Murder at the FBI Read Free Page B

range where Paul Harrison was cleaning a revolver. “Hello, Paul,” Lizenby said.
    Harrison slowly shook his head. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
    “You might as well. Pritchard’s dead. What in hell happened?”
    Harrison shrugged. “I was giving the demo and—Hey, Ross, are you here on official business?”
    “Official?”
    “You taking statements?”
    Lizenby nodded. “The director has me on this.”
    Harrison raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I never saw him,” he said. “I fired and wondered why the back light wasn’t coming through the holes. Then, he falls off the track, right through the target.”
    “You never saw him?”
    “Right.”
    “He didn’t move?”
    “No.”
    “He was hanging there knowing he was going to get a gut full of bullets and he never said anything?”
    “Nothing. I never saw him. Look, Ross, I was late, didn’t have much of a chance to look around. I ran in, the folks were out there in their seats and I did my thing.”
    Lizenby looked down at the magnum Harrison had been cleaning. “Did you fire that?”
    Harrison laughed. “Hell, no. The weapons I used are on the table in the range. Come on, Ross, give me credit for some smarts.”
    “What about the tourists who saw it?”
    Another shrug. “They left.”
    “Shelton will hang whoever let them leave.”
    “It wasn’t me. I called security, that’s all. They arrived and I checked the body with them. It was George. I couldn’t believe it. They canceled all tours for the rest of the day.”
    Lizenby nodded. “Hang around, Paul. Shelton might want to talk to you.”
    “I’m not going anywhere. I really can’t believe it. Can you?”
    “Shelton isn’t interested in what we believe. Hewants answers, and for Chrissake, don’t talk to anybody about it unless you hear from me.”
    “You’re heading this?”
    “I hope not. Right now I’m on the griddle because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Check you later.”
    ***
    Special Agent Charles Nostrand, who, as director of the Office of Congressional and Public Affairs for the bureau, was responsible for handling the press, called the office of Director R. Bruce Shelton.
    “Sir, we’re being swamped with press about the incident this morning. There’s a couple of dozen reporters waiting outside, and the phones are ringing nonstop.”
    “It was an accident, an unfortunate accident,” Shelton said softly.
    “Yes, sir, but they want details.”
    “They’ll get details when we have them.”
    “I know sir, but—”
    “Prepare a short release and get it up to me right away. An accident on the firing range resulted in the unfortunate death of a dedicated and exemplary special agent of the FBI. Couch it. It’s the first time anything like this has happened. It was
purely
an accident. Special Agent Pritchard was—”
    “Sir, I’m getting all this, but my instincts tell me that to admit that one of our special agents was gunned down by another of our special agents on our own firing range might—well, it might open us up to ridicule.”
    There was silence on Director Shelton’s end.Finally, he said, “Yes, you’re right. Issue nothing until I talk to you again. I appreciate your candor and professional thinking. Tell the press they will be fully informed in short order. Thank you.”
    ***
    Ross Lizenby returned to his office and made three phone calls. The first was to Wayne Gormley, to whom he recounted what he knew to date. The second was to Director Shelton. The third was to Special Agent Christine Saksis. She was on her way out to her meeting.
    “You heard?” Lizenby asked.
    “Just fragments. It was George?”
    “Yeah. Shelton’s had me running.”
    “Why?”
    “I was there. I’d like to see you tonight.”
    “You said—”
    “Forget what I said. Dinner?”
    “What time?”
    “Eight.”
    “All right. You’ll come by?”
    “Meet me. At La Colline.”
    “All right. Ross, what
did
happen?”
    “Pritchard got himself killed.