Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder Page 31

  “Maybe a book,” Tatum mused.

  “That’s a possibility,” Smith agreed. “I know a good literary agent in town and a couple of publishers in New York. Want me to run interference for you?”

  “I’d really appreciate it, Mac. I’m not asking for anything for nothing. I’ll be happy to pay whatever—”

  Smith’s raised palm stopped Tatum. “Let’s not talk about money, Nic. But can I make a suggestion?”

  “Sure.”

  “Take a few weeks to think this over. See how things fall in the investigation, what new information surfaces, whether others looking into George Mortinson’s assassination will produce findings that back up your story. This isn’t going to go away for a very long time.”

  They continued to discuss what Tatum intended to do over soup and salad. During the meal, Smith was aware of how tightly wound Tatum was. His eye twitched and his hand trembled when he passed the salt and pepper. “You look like you haven’t slept in days,” he commented.

  “I look that way because I haven’t,” Tatum said. “So Governor Thomas is taking Senator Mortinson’s place on the ballot.”

  “The party’s national committee voted for Governor Thomas, same number of votes as each state had delegates to the convention. Their choice of Congresswoman LeClaire from Massachusetts as a running mate was a good one, I think, balances the geography and genders.”

  “Think they’ll win?”

  “Hard to say. President Swayze is now putting a national security spin on Mortinson’s murder, claiming it could be the work of foreign terrorists, a prelude to worse things. If they still used the colored threat level meter, he’d have it up at red. His narrative will play with some people, but hopefully not enough to sway the election.”

  Tatum moved his hand and knocked over his water glass.

  “Mind another suggestion?” Smith asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Go home, get some sleep, maybe take that plane of yours for a spin, and enjoy a quiet dinner at some fancy restaurant with Cindy. You’re a mess.”

  CHAPTER

  47

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Woodhouse’s petition to a San Francisco court to authorize a wiretap on Sheldon Borger’s phone was denied. In turning down the request, the judge said, “You want me to tap the phone of one of the city’s leading citizens on your unsubstantiated suspicion that he had something to do with the murder of a prostitute? Forget it, Detective.”

  “It’s possible, sir, that he also played a role in the assassination of Senator George Mortinson,” Woodhouse argued.

  “Is that so?” said the judge behind a cynical smile. “Maybe our mayor and members of the city council did, too. What do you want me to do, tap the phones of every upstanding citizen in San Francisco? Nice try, Detective, but no cigar.”

  Had Woodhouse been successful in obtaining a tap, he might have heard Borger on the phone with Puhlman and Gibbons, going over their story, which had been concocted early on and was reinforced during the call as well as modified to suit the changing circumstances, namely, that Gibbons had gotten involved in the bar fracas in D.C. Had he not, no one would have known that they’d been there.

  Without having been privy to the call, Woodhouse’s interrogation of the two men amounted to a wasted exercise. Interviewed separately, they spouted the same story, so much so that it was evident to the detective that their responses had been rehearsed.

  Faced with evidence that they’d flown to Washington on the same flight as the assassin, using bogus identifications, both Puhlman and Gibbons said, “We went there to try and set up a business deal. We used phony IDs so that our competitors wouldn’t know what we were up to.”

  “What sort of business deal?”

  “It didn’t work out.”

  “But what sort of business are you involved in?”

  “Consulting.”

  Woodhouse looked skeptically at Gibbons. “What sort of consulting do you do, Mr. Gibbons?”

  Gibbons shrugged. Puhlman answered: “Mr. Gibbons has been involved with boxing, sir. We thought the government might be willing to put up money to sponsor a youth tourney, you know, help young people.”

  “But you’re a psychiatrist,” said Woodhouse. “What do you know about boxing?”

  “Not much, sir, but I do know how having a sport can be good for young people, help get their heads straight, avoid drugs, that sort of thing.”

  “The man who shot Senator Mortinson was a boxer.”

  “I know,” said Puhlman. “When Dr. Borger started working with him to cure his headaches so he could go back into the ring, it gave us the idea of looking for government money.”

  “Who did you meet with in Washington?”

  “We didn’t,” replied Puhlman. “We decided after we got there that the project we’d come up with wasn’t ready to be presented to anybody. You know, it needed more work, so we hung around a few days, took in the sights like the Air and Space Museum, and flew back.”

  “Where did you stay in Washington?”

  “The Allen Lee Hotel, small and cheap. It was okay.”

  A check of the hotel records would confirm that they’d registered as guests there.

  “You knew Mr. Itani from Dr. Borger’s house and traveled with him to Washington where he intended to assassinate the senator.”

  “That’s right. We just ended up on the same plane as him. We weren’t traveling together. He said he was going to D.C. to arrange a boxing match. We got off the plane and he went his way and we went ours. He said he was staying downtown someplace, the Marriott, I think.”

  That would check out, too.

  “Who could ever imagine that he was going there to kill the next president of the United States?” Puhlman said. “You should hang the bastard.”

  The interrogation lasted for hours.

  Woodhouse thought that Gibbons might crack, especially when the murder of Elena Marciano was raised. He pointed out that because it was Gibbons who’d rented the boat, he was the prime suspect in her killing. But the big former pugilist stuck with his story that they went fishing, and Woodhouse had nothing tangible to refute it.

  The FBI was also brought in and tried to establish a connection between Puhlman and Gibbons’s trip to Washington and the assassination, but the agents were no more successful than Woodhouse had been.

  A representative of the prosecutor’s office observed the interrogation through a one-way mirror. When it was obvious that little was to be accomplished, he told Woodhouse, “Let them go. You don’t have anything to hold them on unless you want to charge them with using false identification to breach airport security.” The FBI special agent in charge of the San Francisco investigation of the Mortinson assassination conferred with Woodhouse, and she and the prosecutor agreed to dismiss Puhlman and Gibbons with the admonition that they were to remain in the city and were subject to recall.

  And so Puhlman and Gibbons were released, with the vague, empty threat that the authorities weren’t finished with them yet.

  While all this was going on, Borger was busy burning papers in his fireplace. He’d shunned all media requests for an interview, as had been requested by the police and FBI, and had repeated the story of his connection with Itani to a steady stream of FBI special agents. The street in front of his house was a media circus; shifts of SFPD officers tried to maintain order and to keep the driveway from being blocked. At one point Borger told the agents, “This has to stop. I’m a prisoner in my own home. I have done everything possible to cooperate with you and to give you my professional insight into the mind of Senator Mortinson’s killer. There is nothing more I can offer, and I would like to be able to leave here and go to my home in Bermuda. If you needed me for anything else, you would have no trouble contacting me there.”

  At one point, the FBI’s San Francisco director told Woodhouse that Itani was repeatedly asking for Elena. “Looks like he doesn’t know that she’s dead,” she commented.

&nbs
p; “Maybe if he’d been around, she wouldn’t be,” was Woodhouse’s ironic reply.

  Itani was assigned an attorney and was formally charged with the murder of Senator George Mortinson. He pleaded not guilty. No matter how often he was questioned, no matter how aggressive the interrogations were, he continued to deny any memory of having traveled to Washington and shooting the senator. When asked about his relationship with Dr. Sheldon Borger, he would say only that the doctor had helped him overcome his headaches and that he had stayed at Borger’s house during his time as a patient. His only nod to reality was when he stated that Mortinson had to die because he was a “Jew lover” and “an Israel lover.”

  And so it went during that days following the assassination. It was toward the end of the week that President Swayze announced that he was convening a blue-ribbon panel of distinguished Americans to examine all the facts as they surfaced and to determine whether Iskander Itani acted alone or was part of a cabal. The president concluded his televised speech with, “There have been irresponsible parties, including certain members of the media, that have fanned the flames of conspiracy, which accomplishes nothing more than setting an already anxious nation on edge. I ask every American to withhold judgment until this panel has been able to ascertain the facts.”

  CHAPTER

  48

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Nic Tatum and Cindy Simmons watched President Swayze’s announcement on TV at his apartment.

  “I can see it coming,” Tatum said. “Another whitewash like the Warren Commission Report. You read that piece in the Post today about how Itani claims he doesn’t remember anything. Of course he doesn’t. He’s been programmed not to remember. Those two clowns who say they worked for Borger and flew with Itani to D.C. What a joke. What’s wrong with these people? According to what I’ve read, they’ve been cleared by the bureau, released, just like that, coming up with some phony statements that were probably concocted by Borger himself.” He punched his left palm with his right fist. “How did Itani get the gun into the rally, Cindy? He had to have had help. This guy is a down-and-out former prizefighter who spends a week or so with Borger and then has the wherewithal to fly to D.C. and stay in a high-priced hotel like the downtown Marriott. Come on, I may not be the smartest guy in the world, but this is ludicrous. Sheila Klaus pays off her mortgage with money allegedly from some relative who died. Interesting that the money came from Bermuda. Guess who has a house in Bermuda? Dr. Sheldon Borger.

  “Everybody’s a lone nut, Oswald, James Earl Ray, Sirhan Sirhan, and now Itani. None of them had any help, none of them were involved with anyone else. Crazy, right?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know. Nobody knows.”

  “And this so-called blue-ribbon panel will get to the bottom of it, tell the truth. Ha! They’ll claim that Itani acted on his own because they don’t want the nation to think that we have cells right here in the good ol’ U S of A that spawn political assassins, and by the way, sponsored by our own government.”

  “Did that journalist you spoke with this morning offer any suggestions?”

  “Yeah, that I try and get more facts before I start accusing anyone. How do I do that? Did you read that statement from the CIA about Borger and his connection with them when they were asked about it? I loved that one line: ‘Dr. Sheldon Borger has been instrumental in advancing science that has been extremely useful in our national defense.’ Next they’ll be giving the son of a bitch the Medal of Honor.”

  She wanted desperately to calm and comfort him, to say the magic words that would ease his frustration, but the words weren’t there.

  He also vented his frustration and anger to Mac and Annabel Smith, neither of whom had better luck calming him than Cindy had, nor did an afternoon putting his Micco SP26 aerobatic through its paces ease his upset.

  The day after he’d gone flying, he called Cindy at work.

  “I’m going out to see Sheila Klaus,” he told her.

  “Why?”

  “Because if I can break through the control Borger has over her, I’ll at least have something tangible to offer.”

  “Don’t, Nic. Let it go. You’re tilting at windmills.”

  “I have to.”

  “No, you don’t. At some point someone will come forward and reveal something that you can work with. Until then—”

  “Nobody has ever come forward about the other assassinations, Cindy, no one. Sheila Klaus knows what happened with Borger. If I can get her to shake him loose from her life, the truth can come out.”

  Her supervisor at Walter Reed stood in the doorway and indicated he needed to speak with her.

  “Nic, I have to go,” she said. “When are you planning on seeing her?”

  “Today. I have patients until four and then I’ll head there.”

  “I get off at five,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll be home by five thirty. Pick me up.”

  He was waiting at her apartment when she arrived from work. Fifteen minutes later they were on their way to Rockville.

  “Maybe you’d better stay in the car,” he suggested when they pulled up in front of Sheila’s house. “She might be reticent to talk with a second person present.”

  She didn’t argue. She’d hadn’t come with him to be privy to what transpired between him and Sheila. She wanted no part of that. But she did want to be there to offer moral support, to be with him when his attempt to break through Sheila’s barrier failed again, to hold his hand and tell him it was okay.

  He exited the car and slowly approached the house. Cindy watched as he went to the front door and rang the bell. Moments later Sheila appeared. Cindy held her breath. Would he be summarily dismissed?

  He wasn’t. Sheila opened the door and Tatum followed her inside.

  Sheila’s willingness to invite him in took Tatum by surprise. He’d mentally prepared what he would say, how he would try to convince her to at least hear him out. But he didn’t need to present those arguments. After he’d reminded her who he was, she’d simply said, “Come in,” and walked into the living room.

  “I’m here, Sheila,” he said, “because … well, because you know about Senator Mortinson being shot and the part Dr. Borger played in it.”

  “Sit down,” she said. “Would you like something to drink, a cocktail, coffee or tea?”

  “No, thank you,” he said and sat on a hassock in front of the couch. The ease with which he’d gained entry had thrown him and he had to regroup.

  Sheila went into the kitchen. When she returned, she carried a glass of cola and sat on the couch. She was dressed in baggy tan cargo pants, a teal T-shirt, and red sneakers.

  “I appreciate your seeing me like this,” he said. “How have you been?”

  “I’ve been fine,” she answered. “You?”

  “Me?” He laughed. “Thanks for asking. I’ve been fine, too. Well, that’s not quite true. Sheila, I know what Dr. Borger has done to you, and it’s important that the world know it, too. We can work together to expose him and rid you of the control he has over you. I’m sure you’d like that.”

  She fixed him in a stony stare.

  He waited for a protest from her. Instead she said, “I’m listening.”

  Again he was taken aback by her lack of defensiveness. Buoyed by this turn of events, he said, “Will you let me hypnotize you, Sheila, the way I did when you were in police custody? It’s the only way I can break the hold Borger has over you. He’s an evil man, Sheila. He has to be stopped. Together we can—”

  The change in her expression, the sudden cruel smile and the narrowing of her eyes, sent a chill up his spine. And then the change in her voice followed. “What makes you think she wants to do anything with you?”

  “Carla?”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “I know who it is. You’re Carla.”

  “Aren’t you smart.”

  “You
’re here to help Sheila. Right?”

  “I always help Sheila. She always needs help.” The laugh that came from her was demonic.

  “Then work with me, Carla. Let’s work together and—”

  Carla reached into a pocket on her cargo pants and came out holding a small Smith & Wesson 638 Airweight revolver. She pointed it at Tatum.

  “You don’t need that, Carla,” Tatum said, his pulse now racing, beads of sweat suddenly appearing on his forehead. “Put the gun away and let’s talk about how we can both help Sheila.”

  In the car, Cindy Simmons looked at her watch. Nic had been inside for almost fifteen minutes. She could only assume that things were going well, which pleased her. There was a moment when she’d considered going to the door and seeing if she could join him. But she didn’t want to do anything that might get in the way of his succeeding. She leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. She’d wait forever as long as he was making progress. His obsession with Sheila Klaus, Sheldon Borger, and the assassination of George Mortinson threatened to derail their relationship. All she wanted was for Nic Tatum to find at least a modicum of peace and to return to what he’d always been, a contented, clear-thinking, loving man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her days.

  The sound that came from inside the house snapped her out of her reverie and caused her to sit up. It sounded like firecrackers. Or could it be…? Gunshots were always described as sounding like firecrackers. Four reports came in rapid succession.

  She threw open the door and scrambled from the car, slipping as she did and falling to one knee on the pavement. She got up and ran to the house. Before she had gone up the front steps, a single report, the fifth, was heard from inside.