Murder at the FBI
Authors: Margaret Truman
“Margaret Truman has settled firmly into a career of writing murder mysteries, all evoking brilliantly the Washington she knows so well.”
The Houston Post
“Truman’s strong suit is her thorough knowledge of the Washington scene and her understanding of the perquisites of power, which she describes with enviable panache.”
The Washington Weekly
“One of Truman’s livelier Washington concoctions.”
The Kirkus Reviews
“Her best.”
Publishers Weekly
Margaret Truman
Murder at the FBI
Copyright © 1985, 2015 by Margaret Truman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Electronic edition published 2015 by RosettaBooks
Cover design by Brehanna Ramirez
ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795344961
www.RosettaBooks.com
Other Books by Margaret Truman
For the thousands of dedicated special agents of the FBI, men and women, about whom this book was not written
Harry Jones, who wore flowered Bermuda shorts, brown shoes, black ankle socks, and a white T-shirt that read
Akron Volunteer Fire Department—Ladder Champs ’82
, said to his wife, Maureen, “I never been so hot in my whole life.”
They stood in a long line outside the E Street entrance to the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C., home of the Federal Bureau of Investigation since the fall of 1975. Before then, it had been housed in the Department of Justice Building across the street.
The new building had been described by various critics as a prime example of Washington’s New Brutalism wave of architecture, a hunk of exposed concrete aggregate dominating the capital’s “Main Street”; an obscenely expensive tribute in buff to the man for whom it was named. It looked like a
huge toaster with two slices of bread on top, standing as an imposing permanent monument to the name that was synonymous with the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover, shaper of America’s federal police force.
It was August 10, a Thursday. It had been hot and humid all summer, typical for Washington, but three days ago a high-pressure front had stalled directly above the nation’s capital and boosted what had been merely uncomfortable temperatures and humidity to intolerable levels.
“Jesus,” Harry said as he wiped his face with a handkerchief. The strap of his camera bag dug into his beefy shoulder. His feet hurt and he shifted from one to the other. They’d been sightseeing since early morning, Harry and Maureen and their two children, Becky, twelve, and Walter, nine. It was now four o’clock in the afternoon. “Jesus,” he said again.
“The line’s moving,” said Maureen.
A few minutes later they were blasted with blessed air conditioning inside the Hoover Building. A pert young woman wearing a blue blazer, gray slacks, and a white blouse invited Harry, Maureen, Becky, Walter, and 196 other tourists to take seats in a holding area. “Your tour guide will be with you in a moment,” the young woman said into a microphone. “We ask that you not take photographs during the tour or use recording devices. We’re pleased to see all of you here today and trust that your tour of the Federal Bureau of Investigation will be instructive and interesting. Please stay in your seats until your tour guide invites you to join her.”
“I’m hungry,” Walter whined.
“Shut up,” his sister said.
“Don’t talk to your brother like that,” Maureen Jones said.
“Eat the Crackerjacks,” Harry Jones said.
“I don’t want ’em,” Walter said.
“He’s a nerd,” said Becky Jones.
“Shut up,” her father said to her. “Just shut up and sit still.” He slipped out of his shoes and sighed.
Ten minutes later another young woman wearing a blazer and slacks stepped to the microphone and welcomed the final tour of the day.
Harry groaned as he wedged his heels into his shoes, stood, and fell in line with the rest of the group. They walked for an hour, from one exhibit area to another, the guide giving an enthusiastic explanation of what they were seeing. They learned many things—besides meaning Federal Bureau of Investigation, the initials stood for Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity; authentic shields carried by special agents (
all
agents were called
special
agents) were the size of a half-dollar and had a raised seal covering an eighth of an inch of the agent’s photo; there were almost 9,000 special agents, nearly 600 of them female; 176 million fingerprints were on file, and 25,000 were processed each day; blood type could be determined through the examination of a minute trace of saliva, and the lab could tell whether the saliva came from a human being or from a dog or cat; the firearm rooms contained 4,000 types of weapons, including 2,600 handguns and 11,000 different types of bullets; there were 10,000 types of paints used on automobiles, and
the lab could differentiate between every one of them….
An hour later they reached the highlight of the tour, the firing-range demonstration. This was what the half million visitors a year, especially the kids, seemed to remember. Walter, who’d complained every step of the way, was now alert and wide-eyed as they filed into a dimly lit, tiered and carpeted room and took seats. In front of them was a wall of bulletproof glass covered by heavy beige drapes. The curtains opened at the press of a switch, revealing the firing range, a long, brightly illuminated room. There was a table at the end nearest the glass wall. On it was an assortment of weapons. An overhead trolley ran from the table to the far end of the range; targets used during training could be electronically brought closer or moved farther away from the firing position.
A door inside the range opened and a tall, slender, handsome black man wearing a blue blazer, gray slacks, white shirt, and muted red-and-blue tie came through it. Harry Jones slipped his camera from the bag. One of four young women in blue blazers quickly came to him and whispered, “No picture taking allowed, sir.”
Harry grinned sheepishly and put the camera away. His wife looked sternly at him. So did his daughter. “I just figured…”
The black special agent in the range said into a hand-held microphone, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Special Agent Harrison and I’ll be demonstrating various weapons used by the bureau. We’re issued three standard weapons—the .357 magnum revolver with a three-inch barrel, the
Model 870 Remington pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun, and the M–16 automatic rifle, which has recently replaced the Thompson submachine gun. I’ll be demonstrating the M–16 and the .357 magnum today.”
He picked up the revolver and looked down the length of the range. Forty feet away was a large sheet of opaque white paper hanging from the overhead trolley. Drawn on it with thick black lines was the crude form of a person’s head and torso. The target’s “heart” was represented by a small circle outlined in black.
Harrison suddenly raised the revolver with both hands and squeezed off a quick succession of shots. He turned, placed the spent revolver on the table, picked up the microphone, and said, “I’ll fire the M–16 on single-shot, then semiautomatic, then full automatic.” He traded the microphone for the M–16, faced the target, and within seconds had discharged in all three modes of the weapon, ending with a machine gun-like burst.
Walter Jones giggled and grabbed his father’s hand.
Special Agent Harrison turned off all lights in the range except for a single lamp behind the paper target. The holes in the target were now visible. Every shot he’d fired from both weapons was neatly contained within the paper heart.
The crowd gasped, as it always did. There was applause.
“Jesus,” Walter Jones said out loud.
Special Agent Harrison entered the spectator room. He said slowly and quietly, “I’ll be happy to answer any questions.”
They came from all over the room, questions about how special agents are selected, what training they go through, how the bureau worked with local police organizations, questions about famous cases and whether television shows were representative of how the bureau really worked. Harrison answered each question thoughtfully and pleasantly, smiling at times, appearing somber at others. Maureen Jones noted how erect he was and how perfectly his clothing fit him. Walter Jones told his father he wanted to ask something.
“Go ahead,” his father said.
The boy raised his hand and waved it at Harrison, who spotted it and said, “The young man over there. Go ahead, son.”
“How many—how many of you been shot dead by…”
Special Agent Harrison smiled. “By the bad guys? There have been twenty-six special agents killed in the line of duty. Thank you for coming today. I hope you found the tour interesting. Your guides will show you out.”
***
The Jones family was staying at Maureen’s sister’s house in Rockville, Maryland, during their visit to Washington. They’d seen many things that day—the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum, the Washington and Lincoln memorials, the Capitol, and the White House, but the FBI tour dominated their dinner-table conversation that night.
“Jesus,” Harry said over coffee, “that agent was some cool customer. He—”
“
Special
agent,” his wife corrected.
“Yeah, whatever. This guy put every shot right in the heart. And people criticize things like the FBI. Jesus, it’s a good thing we got ’em on our side.” His son held up an imaginary automatic rifle and mowed down everyone at the table.
“We’ve never even been there,” Maureen’s sister, Helen, said.
“You never…?” Harry laughed. “You live right here.”
“I know,” his brother-in-law said. “That’s always the way it is.” He looked at his wife. “How about tomorrow? I’m off till Saturday.” His kids were all for it.
“Just don’t try to take pictures,” Harry said. “I think they got cameras all over the place. Jesus, no wonder they’re the best in the world. I always had respect for Hoover and the FBI, but now—every shot right on the money. You got more coffee, Helen?”
Harry Jones’s sister-in-law, her husband, and their three children were in the first tour group to be admitted to the Hoover Building on Friday morning. The youngest boy carried with him a rifle-shaped water gun and was told pleasantly by a young woman in a blue blazer to leave it at the desk.
At precisely nine o’clock the tour guide invited everyone to follow her.
***
Special Agent Paul Harrison looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. “Damn,” he muttered. A car had broken down on the Key Bridge and traffic was at a standstill. He didn’t want to be late; the first tour group would arrive at the firing range a little before ten, and he liked to have a few minutes to relax
over coffee before demonstrating firearms to the tourists. He enjoyed the assignment, knew he was given it because he was one of the best. He’d excelled in the use of weapons at the FBI academy at Quantico twelve years ago, and had always placed in the top 5 percent in the bureau’s semiannual firing-range exercises. His wife had told him he’d soon be bored with it, but it hadn’t happened—yet. There was a pleasant satisfaction in the response of the tourists when he back-lit the target and all the holes were in the heart. He especially enjoyed the kids’ expressions. “Face it,” he told himself, “you’re a ham.”
He finally squeezed past the disabled vehicle and stepped on the gas. His car had been having radiator problems and in this heat… He looked at his watch again. He’d make it, but there’d be no time for coffee this morning.
***
Special Agents Christine Saksis and Ross Lizenby sat in the outdoor café portion of Au Pied De Cochon, on Wisconsin Avenue, N.W., in Georgetown. They’d had freshly baked croissants and coffee. Lizenby put money on the check, sat back, and smiled. “What’s on the agenda today?” he asked.
Chris Saksis made a face. “Meetings, all day, at the Bureau of Indian Affairs. If only they’d talk less and do more.” She was one of a half dozen FBI agents assigned to a unit investigating crimes on federal Indian reservations—which came under bureau jurisdiction—and she often attended conferences at other agencies pertaining to Indian affairs.
Her father had been a full-blooded Maine Passamaquoddy. Her mother had been a Christian Scientist from Vermont. That Chris was half American Indian surprised no one. Her hair, which she usually wore pulled back into a loose chignon, was so black it seemed blue. Her cheekbones were high and prominent, her coloring a simmering copper that took on a burnished sheen in the summer. She was five feet, eight inches tall—and lean, although her bosom was surprisingly full for an athlete. She’d been a nationally classed half-miler and would have made the Olympic team if an injury hadn’t sidelined her during the trials.
