Murder at the FBI by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

with.”
    Saksis knew she was right but couldn’t say it. She got up and looked out the window. The heat and humidity hung outside the glass like a dirty, gray wet sheet. It was the one thing she disliked about Washington, the summers. They were so unlike summers in Maine. Suffering a twinge of homesickness, she turned away from the window and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Pritchard, for talking to me. Here’s my card. Please call me at any time if you think of something that could help, or if you just—well, just want to talk.”
    “Yeah, thanks. George was right.
    “About what?”
    “About you. You are a splendid-looking creature.”
    Saksis felt awkward. She absently smoothed down the sides of her khaki skirt and said, “Thank you for the compliment. We’ll talk again, I’m sure.”
    Special Agent Pat Busch was in the foyer with Beth. “Pat, could I talk to you for a minute?” Saksis asked.
    “Sure.”
    They left the apartment and walked to the elevators. “What’s the story?” Saksis asked. “Are they under house arrest?”
    Busch shrugged. “All I know is that they’re not supposed to leave or talk to anyone except bureau personnel.”
    “Whose order?”
    “Gormley’s.”
    “For how long?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “What other agents have been here?”
    “A dozen, in teams, in and out.”
    “Know any of them?”
    “Sure.” She named a few.
    “What do you think of her?” Saksis asked.
    “Mrs. Pritchard? Tough.”
    “That’s for sure. There wasn’t any love lost between them.”
    “That’s a very kind understatement, Chris. I like the kid, though.”
    “I never really talked to her.”
    “Very quiet but smart. Sweet, too. Interesting the difference in how they viewed George Pritchard. Did you notice there doesn’t seem to be a trace of him anywhere in the house?”
    “Sure.”
    “Beth’s room is different. She’s got every award he ever received, pictures of him all over the place, letters from him. Poor kid, I don’t think this has really sunk in yet. She’s in shock. I feel sorry for her because her mother doesn’t seem to be the comforting type.”
    “That, too, is a kind understatement.”

7
    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 simplemurder 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