Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder Read online

  This time Tatum seethed quietly in order to not disturb his seatmate. But he boiled inside. His anger wasn’t pointed so much at the government as at the medical world, its doctors and psychologists, scientists and nurses, and administrators of leading hospitals and other health facilities whose stated purpose was to alleviate suffering and cure disease, to make life better for mankind. Yet they’d willingly, even enthusiastically, involved themselves in projects that violated the oath they’d taken as physicians and protectors of public health.

  Sheldon Borger.

  Tatum recalled the one time he’d met him at a psychiatric conference and tried to envision what he would look like years later. What could cause a physician to abandon all sense of decency and commitment and inflict harm on unsuspecting men and women? Money? For some that would be a motivating factor. Patriotism? That was no excuse any more than it was for former House speaker Newt Gingrich who’d blamed his heightened sense of patriotism for his marital infidelities.

  It had to be ego, Tatum decided, massive ego, and he silently cursed that human failing. He also thought of his friend Dave Considine, which reminded him that not all physicians fell into the Sheldon Borger category. He gave a thumbs-up to Considine as he turned off the overhead light and dozed off.

  CHAPTER

  35

  SAN FRANCISCO

  When he awoke, the plane was in its landing pattern. He hadn’t reserved a car and was relieved that Hertz had some vehicles available. It was night; the Lightpath Clinic would be closed. Going there would have to wait until morning. He had Borger’s home address. Should he knock on the door and hope that Borger would answer and invite him in? Unlikely. Still, he felt he had to do something to justify his decision to get on a plane and travel across the country.

  He took 101 into the city and proceeded up steep Van Ness Avenue until reaching the fabled Nob Hill where Borger’s home was situated. He had trouble finding it and was disappointed that a gate spanned the driveway. He turned off his lights and looked past the gates to the house. Lights were on, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure passing a window. While he sat debating whether to ring the bell on the gate, a car, its lights blinding Tatum in his rearview mirror, came up behind. It was a patrol car. An even brighter floodlight came on, washing Tatum’s rental in harsh white light. An officer got out and approached. Tatum rolled down the window.

  “Got a problem?” the officer, a tall black man, asked.

  “Problem? No. I was just driving around and pulled over here.”

  “You from here?”

  “Nob Hill? No. Actually, I’m from Washington, D.C. I just arrived in San Francisco and wanted to see the city.”

  “This your car?”

  “No. I mean, it’s a rental.”

  “Can I see your license and the papers for the car?”

  Tatum obliged. The officer carefully, slowly perused them before handing them back. “You’re staying in San Francisco?” he asked.

  “Just for a night or two. I—”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t have a hotel yet. I have to find one.”

  “You don’t have drugs with you, do you?”

  “Drugs?” Tatum forced a laugh. “No, no drugs. I’m a psychologist. Ph.D.”

  “Uh-huh. I suggest you find that hotel and not be parked in front of a private residence.”

  “Okay,” Tatum said.

  He watched the officer walk back to his car.

  “Dummy!” he told himself as he started the engine and left the area. What did he think he could accomplish sitting outside Borger’s home in the middle of the night? “You’d make one pathetic private detective,” he said as he drove until finding a Holiday Inn Express in nearby Fisherman’s Wharf, where he checked into a room, then walked to a small restaurant that was open late. He returned to the hotel and fell into a fitful sleep that left the bedding a tangled mess when he awoke at five the following morning.

  After showering and checking out, he found a place for breakfast, which he lingered over while skimming a copy of a newspaper provided by the restaurant. He read it from cover to cover while biding his time before heading across the Bay Bridge to the Lightpath Clinic. Tatum always enjoyed reading papers from other cities. It gave him a sense of the place, its pace and the things that were important to its citizens. One small item was a report of an unidentified female body washing up near the airport. A police spokesman was quoted as saying, “We’re treating this as a homicide. The victim’s body must have been secured to something heavy to cause it to sink, but the weight used wasn’t sufficient to keep it underwater.” An autopsy was to be performed, according to the police; the investigation was ongoing and no further details were available.

  Tatum paid his bill, got in his car, and headed for Berkeley and the Lightpath Psychiatric Clinic, where he hoped he might find Borger. Traffic was particularly heavy that morning, compounded by an accident that closed one lane on the bridge. He eventually reached the address and pulled up in front of the drab one-story gray building on Shattuck Avenue. It was strange, he thought, that there was no sign indicating the existence of a clinic, but then he rationalized that if it was a CIA front, announcing its existence couldn’t be expected.

  He went to the front door and tried it. Locked. He pushed a button and heard a buzzer sound from inside. He was about to push it again when the door opened.

  “Yes?” a short, chubby young man asked.

  “I was hoping to see Dr. Borger,” Tatum said.

  “What’s it in reference to?”

  “A professional matter.” Tatum handed the young man his business card, which he slowly, too slowly, scrutinized.

  “I’m afraid that Dr. Borger isn’t here.”

  “Just my luck. Do you expect him?”

  “He’s away.”

  “Out of town?”

  “Away. When I’m in touch with him I’ll let him know you were here. Will he know what it’s about?”

  Tatum hesitated before saying, “It’s about Sheila Klaus.”

  The young man nodded and started to close the door. Tatum placed his hand against it and said, “You say that Dr. Borger is away. Is he at his home on Nob Hill?”

  “I’ll tell him that you were here.”

  The door closed and Tatum heard it being locked.

  He drove back to Nob Hill and peered through the gates at Borger’s mansion where two Hispanic workmen tended a garden. Other than the gardeners there was no sign of life. A yellow Subaru Outback was parked off to the side of the house and Tatum wondered whether it belonged to Borger. Should I ring the bell on the gate? he mused. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number he had for Borger’s residence. It rang four times before an answering machine picked up: “This is Dr. Sheldon Borger. I’m unable to take your call at the moment. If you are a patient seeking an appointment, please call my scheduling office.” He gave the phone number. “You may leave a message following the beep.”

  “Dr. Borger,” Tatum said into his phone, “my name is Nicholas Tatum. I’m a psychologist who worked with Sheila Klaus when she was incarcerated for the murder of Dr. Mark Sedgwick. I’d like very much to speak with you.” He left his cell number.

  Tatum killed time by walking around Fisherman’s Wharf, his cell phone in his shirt pocket so that he’d be sure to hear it ring and feel its vibration. At two he called Borger’s number again and received the same recorded message. It had been a fool’s errand, he decided, and he regretted that he’d succumbed to such an impetuous act. He called United Airlines and secured a seat on its red-eye flight back to D.C. that night. He had no way of knowing, of course, that Borger had been at home and had heard both of his messages.

  * * *

  Borger had been in his study when Tatum’s call played on the machine. He wasn’t surprised. He’d received a call that morning from the young man at Lightpath who’d met Tatum.

  “What did he want?” Borger asked.

  �
��He said that it was a professional matter concerning Sheila Klaus.”

  “I see,” Borger had said. “Thank you for the call.”

  Borger turned to where Sheila rested on the couch.

  “Get up, Sheila,” Borger said. When she didn’t respond he said, “The red sage Lantana are blooming.”

  She got up and approached him.

  “Sit here,” Borger said, indicating the black leather recliner across from the one in which he sat. Once she had, he said, “It’s a beautiful day for a cruise.”

  He waited until Carla emerged.

  “What do you want?” she snarled.

  “It’s good to see you again, Carla,” he said. “We have work to do.”

  CHAPTER

  36

  The medical examiner assigned to autopsy the body of the woman found in the water near San Francisco International Airport had reviewed notes and photos taken at the scene of the deceased’s discovery. In addition to these notes and photographs, the lead detective who’d managed the crime scene was present for the autopsy, a routine established years ago by the SFPD. The ME and her staff had determined that the victim had been in the water no more than a few days based upon the condition of her body. She was dressed in black silk baby doll pajamas with a label indicating that the clothing had come from Victoria’s Secret. One piece of jewelry was found on her, a simple thin gold ring on the middle finger of her left hand.

  A criminalist who’d been called to the scene reported that there was an absence of white leathery foam in the mouth, the most indicative characteristic of drowning. The body had been wrapped in a rug, but the bindings had come apart. An officer who claimed some knowledge pegged it as being an expensive Oriental. Rope marks from where the victim had been secured to a weight were observed on her wrists.

  After steeping herself in what the officers and the crime scene specialists had observed and documented, and with the lead detective on hand to answer questions, the pathologist went to work. She carefully washed down the body and did an external examination beginning with the feet and working up to the head. She said into a microphone hanging over the table, “There’s a large bruise on the left side of the head, possibly the result of blunt force trauma.” She measured and photographed it before proceeding with her external exam. She opened the deceased’s mouth and examined her teeth. “Dental work was performed,” she said into the microphone. “Refer to an odontologist for ID.” She said to the detective, “She had nice teeth, took good care of them.”

  “How old do you figure?” the detective asked.

  “Late twenties.”

  “What about prints?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” she said. “She wasn’t in the water that long. Her fingers are shriveled, but the skin is still intact. A tech should be able to lift prints from her. He can inject water into the fingers to bring them back to their normal contour. There was no ID on her?”

  “Nothing. Just the pj’s and that one ring.”

  The pathologist laughed. “Victoria’s Secret, huh? Sexy lady. No missing person report to link to her?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Following the external exam, the pathologist began the process of opening the body, starting with the head and moving downward. “Whew!” she said after having examined the brain. “Whoever did this really whacked her. It broke her skull. Massive bleeding.”

  “Can you tell her race?”

  “Mixed, I’d say.”

  The pathologist stepped back, removed her gloves, and finished what was left of a scone on a paper plate sitting on a stainless-steel cabinet near her and downed the last few sips of coffee that had grown cold. She put on new gloves and proceeded with her examination. When she was finished, she said to the detective, “I hope you find the guy who did this. She was too young and pretty to die.”

  The detective, Duane Woodhouse, left the autopsy room and joined up with his partner, who’d been with him when the body had washed up. “Okay,” he said, “let’s pay a visit to local Victoria’s Secret shops.”

  “There’s four of them,” his partner said and rattled off the addresses.

  Armed with photographs of the pajamas the victim had been wearing, and with a general description of her, they started hitting the stores famous for their lingerie. The first three on the list didn’t provide any help in identifying the victim, although the managers were extremely cooperative and went through their records of people who’d purchased the item. It was at the fourth location, on Powell Street, that some headway was made. The manager there told them that while there had been recent purchases of that particular set of pajamas, none of the buyers as far as she could recall matched the description of the victim. “Oh, wait,” she said. “There’s one.” She pulled out a sales receipt. “Her name’s Elena Marciano. She’s a regular customer. She’s bought three or four pairs of this particular item. It’s her favorite.”

  “Have an address for her?” Detective Woodhouse asked.

  “Yes. She always paid with a credit card, American Express Platinum, but we had things delivered to her a few times. I have it right here.”

  “She had some money.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the manager said, “but she was always beautifully dressed. Very nice, pretty, too, never without a big smile.”

  “Do you know where she worked?”

  “I have no idea.”

  After establishing their identities and the official reason for their inquiry, they were given the address and phone number of the Platinum card holder, Elena Marciano, and went to the address. There was no response from her apartment, so they sought out the building’s superintendent, an older Asian man who wore a black patch over one eye. They identified themselves as police officers and asked about the tenant named Marciano.

  He shrugged. “Nice enough young woman,” he said, “never gives me any problems.”

  “You know where she works, what she does for a living?”

  The question brought a smile to his face. “I really can’t say officers, only…”

  “Only what?”

  “Well, she does have a lot of boyfriends, that’s for sure.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Oh, nothing wrong with it, only there are, like I said, a hell of a lot of them.”

  The detectives looked at each other and were thinking the same thing: a hooker?

  “Anybody else in the building friendly with her?” Woodhouse asked. “Anybody who might know more about her?”

  “She keeps pretty much to herself, never bothers nobody. Maybe Mrs. Crowley might be able to tell you something. She lives next door to Ms. Marciano.”

  The super led them to the apartment and knocked on the door. The voice of an old woman asked who it was. “Harvey, the super,” he replied. “I have two police officers with me who need to talk to you.”

  “Police officers? Just a minute.”

  A series of inside bolts and locks were disengaged before she opened the door a crack, its security chain still attached. “Yes?” she said.

  Woodhouse showed her his ID and said, “Could we have a few minutes of your time, ma’am?”

  “What is it in reference to?” Her voice was like chalk on a blackboard.

  “About your neighbor, Ms. Marciano.”

  “Her?”

  “Yes, ma’am. May we come in for a few minutes?”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “I promise we’ll stay only a few minutes,” he repeated.

  “Well, I suppose so,” she said, unlatching the chain and stepping back to allow them to enter.

  “Nice place you have here,” Woodhouse’s partner commented.

  “I try to keep it neat and clean,” she said.

  Woodhouse turned and said to the super, “It’s okay. You can go now.”

  He grunted and closed the door behind him.

  “We’d like to talk with you about your neighbor, Ms. Marciano,” Woodhouse said.

  M
rs. Crowley straightened pillows on her couch as though to avoid answering the question. The detectives waited until she’d finished her unnecessary chore and had said something to a canary in a cage by the window.

  “Have you seen Ms. Marciano lately?” Woodhouse asked.

  “No, I can’t say that I have, never have seen a lot of her since she moved in a year ago. Keeps to herself for the most part. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but I like to be neighborly, get along with people.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure you do. Do you know what Ms. Marciano does for a living?”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  “And?”

  She’s … well, she’s that sort of woman.”

  The detectives waited for her to amplify her comment.

  “I don’t like to make judgments about another person,” she said. “My deceased husband, Martin, never liked it when I made judgments, but sometimes you have to be honest with yourself.”

  “I take it that Ms. Marciano is self-employed,” Woodhouse offered, hoping he’d found a less jarring metaphor for what he and his partner had already surmised.

  “I wouldn’t know,” said the older woman, who now was busy rearranging knickknacks on a coffee table.

  Woodhouse decided there was nothing to be learned by continuing the conversation. He thanked Mrs. Crowley for her time, complimented her on her neat apartment, and they left.

  “We see if the super will open Marciano’s apartment?” Woodhouse’s partner suggested.

  “No. We don’t even know if this Marciano woman is the same one who was pulled out of the bay. We’d need a warrant. Let’s see what the print guys come up with, and maybe the dental records. If she was a hooker, it’s possible she’s been pulled in before. Maybe one of her johns did her in.”