Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder Read online

  Woodhouse, a second detective, and two agents sat with Mica in her office after her accountant, whose name and address were taken, had been told to leave.

  “Tell us about your meeting with Mr. Itani,” an agent said as he placed a small tape recorder on her desk.

  Mica gave them a succinct accounting of how she’d ended up having a drink with Itani at Borger’s house. When she’d finished, an agent asked if she could remember any further details of what they’d talked about.

  “He was a nice young man,” she said, “very polite but not very talkative. He seemed to be in his own world at times.”

  “What did he tell you about his relationship with Dr. Borger?”

  “Just that Dr. Borger was helping him with headaches, and that he was also helping him resume his boxing career.” She smiled. “He was very sweet. He told me that he had a girlfriend. Her name was Elena, I think.”

  Woodhouse jumped into the questioning. “You’re sure the girl’s name was Elena?” he asked, unable to keep enthusiasm from his voice.

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said, “that was the name.”

  The agents, unaware of why Woodhouse had injected this line of questioning, followed up. “Can you tell us more about this Elena?” one asked. “Where she lives, a last name?”

  “He did mention her last name,” she said, her face twisted as she tried to remember. “It was a common name. Jones! Yes, I think it was Jones. That’s all I know. Sorry.”

  “You say that Mr. Itani was living with Dr. Borger?” an agent asked. “Isn’t it unusual for a psychiatrist to have a patient living with him?”

  “I suppose so,” she said, “but Dr. Borger is a very compassionate physician. He’s treated some big celebrity names, and patients have stayed with him before. It gives him a chance to do more in-depth, sustained treatment.”

  One of the agents said, “We’d like you to come with us, Ms. Sphere.”

  “Where? Why?”

  “Our headquarters. We’ll want a detailed statement from you.”

  “I’ve already given you one,” she said. “You have it on tape.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but we’re dealing with the assassination of a leading political figure. We can take you in as a material witness, but we’d rather not.”

  “I have to close the shop.”

  “Just make it quick.”

  “Can I make a phone call first?”

  “All right, but we have to move.”

  Woodhouse and one of the agents went to the sidewalk. “Let me bring you up to date on something,” the detective said. He recounted his interest in Borger because of the Elena Marciano case.

  “This dead prostitute might have been involved with the shooter?”

  “Seems so, doesn’t it?” Woodhouse responded.

  “And this psychiatrist, Borger, was involved with both of them?”

  “Right again.”

  * * *

  Peter Puhlman and Jake Gibbons arrived back in San Francisco early that evening and went directly from the airport to Borger’s house. Gibbons was in an agitated state. He and Puhlman had heard coverage of the assassination on the taxi’s radio, including that the alleged assassin was a twenty-six-year-old male named Iskander Itani.

  “What the hell is going on?” Gibbons demanded the minute he walked through the door. “The kid shot the next president, for Christ’s sake. Jesus!”

  “Calm down,” Borger said, although internally he was anything but calm.

  “You knew that this was goin’ to happen all along, didn’t you?” Gibbons yelled.

  “I had no idea that he would do what he did,” Borger said. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. I have money for you to leave the city and—”

  A buzz indicated that someone was at the gate. Borger looked out the window. A half dozen cars were at the foot of the driveway. A voice came through the speaker: “Dr. Borger, FBI special agents Carlson and Morel. We’re with detectives from the San Francisco Police Department. We wish to speak with you.”

  Borger looked at Puhlman and Gibbons. The timing was atrocious.

  “What are you going to do?” Puhlman asked.

  “Let them in,” Borger said, forcing a smile. “Go into my study. I’ll speak with them out here. If they realize that you’re here, I’ll say that you work for me and that we’ve been having a meeting. Say nothing about having been in Washington. Understand?”

  “I want out of this,” Gibbons said.

  Puhlman grabbed Gibbons’s arm and yanked him in the direction of the study. Once they were behind its closed door, Borger said into the speaker, “I’ll open the gates.” He pushed a button and watched as the cars piled into the driveway, led by two marked SFPD vehicles.

  He opened the door and greeted the two agents, and a familiar face, Detective Duane Woodhouse. “I’ve been expecting you,” Borger said. “I’ve just heard about the dreadful event that’s taken place in Washington this afternoon and that a patient of mine was involved. Come in, come in. I’m eager to cooperate in any way I can.”

  They went to the living room. Borger sat, the agents and Woodhouse remained standing.

  “I suppose you want to know anything and everything about Iskander, about Mr. Itani. Let me begin by saying that in more than thirty years of practice, I have never had anything even approaching this happen. Where do I begin? He became my patient because of debilitating headaches, the result of having been badly beaten in two previous boxing matches. He was confused, in pain, frightened, almost suicidal. I took him on as a patient without compensation and—”

  Five minutes into the questioning, Gibbons’s loud voice was heard from behind the door to the study.

  “Someone else is here?” an agent asked.

  “Yes,” Borger said. “Colleagues of mine. We were having a meeting when you arrived.”

  Woodhouse had noticed two suitcases in the foyer when they’d entered and asked, “Going on a trip, Dr. Borger?”

  “Oh, those suitcases. No, no trips planned.”

  “We’d like to speak with the others,” said an agent.

  “Of course, although I’m sure they have nothing to offer.”

  He opened the door to the study and said, “We have visitors from the FBI and police. They’re here regarding the terrible thing that happened in Washington today. Come, they’d like to meet you.”

  Gibbons followed Puhlman from the room and greeted the agents. Woodhouse took note of Gibbons’s nervousness; he sweated profusely. He also wondered what possible business connection the rough-hewn man might have with the smooth-talking psychiatrist.

  “In previous conversations I’ve had with Dr. Borger,” Woodhouse said, “he’s admitted that he was friendly with a Ms. Elena Marciano who, according to Dr. Borger, was also a patient. Did either of you gentlemen know Mr. Itani or Ms. Marciano?”

  Gibbons shook his head. Borger jumped in and said, “I believe they might have met her once or twice.”

  “That’s right,” said Puhlman. “I met her a couple of times. Itani, too.”

  “You?” Woodhouse asked Gibbons.

  He shrugged and said, “Yeah, maybe, once or twice.”

  “We have a witness who says that Mr. Itani told her that Ms. Marciano, or the other name she used, Jones, was his girlfriend,” Woodhouse said.

  Borger laughed. “Oh, my, how pathetic. It was all part of his fantasies. I did introduce them once, and I remember how smitten he was with her, his eyes following her every time she crossed the room. He lived in a dreamworld, gentlemen. It was one of the things I tried to work on with him, to give him a healthier sense of reality.”

  “Ms. Marciano is dead,” Woodhouse said flatly.

  “I’m well aware of that,” Borger said.

  “Not a great track record, Doctor,” Woodhouse said. “One patient assassinates the next president of the United States, the other is murdered and dumped in the bay.”

  “I resent that,” Borger said.

  Woodhouse said nothing
as the agents asked more questions of Puhlman and Gibbons. When they were finished, Puhlman said, “We were just leaving. Those are our suitcases in the hallway. Are we finished?”

  “You both live in San Francisco?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can we contact you?”

  They gave their names and addresses and left.

  “Obviously, Dr. Borger, your close knowledge of Mr. Itani will be valuable as we try and put together the pieces of Senator Mortinson’s assassination. You aren’t planning any trips.”

  “No, as I told you, no trips planned.”

  “The press will get hold of your connection and want statements from you. You’re not to give any while the investigation continues.”

  “I have no intention of talking with the press. You have my word.”

  “We’ll leave uniformed officers outside your house.”

  Borger started to protest, but the agent added, “For your protection.”

  “All right,” Borger said. “I suppose I don’t have a choice.”

  The agents were polite as they said good-bye to Borger, but Woodhouse, who was the last through the door, fixed Borger in a laser stare and said, “We’ll be talking again, Doctor.”

  CHAPTER

  44

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  In Washington, Mortinson’s assassination had sent an emotional tsunami washing over the city. The Woodrow Wilson Plaza had been locked down following the shooting, but by that time most people had fled. The FBI, CIA, and Department of Homeland Security had gone into high-alert status. Had the shooter, this Arab American named Iskander Itani, acted alone, or was he part of a larger plot? The official rulings on the killings of John and Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were that Lee Harvey Oswald, Sirhan Sirhan, and James Earl Ray were “lone nuts,” demented, evil people who’d violently acted out their warped grievances.

  Conspiracy theorists immediately went into action, blogging that another whitewash was in the making à la the Warren Commission, which had concluded that JFK’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, had not been part of a conspiracy, nor had Oswald’s killer, Jack Ruby, acted out of anything but a need to personally avenge the fallen president.

  President Swayze held a press conference in which he praised Mortinson as a formidable opponent, a man of integrity and vision, and assured the nation that the investigation would be thorough and ongoing. But he urged all Americans not to jump to conclusions about whether some sort of cabal was behind the shooting. “From what we know at this early date the assassin”—he consulted his notes—“Mr. Iskander Itani, was not a part of any organized plot, and I repeat not. My prayers go out to the Mortinson family.”

  * * *

  The Smiths navigated those left in the plaza and found Cindy Simmons, who wept openly, her arms wrapped tightly about herself.

  “Where’s Nic?” Mac asked.

  “With agents,” she replied, pointing to where he was being interviewed. “He knocked the bastard down,” she said between sobs. “It can’t be,” she said. “It just cannot be.”

  Smith gave her a hug and said, “You were right behind him.”

  “I know,” she said. “It all happened so fast.”

  “Did you or Nic have any hint that something was about to occur?”

  “No. Nic had noticed him earlier and commented about his T-shirt. He’s from some boxing club in California. Nic said that he looked a little odd, sort of a vacant expression on his face, but it didn’t mean anything then. He joked about it. ‘Too many punches,’ he said. Oh, my God, this can’t be true.”

  They waited until Tatum was able to join them.

  “You knocked him down,” Annabel said.

  “Not soon enough. He tried to kill himself. He put the gun to his head, but an agent hit him and his arm went straight up. They wanted to know what I saw.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Mac said. “I could use a stiff drink. We’ll go back to the apartment.”

  The streets were now choked with people who’d heard the news and needed to leave their homes and stores and to join others in shock. Official vehicles, their sirens blaring, converged on the scene from every direction as Smith managed to find a cab.

  Once at the apartment, Annabel turned on the TV and Mac made everyone a scotch and soda. They sat transfixed in front of the set, the words and images on Channel 5, the Washington CNN affiliate, jarring yet unreal. The reporters tried to keep up with information being fed from various sources, switching to correspondents around the country. Much of what was being reported was speculation based upon rumors culled from unsubstantiated sources.

  Mac ordered in Chinese food. As he paid the delivery man, the TV coverage shifted to a press conference from FBI headquarters in the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. At the podium was the bureau’s director.

  “First of all,” he said, “I urge you to report responsibly and not react to rumors that naturally circulate in events like this. That said, former Wisconsin senator George Mortinson, candidate for the presidency of the United States, was killed this afternoon by an alleged assailant identified as Iskander Itani, twenty-six years old, a resident of San Francisco. Senator Mortinson was pronounced dead at the scene. He’d been greeting visitors to a campaign rally at the Ronald Reagan Building at the time of the shooting. The alleged assailant was immediately taken into custody by the Secret Service and other agencies, including the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He is being held in a secure facility, the location of which I am not at liberty to disclose.”

  Tatum, who’d been sitting with his elbows on his knees, face cupped in his hands, sat up and said, “San Francisco.” Mac, Annabel, and Cindy looked at him but kept their attention riveted on the screen.

  The director continued. “I know that it is not unusual for some to suspect that a plot of some sort, a terrorist plot, is behind such assassinations, but I assure you that we have absolutely no information at this time to indicate that anyone was involved besides the alleged assassin.

  “Your FBI has agents investigating the alleged assassin’s background and is attempting to ascertain the motive for this senseless killing. I’ll now take a few questions, but bear in mind that I am not able to discuss any aspect of the investigation.”

  A chorus of voices erupted in the room, reporters trying to outshout each other to gain his attention. The director dismissed the first three questions but answered the fourth, which was posed by a reporter from the Washington Post. “How can you say that you’ve ruled out a conspiracy? From the little we’ve learned so far, the shooter is an Arab.”

  “Mr. Itani is an Arab American, but let’s not jump to premature conclusions,” the director said sternly. “We’ll schedule regular updates as further information becomes known to us.”

  With that, he left the podium, a cacophony of questions following him from the room.

  Mac turned down the sound as Annabel served the Chinese dishes. They had little to say, nor did they eat with any relish. Nic and Cindy left at nine and went to her apartment, where they watched television until falling asleep on the couch. Mac and Annabel also stayed up taking in the steady stream of information, real and imagined, from the CNN studios, and they, too, made it to bed after dozing off. Unlike the previous romantic night for the Mortinsons, the Smiths, and Nic and Cindy, this one was somber for everyone involved.

  Mac and Annabel had just gotten up the following morning and hadn’t yet turned on the TV or read the newspaper, whose front page carried the sort of huge, boldfaced headline used only for meaningful, usually grim, events. Annabel answered the phone.

  “It’s Nic,” Tatum said breathlessly. “Do you have the TV on?”

  “We just got up.”

  “Turn it on quick!”

  She did as the anchor was saying, “Let’s go back to our correspondent in San Francisco.”

  A young familiar female face filled the screen. “As I reported a few minutes ago, we’ve learned that the alleged killer of
Senator George Mortinson, Iskander Itani, had been treated by a local psychiatrist here in San Francisco, Dr. Sheldon Borger. According to our sources, Mr. Itani was a patient of Dr. Borger’s for a number of weeks and actually lived in the doctor’s Nob Hill residence during that time. Dr. Borger is a well-known, well-respected physician whose patient roster includes a number of famous people from show business and industry. Attempts to reach the doctor have failed, but we will continue to try.”

  Annabel handed the phone to her husband.

  “You heard it, Mac?” Tatum asked excitedly.

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it yesterday when I heard that he was from San Francisco. I just knew it, damn it!”

  “Hold on, Nic. That’s a pretty big leap.”

  “What is it, Mac, a coincidence? Can’t be. Sheila Klaus is a patient of Borger, who just happens to be a CIA-funded shrink doing mind-control experiments on unsuspecting men and women. She returns from seeing him and runs down Mark Sedgwick. Now another ‘patient’ of Dr. Borger, who stayed in his house, travels to D.C. and guns down the next president of the United States. Coincidence? Give me a break.”

  Smith’s legal instincts told him to poke holes in Nic’s conclusion, but he couldn’t. As circumstantial as Tatum’s evidence was—and it didn’t even meet that standard—something told Mac that what the young psychologist was saying rang true.

  “Let’s say what you say is valid, Nic. What do you intend to do about it?”

  “Tell the story to anybody who’ll listen. Just before I called you, I got a call from the FBI. They want me at headquarters this morning to go over again what I saw yesterday. I’ll start by telling them. If they won’t listen, won’t give it any credence, I’ll go to the media.”

  “The press will run with it even though there’s no proof of what you’re claiming.”

  “That’s not my problem. What’s important is that Borger and others like him be stopped, that the CIA’s insane experiments stop.”