Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder Page 6

  “With Sedgwick?” Annabel asked.

  “No. She went alone.”

  “You say that she lied about her relationship with Sedgwick,” Annabel said. “Isn’t that consciousness of guilt, lying to authorities?”

  “Usually it is,” Tatum agreed, “but I’m convinced that she believes those lies. I’m hoping that if the police do formally charge her I’ll have a chance to spend clinical time with her. I’ve already told the detectives that I want to do that.”

  Smith asked, “How likely is it that she’ll be charged?”

  “Very likely,” Tatum responded, “according to what I’ve been told. They’ve questioned her twice more, and she sticks to her story about the relationship. What I was thinking is that because you and Annabel knew her from when she was at GW, you might … well, you might give her a call and see if there’s some way you can help. I know that you’re taking on some cases aside from teaching and—”

  “I’d be uncomfortable calling her out of the blue,” Smith said.

  “I understand,” Tatum said. “But if she’s formally charged, she’ll need an attorney, someone who understands the sort of personality she is.”

  “A Dionysian,” Annabel said.

  “If I’m not mistaken, a very rare Dionysian,” Tatum said. “Just thought I’d raise the possibility.”

  As Tatum and Cindy were leaving, Smith asked how Tatum’s flying had gone that afternoon.

  “Great,” Tatum said. “I’ve been trying to get Cindy to come up with me, but she refuses.”

  “You bet I do,” she said. “You’ll never find me in that stupid little plane.”

  Tatum laughed as the elevator arrived. As the doors started to close, Tatum looked at the Smiths and said, “Going up in that stupid little plane is a lot safer than crossing Virginia Avenue.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Dr. Sheldon Borger stood out among the dozen onlookers at the gym where sparring sessions were taking place in the ring. It wasn’t that he was an imposing physical figure. The fifty-eight-year-old physician was of average height and weight. He was artificially tanned, which provided a contrasting scrim against which a set of gleaming white teeth shone. His gray hair was carefully trimmed and rested close to his pate and temples. Not a hair out of place.

  It was his dress that set him apart. He wore an Italian white silk sport jacket, a designer shirt with vivid vertical stripes of blue, green, and yellow open at the collar, beige slacks with a razor crease, and tasseled brown loafers, five thousand dollars’ worth of clothing, all of it meticulously tailored to his trim body. He was often mistaken for one of those former actors you’ve seen in movies but whose name escapes you.

  Seated next to him was Peter Puhlman, whose sartorial approach was considerably less expensive. Puhlman’s stout physique didn’t support trendy, tailored clothing, and his drab gray suit testified to it. His gray pallor, perpetually furrowed brow, and pronounced jowls gave him a sad look, as though he’d just received bad news.

  “That’s him,” Puhlman told Borger.

  Their attention was not focused on the young fighters in the ring. They were more interested in another young man who held a heavy bag while an aspiring prizefighter peppered it with lefts and rights, his hands taped, perspiration flowing freely down his sculptured body.

  “What does he do here?” Borger asked.

  “Odd jobs,” Puhlman answered. “He works to pay for gym time.”

  “He’s a fighter?”

  “He was, although he thinks he can still fight. Very paranoid, believes that managers and promoters have blackballed him.”

  “Have they?” Borger asked.

  “For good reason. He took pretty severe beatings in his last few fights, left him with persistent headaches. Getting in the ring again would put him at risk.”

  Borger watched as the young man who’d been holding the heavy bag walked away and disappeared through a doorway.

  “His name is Itani?” Borger said.

  “That’s right, Iskander Itani. His father was Lebanese, mother Italian. He tells me that his last name means that God gave him something special.”

  “You say he’s paranoid.”

  “And angry. He believes that the Jews control the fight game and don’t want an Arab winning fights.”

  Borger grunted and observed the two fighters finish their sparring session and leave the ring.

  “Did he leave?” Borger asked.

  His question was answered when Itani reappeared. Puhlman stood and motioned for him to join them.

  “Iskander, say hello to Dr. Sheldon Borger.”

  Borger also stood and extended his hand, his smile wide and welcoming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Itani looked at Borger with dead eyes as he took his hand without enthusiasm.

  “I understand that you’re a fighter,” Borger said.

  Itani nodded.

  “A good one, too,” Puhlman said. “How are the headaches, Iskander?”

  He grimaced as though the mention of a headache brought one on. “Not so good,” the young man said, closing his eyes tightly and then opening them. “Sometimes it is worse than others.”

  Puhlman said, “I thought you’d want to meet Dr. Borger, Iskander. He’s an expert in pain management and can help you get rid of those headaches—and possibly get you back in the ring.”

  Borger laughed away the compliment. “I’ve always thought I’d like to manage a fighter,” he said. “I know it takes money to keep a fighter healthy and well trained.”

  “The promoters,” Itani said to himself.

  “Yes?” Borger said.

  Puhlman interrupted. “How much longer will you be working today?”

  Itani looked up at a large clock on the wall that read four o’clock. “I am finished now.”

  “I thought maybe the three of us could enjoy a drink together,” Puhlman said.

  Borger looked at Puhlman quizzically. Should he be suggesting a drink to an Arab? He wasn’t aware that Itani’s father was a Christian Arab and that Puhlman had had drinks with him before.

  Itani seemed unsure whether to accept the offer, but Puhlman slapped him on the back and said, “A relaxing drink is good for headaches, huh?”

  “Yes, I would like a drink,” Itani said.

  “Come, then,” Borger said, “my treat at one of my favorite bars in the city, at the Huntington Hotel.”

  “I have to change my clothes,” Itani said, looking down at his sweat-stained gray workout gear.

  “Yes, you do that, Iskander,” Puhlman said. “Take your time.”

  Borger used Itani’s absence to further question Puhlman about the young man. “What’s his family situation?” he asked.

  “He lives with two brothers and his mother in a neighborhood just outside the city. There’s no money. The brothers work at whatever jobs they can find. The mother isn’t well, according to Iskander, cancer that’s been treated but left her unable to work.”

  “The father?”

  “He abandoned the family years ago. Iskander thought that he’d become a famous fighter and support the family, but it didn’t work out that way.”

  “You told me when you called that he has strong political beliefs.”

  “He occasionally rants about politics and politicians. He’s especially angry with George Mortinson.”

  Mortinson was the Democratic candidate for the presidency. With the election weeks away, the photogenic, charming Mortinson led the incumbent Republican president Allan Swayze in most polls by almost ten points. Swayze had been swept into office on a wave of protest against the previous Democratic administration. But the country fell into a deep recession during Swayze’s tenure in the White House, and his chances for reelection were further reduced by attempts on the part of the Republican-controlled Congress to eviscerate funding for Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid.

  “He follows politics?” Borger asked.

&nb
sp; “Not in any depth. He curses Mortinson for his pro-Israel policies and his hard stance on Iran. Typical Arab view.”

  Itani’s return ended the discussion. He’d changed into a yellow-and-brown sport shirt, dark brown jeans, and sneakers.

  “All set?” Borger asked.

  “Yes,” Itani replied.

  They drove to the Huntington Hotel in Borger’s silver Jaguar, which he’d parked just outside the gym. The uniformed doorman greeted Borger by name as they entered the opulent lobby and headed for the Big 4 Restaurant, the 4 referring to four industrial and financial giants of yesteryear who’d left their marks on the city’s posh Nob Hill area. Once settled in the handsome wood-paneled bar with forest-green banquettes and lead-glass mirrors—and after Itani ordered a Tom Collins, Borger a Diet Coke, Puhlman white wine—Borger brought up the subject of Itani’s headaches.

  “How often do you have them, Iskander?”

  “Often. Sometimes worse than other times.”

  Itani, drinking through a straw, drained his glass. He looked up at Borger and said sheepishly, “I was thirsty.”

  “Would you like another?”

  “Yes … please.”

  “Tell me about when the headaches started,” Borger probed.

  “After my last fight. No, after the one before that.”

  “How many fights have you had?”

  Itani looked to Puhlman.

  “He’s had fourteen professional bouts and a half dozen amateur fights.”

  “And you were beaten in your last fight?” Borger asked.

  “Yes. He was a dirty fighter, an Irish fighter.”

  Borger sat back and smiled. “Do Irish fighters have a reputation for being dirty fighters?”

  “Yes,” was Itani’s reply. “I was knocked out. I went to the hospital.”

  “You’ve seen doctors, I assume. I mean, aside from the ones you saw in the hospital.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” said Borger, “I usually don’t meet new patients in a gym or a bar, but I might be able to help you. I’ve helped many people cure their headaches. Let me see your eyes.”

  Borger brought his face within a foot of Itani’s and looked into his eyes. “Do this for me,” he said as he held his index finger above Itani’s forehead. “Roll your eyes up and look at my finger.”

  Itani looked nervously around the bar.

  “It’s all right,” Borger said. “Just look up at my finger without moving your head. That’s it. Now, while you keep your eyes raised, slowly lower your eyelids. That’s right, keep your eyes up and trained on my finger, and then slowly close them.”

  Itani’s lids covered his eyes and stayed that way until Borger said, “That’s fine, Iskander. I believe I can help you with your pain. That is, if you’d like me to.”

  “Yes, I would like that,” Itani said.

  He sat motionless, his eyes trained on something only he could see. Puhlman and Borger observed as the young man remained in that posture, not moving, physically present but mentally elsewhere. Then he abruptly stood and said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Interesting,” Borger said to Puhlman.

  “I’m glad you think so. It took awhile to find him.”

  “Can you get him to the house?”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night. I’ll arrange a little get-together with people the young Mr. Itani will enjoy meeting. Tell him that there will be people who might be able to help resurrect his boxing career and that I’ll work on his headaches. Ideally he’ll agree to spend the night.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Puhlman said.

  When Itani returned, Borger told him how much he enjoyed meeting him but that he had to leave for an appointment. “I’m having some people to my home tomorrow night, a number of young people like yourself. I hope to see you there.”

  After Borger left, Puhlman said to Itani, “Dr. Borger is a wonderful man, Iskander, a brilliant physician who truly cares about people. Not only can he help with your headaches, he might have guests who can help launch your boxing career again. You’ll come with me?”

  “Yes.”

  Puhlman drove Itani home to the nondescript house he shared with his ailing mother and two brothers. After dropping him off, he went to his own home, where he called Borger. “What do you think?” he said.

  “I think that all your work has paid off, Peter. I’ve just gone over the report on him you gave me. Coupled with my own evaluation today, I’d say he’s perfect. Perfect! Did you notice the spontaneous trance states he lapses into?”

  “He does it often. It’s disconcerting.”

  “And so revealing. He’ll be here tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, he will.”

  “Good. He’s ideal for the task. Well done, Peter. Well done indeed.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Sheldon Borger’s mansion on the crest of the highest hill in San Francisco’s posh Nob Hill section of the city was once the home of a faded motion picture actress who’d left Hollywood to settle there. Borger bought it from her estate and expanded the gleaming white mansion on two sides, making it one of the largest residences in an area known for palatial homes. Long divorced, he alone reveled in the splendor of his fourteen-room home filled with expensive imported furnishings, especially ancient Chinese art, which he purchased through a dealer in Hong Kong who was always on the lookout for new pieces to add to his client’s collection. Most of Borger’s year was spent in his San Francisco home, although he maintained a condo in Washington, D.C., and occasionally escaped to a beachfront villa in Bermuda.

  The only son of a wealthy Milwaukee family, he’d received his medical degree from the University of Wisconsin’s School of Medicine and Public Health and became board-certified in OB-GYN. He practiced in Chicago until deciding one day that he was better suited to psychiatry. He obtained that certification at the University of Chicago’s Pritzer School of Medicine and Neuroscience, abandoned his OB-GYN practice, left Chicago, and established a private psychiatric practice in Washington, where he reasoned that its residents probably suffered more mental problems than citizens of other cities.

  It was in D.C. that he met Colin Landow.

  * * *

  Landow also was a psychiatrist, although he’d never practiced. He and Borger were introduced at a conference at the Omni Shoreham Hotel hosted by the mid-Atlantic chapter of the American Psychiatric Association. It was during the closing night cocktail party that Landow suggested to Borger that he consider taking part in what Landow termed “a groundbreaking, and I might add lucrative, study with huge national security significance.”

  A phone call to Landow a few days later resulted in a series of meetings that revealed to Borger the nature of the study as well as its sponsor, the Central Intelligence Agency, where Landow headed a top secret division whose sole purpose was to stretch the limits of mind-control research.

  “The Russians have been deeply involved in mind-control experimentation since World War One,” Borger was told, “and the fear that they’ve moved ahead of us in this area is well-founded. We’re taking steps to close the gap. We need men like you who are well schooled in medical hypnosis and the use of psychotropic drugs.”

  Borger often used hypnosis in his practice and had steeped himself in the literature. He was aware of the pioneering work of G. H. Estabrooks, who’d headed the psychology department at Colgate University, and had read Estabrooks’s book Hypnotism, in which a chapter was titled “Hypnotism in Warfare: The Super Spy.” In that chapter Estabrooks focused on how a messenger could be programmed to securely carry secret information:

  With hypnotism we can be sure of our private messenger. We hypnotize our man in, say, Washington. In hypnotism we give him the message. That message, may we add, can be both long and intricate. An intelligent individual can memorize a whole book under hypnosis if necessary. Then we start him out for Australia by plane with the instructions that no one can hypnotize him under any circ
umstances except Colonel Brown in Melbourne. By this device we overcome two difficulties. It is useless to intercept this messenger.

  He has no documents and no amount of “third degreeing” can extract the information, for the information is not in the conscious mind to extract. We could also make him insensitive to pain so that even torture would be useless.

  Also, with this hypnotic messenger we need have no worry about the double cross. In hypnotism we could build up his loyalty to the point that this would be unthinkable. Besides, he has nothing to tell. He is just a civilian with a business appointment in Australia, nothing more. He will give no information, for he has nothing to give.

  Borger had also become intrigued with the phenomenon of multiple personalities and had treated two patients with this controversial affliction. He was particularly interested in Estabrooks’s theory that creating the “super spy” was possible through the deliberate splitting of personalities within one person, which Estabrooks explained in Hypnotism:

  We start with an excellent subject, and he must be just that, one of those rare individuals who accepts and who carries through every suggestion without hesitation. In addition, we need a man or a woman who is highly intelligent and physically tough. Then we start to develop a case of multiple personality through the use of hypnosis. In his normal waking state, which we will call Personality A, or PA, this individual will become a rabid communist. He will join the party, follow the party line and make himself as objectionable as possible to the authorities. Then we develop Personality B (PB), the secondary personality, the unconscious personality, if you wish, although this is somewhat a contradiction in terms. This personality is rabidly American and anti-communist. It has all the information possessed by PA, the normal personality, whereas PA does not have this advantage.