Murder at the FBI Read Online Free

That’s all I know.”

4
    By two o’clock, it was evident to Director Shelton that the death of Special Agent George L. Pritchard could not be considered simply an internal problem. He called a meeting of his three assistant directors, who in turn held their own departmental meetings. Naturally, any agency investigation of Pritchard’s death came under Assistant Director Wayne Gormley’s jurisdiction. Gormley, in turn, charged Ross Lizenby with quickly establishing a special unit, whose only responsibility was the Pritchard case.
    Lizenby managed to arrange a second meeting with Gormley at four. At the first meeting, he hadn’t expressed his feelings about running the special unit. Now, as the afternoon progressed, he decided to make them known. He said to Gormley, “Sir, I don’t want this.”
    Gormley, whose round face and red cheeks testified to his fondness for vodka, stared at Lizenby with small blue eyes that were in constant motion. “Why?” he asked in a voice that indicated he really didn’t care.
    “Because I’m up to my ass in SPOVAC, that’s why. Besides, I was supposed to be taken off SPOVAC and sent back out in the field.”
    Gormley popped a hard candy in his mouth. “That’s right, I forgot. Ross Lizenby, the floater, the hired gun, one assignment to another, keep moving so they can’t catch up with you.”
    “You can view it that way, sir, but—”
    “I’m not interested in your personal view. I
am
interested in finding out who killed Pritchard. It happened right here, on our own firing range with two hundred goddamn tourists taking it in. The director is damn near hysterical, and you know that’s not his style.”
    R. Bruce Shelton had been a federal judge. He came from old money in Philadelphia, was most at home at intimate dinner parties with Washington’s arts and socialite crowd, and was known as a man who never raised his voice or lost his cool.
    “I understand,” Lizenby said, “but—”
    “No buts. You worked closely with Pritchard, which should be an advantage. You’ve spent your career with the bureau as an investigator. You do it. Inform me every step of the way. Keep it as internal as possible, use what staff you need, and get it over with.”
    “No choice?”
    “No choice.” Gormley sat back in his leather chair, rubbed his eyes, and sighed deeply. He lookedacross the desk at Lizenby and asked in a soft voice, “Remember the first rule—the
only
rule they hammered into you at Quantico?”
    Lizenby smiled. “Sure. Don’t embarrass the bureau.”
    “
Never
embarrass the bureau. This thing is one goddamn and unfortunate embarrassment for everybody around here, and that’s why the director’s so upset. Don’t screw up.”
    Lizenby knew it was futile to argue. He started for the door. Gormley stopped him. “Ross, get back to me at six. I’ll have some ideas on staffing the unit by then.”
    “Staffing? You told
me
to staff it.”
    “Personnel is providing a list for me in an hour. We’ll go over it.”
    “Whatever you say.”
    The autopsy was conclusive. Special Agent George L. Pritchard had been killed by a single .22 caliber bullet fired at close range. All the other wounds had been caused by Paul Harrison’s weapons during the demonstration, and had been inflicted about ten hours after the initial, fatal wound. Time of death was established between nine P.M. and two A.M. the previous night. Pritchard had died instantly. The .22 caliber bullet, although slightly higher than the cluster of holes from Harrison’s weapons, had still struck the heart.
    Special Agent Charles Nostrand, who’d been fielding press inquiries all day, met with Director Shelton at five.
    “What’s the situation?” Shelton asked. He’d showered and changed clothes in a bathroom off his massive office. He and Mrs. Shelton were toattend a cocktail party and benefit dinner that night for the Opera Society of Washington. Funds raised would be used to replace the old wooden seats