Read Online Murder at the FBI by Margaret Truman - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Truman
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SPOVAC commitments I have to follow through on.”
“I’ll give it my best.”
She went to her office, where Perone and Stein waited. She filled them in on their assignment—to interview the three foreigners who’d been training with the FBI over the past months, and who’d been in the building the night Pritchard was killed. Stein drew Walter Teng, Perone would talk to Hans Loeffler. They’d get to Sergio Nariz later in the day.
Once they were gone, Saksis refilled her cup, settled back behind her desk, and slowly started togo through Pritchard’s phone book. Most of the entries were initials. There were few addresses. Most initials were followed by a single telephone number.
She went to where Barbara Twain and the second computer operator were at work in front of their terminals. “Barbara, can you break away?” she asked.
“Sure.” The chubby blonde followed Saksis back to her office, where Saksis handed her the small phone book. “Set up a program to compare the initials and names in here to the list of people who signed in to see Pritchard that day, or who were known to visit him in his office. Will it take long?”
Twain shook her head and smiled. “Not long at all.”
***
Hans Loeffler was a large, square man with sparse hair that he combed in wet strands across a bumpy bald head. He had high color in his cheeks and a bulbous nose. He wasn’t fat, but it was obvious that keeping his weight down was not easy for him. Back home in Munich, Germany, he was deputy commissioner of that city’s
polizei
, with its undercover division under his direct supervision. He’d been in Washington attending a special training program offered to foreign law enforcement officials at the bureau’s Quantico academy. He’d completed the Quantico phase of his training, but instead of returning directly to Germany had been invited by Assistant Director Jonathan Mack, who headed up the bureau’s law enforcement division, to spend two weeks at headquarters coordinatingMunich’s link-up with the FBI’s CLIS program (Criminalistics Laboratory Information System), which shares a massive general rifling characteristics file with national and international agencies. Loeffler had a special interest in weapons and often bragged of his personal collection at home.
Perone and Loeffler met in a small conference room on the Tenth Street side of the Hoover Building. Perone took a seat at one end of a six-foot-long teak conference table and invited Loeffler to sit in the first chair to his right. Instead, the bulky German sat at the opposite end of the table. He was overtly nervous. His face was moist, and Perone noticed that when he lit a cigarette—which he seemed to do constantly—his hand trembled. The small tape recorder Perone had placed on the table didn’t help.
“Well, Mr. Loeffler, I’m sure you know why I wanted to see you this morning,” said Perone.
“Pritchard,” Loeffler said bluntly.
“Yes. We’re interviewing everyone who was in the building the night he—he died.”
“You have a lot of interviewing to do. There must be thousands here at night.”
“Yes, that’s true, but we’re starting with those who aren’t employees of the FBI.”
“I see. Well, I can tell you nothing you do not already know.”
Perone smiled and leaned back. “Frankly, Mr. Loeffler, I don’t know anything at this stage except that you were here that night. What were you doing?”
Loeffler lit another cigarette and tried to makehis large body more comfortable within the arms of the narrow chair.
“Can’t you remember?” Perone asked.
“Yes, yes, of course I remember, but I am not sure I am free to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it involves secret matters.”
Perone raised an eyebrow and leaned forward to see that the cassette tape was running. He sat back again and stared at Loeffler.
“Please, Mr. Perone, try to understand the position you place me in. I wish to cooperate but…”
Perone
“I’ll give it my best.”
She went to her office, where Perone and Stein waited. She filled them in on their assignment—to interview the three foreigners who’d been training with the FBI over the past months, and who’d been in the building the night Pritchard was killed. Stein drew Walter Teng, Perone would talk to Hans Loeffler. They’d get to Sergio Nariz later in the day.
Once they were gone, Saksis refilled her cup, settled back behind her desk, and slowly started togo through Pritchard’s phone book. Most of the entries were initials. There were few addresses. Most initials were followed by a single telephone number.
She went to where Barbara Twain and the second computer operator were at work in front of their terminals. “Barbara, can you break away?” she asked.
“Sure.” The chubby blonde followed Saksis back to her office, where Saksis handed her the small phone book. “Set up a program to compare the initials and names in here to the list of people who signed in to see Pritchard that day, or who were known to visit him in his office. Will it take long?”
Twain shook her head and smiled. “Not long at all.”
***
Hans Loeffler was a large, square man with sparse hair that he combed in wet strands across a bumpy bald head. He had high color in his cheeks and a bulbous nose. He wasn’t fat, but it was obvious that keeping his weight down was not easy for him. Back home in Munich, Germany, he was deputy commissioner of that city’s
polizei
, with its undercover division under his direct supervision. He’d been in Washington attending a special training program offered to foreign law enforcement officials at the bureau’s Quantico academy. He’d completed the Quantico phase of his training, but instead of returning directly to Germany had been invited by Assistant Director Jonathan Mack, who headed up the bureau’s law enforcement division, to spend two weeks at headquarters coordinatingMunich’s link-up with the FBI’s CLIS program (Criminalistics Laboratory Information System), which shares a massive general rifling characteristics file with national and international agencies. Loeffler had a special interest in weapons and often bragged of his personal collection at home.
Perone and Loeffler met in a small conference room on the Tenth Street side of the Hoover Building. Perone took a seat at one end of a six-foot-long teak conference table and invited Loeffler to sit in the first chair to his right. Instead, the bulky German sat at the opposite end of the table. He was overtly nervous. His face was moist, and Perone noticed that when he lit a cigarette—which he seemed to do constantly—his hand trembled. The small tape recorder Perone had placed on the table didn’t help.
“Well, Mr. Loeffler, I’m sure you know why I wanted to see you this morning,” said Perone.
“Pritchard,” Loeffler said bluntly.
“Yes. We’re interviewing everyone who was in the building the night he—he died.”
“You have a lot of interviewing to do. There must be thousands here at night.”
“Yes, that’s true, but we’re starting with those who aren’t employees of the FBI.”
“I see. Well, I can tell you nothing you do not already know.”
Perone smiled and leaned back. “Frankly, Mr. Loeffler, I don’t know anything at this stage except that you were here that night. What were you doing?”
Loeffler lit another cigarette and tried to makehis large body more comfortable within the arms of the narrow chair.
“Can’t you remember?” Perone asked.
“Yes, yes, of course I remember, but I am not sure I am free to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it involves secret matters.”
Perone raised an eyebrow and leaned forward to see that the cassette tape was running. He sat back again and stared at Loeffler.
“Please, Mr. Perone, try to understand the position you place me in. I wish to cooperate but…”
Perone
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