Free Murder at the FBI by Margaret Truman

a yellow legal pad on his lap, cleared his throat, and said, “Mr. Teng, I appreciate you sitting down with me like this. As you know, one of our special agents, George L. Pritchard, recently died in this building under unusual circumstances. I’ve been assigned to a unit investigating that death,which is why I wanted to talk to you.” He checked Teng for a reaction. There was none.
    “We know, Mr. Teng, that you were in the building the night of Special Agent Pritchard’s death. Would you mind telling me why you were here, and what you were doing?”
    Teng looked at Griffith, who said, “Mr. Stein, it’s no secret that Mr. Teng is here on a very important mission for his country, and for the United States. His activities are the concern of those who are responsible for the success of his visit.”
    Stein looked at Griffith and smiled. “I’m well aware of that, but I’m sure you understand that it’s my job to pursue certain avenues of investigation regarding the death of Agent Pritchard.”
    Griffith returned the smile. “I’m not suggesting that you not investigate this matter, Mr. Stein. What I
am
saying is that interviewing Mr. Teng is, at once, unnecessary, unfruitful, and perhaps foolhardy.”
    “Foolhardy? Why is that?”
    “Because you are crossing the line into areas that are beyond your limited scope.”
    Stein let the comment go. He said to Teng, “Do
you
mind telling me of your movements the night Mr. Pritchard was—died?”
    “It is my position that I am not to speak of things within this bureau. I will tell you this, however. I did not kill your Agent Pritchard.”
    Stein laughed. “Of course not, Mr. Teng. I never suggested that.”
    “Then why talk to me?”
    “Because you were here, and you are not a member of the FBI.”
    Griffith chuckled. “That’s it, is it?”
    “What’s it, Mr. Griffith?”
    Griffith sighed and shook his head. “The old protect-your-own syndrome.”
    Stein sensed his temper rising. He put the cap on his pen, stood, and offered his hand to Teng. The Asian shook it without getting up. Stein glanced over at Griffith, decided not to bother, and left the office.
    “How did it go?” Saksis asked him when he’d returned to Ranger.
    “Wonderful. Mr. Teng told me he didn’t kill Pritchard, and I think it’s hands off our Asian colleague for the duration. He had a spook with him.” He told Saksis of Griffith’s participation, and of his picking up on looking outside the bureau for a suspect.
    “He’s right,” Saksis said.
    “I know. I just don’t like people like him being right. You know what crossed my mind while I was sitting there?”
    “What?”
    “I doubt if Walter Teng would have murdered George Pritchard, but what about the CIA?”
    “Why?”
    Stein sat on a couch and examined the fingers of his right hand. He said, “George Pritchard had a reputation of being a big mouth around here. I also happen to know that he’d been slapped down a few times for giving interviews to the press without clearance.”
    “So?”
    “So, maybe it was Pritchard who leaked the China story to Jack Anderson. Maybe he was talkingout of school to other people. Maybe he had to be shut up.”
    Saksis wanted to dismiss the theory as pure James Bond, but she couldn’t. The same scenario had flashed through her mind a few times. In her version, however, there was an added incentive for the CIA. By creating an incident that pointed to an FBI agent being murdered by one of its own, it cast a long and dark shadow over the bureau.
    “Remember,” Stein said, “the CIA is not one of our biggest boosters.”
    “I’m remembering, Jake, I’m remembering.”
    An hour later Ross Lizenby received a call from Assistant Director Gormley. “Walter Teng is not to be approached again,” he said.
    “Well, sir, he was included on the list because he was in the building and was
not
bureau personnel.”
    “I don’t care about the ‘whys,’ Mr. Lizenby, I’m simply telling you to