Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder

by Margaret Truman

“You’ve already been a tremendous help, Mac. My love to Annabel.”

  On his way home, Tatum weighed his next move. While he’d decided to pursue what he’d learned about Sheila Klaus and her involvement with Sheldon Borger and the Lightpath Psychiatric Clinic, he had no idea how to proceed. He considered calling Sheila but was certain that she’d blow him off. After all, she had no reason to agree to see him again.

  A few blocks from his apartment building, he made his decision. He turned off the street he was on and headed for Rockville, Maryland. He’d stop in unannounced and hope that his sudden appearance would prompt her to at least hear him out. It would be harder to get rid of him in person than on the phone.

  Sheila’s house was as he’d remembered it when he’d first visited her along with Detectives Owens and Breen. He parked in front and looked for signs that she was home. He remembered that she’d been working in her front garden during that previous visit and wondered whether she might be in the back tending to her plants and flowers. He got out of his car and approached the house. The front door was open, and he peered through the screen door. His hunch was correct. She was visible in the backyard through the atrium at the rear of the house, dressed in the same floppy white hat she’d worn earlier. Tatum debated ringing the bell or skirting the house and surprising her. He chose the latter.

  She was kneeling over a flower bed when he arrived.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Startled, she looked up.

  “Nicholas Tatum, Ms. Klaus.”

  She got to her feet and wiped perspiration from her face with her sleeve.

  “We spent some time together, if you’ll recall,” he said, smiling broadly.

  “I remember,” she said. “Why are you here?”

  “I just wanted to … I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “I’m doing fine.”

  “I guess you are. The flower garden is beautiful. It must take a lot of work to keep it that way.”

  “Yes, it does. Are you a gardener?”

  “Afraid not. I have the proverbial black thumb.”

  Her smile was small and transient.

  “That’s a beautiful flower,” he said, pointing to an orange-and-white bloom that occupied much of the bed.

  “It’s a red sage Lantana,” she said. “I’m especially fond of them.”

  “I can understand why,” he said.

  They looked at each other in awkward silence before Tatum said, “Look, Ms. Klaus, I was wondering whether we could have a talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About what you’ve been through—and why you had to go through it.” She started to say something, but he continued. “I realize that you probably view me in the same light as you do the police, at least the ones who brought you in and accused you of having killed Dr. Sedgwick. I used to be a cop, but that was long ago. I’m now a licensed psychotherapist who just happened to get involved. What’s really important is that I want to help you.”

  She turned her back on him and walked to another flower bed on the opposite side of the small, meticulously maintained yard. He followed.

  “They are beautiful, aren’t they?” she said absently as she looked down on a vivid mosaic of purples and yellows, reds and whites.

  “Very. Have you heard from Dr. Borger since your release?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Sheila,” Tatum said, coming closer and now standing directly behind her, “some people have done a terrible thing to you and you know it, only what you know is trapped inside. That’s the way they want it to be, buried in your subconscious, beyond your conscious knowledge. Dr. Borger is one of those people.”

  Sheila slowly turned, cocked her head, and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please leave.”

  It occurred to Tatum that should he be successful in freeing her from the grip that Borger had on her, he was placing her in jeopardy. If he were able to drag the truth out of her, it would result in her being charged again with murder, and as both Mac Smith and Marie Darrow had said, a defense based upon having been programmed to drive the car that killed Sedgwick was flimsy at best. If he, Tatum, were to successfully expose Borger and the CIA-funded experiments in mind-control at places like the Lightpath Psychiatric Clinic, he’d be sacrificing her. It would be for a greater good, of course, but that would be scant comfort for her if she was again arrested, charged, and convicted.

  But his awareness of the consequences didn’t deter him. Some other innocent person could be turned into a killer by the psychiatrists and scientists working for the Central Intelligence Agency.

  If he were successful in eliciting the truth from her, he would have to make a difficult decision. Under ordinary circumstances, he would be bound to turn over to the authorities whatever facts emerged, unless, of course, he chose to invoke the doctor-patient relationship and its inherent privacy rights.

  He’d cross that bridge when and if it arose in his path.

  “Sheila,” he said, “as long as this knowledge remains inside of you, you’ll never truly be free. All I’m asking is that you work with me to get to the truth. I promise to do everything in my power to use what we learn to hold those responsible accountable. I’m not out to hurt you. You’ve been hurt enough.”

  “Leave her alone!”

  “Carla?” Tatum said.

  Until that moment, Sheila’s face had been relaxed and placid, her only expression one of sadness and perhaps confusion. Now it was hard, lips tautly stretched, eyes angry.

  “Leave her alone,” Carla repeated.

  “Why do you have to fight her battles, Carla?” he asked.

  “Because she’s a wimp, that’s why. She’s pathetic. If I weren’t here, she would have made a fool of herself when the press arrived, asking their stupid questions, wanting to know whether she did kill that bastard Sedgwick.” Her laugh was cruel. “I told them to get lost and they listened. Go on, get out of here. She doesn’t need you snooping around.”

  “Does Dr. Borger agree that you have to speak for Sheila?”

  “That pathetic excuse for a man, the great Dr. Borger. He knows better than to mess with me.”

  Tatum thought before saying, “If you really want to help Sheila, you’ll do everything you can to get rid of Borger’s control over her—and over you.”

  Another wicked laugh.

  Anger welled in Tatum. This nice middle-aged woman named Sheila Klaus, who loved flowers and plants and who kept an immaculate house, had been violated by Borger and his gang, as violated as any rape. Born with an innate susceptibility to entering trance, she had been manipulated by those who didn’t give a damn about what happened to her, all in the name of science and the evils to which it could be put by those with a twisted sense of self-worth and patriotism. A fleeting vision of Sheldon Borger as Tatum remembered him from conferences flashed before his eyes, and he knew that if Borger were physically present he would strike out at him, just as he’d done to those bullies in high school.

  “You think you’re in control, Carla,” Tatum said, “but you’re not. I’ll see to it that you aren’t.”

  “Empty words,” Carla said. “Go away. We don’t want you here.”

  Tatum wanted to grab Sheila and shake her, as if by doing so he could shake Carla loose. But he knew there was nothing he could do at that moment. He turned and walked from the yard, Carla’s ominous laughter following him until he slammed his car door shut and silenced her.

  When he got home he put himself through a vigorous workout and called Considine, who agreed to meet for dinner that night.

  * * *

  In Rockville, Sheila Klaus microwaved a frozen chicken potpie and whipped up a salad. She’d just finished eating and was rinsing her plate in the sink when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Sheila. It’s Dr. Borger.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Don’t say that, Sheila. I hear that the red sage Lantana are bloomi
ng.”

  Sheila’s face toughened.

  “Are you there, Carla?” Borger asked.

  “What do you want?” Carla asked.

  “You’re needed, Carla. Sheila needs you.”

  “She always does.”

  “A Federal Express envelope will arrive tomorrow morning for you. It will contain everything you need.”

  “I can’t wait,” Carla said.

  “And I can’t wait to see you again. Sleep tight.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  Tatum and Considine met for dinner that night at Bourbon on Wisconsin Avenue.

  Over mac and cheese and snifters of single-barrel bourbon, Tatum told his friend of his visit to Sheila Klaus’s house and what had transpired there. He was revved up, his words spilling out in a tumble. Considine listened patiently, seldom interrupting while Tatum vented: “I tell you, Dave, I’m not going to just turn my back and walk away,” he said. “Sheila Klaus has been raped by the CIA and its goddamned perverted sense of national security. It’s an outrage and something has to be done about it. Sheldon Borger is behind it, damn it. Sheila’s other personality, Carla Rasmussen, told me so, and I’m going to do everything that I can to see that he pays.”

  “Finished?” Considine asked.

  Tatum broke into a laugh. “Yeah, I’m down off my soapbox.”

  “Look, Nic,” Considine said, “I completely agree with you. If this woman has been manipulated the way you say, it means that the Company created a murderer. But you’re dreaming if you think that the CIA will fess up to it. The only proof you have is that this woman says things while in a trance, or that her second personality comes out while you—and I stress you—are alone with her. Who else has seen it?”

  “Mackensie Smith, for one,” Tatum said. “I told you about him. And the lawyer who represented Sheila. Name’s Marie Darrow. She witnessed the change in Sheila’s personality and mentioned it to Smith.”

  “Big deal,” Considine said. “So they observed a change in her. That’s a long way from proving that Borger programmed her to kill Sedgwick. You simply don’t have any proof.”

  “You sound like you don’t believe me.”

  “It’s not a question of believing you. You know how the agency functions. Or do you?”

  “No, I don’t. But you do. Educate me.”

  “Okay. The CIA creates lots of layers between projects like the ones you’re talking about. Facilities like Lightpath are legitimate agency projects. The work they do there is legit and sanctioned by the government. Sure, maybe some of the results get misused and some people are impacted by it but—”

  “Misused? You think turning Sheila Klaus into a homicidal zombie is being misused?”

  “Hey, Nic, back off. I’m not your enemy. I’m just trying to look at this realistically.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that—”

  “It’s just that you see an injustice and want to correct it. That’s admirable. Tell me more about this Mackensie Smith and the other lawyer.”

  As they were leaving, Tatum said, “I’ll tell you one thing, Dave. I’m going to get Sheila Klaus to sit with me if it means tying her down. I’m going to get to the truth about Mark Sedgwick’s murder, her role in it, and how Borger programmed her to do it.”

  “I can’t argue with that, Nic.”

  “Will you help me, Dave? At least you agree with me that these so-called medical and scientific projects have gotten out of hand. You still know people in the program. Maybe you could find out something about Borger and his operation from one of them.”

  “Sure. I’ll make a couple of calls.”

  * * *

  David Considine did make a call on Tatum’s behalf.

  “Hello?” Colin Landow answered on his cell phone.

  “It’s Considine. I have some more.”

  * * *

  Landow called Borger.

  “I suggest that whatever it is that you intend to do about Dr. Tatum, you do it fast. And here are two other names who have been brought into Tatum’s fold, a Washington attorney named Mackensie Smith, and another D.C. lawyer named Marie Darrow.”

  “Thank you,” Borger said, “but I have already put things into motion.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  The United Airlines flight from San Francisco to Washington Dulles International Airport departed on time. Seated three abreast in the coach section were Peter Puhlman, Jake Gibbons, and Iskander Itani, with Itani in the middle seat. The young Arab had been on a plane only once before, when he and his mother and brothers flew to the United States from Beirut. He hadn’t liked flying as a boy, and his nervousness hadn’t abated in adulthood.

  “Relax,” Puhlman told him as they roared down the runway and lifted into a gray sky. “It’s safer on a plane than in a car.”

  Gibbons heard Puhlman’s words, meant to comfort, but they did little to alleviate his own fear of flying. He gripped his armrests and breathed heavily.

  Puhlman had tried to get them reservations in business class, but none were available. He felt cramped in his seat and muttered that it was built to accommodate midgets.

  Itani visibly relaxed once the plane had reached cruise altitude. A flight attendant, who reminded Itani of Elena, asked whether they wanted to buy drinks. Itani asked for a Tom Collins.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “It’s a drink,” Puhlman replied. “Bring him some gin and club soda, and one of those little sugar packets. I’ll have a white wine. You, Jake?”

  Gibbons, who sat ramrod straight as though to make himself part of the seat, mumbled, “A beer.”

  * * *

  Puhlman, too, was on edge, but it had nothing to do with a fear of flying. Borger had given him last-minute instructions late the night before, and during that conversation Puhlman had expressed concern about Gibbons accompanying them. “He keeps asking me why he’s coming with us,” Puhlman told Borger. “Says he doesn’t like planes.”

  “He’ll get over it,” was Borger’s response.

  “There’s more to it,” Puhlman pressed. “Jake doesn’t know what’s going to happen in D.C. He’s been asking questions lately about what’s going on with Itani, the management contract, all of it.”

  “He doesn’t need to know anything more than he already does, Peter. As far as he’s concerned, we’re involved in a top secret government program. He’s well-paid to do as he’s told and not to ask questions. I want him there in D.C. with you and Iskander. You’ve seen what Itani is capable of doing. I’ve got him at the peak of my control now, but keeping him at that level is a delicate balancing act. He’s volatile, as you well know. I’ll stay in contact with him by phone, of course, but I want someone like Jake present in case Iskander gets out of hand physically.”

  “I still think that you should be with us.”

  “Out of the question. Once Iskander is in place to carry out the assassination, you and Jake will head back to San Francisco. It wouldn’t be prudent for any of us to be there when it happens.”

  “But now Jake is asking what this is all about, especially the mess with Elena.”

  Borger shook his head, leaned back in his red leather office chair, and took a sip of sherry. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re having second thoughts about what we’re about to do?”

  “No, that’s not true, Sheldon.”

  “You even considered turning Iskander over to the authorities.”

  “It was just a thought.”

  “A dangerous thought.” Borger placed his glass back on the desk and came forward. “Peter,” he said, “if the unfortunate incident with Elena hadn’t occurred, Iskander would arrive in Washington the day before the event. But the incident with Elena did happen. That’s reality, and I suggest that we keep reality uppermost in mind until this is over.”

  “Okay,” Puhlman said, “but I still have reservations about Jake coming with us. Maybe it would have been better to fill him in on what we’re doing and why we’re do
ing it. He might say the wrong thing while we’re waiting in D.C. You’ve told him that Iskander is to be kept under wraps in Washington, but he doesn’t know why.”

  Borger slapped his hand on the desk and stood. “Enough!” he said. “Stop second-guessing me. Go on now, get some sleep. I have things to do.”

  * * *

  Puhlman left the house, and Borger poured himself another glass of sherry. The conversation had unsettled him, although he was already edgy when Puhlman arrived. Itani was asleep in the bedroom he now occupied. A carpet company would arrive in the morning to install a wall-to-wall black-and-white tweed carpet that Borger selected during the salesman’s visit earlier in the day.

  As he picked up his glass, he noticed that his hand shook, not much, just enough to be of concern. Strangely, his uneasiness had little to do with what was about to transpire in Washington.

  As far as he was concerned, there was no way that Itani’s action against presidential candidate George Mortinson could be traced back to him. Even if Itani’s short residence at the house was revealed, it didn’t translate into Borger having done anything illegal. Itani was a frightened young man who suffered from blinding headaches and who wished to resume his boxing career. Borger had often treated patients in his home, and some, including well-known show business figures, would attest to it.

  Too, he reasoned, there was no way that anyone could know what had taken place between him and Itani. He’d treated him for headaches, pure and simple. Once Itani had accomplished his mission, arrangements had been put in place to dispose of him, ensuring that should his implanted amnesia falter, he wouldn’t be alive to reveal anything about the true nature of their relationship.

  No, it wasn’t the Washington event that concerned Borger. It was what had happened to Elena, followed by the unexpected intrusion of Mica Sphere.

  * * *

  Borger had questioned Itani about his conversation with Mica immediately after she had left.

  “What did you talk about?” Borger asked.

  “Some things,” was Itani’s reply. “Boxing.”

  “She talked about boxing?”