and we lost convictions on most of the group’s leaders; but it did disrupt them.”

  Saksis glanced at notes she’d made on the plane, then asked, “Who was his main contact in the group?”

  “I’d have to pull the file on that.”

  “We can do that later,” she said. “What I’m really looking for is the name of someone from that organization with whom George Pritchard might have kept in touch right up to the night he was murdered.”

  “I wouldn’t have any knowledge of that,” Finch said.

  “The terrorist organization. Where on Long Island?”

  “Up on the north shore mostly, Roslyn, Manhasset, Port Washington. They rented a big house in Roslyn. At least that’s where they were when George mad
e his move.”

  A tiny smile crossed Saksis’s face. “You know, Mr. Finch, you’re the first person I’ve talked to who calls Pritchard ‘George.’ There’s a certain affection in the way you say it.”

  Finch smiled. “Yeah, I know, he was a son-of-a-bitch, a foul ball who didn’t get along with anybody, but I liked him—even though the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. I admired George Pritchard. Maybe I envied his freedom. I’ve spent my FBI career behind a desk, which suited me, I suppose, suited the wife and six kids. I retire in three years and I’ve never fired my gun except on a range.”

  “I hope I can say the same,” said Saksis.

  “I’m not complaining. It’s just that people like George and the other Unkempts are what we envisioned ourselves being when we joined up. Anyway, I really don’t know much about the contacts George made in the terrorist group. Everything was close to the vest with him.”

  “How about others in this office? Anybody get close to him?”

  Finch nodded. “One of our agents worked directly with him on the Roslyn Project. That’s what it was called, by the way. His name’s Bill Dawkins, a Young Turk who butted heads with George, damn near got booted because of it.”

  “Really? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “I told him you were coming. He said he’d be back before noon. What are your plans?”

  “I was going to have lunch in the city. There are some possible links to the case there. While I’m waiting for Mr. Dawkins, is there anyone else I can talk to?”

  “Who knew George? I don’t think so. This is a small office. They come and go depending on specific cases. No, Dawkins is your best bet.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Fine.”

  She took a walk and browsed in the elegant shops along Garden City’s Franklin Avenue. Every once in a while a pretty dress in a window or a passing face on the street captured her interest, but her thoughts never strayed far from the purpose of her visit to Long Island. It occurred to her that the more she learned about George Pritchard, the more enigmatic he became, especially in light of the prevailing philosophy of the bureau—that it was a team, with little room for individuality. Obviously, Pritchard didn’t fit that mold. It was as though he worked for an agency within an agency, and under a different set of rules.

  As she returned to the Garden City office, she found herself wondering why Pritchard would have been the one chosen to administer SPOVAC. It was fairly common knowledge that Director Shelton didn’t like him. Too, he’d never had administrative experience within the bureau. It just didn’t make sense. She made a mental note to pursue the question when she got back to Washington.

  Bill Dawkins was of medium height and well built. Saksis pegged him at about thirty-five, although he could have been younger. He wore a nicely cut but inexpensive brown suit with a subtle stripe in it, white buttondown shirt, and muted green paisley tie. His sandy hair was short—almost a crew cut. He wore a wide gold wedding ring, which drew attention to nails that were chewed to the quick.

  “Feel like some lunch?” Saksis asked after they’d been introduced by Terry Finch.

  “I have a date,” he said, “but it’s not for an hour. If you want a drink, we can go where I’m meeting the person.”

  “Fine with me,” Saksis said. She’d intended to be in the city by noon but decided to stay with Dawkins. She followed him in her rented car until they passed a sign that read Village of Roslyn—Historic District, then proceeded up a busy, narrow road that led to a restaurant called the Jolly Fisherman. Dawkins turned into the parking lot, and Saksis followed. The parking valet greeted Dawkins by name. “Hello, Richie,” Dawkins said. “Take care of her.”

  They went to the bar. “Hello, Mr. Dawkins,” the bartender said. “The usual?”

  “Yeah, George, thanks.” He didn’t introduce Saksis. She ordered a club soda with lime. Dawkins downed half his martini, smacked his lips, and said to her, “Finch says you want to talk about Pritchard.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about him?”

  “Whatever you want to tell me. I understand you worked closely with him on the terrorist case here on Long Island.”

  Dawkins guffawed and finished the drink. “Nobody worked closely with George Pritchard,” he said. “Look, I know you’re working with Ranger and trying to find out who killed him, but I’ll be honest with you. I hated the bastard, and whoever killed him ought to get a recommendation in his file.”

  Saksis allowed what he’d said to sink in. She looked around the bar—most tables were taken. A couple of men had acknowledged Dawkins as they came in, but he’d ignored them. Dawkins was obviously a regular here. Had he used the establishment as a base of operations during the terrorist investigation? Agents often did, meeting people at bars and restaurants, becoming familiar faces in communities, hanging around until they were accepted—and trusted.

  This was not the sort of place where terrorists congregated. It was too genteel, too middle-class. But, if she were trying to establish herself as a disgruntled high-roller and former member of the military establishment, she might try it here.

  Then again, she realized, Dawkins might simply have latched on to the Jolly Fisherman as a watering hole and pleasant spot to have lunch.

  “You come here often?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “They all seem to know you.”

  “That’s their business.”

  The bartender served him his second drink.

  “Why did you hate Pritchard so?” she asked.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Because he tried to railroad me out of the bureau.”

  “Why?”

  “Read the file.”

  “I’ll do that when I get back, but that’ll only represent his version.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, drinking again. “I’m leaving anyway.”

  “Oh? Because of George Pritchard?”

  “No, because the FBI is a sham.”

  She wasn’t sure how to react, decided to keep asking questions. “Why do you say that?”

  He swiveled around on his bar stool and faced her. “The FBI sells one thing to the public, deals another way with its own people. I was really gung-ho when I applied, worked my ass off at Quantico, put in twenty hours a day on my first assignments. You know what that does to a marriage?”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I gave it everything I had. You know the result? A wife and two kids down the drain, a ton of debt, and a lousy letter in your file that gives them the right to walk all over you.”

  “All because of George Pritchard?”

  “Yeah, Pritchard, with the blessing of Shelton and Gormley, and the other fat cats who don’t know what the… Ah, look, I’m not out to spill on you. You like working here, that’s your business. All I know is I’m getting out.”

  “Does Mr. Finch know that?”

  “Nope. I plan to tell him tonight. We’re having dinner. Finch is a good guy, only he’s too used to shuffling papers and counting the days to retirement. I’ve got a new wife and a new job with a private security agency. Screw the FBI.”

  Saksis started to say something, but he interrupted. “What’s the real story on Pritchard getting it? Who’s the smart money on?”

  “No bets so far.”

  It was a sardonic laugh. “You know something, Miss Saksis, I don’t feel even a twinge of sadness that the son-of-a-bitch got it. I’ve met a lot of people in my life who I didn’t like, including real scum, but nobody was as bad as George L. Pritchard. The worst thing was that he was such a goddamn phony, the dedicated agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation who wasn’t above selling out his own mother if it put a buck in his pocket.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dawkins, but you’re presenting a side of him that doesn’t match up with what I’ve learned. I know he wasn’t personally popular, but everyone I’ve talked to claims he was a dedicated and principled special agent.”

  “That’s your decis
ion to make.”

  “Yes, it is. How close did you work with him on the terrorist case?”

  “Damn close. He gave me all the dirty work, then turned around and slammed me with an unfavorable evaluation. It was worse than that. He went down to Washington and demanded that I be dismissed with prejudice.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Incompetence, insubordination, gross negligence, you name it.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Did I deserve it? Who cares? I’ve got a nice job lined up, and the bureau, the precious bureau, can take Pritchard’s evaluation of me and shove it.”

  “I’m sorry you’re so bitter,” Saksis said.

  “I’m not bitter. I just got smart, that’s all.”

  “Before I go, could you tell me about the terrorist group Pritchard infiltrated?”

  “It’s all on paper.”

  “A contact. My information is that he maintained a contact inside that group, that it was linked in some way with Paraguay, and that the contact he kept might have been in Washington the day he was murdered.”

  “Impossible,” Dawkins said.

  “Why?”

  “His contact—the one who blew it open for him—is dead. Pritchard arranged it.”

  “He killed his contact?”

  “Maybe, maybe one of his people.”

  “What people?”

  “The army.”

  She paused, then said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. The army?”

  “The Unkempts, the dirty dozen. Come on, you know about them.”

  “No, I don’t, I really don’t.”

  Dawkins finished his drink, put his glass on the bar. “Ask your boss about it,” he said.

  “My boss?”

  “Lizenby. He’s one.”

  She was about to ask another question when a tall platinum blonde approached them. Dawkins stood and kissed her. The blonde gave Saksis a “Who the hell are you” look.

  “Chris Saksis,” Saksis said, extending her hand.

  “This is Carol. It was good to see you,” Dawkins said. He reached in his pocket and handed her a business card: WILLIAM P. DAWKINS—SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR. The name of a private detective agency was below it.

  “Thanks,” Saksis said as she got up and prepared to leave. “Nice meeting you, Carol.”