Murder at the FBI Read Free

wife’s eyes rolled to the top of her head and she fainted.

3
    Ten minutes later the dead man in the blue suit rested on a steel table in the FBI’s forensic laboratory. Identification had been made the moment Harrison and others from building security looked down at the body on the firing-range floor. His name was George L. Pritchard; he’d been a special agent for seventeen years. He’d worked in field offices for most of his career, but a year ago had been brought into headquarters to establish a new tactical division known as SPOVAC—Special Office of Violent Activities (Criminal). Its focus was on “serial killers” and mass murderers.
    A dozen men in white medical coats surrounded the steel table. Each was a forensic specialist, most were medical examiners from cities around the country who happened to be in the lab that morning as part of an FBI training seminar on new techniquesof using lividity to determine the time of death in murder victims. The FBI did little actual forensic work, functioning more as a statistical and research center, but it was fully equipped and staffed for autopsies. Two other steel tables against the wall held corpses the visiting physicians had been working on when Pritchard was rushed into the lab.
    “Boy, oh, boy,” one of the doctors muttered, referring to the gaping hole in Pritchard’s chest, created by the series of bullet wounds in a circle three inches in diameter. “Some shot.”
    “Look here,” another doctor said, pointing to a single bullet hole slightly higher than the rest. It had been made by a small-caliber weapon. “A .22,” the doctor speculated.
    By now, the doorway and hall were jammed with people who’d heard about what had happened. Ross Lizenby, Pritchard’s assistant on the SPOVAC team, pushed through the crowd. “Let me through, come on, move,” he said as he gained access to the lab. He couldn’t see past the wall of white coats. “Is it George Pritchard?” he asked.
    Lizenby wedged himself between white coats. “It is,” he said to himself. He looked around. “I’m Special Agent Lizenby,” he announced in a loud voice. “Director Shelton is awaiting my report. I want everyone to vacate this room with the exception of the lab chief and any agent who happened to be here when the deceased was delivered.” When no one moved, he shouted, “Now, damn it!”
    Soon, Lizenby stood next to the steel table with the head of the forensic lab and a young agent who’d been there observing the seminar out ofcuriosity. Lizenby picked up a phone and dialed the office of the director of the FBI, R. Bruce Shelton. He identified himself to a secretary and was immediately put through. “The deceased
is
Special Agent George Pritchard, sir. Death appears to have been caused by multiple gunshot wounds to the chest.” He listened for a moment, said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up. He said to the lab chief, “Seal this room off, and that means to everyone. Get a staff together for an autopsy, but wait until I get back to you. I’m meeting with the director now.” He started to leave and then glanced back at the young agent. “You were here?” he asked.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Come on.”
    They went to the seventh floor and entered the reception area of the director’s office suite. A middle-aged woman behind a desk immediately said, “He’s in the dining room, Mr. Lizenby. He said for you to go there.”
    They walked thirty feet to the executive dining room and knocked. “Come in.” They opened the door. Seated at an oval dining table having his hair trimmed by the kitchen’s head chef was R. Bruce Shelton, director of the FBI since his appointment by the president four years ago. It was a ten-year appointment, but rumors had been thick lately that he intended to resign within the year.
    “Good morning, sir,” Lizenby said.
    “Good morning,” Shelton answered. He pulled off the cloth that kept hair from falling on his white shirt and said to the