Murder at the FBI by Margaret Truman Page A

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 stimulatingchallenge 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 whereit 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,