Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “I was?”

  “Yes. You’re a very good subject.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  “Because he told me I couldn’t be.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Dr. Sedgwick.”

  “But he used hypnosis with you,” Tatum said gently.

  Sheila shook her head. “He tried, but he couldn’t do it. He told me that I should never let anyone else try it, either.”

  “Why would he say that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tatum held up the small mirror. “Remember when you looked into the mirror this morning, Sheila?”

  She didn’t reply, but her eyes were focused on it.

  “I’m going to count backward from ten, Sheila, and as I do you’ll—”

  She’d entered a trance state by the time he reached five.

  He worked to deepen her trance until he felt she was where he wanted her to be. After a series of suggestions, which she followed, he asked how she enjoyed coming “out here” to California.

  “I don’t like it. You hurt me,” she said in a singsong voice.

  “I wouldn’t hurt you, Sheila,” he said.

  “Yes, you do. You give me those shots, those vitamin B shots. I don’t want to get them anymore.”

  “All right.”

  He paused as he watched her fidget, wringing her hands and emitting small whines and even an occasional growl.

  “Do you know who I am, Sheila?” he asked.

  The question brought about an abrupt change in her. He now sat with Carla Rasmussen, who fixed him in a threatening stare. A smile crossed her lips, a mocking, challenging smile.

  “I know who you are,” Carla said in her low, almost masculine voice. “You know I know.”

  “Then who am I?” he asked.

  She snickered and shook her head. “You’re the great doctor.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Sheila. But you don’t even know my name.”

  “Borger.”

  “Borger?” Her immediate stating of the name took him aback. “That’s right, I’m the great doctor Borger.”

  “Mark says you’re a great doctor.” She guffawed. “What makes you so great?”

  “I’m great because I know what’s best for my patients. I know what’s best for you.”

  “I want to leave.”

  “Go ahead, Carla,” Tatum said. “Sheila doesn’t need you to stay with her.”

  “She always needs me, Dr. Borger.” She spit out his name as though referring to something vile.

  “I’m not your enemy, Carla,” Tatum said. “You do the things that Sheila cannot do. I’m proud of you.”

  “Oh, that’s very nice,” she said sarcastically.

  “Do you remember when I arranged for you to go back to Washington and protect Sheila from Dr. Sedgwick?”

  He’d pushed too far. Her mouth curled in anger and she gripped the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

  “You did a very good job,” Tatum said.

  “Great doctor,” Carla said. “Good-bye, great doctor. We’re going now.”

  “But you haven’t had your vitamin B shot yet.”

  He’d lost her. Her body—Sheila’s body—became smaller and sank back in her chair.

  “Carla?”

  Sheila said nothing, and Tatum decided the session should be ended. He brought her out of her trance and observed as she reacted to now being fully alert, eyes darting about the room, head swiveling.

  “How do you feel, Sheila?” Tatum asked.

  “Sleepy. I’d like to go to sleep.”

  “Fine,” he said, and he called for the matron to take her back to her cell.

  Tatum sat alone in the room for a while and pondered what had just taken place. He’d broken through, had regressed her back to being at the Lightpath Clinic, and he now knew who she was with, Dr. Sheldon Borger. It had happened faster than he’d anticipated. He’d foreseen having to devote dozens of sessions to reach this point. He didn’t chalk it up to any special technique he’d used. He hadn’t produced any magic. The truth was that Shelia Klaus was a remarkable subject, the best he’d ever encountered. The remaining question was what to do next.

  “Mac,” he said on his cell before leaving the room, “we have to talk.”

  CHAPTER

  22

  Tatum and Mac Smith spent an hour discussing what had come out of Tatum’s latest session with Sheila Klaus. Toward the end of their meeting, Smith said, “I still can’t make the connection between this Lightpath Clinic and Sheila being programmed—through her second personality, Carla Rasmussen—to kill Mark Sedgwick. You say the clinic is run by a Dr. Borger. Why would he—if he’s the one who programmed her—want Sedgwick dead?”

  “I can only speculate, Mac. I didn’t know Sedgwick well, but I was aware that he was involved in some capacity with the intelligence community. Lightpath is government funded, just one of dozens of such facilities maintained and supported by the CIA and other intelligence agencies. I’m guessing, of course, but it’s my assumption that once Sedgwick discovered that he had a perfect subject in Sheila, he brought her to Lightpath to become part of whatever research and experimentation they’re doing out there. As to why someone at Lightpath—presumably Sheldon Borger—would want to get rid of Sedgwick, it’s possible that Sedgwick started making waves, or was poised to become a whistle-blower. I also wouldn’t be surprised that he and Sheila had entered into some sort of romantic relationship. If that hadn’t gone well, it could have instilled in her a dislike for him, even hatred, which would fuel her acceptance of any suggestion to kill him.”

  Smith pondered what Tatum had said before asking, “Did Sheila admit under hypnosis that she’d been programmed to kill Sedgwick?”

  “If she had, I would have yelled loud enough for you to hear me from MPD. No, she didn’t, but when I mentioned Sedgwick’s name, she shut down. The amnesia that’s been implanted in her is powerful, Mac. So is the fear that’s been instilled in her of allowing anyone else to hypnotize her. But I was close to breaking through, and I’m confident that I’ll be able to if I can work with her long enough.”

  “All right,” Smith said through an exasperated sigh. “What’s next?”

  “I mentioned a former CIA scientist I know pretty well. He left the agency because he was uncomfortable with the experiments he was being asked to undertake. I’m sure he knows plenty about Lightpath and Borger.”

  “But will he talk to you about it? Wouldn’t that be spilling state secrets?”

  Tatum shrugged. “Maybe he won’t say anything directly, but he can at least affirm what I already suspect and the assumptions I’ve come up with. It’s worth a try. How did it go with the attorney who saw Sheila this afternoon? I didn’t ask Sheila about it because I didn’t know how she’d taken to it.”

  “Marie told me that she had a good meeting with her, although she did characterize portions of it as strange.”

  “How so?”

  “Sheila kept insisting that she was innocent. That’s not unusual, of course, with people accused of a crime, but her adamant stance in the face of the evidence takes it to a new level. But Marie also said that there were times that Sheila seemed to slip into her own world, as Marie put it, to fade into a daydream.”

  “You’ve seen it happen yourself,” Tatum said. “She goes into a trancelike state.”

  “I certainly have. Sheila is being arraigned tomorrow morning at the Moultrie Courthouse on Indiana. Marie will be with her at the presentment. We’ll ask for her to be released on a bond, but the chances are slim to none that the judge will grant it in a felony homicide case. By the way, I made a few inquiries at the university why she left her job. They’re naturally reluctant to give details, but from what I was told she was considered incapable of focusing on her job. A doctor offered some sort of medical diagnosis that led to the disability finding. Naturally I couldn’t ha
ve access to the doctor’s letter, although it might be possible to get a court-ordered release of it.”

  “I don’t wonder that she couldn’t focus,” Tatum said. “She probably spent the majority of her day going into spontaneous trances.” He then said, absently, “She hasn’t worked and owns a home. What’s her source of income aside from the disability payments?”

  Smith made a note to seek an answer to that question.

  “When can you talk with this ex-CIA friend of yours?” Smith asked.

  “Tonight. I called him before coming here. We’re having dinner together.”

  “That was fast.”

  “I suspect he’s happy to have an invitation. He’s a strange duck, Mac, very much a loner, never married, teaches at a psychiatric postgraduate center here in D.C.”

  Smith stifled the temptation to link strange ducks with the psychiatric profession.

  Tatum left Smith’s Watergate apartment and drove to his apartment on Capitol Hill, where he put in a half hour on the treadmill and lifted weights for fifteen minutes before showering and dressing to meet his friend David Considine at Montmartre on Seventh Street, which Tatum knew was one of Considine’s favorite restaurants. His friend was already at a pine table, a glass of ginger ale in front of him, when Tatum walked in. Tatum slapped him on the shoulder before sitting. “You got a head start,” Tatum said.

  “As long as you’re the designated driver,” Considine said dryly.

  Tatum ordered a pinot grigio.

  “Glad we could get together, Dave.”

  “It’s been awhile.”

  David Considine, ten years older than Tatum, was a tall, thin man with a shaved head, a small clump of reddish hair beneath his lower lip, and active green eyes. For as long as Tatum had known him, his choice of clothing was a blue blazer, white button-down shirt, and tie. This evening was no exception.

  “Steamed mussels?” Considine suggested. The moderately priced French restaurant was known for them.

  “Sure.”

  After ten minutes of initial banter, most of which involved Considine’s dissatisfaction with his teaching job, he asked Tatum what was on his mind.

  “Do I have to have something on my mind?” Tatum said through a smile. “Just thought it would be fun to get together.”

  Considine grunted and drained his ginger ale, then motioned to a waitress for a refill.

  “Actually,” Tatum said, “there is something that I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “I figured. Go ahead.”

  Their mussels arrived, which interfered with their conversation as they eagerly attacked the bowl. When only shells remained in the broth, Tatum said, “I was wondering what you know about the Lightpath Clinic in Berkeley.”

  “Lightpath? It’s been around awhile.”

  “Run by Sheldon Borger.”

  Considine didn’t react.

  “You’ve worked with him,” Tatum said.

  “A long time ago. What’s your interest in it, Nic?”

  Tatum had pondered how much to tell Considine about Sheila Klaus and her involvement in the Mark Sedgwick murder. It wasn’t that he was concerned that what he said would be repeated by Considine to someone who shouldn’t know about it. Considine had bailed out of his involvement with the CIA’s Medical and Psychological Analysis Center’s experimental programs at least two years ago, and when he and Tatum met for dinner shortly after he’d given his notice, Considine was open about his reasons for leaving.

  “You reach a point, Nic, when you question what you’re doing with your life and education. To be honest, some of the experiments I’ve been involved in run counter to everything I’ve believed about medicine. Primum non nocere. First do no harm. That’s the oath we took, but frankly, a lot of what the CIA is doing in the name of medical research does one hell of a lot of harm to the people involved. Don’t get me wrong. Maybe some of it is necessary and justified, national security and the rest. I’m a psychiatrist. I don’t know anything about intelligence agencies or military needs or war. But I do know when innocent people are being used as lab rats without ever understanding what’s being done to them. I just wanted out.”

  Tatum had certainly understood what his friend was saying at dinner that night two years ago and admired him for having decided to distance himself from what was in all probability illegal and unquestionably immoral.

  “You know about Mark Sedgwick’s death,” Tatum began.

  “Of course.”

  “How well did you know Mark?”

  “Not well at all.”

  “I didn’t know him well either. They’ve arrested a woman in his death. She’s charged with having deliberately run him over.”

  “So I’ve read. What’s your interest in the case?”

  “I was called in by MPD—I used to work for them, as you know—to help investigate Mark’s death. I reviewed Sedgwick’s records and came up with this woman, Sheila Klaus, as a possible suspect. It turns out that there’s a lot of evidence to prove that she did, in fact, drive the car that killed him.”

  Considine took a sip of his refreshed soft drink. “What’s this got to do with Lightpath and Borger?” he asked as he picked up a menu and began perusing the entrées.

  “This woman went to Lightpath four times with Sedgwick, and two more times on her own.”

  “Why?”

  “Sedgwick took her. She’s a multiple.”

  Considine looked up from the menu. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been working with her in jail. Her attorney, Mackensie Smith, is a friend of mine. He’s overseeing her defense, working with another lawyer. He arranged for me to do a psychological evaluation of her.” Tatum leaned across the table. “I’m convinced, David, that she was programmed to kill Sedgwick.”

  Considine laid the menu on the table. “Tell me more,” he said.

  * * *

  After they’d each had hanger steak and sautéed potatoes, for which Tatum paid, they left the restaurant. Considine lived only a block away, and Tatum walked him to his apartment building, continuing the story about Sheila Klaus and his theory that she’d been brainwashed at the Lightpath Clinic. Considine had done more listening than talking during dinner and continued to be a good listener all the way to his building.

  “A fascinating story, Nic,” he said as they shook hands.

  “I appreciate your input,” Tatum said.

  “Let me know what happens, huh?”

  “Of course.”

  Tatum walked back to where he’d parked his car near the restaurant. It was only after he’d gotten in, started the engine, and headed home that he realized that while he’d told his friend the entire story of Sheila Klaus, Considine had offered little more about the Lightpath Clinic and Sheldon Borger than he already knew. Considine had made some unflattering comments about Borger—“he’s smarmy,” “he’s a money-grubbing guy”—but hadn’t revealed the sort of inside information Tatum had hoped for. That didn’t come as a complete surprise. It was common knowledge that once someone left the employ of the CIA or any of the other sixteen intelligence agencies, it was expected of him or her to maintain a silence about how the agencies operate, particularly top secret projects such as those involving mind-control experimentation. Considine had also reiterated his reasons for having left the CIA, branding as “barbaric” its widespread use of physicians, psychologists, and scientists to manipulate innocent men and women. But again, that was common knowledge within certain segments of the medical and scientific communities.

  As Tatum settled in to watch a movie on TV, he decided that while it had been good to see his friend again and to share a meal with him, it had not been a productive evening. He soon dropped that line of thought as he became engrossed in the film.

  * * *

  Considine, too, intended to watch a movie before retiring. But he first placed a phone call.

  “Colin, it’s David Considine.”

  “Hello, David.”

  “Hope I’m not
calling too late,” he said to his former superior at the CIA.

  “Not at all. I just finished reading a book and thought I’d turn in early. Your timing is good.”

  “Colin, I have information that you’ll want to hear.”

  “Excellent. The usual place, say noon?”

  “That will be fine.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  Psychiatrist David Considine had indeed severed his connection with the CIA two years earlier and was quick to tell friends and colleagues of his dissatisfaction with the work he’d been called upon to perform. Those in whom he confided were impressed with his sense of honor and his unwillingness to participate in some of the agency’s more controversial medical and scientific endeavors. But he was never specific about the work he’d done for the CIA. He kept it vague, including just enough specificity to come off as credible.

  What they didn’t know was that Considine did so with the spy agency’s blessing.

  Leaving the CIA and the nation’s other intelligence agencies was not easily accomplished, any more than walking away from the Mafia was. Certain conditions had to be met, among them an agreement to keep one’s eyes and ears open for any sign of activity that might be considered potentially injurious to the agency and its goals. Countless former employees were kept on a sub rosa payroll in return for feeding damaging information back to their handlers. Some former employees were even encouraged to write books about their agency experiences, to adopt the public stance of being anti-CIA, and to include in their books what they claimed was “inside information” about the agency’s operations. Of course, their books contained little more than what was already public knowledge. The books were vetted by the agency before the manuscripts were delivered to a small number of mainstream book publishers who were paid to publish them. By appearing to be anti-CIA, these “authors” tended to be trusted by those who possessed information potentially damaging to the CIA and who willingly shared that information with these “anti-agency” authors who were paid handsomely for their “literary” efforts.

  Although Considine had not authored a book, he was one of many former contract workers who continued to be paid for acting as a conduit of information to the CIA even though no longer officially connected to the agency. In the two years since his contract with the agency expired, he’d had little to report, although he had provided the names of a few other physicians or scientists who’d trusted him and who had expressed their suspicions about the CIA’s network of agency-funded underground experiments. They’d gone further in some cases: “The CIA ought to be brought to trial for what they’ve done to unwitting patients whose lives have been ruined as a result,” one had told him over dinner, which he’d dutifully reported to Colin Landow. He’d felt good, useful, when adding those names to an already long list of “enemies.” But he’d wished he could do more to justify the money that showed up each month in his savings account.