Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder Page 24
“Or a pimp.”
Woodhouse looked up at the apartment building from where they stood on the sidewalk. “I doubt if there’s a pimp involved. If she was a hooker—and we don’t even know if it’s the same woman—she was high-class, more in the call girl category. All we know is that this Ms. Marciano liked black silk pj’s. No crime in that.”
* * *
Sheldon Borger hadn’t read the newspaper that day and didn’t know about Elena’s body having emerged from the bay. He was too busy interacting with Sheila Klaus.
With Puhlman and Gibbons in Washington, he had to pick her up at the airport himself. He didn’t look forward to it. Although he’d successfully manipulated Sheila to the extent that she would do his bidding, and was able to summon Carla without difficulty, Carla often emerged of her own volition and could be difficult.
At first Sheila balked at getting into Borger’s silver Jaguar. “I don’t want any vitamin shots,” she’d said.
“Of course not,” Borger had replied. “I didn’t plan to give you any, Sheila.”
“You always do.”
“But not this time. Come on, get in the car.”
Carla’s sudden appearance startled Borger. He recognized her by her deep, harsh voice and the sneer on Sheila’s face.
“Hello, Carla,” he said.
“Leave her alone,” Carla said.
“Why do you say that? I’ve always been good to Sheila.”
“I’m the only one who’s been good to Sheila.” She laughed.
“Why don’t we get in the car where we can talk about it?” he suggested.
“You and your fancy cars,” Carla said as she slid into the passenger seat.
“Don’t you like fancy cars?” Borger asked as he got behind the wheel.
“They don’t mean anything to me,” she said. “Go on, drive. Let’s go to your big house, only leave Sheila alone. Don’t hurt her.”
* * *
Borger was well aware that Carla’s protective stance of Sheila went back to Sheila’s childhood. He’d had her revisit her growing-up years during some of their hypnotic sessions together, regressing her until she became a small child again, speaking in a little girl’s singsong voice except when her “playmate” Carla emerged to help fight her battles. It wasn’t a matter of Sheila recalling those early years. In her hypnotic trance she was there, reliving them in real time.
Sheila had grown up in a household characterized by hostility and conflict, which is typical of men and women who suffer from multiple personality disorder. The annals of psychiatric research document a direct link between the disorder and childhood abuse of all kinds, physical, emotional, and sexual. Her mother had been a strict, puritanical matriarch with a short temper who constantly berated her daughter for what she considered her sloppy, undisciplined habits, and inflicted a series of punishments far beyond what was reasonable. Her father, who left the family when Sheila was in her early teens, had become addicted to prescription pain medications and alcohol following lower back surgery and was himself someone with seemingly two personalities, violently erupting at times but capable of gentle love for his daughter at others.
Like all multiple personalities, Sheila had tried to cope with the irrational atmosphere in her home by bending over backward to be “a good little girl.” But while that was effective at times, it seldom protected her from the harshest of punishments. That’s when her imaginary playmate, Carla, began coming to the fore. When Sheila was locked in a dark room for hours on end, it was Carla who took over and suffered for both of them, taking the blows. She increasingly began to emerge, standing up to Sheila’s mother, which resulted in only further infuriating her. The punishments, which became more physical over time, kept Carla busy, and Sheila came to depend upon her more frequently. When Sheila attended secretarial school and moved away from home, Carla went with her and continued to fight her battles.
When Sheila fell in love with and married a young man in Washington, D.C., Carla went along for the ride, although she cautioned Sheila against the marriage. Living with two people, Sheila and Carla, was too much for Sheila’s husband to deal with, and the marriage quickly ended, much to Carla’s delight. As the husband told his mother, “I never know who I’m dealing with. One minute Sheila is loving and pleasant, the next she’s cold as ice and angry, always angry. She’s like a Jekyll and Hyde. I can’t take it anymore.”
While Sheila’s unpleasant childhood was typical of those with multiple personality disorder, there was a second, less psychological and more physical element—her capacity to enter trance. That ability is innate in each person and remains throughout one’s life. Those with a lower trance capacity often prove to be good hypnotic subjects through necessity (a medical situation) or determination, or when in the hands of an especially skilled hypnotist, but the basic inborn capacity never varies. Dr. Herbert Spiegel’s eye-roll test validates this physical reality.
Borger knew much about Sheila’s childhood travails and her difficulties through their hypnotic sessions and made good use of the knowledge when reinforcing his control over her. He could bring her to instant tears simply by slipping into the role of her mother until Carla stepped in and chastised Sheila for being so weak. From Borger’s perspective, Carla was a lot more difficult to deal with than Sheila. Carla would become argumentative at the drop of a hat and was openly scornful of the doctor. But for Borger’s purposes, it was Carla who was capable of following his instructions, especially when it meant committing a crime, something that Sheila would never dream of doing.
* * *
Borger brought Sheila something to eat and drink. The phone calls from Nicholas Tatum had unnerved him. It was one thing to know that a psychologist in Washington, D.C., was prying into his affairs by virtue of having hypnotized Sheila when she was in jail. It was another, distinctly more threatening situation now that this man had traveled to San Francisco and attempted to make contact.
Something had to be done, and done fast.
With Carla having emerged and sitting across from him in the black leather recliner, he said, “There’s someone who wants to hurt Sheila.”
“Oh, so what? I’m tired.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re tired after the long flight, but you must listen to me.”
She yawned loudly and then smiled at him. “What’s the matter, the great Dr. Borger can’t handle things?”
“I’m perfectly capable of handling things, as you put it, Carla, but this is something that you must do—for Sheila’s sake.”
Another yawn preceded, “Go ahead and tell me. We can’t let little Miss Goody Two-shoes be hurt, can we?”
Borger deepened her trance before picking up the envelope that rested on the floor beside his chair. He opened it and handed Carla a photograph of Nic Tatum.
“I know him,” Carla said, giggling. “He thinks he’s a great doctor, too.”
“How do you know him, Carla?”
“He came and talked to Sheila when she was in jail, that’s how.”
“Did you like him?”
“He was all right. At least he didn’t try to give her shots like you used to do.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No, I don’t care who he is. Tatum something.”
“That’s right, Nicholas Tatum. He’s a psychologist.”
She giggled. “Another damn shrink.”
“And a dangerous one, Carla, very dangerous like Dr. Sedgwick was.”
“He’s gone.”
“I know he’s gone, because you got rid of him just the way I told you to.”
“Do I get a ribbon for it?”
“You get the satisfaction of knowing that you did something good for Sheila. She needs you now, Carla. She needs you very badly.”
He handed her a second photo of Tatum.
“Remember when I sent you and Sheila on a cruise?”
She nodded.
“I want you to go on another cruise, a very pleasant one. Now, I want
you to go deeper into trance, deeper, deeper, deeper…”
CHAPTER
37
Mortinson’s chief of staff Meg Whitson arrived back in Washington with a splitting migraine, a head cold, and what she was sure was a terminal case of acid indigestion. As successful as the San Francisco event had been, the pressure and pace of the campaign had finally gotten to her, and she sometimes daydreamed of seeking another line of work. Not that she would have acted upon that fantasy. She firmly believed in George Mortinson and what he stood for, and she looked forward to serving him in some capacity once he was ensconced in the White House. She didn’t have any illusions about what sort of job might be offered her in the new administration. Running a campaign was one thing; working for a president of the United States was another. In fanciful moments she envisioned herself as chief of staff to the president, or his top political adviser. None of that was possible, of course. The direction of his campaign was masterminded by others; her job was to see that the candidate showed up on time, was fully prepped about whomever he was meeting or speaking with, and in general keep Mortinson on course, which wasn’t always easy considering his easygoing temperament and enjoyment of leisure time. Mortinson had the annoying habit of running late to most appointments, and Meg had learned to lie to him on occasion about what time an event was scheduled to start. Other than his tardiness, which Meg considered his only character flaw, she had nothing but admiration for him. Or was it more? Did she have a crush on him and work as hard as she did on his behalf in order to stay close? She’d never admitted that, even to herself, but there were times when fatigue weakened her defenses and she allowed that possibility to surface.
She’d been involved in politics since graduating with a degree in foreign relations from Penn State, starting with a Wisconsin congressman for whom she’d handled the unenviable task of answering his constituent mail—and making excuses for his absences while he slept off frequent hangovers. He’d lasted only two two-year terms, and she’d wondered if her career as an aide to a politician was over. But then George Mortinson came to her rescue and found her a slot working with a Senate subcommittee. When Mortinson was elected to the Senate, he reached out for her, and she’d been at his side ever since. Meg Whitson lived and breathed politics; a classmate at Penn State had written in her yearbook, “My favorite political junkie.” But that fascination—no, call it obsession—had its price. Her love life, what there had ever been of it, was in shambles. There simply never seemed to be time to develop and nurture a relationship. But she knew that that was as much an excuse as it was a reality. The fact was that she found the eligible young men in Washington whom she’d dated to be self-indulgent and impressed with their proximity to power, bantam cocks strutting around the nation’s center of influence with an attitude that was at once all-consuming and at times comical to her. To her mother’s occasional question, “Have you met a nice young man yet?” Meg usually replied, “Not yet, Mom, but you’ll be the first to know.”
Back from this latest campaign trip to San Francisco, she managed some time at her apartment to wash clothes, bundle up some for the dry cleaner, and catch a blessed six hours of sleep before being back at headquarters for a meeting with the Secret Service agent in charge of the rally at the Ronald Reagan Building. He wasn’t a happy agent.
“The physical setup concerns us,” he said, “and the amount of time Big Easy will spend on the rope line shaking hands and posing for pictures.” Big Easy was the code name the Secret Service had assigned to George Mortinson. “We’ve surveyed the venue and are formulating plans for coverage.”
“I know it’s tough on you and your people,” Meg said, “but I take orders just as you do. The senator has been looking forward to this event, which he’s named ‘a coming-together rally,’ and he isn’t about to have the program modified for security reasons. We have a complete list of individuals and organizations that’ll be attending. We’ve gone over the list with you twice already and—”
“It’s not a complete list,” the agent countered. “People and groups keep getting added, which makes it difficult to clear them all in time. You’re also aware of the chatter on the Internet regarding threats against him by terrorist groups.”
“Al-Qaeda,” Whitson said.
“And others. His support for Israel doesn’t make those groups happy. We’ll have CIA and FBI agents at the event.”
“Is that really necessary?” Meg asked.
“We think so, and so do those agencies. They’ll stay in the background.”
“It sounds like you’d like us to cancel the event,” she said.
“We’re not suggesting that,” said the agent, “but we have to respond to the intelligence we receive.”
Whitson blew a stray wisp of hair from her forehead and laughed. “Al-Qaeda and others like them don’t have to actually plan any attacks,” she said. “All they have to do is chatter away on the net and we raise the threat level and spend another couple of million for security. They can bankrupt us with nothing more than talk.”
The agent smiled and rubbed his bald head. “That doesn’t mean that they aren’t planning attacks,” he said. “Look, all I’m doing is pointing out the security problems with this rally. Your candidate calls the shots and it’s our job to protect him, which, of course, we will. But do what you can to make our job easier, okay?”
“You know we will. Thanks.”
Meg and her staff spent the next hour going over the extensive list of those invited to attend the rally, and some who hadn’t been invited but managed to join the crowd anyway through various government contacts, their local congressman or senator, friends of Mortinson’s, and others recommended by local politicians whose support for him was unwavering. There were three women from a garden club in New Jersey; a four-man contingent from an Ohio club whose hobby was restoring World War II aircraft; Girl Scout and Boy Scout troops from various states; a Connecticut cancer survivors’ club; a New Mexico theatrical group known for recreating famous scenes from the nation’s history; representatives from the American Library Association; the Westside Boxing Club of San Mateo, California; a Democratic women’s club contingent from Massachusetts; members of Congress who backed Mortinson’s candidacy and in some cases their families; and dozens of other associations, groups, social, fraternal, political, and athletic clubs. It was Mortinson’s goal to put on the sort of grassroots rally one might find in a typical Midwestern town or city, a cross section of America gathered to celebrate the dawn of a new and progressive era in national politics.
A staffer laughed when he came to the Westside Boxing Club of San Mateo. “Prizefighters for Mortinson,” he said. “KO Swayze. Send Swayze down for the count.”
“Don’t laugh,” Whitson said. “We don’t talk about it publicly, but the senator happens to enjoy boxing, watches it on TV whenever he gets a chance.”
“Maybe the senator could go four rounds with Mike Tyson, you know, an exhibition to raise funds.”
“Very funny,” Whitson said in the most distressed voice that she could muster. “Let’s move. It’s going to be a long day.”
* * *
Itani saw Mortinson arrive home from San Francisco on the TV in the house he shared with Puhlman and Gibbons. Anger welled up in him, and he came forward on the love seat as though to attack the television. Puhlman put a hand on his shoulder.
“Bastard,” Itano mumbled.
“Yes, that’s exactly what he is,” Puhlman said. “Don’t ever forget it.”
The waiting had put everyone’s nerves on edge. Of course Itani didn’t know that within a few days he would be set loose to kill the man who could be the next president of the United States. As far as he was concerned, he was there to resume his boxing career. But why was it taking so long to become licensed and to pick an opponent? It struck him that he should be in a gym working out in preparation for a bout, and he expressed this numerous times to Puhlman and Gibbons, who were dealing with their own anxieties.
He also constantly questioned the secrecy surrounding Itani and this trip to Washington. He knew that promising Itani that they would help resurrect his boxing career was a sham, but he didn’t know why they were going through this charade. Each time he raised it with Puhlman, he was told to stop asking questions and to follow through with what Borger had ordered. The problem was that he’d begun to doubt just how great a man Dr. Sheldon Borger really was.
Puhlman, too, was growing anxious as the hours passed. Although he knew every detail of what was about to happen, a series of recent doubts had butted heads with what had been a firm and total belief in what they were doing. Up until then he’d been content to work at Borger’s side in what Puhlman considered to be a monumentally important experiment in mind control. That people had died, and would continue to die, was irrelevant. What mattered was that Borger, with Puhlman’s help, had created a foolproof way to rid the world of its vermin. All the work leading up to recruiting Itani for this particular assignment had been blessed and fully funded by the government, particularly the Central Intelligence Agency and its Medical and Psychological Analysis Center. Creating the perfect spy, the perfect assassin, had been a goal of the agency for decades, and now Borger had proved it possible. His work would give the United States an important advantage in this increasingly volatile and dangerous world, and anyone who questioned it was a traitor. Yes, some would suffer for this greater good. Sedgwick had been a valuable ally in providing good candidates for the experiments, but he’d lost his focus and belief in the program and had to be eliminated. The left-wing columnist who’d constantly attacked the work of the current administration was also a threat, and Borger had swiftly and effectively manipulated him into committing suicide. And now there was George Mortinson, a spineless apologist for America and its precious way of life whose existence threatened everything that Borger and Puhlman stood for. Getting rid of Mortinson would be the capstone of Borger’s groundbreaking work, and he, Peter Puhlman, was proud to stand at his side.