Authors: Margaret Truman
Chris Saksis scanned the release when she arrived at Ranger, tossed it aside, and concentrated on the name Raymond Kane. The phone number next to the initials R.K. in Pritchard’s phone book did not include an area code.
She asked Barbara Twain to pull up from the bureau’s central computer a list of cities where the first three digits of the number were used as an exchange. Once she had it she instructed Melissa Edwards, the tour guide and fledgling special agent, to start calling, and to tape-record each call.
Lizenby spent the morning in his office with the door closed. He emerged at noon, casually mentioned to those within earshot that he was going to lunch, and started to leave.
“Can I have a contact?” one of the secretaries asked.
Lizenby shook his head. “I’m not sure yet where I’ll be. I’ll call in.”
Fifteen minutes later Saksis told the secretary,
“I have an appointment at the academy at Quantico.” She laid a neatly typed itinerary on the desk and left.
As she drove the forty miles south on I–95 she thought about the confusion she’d been experiencing since breakfast. Her instincts about not working so closely with Ross had been right. She should have insisted on being removed from Ranger. She knew, of course, that Gormley would not have changed his mind unless she had admitted the personal relationship with Lizenby. That probably would have done it, but it would also have tainted her in Gormley’s eyes. The bureau was not a place for romance. A lecturer had made that point during her training. “Keep the boy-girl games out of the office,” he’d said. “Keep them far away from the bureau. It can cause potential embarrassment.” To say nothing of personal anguish.
She drove through rolling woodlands until reaching the entrance to the United States Marine Corps base at Quantico, a sprawling facility that had been the center of all FBI training since June 1972. The facilities constructed on the bureau’s end of the base were ultramodern—two seven-story dormitories, a well-stocked library that also contained the latest in audio and video equipment, cafeterias and a large dining room, indoor and outdoor rifle ranges, a thousand-seat auditorium, a bank, post office, dry cleaner and laundry, and a physical training center all linked together by enclosed walkways.
Saksis found a parking space near the administration center, turned off the engine, and looked around, recalling vividly her training as a special agent. She’d enjoyed it, found its intensity a stimulating
challenge physically and mentally. She’d done well—right up near the top of her class—and she’d nearly burst with pride the day FBI Director R. Bruce Shelton shook her hand in the auditorium and welcomed her to the bureau.
She’d been back every six months since graduating three years ago, for refresher courses and twice to lecture on FBI jurisdiction over American Indian reservations. She felt she’d found a home at the FBI, a tight-knit community of professionals who were the best in the world at what they did and who exhibited unbridled pride at it. Of course, many within the bureau had become jaded and cynical, which she understood. The bureaucracy could be smothering, and monotony was not unknown. Still, she accepted that. Maybe one day she’d be put off by it. Not now.
She went to the office of the academy’s director of personnel, Barry Croft, a tall, handsome, gentle man who was like a dean of students to recruits. He could be tough when the occasion demanded it. She remembered a fellow student being summarily dismissed from the program because he’d lost his ID. At least they hadn’t tacked “with prejudice” on his dismissal. There had been a few of those in her class, too, usually for breaking regulations, major or minor, or for failing to match up to bureau “image,” as perceived by any member of the staff. Simply not being a “team player” was enough to do it. J. Edgar Hoover had promised that the FBI would only have the best.
Croft greeted her warmly and suggested they go to a small briefing room down the hall from his office. “Let’s get away from the phone,” he said.
Once they were seated in chairs with writing arms, Croft smiled and said, “They put you on a tough one, huh?”
“They sure did. To be honest, I tried to cancel the assignment, but no dice.”
“Assistant Director Gormley told me.”
She was surprised and showed it.
“He called yesterday and filled me in on things. You’ve got total cooperation from me. Here.” He handed her file folders he’d carried with him. “George Pritchard’s files from here. They go back to his student days and cover his teaching duties as well. He was down here about a week before it happened.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You know, this whole SPOVAC project is hot. The director himself is high on it. We’ve been weaving aspects of it into the curriculum and Pritchard was the one who pretty much handled this end of it.”
“He was good, wasn’t he?”
“Pritchard? Yes, damn good. A strange man, as I assume you’ve already gathered.”
“Strange? I suppose so. He wasn’t especially liked, that’s for certain.”
Croft laughed. “A charmer he wasn’t. A good agent, though. From what I understand there wasn’t a better undercover man in the field. I remember him holding an impromptu seminar one night on the use of disguises. He was remarkable. He had his own collection of disguises and makeup to rival MGM.”
“I didn’t know that,” she said, wondering where
it was. She certainly hadn’t seen any evidence of it in his home.
“Yeah, George Pritchard was a piece of work. Shocking what happened. Any leads?”
“Not a one.”
“It couldn’t have been a—well, it may sound naive but it couldn’t have been someone from the bureau.”
“We’re hoping it wasn’t.”
“Yes, let’s hope not. Had lunch?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you take a half hour and skim what’s in the folders. I’ll pick you up and we’ll grab something.”
In the brief time she had, Saksis focused on records of Pritchard’s days as a student. At that time, the academy at Quantico didn’t exist. Training took place in Washington’s Old Post Office Building, in the Justice Department, and at scattered sites around the area. She was surprised to see how the training had changed over the years. In Pritchard’s student days the course material was limited. Every time there was a new technological advance, it was incorporated into the curriculum. Still, some things stayed the same, especially in the areas of firearms and physical conditioning. Pritchard had been good with weapons, not great but respectable. He’d barely managed to pass the fitness requirements, was top of his class in courses dealing with psychology and covert activity, and did well in the investigative techniques program.
There were negative notes in his file. One had to do with his dress, which the critic felt was not up to bureau standards. Too, he’d been criticized for
displaying a tendency to follow an individualistic path at times, and to be too outspoken.
It all fits, Saksis thought.
Croft returned and they went to the dining room.
“Interesting?” Croft asked after they’d been served chef salads.
“Yes, of course, but I feel guilty peeking into another agent’s file.”
“Never happens except under these circumstances. He was an interesting guy, Pritchard, a real loner, which got him in occasional trouble. Never seemed to be comfortable on the team.”
Being in the dining room and eating a chef salad brought back many pleasant memories. It had been her favorite thing on the menu when she was a student. Usually, she ate in the cafeteria, but once a week she’d splurge at a local restaurant. She smiled. “I enjoyed the training,” she said.
“You must have,” Croft said. “You excelled. I have an idea.”
“Yes?”
“We have an instructor here named Joe Carter.”
“I remember him,” Saksis said. “He taught investigative techniques.”
“Right. Joe’s one of our best at the academy. He’s almost got his Ph.D. in psychology, really knows his stuff. The reason I bring him up is that he was a classmate of Pritchard’s during training. I think Joe is the only one who ever got really close to Pritchard. You might gain some insight from him.”
“I’d love to talk to him.”
“I told him you were coming today. He had to
be in Washington for a briefing but said he’d be free tonight if you wanted to catch up with him.”
“I’ll make a point of it.”
“Good. I’ll get a hold of him. Want to meet at headquarters?”
Saksis started to say yes, then shook her head. “No, I think it’s better to keep these interviews out of headquarters. Like you said, stay away from the phones.”
“Got a suggestion?”
“Depends on what he likes to eat. I’ve been dying for Chinese all week.”
“I’m sure that will be fine with Joe.”
“Okay, tell him to meet me at Ted Liu’s, on Twentieth, Northwest.”
“Good. He said he’d be free by six.”
“Six it is.”
Chris stayed at the academy until four going through Pritchard’s files. Then she drove to her apartment, changed into a plain taupe jersey dress, and reached Ted Liu’s at 5:45. Joe Carter arrived at six straight up. They had a drink at the bar, then were ushered to a teal blue banquette where the table was set in pink.
“I’ve never been here before,” said Carter. “Doesn’t look like a Chinese restaurant.”
Saksis laughed. “No red dragons here. I like it.”
They ordered Hunan beef cooked with fresh ginger and pepper, and jumbo shrimp grilled in their shells and served with scallions, cashews, and a spicy tomato sauce.
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard about George’s death,” Carter said. He was a short, stocky man with a square face and thick fingers, hardly the
stereotype of the academician. Chris would have pegged him as an outside investigator, a special agent who hated desks and books and who liked to be where the action was.
“What’s new on it?” he asked.
“Nothing, really. We have a special unit set up to investigate—”
“Ranger.”
“Supposed to be top secret.” She laughed.
He joined her. “No such thing in the bureau. Any leads?”
She shook her head. “No. We’re building a list, and there are avenues to pursue, but as of now, nothing. I was hoping you could help.”
“Probably not, unless you want my war stories with George Pritchard. We were pretty close during training. We naturally drifted apart, but we still kept in touch, especially when he’d come down to Quantico to lecture.” He looked down at the table, then at her, and said, “Funny how much being his friend meant to me when we were recruits. He didn’t seem to have friends in the class, didn’t want any except for me. I was flattered. I respected him.”
“For any special reason?”
“There was a confidence about him that none of the others had, including me. He was my age, but he always seemed older, as though he’d been around the bureau for a long time. He just had that way about him. He had old eyes.”
“Old eyes.”
“Yeah, and you were sure there were deep pools of wisdom behind them.”
Their food was served and they shared it. “What about his wife?” Saksis asked.
“Helen? Not my favorite lady.”
“Not his either, I gather.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Carter said.
“No?”
“No. He loved her, treated her better than she treated him.”
“The daughter, Beth?”
“Nice kid as I remember. It was a long time ago. Once they drifted apart I never saw Helen and Beth again.”
“Did he talk about them?”
“Not much.”
“Mr. Croft said Pritchard was in Quantico the week before he died.”
“Yes, he was. We had dinner.”
“Do you remember anything he said or did that might have been different, or that indicated there was a problem?”
Carter laced his fingers together and slowly shook his head. “No, can’t say that I can. He talked about SPOVAC most of the evening—he was very deeply into it, especially developing the psychological profiles of serial and mass murders.”
“What about the terrorist group he’d infiltrated before coming to headquarters to head up SPOVAC? I’ve been told he still maintained an important contact within that organization.”
The question caused Carter to stiffen. He glanced around the large restaurant before saying in low tones, “That’s the sort of information that’s best left buried.”
Saksis looked at him quizzically. “Even when it might help solve the murder of an agent?”
Carter nodded. “Even then,” he said, serving their final portions from covered metal bowls.
“You’re saying it’s true.”
“I’m saying it doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me. It must have mattered to George Pritchard.”
Carter dabbed at his mouth with his pink napkin, put an arm up on the back of the banquette, and drew up a leg on the seat. “George had contacts inside many groups. He was one of the best of the Unkempts.” Special agents who worked undercover were nicknamed the Unkempt Bunch within the bureau. “He treasured those contacts, never shared them because he knew somebody would steal them. He understood the bureau game better than anyone I’ve ever known, even back when we were students. I suppose that was one of the reasons I was so attracted to him during training.”
“But I wonder—”
“The point is, Miss Saksis, there are certain things that must be respected, and one of them is a man’s contacts. I don’t believe that it had anything whatsoever to do with George’s murder, but even if it had, there are greater stakes to be considered than simply discovering who killed him.” He poured green tea into two delicately painted China cups.
Saksis sipped, then said, “I understand that, of course, but in this case that bigger stake, that greater good would be achieved if the murderer were one of Pritchard’s outside contacts. Ranger is operating under orders from up top that the bureau is not to be embarrassed. We’re committed to finding
out who killed George Pritchard from a list of suspects
not
directly connected with the FBI.” She realized how foolish that sounded and added, “Provided, of course, that the person
is
an outsider.”
Carter laughed. “You don’t have to clarify for me. We all hope that George was killed by an outsider. It may not end up that way, though.”