Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder Read online

  Puhlman had a taxi drop him two blocks from the house and walked the rest of the way.

  Gibbons paced the room. “Where’s the kid?” he asked.

  “I dropped him off.”

  “Where?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  They toted their luggage back to where Puhlman had gotten out of the taxi and hailed another.

  “Reagan National Airport,” Puhlman told the driver.

  As they drove, Puhlman asked whether Gibbons had his false driver’s license to show to security.

  “Yeah, it’s right here.” He pulled his wallet from his pants pocket, retrieved the license, and showed it to Puhlman.

  “That’s your real license,” Puhlman said. “What the hell are you carrying that for?”

  “I got the phony one here, too,” Gibbons grumbled and flashed it in front of Puhlman’s face.

  “Just don’t get them mixed up at the airport,” Puhlman said. “Let’s not screw up now.”

  * * *

  Itani joined the line of people waiting to be granted access to the mall as he’d been instructed by Borger, his invitation in hand. People in front and behind chatted about many things, including the potential benefits to the nation of a Mortinson presidency. Itani heard them, but the words meant nothing. He was in his own hypnotic-induced world, his mind filled only with what he’d been told to do by Sheldon Borger.

  “I love that music,” Mac Smith said. He, Annabel, Nic Tatum, and Cindy Simmons stood in line a few people behind Itani. Smith was a devoted jazz lover and lately had been transferring his extensive collection of vinyl records to compact discs.

  “If Mac is ever reincarnated, he wants to come back as Thelonious Monk,” Annabel quipped.

  “Who’s he?” Cindy asked.

  The line moved forward before Mac could respond.

  Itani reached the Secret Service agent and handed him the invitation. The agent looked him up and down and leaned closer to read his ID tag. “Driver’s license?” he asked.

  Itani stared at the agent.

  “Driver’s license, please.”

  Itani fumbled for his wallet and found his license, which he hadn’t used in a long time. Fortunately, it hadn’t expired. The agent looked up from the license at Itani’s face, then down at the photo. Satisfied, he checked off Itani’s name from a long list of invitees, handed it back, and waved him through.

  The crowd in the plaza was in a festive mood, buoyed by the fair weather and the toe-tapping music. The Smiths and Nic and Cindy made their way to a concession stand, where they took cups of soda and bags of popcorn from the enthusiastic young volunteers, some of millions who’d supported this candidate who had promised a change to the way business was done in Washington. Those who’d been around the nation’s capital longer knew that changing Washington was an idealistic fantasy, but it played well on the campaign trail.

  They stood talking when Meg Whitson approached. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” she said. “Great to see you.”

  Smith introduced Nic and Cindy.

  “Looks like you’ve got a success on your hands,” Tatum said.

  Meg looked to the sky and pressed her hands together in a prayerful symbol. “So far,” she said, laughing.

  “The senator’s rarin’ to go?” Smith asked.

  “Oh, sure, he always is. I spoke with him a few times this morning. He’s enjoying a leisurely morning with his wife.”

  “Hard to find leisure moments when you’re running for president,” Annabel said.

  “Or when you’re chief of staff,” Meg said. “Oops, got to run. Looks like they’re having a problem with the steps leading up to the speaker’s platform.”

  Nic and Cindy drifted away from the Smiths, who’d gotten into a conversation with a professor and his wife from GW.

  “Think he’ll recognize me?” Cindy asked.

  “Mortinson? Of course he will,” Tatum said. “How could he forget the most beautiful woman he’s ever signed a picture to?”

  She punched his arm.

  As the crowd milled about, Colin Landow’s deputy, Bret Lancaster, who’d come into the plaza through the entrance reserved for security personnel, casually moved in the direction of the Stephen Robin sculpture. When he was certain that no one was paying attention, he slipped the Smith & Wesson 638 Airweight revolver nestled in a sand-colored sack from his pocket and secreted it in a crevice in the sculpture of swirling cast-aluminum flowers on the limestone pedestal. Satisfied that his action had gone unseen, he strolled away, a satisfied smile on his lips.

  The county fair atmosphere was interrupted when Meg Whitson took the microphone to announce that Senator Mortinson would be arriving any minute and suggested that everyone move closer to the speaker’s platform. The more than four hundred people heeded her advice and stood shoulder to shoulder in anticipation of Mortinson’s entrance, which occurred five minutes later to the band’s spirited rendition of “Happy Days Are Here Again.” He was met with thunderous applause mingled with shouts of support. He took the stage accompanied by his stunning wife, his running mate and his spouse, and a handful of staffers including Meg. Secret Service agents assigned to him stood in front of the platform, their eyes scanning the crowd.

  Mortinson waved energetically, his familiar wide smile very much in evidence, and did nothing to settle people down. The crowd eventually quieted on its own, and Governor Raymond Thomas, candidate for vice president of the United States, stepped to the microphone and welcomed the faithful. After some remarks and a few well-aimed barbs at President Swayze, Thomas introduced Mortinson, who sprang to his feet, embraced his running mate, took the microphone, and launched into his prepared speech, carefully crafted to elicit applause every few lines. He spoke longer than planned and ended with, “I’m looking forward to personally thanking each of you for your support. Because of you, this long and arduous campaign will be successful and the American people will have back their voice.”

  He stepped away from the microphone to allow Meg Whitson to direct the crowd to form a single line to the side of the platform to shake the candidate’s hand and to have a picture taken. Volunteers stood ready to coordinate the photo numbers with the subject’s name and address on the master list of those in attendance. Signed prints would be mailed to them at a later date.

  The band kicked off “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  Mac and Annabel found themselves among the first in line. Smith looked for Nic and Cindy, and spotted them at the opposite side of the plaza.

  “I don’t know why we’re bothering to get in line,” Mac commented to Annabel. “It’s not like we don’t know him.”

  “Go with the flow,” she retorted. “I feel good being a part of this.”

  A number of people shared Mac’s reluctance to wait in line and had begun to vacate the area. Nic and Cindy were now positioned in the middle of those who inched forward. Directly in front of them was Iskander Itani. Nic had noticed him and had read his T-shirt, which made him smile. George Mortinson often expressed pride in his speeches that his supporters represented a true cross section of America. If a prizefighter from a boxing club had come all the way from California to express his support, Mortinson’s claim certainly had validity.

  Itani stood silently, taking small steps forward as the line moved. The revolver that Bret Lancaster had hidden on the metal sculpture, now free of its cloth bag, sat in Itani’s right-hand jacket pocket. Borger had instructed him to keep his hand out of the pocket until he was about to shake Mortinson’s hand. Then he was to pull out the palm-sized weapon and fire four shots into the candidate at point-blank range.

  Things moved surprisingly quickly and smoothly. Tricia Mortinson beamed as Mac and Annabel wished Mortinson well, thanked him for having invited them, and posed for their photo. Mortinson said to Mac just before the picture was snapped, “Remember that when I’m president you have to let me win when we play.”

  Mac laughed and said, “I
’ll think about it, Mr. President,” as the photographer’s strobe went off.

  They retreated to a relatively abandoned area of the plaza and watched others go through the ritual they’d just experienced.

  “There’s Nic and Cindy,” Annabel commented, pointing to the young couple only two persons removed from Mortinson. A middle-aged woman wearing a broad-brimmed red, white, and blue straw hat with Mortinson campaign buttons surrounding the crown shook Mortinson’s hand and posed with him for the photo. Her smile lit up the plaza, which caused Mac and Annabel to grin, too.

  Next to shake hands was Itani. Mortinson leaned closer to read what was on Itani’s T-shirt, bringing him only a foot or two from the young man. As Mac and Annabel watched, Mortinson said something to Itani. Then, in an instant, there was the sound of shots being fired—one, two, three, four sharp reports that sounded like the proverbial firecrackers—snap, crackle, pop—barely heard above the crowd noise until …

  Until screams erupted from the receiving line.

  Nic Tatum and a Secret Service agent reacted in concert. Tatum flung himself into Itani, knocking him to the ground. As Itani raised the revolver to his temple and was about to squeeze off the remaining bullet, the agent struck his arm, causing the weapon to be pointed upward. The final shot flew harmlessly into the air. Two other agents pounced on Itani, ripping the revolver from his hand and securing him.

  Pandemonium broke out. Some people ran for the exits, others converged on where Mortinson lay on the ground, a swelling of blood seeping through what had been a pristine white shirt. His wife, Tricia, on her knees, ran her hand over his face. Tears cascaded down her cheeks as she said over and over, “George, George, oh, my God, George.”

  “Get back! Give us room,” an agent implored. “Get the medics.”

  Two EMTs manning an ambulance that had been assigned to stand by at the event rushed to the scene and knelt over the fallen candidate. After checking vital signs, one looked up at Meg Whitson and shook his head.

  Itani, pinned to the ground by two agents, didn’t struggle.

  Nor did George Mortinson.

  There was no life left in him.

  CHAPTER

  43

  SAN FRANCISCO

  “He’s been shot!”

  Borger’s cook, who had been watching initial televised reports of the assassination on a small TV in the kitchen, ran into his study.

  “I know,” Borger said “I—”

  “They showed his picture,” the cook said through tears. “It was Iskander.”

  “Yes,” Borger said with exaggerated sadness. “I can’t believe it. To think that he was here, that I treated him for his headaches and tried to get his life back on track. It’s devastating.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “Nothing at the moment,” he replied. “I’ll notify the authorities, of course. Why don’t you go home now? It’s best that you be with your family at a tragic time like this.”

  She left the room, and Borger continued to watch the reports, vacillating between pleasure that the deed had been done and dismay that Itani hadn’t successfully killed himself as he’d been programmed to do. Building his suicide into the plan was a fail-safe measure. Borger was confident that Itani’s induced global amnesia would hold, hopefully forever, but his death would have ensured that no one could ever break through the control he had over him.

  He had no intention of contacting the authorities, at least not yet. Instead he dialed Mica Sphere’s number.

  “Have you heard?” was the first thing she said. “Senator Mortinson has been assassinated.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. That’s why I’m calling. It was the young man I’d been treating, Iskander. You met him here at the house. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember. Sheldon, this is terrible. What will it mean for you?”

  “Oh, I suppose I’ll become involved simply because he was a patient of mine.”

  “He seemed to be more than that,” she said. “He told me that you were going to help him start boxing again.”

  “Which was part of the treatment. He was a terribly confused young man, riddled with anxieties. But how could I possibly have known that he harbored such hatred? It never came out in our sessions.”

  “Did you know that he’d gone to Washington?”

  “No. All I knew was that he was gone. It didn’t overly concern me. Patients like him are terribly impetuous. I assumed he’d gone back to his family, or had decided to leave the city.”

  “I have to call the police and tell them that I met him,” she said. “They’ll want to know.”

  “Yes, you must do that, Mica, but you sound terribly upset. I suggest that you have yourself under control before contacting anyone. You’ll want to give a cogent, factual accounting. Why don’t you come here first? I’m alone—the cook and housekeeper are gone—and we can talk about it. Neither of us should be alone at a time like this.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I’ll close the shop and—”

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said.

  He hung up, sat back, and rubbed his eyes. That Mica had met Itani at the house meant little. Authorities would soon learn that Itani had been there without her help. That was all built into the plan. He, Dr. Sheldon Borger, had treated this confused young man just as he’d provided help to others throughout his distinguished career. No, he wasn’t overly concerned about his connection with the assassin. Itani’s family knew that he’d been staying with him, as did the cook and housekeeper. But there was nothing to indicate that anything had occurred aside from having treated him. Just a doctor and his patient.

  There was, however, the matter of Elena Marciano. Itani had told Mica that he had a girlfriend named Elena. Had Mica read about Elena’s murder and subsequent discovery in the bay? Maybe, maybe not. Even if she had, it was unlikely that she’d link the dead Elena to Itani based upon only a first name. But that possibility couldn’t be disregarded.

  He went to the kitchen, prepared a tray of crackers and an assortment of cheeses, opened a bottle of his best red wine, and returned to his study to await Mica’s arrival.

  * * *

  After Mica had hung up, she went into the small office at the rear of the shop where her accountant was preparing the monthly financial statement. His attention at that moment, however, was on a TV set tuned to CNN. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered as nonstop coverage of the Mortinson assassination played on the screen.

  “I met him,” Mica blurted out.

  “Met who?”

  “The man who shot Mortinson. I spent time with him only a few days ago at Sheldon Borger’s house.”

  “Whoa,” the accountant said. “You actually met this nut?”

  “Yes.” She told him of the circumstances that had brought them together.

  “You’d better let someone know,” he said. “Call the police.”

  The anchor on TV broke into the report: “We have new details about the man who shot and killed Senator George Mortinson. His name, according to sources within the Washington police department, is Iskander Itani. His driver’s license indicates that he’s from San Francisco and gained entry to the Mortinson rally as a member of a boxing club in San Mateo, California. Statements from individuals present at the rally say that after killing the senator, he attempted to kill himself, but a Secret Service agent deflected the shot.” The anchor was handed a piece of paper. “The alleged killer is twenty-six years of age. According to our sources, he has refused to say anything to authorities. We’ve also been told that the authorities are trying to determine how he managed to bring a gun into the rally where security was tight. We’ll bring you more details as they become available.”

  “I’m closing up,” Mica told the accountant. “I just got off the phone with Sheldon … Sheldon Borger, the psychiatrist. I’m going to his house.”

  “Call the police first, Mica,” the accountant said.

  She dialed 911, told the operator that she had important inform
ation regarding the Mortinson killing, and was put through to the SFPD, where a detective took the call. After telling him that she’d known the shooter, she mentioned that she’d met him at the home of Dr. Sheldon Borger. “Dr. Borger is a friend,” she said. “He’s a psychiatrist who’d been treating the young man who shot the senator.”

  “Where are you?” the detective asked.

  She told him.

  “Don’t leave,” Mica was told. “We’ll have someone there shortly.”

  The detective hung up and told others in the office about the call.

  “Wait a minute,” Detective Duane Woodhouse said. “What’s this about Dr. Borger?”

  After Woodhouse had been filled in on the gist of the call, he told a colleague, “Get hold of the FBI. Tell them to send someone to the caller’s address. I’m heading there now.”

  While Mica awaited the arrival of the police, she called Borger and told him why she wouldn’t be coming, at least not right away.

  “Oh, Mica, I thought you agreed to not contact the police until we’ve had a chance to talk.”

  “I wasn’t sure what to do, Sheldon. It doesn’t matter. I would have had to contact them at some point. I’ll come after I’ve spoken with them.”

  * * *

  Word that Itani was from San Francisco sent the FBI’s headquarters on Golden Gate Avenue into high gear. Using information transmitted from the bureau in Washington, the special agent in charge of the San Francisco office sent special agents scurrying across the city and neighboring counties. A team was dispatched to San Mateo to interview people at the boxing club. Another went to the home address taken from Itani’s driver’s license. When the call from Mica came in from SFPD, two special agents were told to meet Detective Woodhouse at Mica Sphere’s shop.