Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder

by Margaret Truman

  When Puhlman walked into the kitchen, Itani and Gibbons were arguing.

  “What’s going on?” Puhlman asked.

  “He wants to call the doc. That’s all he keeps saying,” Gibbons replied angrily.

  Puhlman motioned for Itani to follow him into the living room. “I’ll place the call for you,” Puhlman said. Using the same cell phone he’d used in the basement, he dialed a number that connected to a separate cell phone carried by Borger.

  “Sheldon, it’s Peter. Iskander wants very much to speak with you. What? No, I think you should, Sheldon.”

  He handed the phone to Itani.

  “Hello, Iskander,” Borger said pleasantly. “Did you have a good flight?”

  Itani ignored the question and said, “When can I talk to my brothers?”

  “Very soon, Iskander,” Borger said in a soothing voice. “Very soon.”

  “But I want to—”

  “Iskander, the golden chalice will soon be yours,” Borger said.

  Puhlman, who sat on the love seat, observed the change in Itani. Up until that moment he’d been visibly angry, bordering on belligerent. But his face softened and he looked across the room, and seemingly beyond, as he held the phone to his ear.

  Borger had used the phrase he’d implanted in Itani during their many sessions. The golden chalice will soon be yours. The moment Itani heard it, he entered a deep trance and would do whatever Borger told him to do.

  Borger had used key phrases with Sheila Klaus and to bring out Carla Rasmussen: The red sage Lantana are blooming would induce a trance state in her. When he was readying her to kill Mark Sedgwick, he’d used the phrase It’s a beautiful day for a cruise to prompt Carla to follow through on the instructions Sheila had received while under hypnosis, and the accompanying amnesia.

  “I want you to go deeper and deeper into the pleasant thoughts you’re having,” Borger said to Itani over the phone. “Deeper and deeper. That’s it. Where are you now?”

  “In Washington.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Mr. Puhlman and Mr. Gibbons.”

  “They are your friends, Iskander. They want only the best for you. You must listen to what they say and follow their instructions. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what it is that you understand.”

  Itani repeated what Borger had said.

  “I’ll be coming to see you in Washington in a few days,” Borger said. “Until I do, Peter and Jake will take care of everything you need. Jake will be working on getting you licensed to fight in Washington and setting up your matches. That takes time and you must be patient. There are some events you’ll be attending, large events that will give you the opportunity to right some wrongs. I’ll tell you more about that later.”

  “Elena,” Itani said.

  “What?”

  “Elena.”

  “Oh, yes, Elena is fine. She called to tell me that she misses you and is looking forward to seeing you fight. I’ll make sure that she does.”

  “All right.”

  “Okay,” Borger said. “I’m going to count backward from ten to one. When I reach one, you’ll be out of your pleasant trance state and will forget we ever had this conversation. When I reach one, you’ll hand the phone back to Peter. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Borger started counting. He reached one, but Itani had snapped out of his trance by the count of six and had handed the phone to Puhlman.

  “He should be fine,” Borger said.

  “I hope so,” Puhlman said.

  “Is everything going as planned?”

  “Yes. The materials were here, including the ID tag.”

  “That’s good. If everyone just stays calm and follows the plan, there won’t be any problems. I’ll be here at the house tonight and all day tomorrow. Call anytime. Use this phone. Good night, Peter.”

  Gibbons made dinner for them. To be more accurate, he heated frozen packages of chicken marsala and tossed a salad from a bag of prewashed lettuce. Itani’s conversation with Borger had calmed him considerably. Although he ate in silence, he occasionally smiled, or even laughed, at something Puhlman or Gibbons had said. Puhlman had made him a Tom Collins (Borger had told Landow of Itani’s preference for the drink, and arrangements had been made for the ingredients to be on hand.) Later, they sat in the living room. Gibbons, who’d consumed multiple cans of beer, nodded off in a chair. Puhlman and Itani sat on the love seat and watched television, one of the Godfather films. During a commercial break, Puhlman switched channels to CNN to see what was going on in the world. A report on the recovery of Virginia senator Marshall Holtz from his gunshot wounds—“The senator is making a good recovery and is expected to leave the hospital within days,” a hospital spokesperson said into the camera—was immediately followed by a statement from presidential candidate George Mortinson: “Senator Holtz’s recovery is heartening,” said Mortinson. “I only hope that those who defend the rights of people like his assailant to easily purchase lethal weapons will face the reality that our gun laws desperately need to be changed.”

  Itani stiffened on the love seat. Puhlman glanced at him and saw that his handsome, dusky face had hardened. Good, Puhlman thought as he switched back to the movie. Borger’s control over Itani was holding, and with Borger’s ability to induce trance via the telephone, there was no reason to doubt that things would go smoothly until the big day in the Wilson Plaza at the Reagan Building.

  When the movie ended, Puhlman suggested that they get some sleep. Gibbons told Itani that he’d be gone the following day arranging for his licensing and went to bed. Puhlman suggested to Itani that they spend the day watching TV and relaxing. “Once Jake sets things up for your first fight,” he said, “things will be getting pretty hectic. You’d be smart to take advantage of a few days to rest up. That’s what Dr. Borger has ordered. He doesn’t want any stress for you because of the possibility of your headaches returning.”

  Itani didn’t offer any resistance to the idea. He yawned, stretched, and disappeared into his assigned bedroom, leaving Puhlman alone in the darkened living room, the only light a flickering one from the TV set. It wasn’t until that moment that the enormity of what they were about to do hit home.

  CHAPTER

  32

  Cindy Simmons and Nic Tatum had dinner that night in Georgetown at Bistro Français on M Street, where they splurged on steak au poivre and a bottle of good red wine. After that they took in a movie, enjoyed a nightcap at the romantic Degrees bar in the Ritz-Carlton hotel, and headed back to his apartment, where she’d decided to spend the night. He poured them each two fingers of brandy in snifters, put on a Modern Jazz Quartet CD, and joined her on the couch. He raised his snifter. “To us,” he said.

  “To us,” she repeated.

  They sat in silence.

  “Okay,” she said, “what’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Why do you think that something is wrong?”

  She guffawed. “I think something is wrong because you’re as edgy as a cat in heat and you’ve been that way all evening. Sometimes I think you’re somewhere else.”

  “A cat in heat? Is that a seduction line?”

  “No, it’s not. Come on, Nic, share with me.”

  He exhaled a long, steady stream of breath, took a sip, and said, “Yeah, I suppose I am preoccupied. It’s Sheila Klaus.”

  “Her again.”

  “Right. Her again.”

  He’d told Cindy about his futile visit to Sheila’s house and how she’d morphed into her second personality, Carla Rasmussen. He started to retell the story when Cindy said, “Nic, you’ve become obsessed with her. I can understand that to a degree, but what is it you want to do about her? She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want to talk to you, let alone allow you to dig into her subconscious mind.”

  “I know that, Cindy. The problem is that she’s a murderer and she’s out there on her own.”

  “Since when
are you so concerned about someone who’s a murderer?”

  Tatum felt his frustration level rising and grappled to keep it under control. When he thought he had, he said, “She’s a murderer, Cindy, because someone turned her into one. Someone got hold of her, recognized what a unique personality she is, a freak, actually, and used that knowledge to manipulate her into killing Mark Sedgwick.”

  “The CIA,” Cindy said.

  “That’s right, the CIA, our bastion of patriotism, protector of our national security, the world’s greatest spook organization.” He turned and faced her, becoming more animated. “Look, I’m not saying that the CIA as an entity did it to her, although its damned psychological experiments sure as hell paved the way. You don’t have any idea to what extent the agency—or the Company, as it’s called—has turned medicine upside down, converted doctors, shrinks, and scientists into something out of a B movie. Dave Considine split from them because he was disgusted with what they were doing to unsuspecting citizens, playing with them, turning them into subjects, guinea pigs for the agency’s selfish use. Do you think we’re any safer because of their experiments? Do you think that everyone can sleep better at night because Dr. Frankenstein is twisting innocent people into pawns? I’ve told you about Dr. Borger in San Francisco. He’s been involved in these experiments for years. When Sheila Klaus’s second personality, Carla Rasmussen, emerged to me, she named him as the one she deals with. He’s the guy who knows how to summon Carla whenever he wants Sheila to do something nasty—like killing Sedgwick.”

  He realized that he’d become strident and backed off.

  “I understand everything that you’re saying, Nic, but what can you do about it? You’re talking about the Central Intelligence Agency, for God’s sake. What are you going to do, put on a red cape and save the world?”

  “That’s the problem, Cindy. I don’t know what to do. It was better when Sheila was in custody. I had access to her then through Mac Smith. That’s another thing, her being let loose overnight, just like that, a complete about-face by the U.S. attorney’s office. Why? Lack of evidence? They had plenty of circumstantial evidence to hold her. Somebody pulled strings in high places.”

  “The CIA?”

  “Is that so far-fetched? They can do any damn thing they want and chalk it up to national security. Somebody very high up the chain of influence arranged for her release from prison. I can’t prove that, but I just know it’s true. The result? No one can get to her—except…”

  Cindy cocked her head.

  “Except guys like Sheldon Borger, who programmed her in the first place.”

  Cindy realized that her challenging of Nic was creating a hostile atmosphere, the last thing she wanted. She placed her hand on his arm, lowered her voice, and said, “Nic, do whatever you think you have to. But remember that people like Borger and an agency like the CIA won’t take kindly to your trying to expose them. Have you thought of that?”

  “It’s crossed my mind.”

  “And I want to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For trying to dissuade you from what’s obviously important to you. One of the most attractive things about Nic Tatum is how passionate you are about your flying, working out, your patients, politics, movies, just about everything.”

  “You forgot to add Cindy Simmons to that list.”

  “How far up on the list?”

  “At the top.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “Well, near the top.”

  She playfully punched him in the chest and suggested they go to bed, which they did, although sleep came an hour later.

  Cindy’s support meant a lot to Tatum, and he got up in the morning filled with resolve.

  “What’s on your agenda today?” she asked after they’d showered and dressed, and were sitting at his small kitchen table enjoying breakfast.

  “A couple of patients this morning,” he said, “last one at eleven, a woman who wants to stop smoking. I’ll use hypnosis with her. The trick is to teach her self-hypnosis to use whenever the urge strikes. Works better with smokers than with people trying to lose weight. Anyway, I thought I might swing by Sheila Klaus’s house again and take another stab at getting her to talk to me. You?”

  “Ah, freedom,” she said breathlessly.

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re off today. A woman of leisure.”

  “I thought I’d go back to my place and clean out my dresser drawers and closet.”

  “Good use of free time, but I have another suggestion.”

  She cocked her head.

  “How about after I’m finished with my patients, and you’ve gotten your dresser and closet in shape, we go together to Sheila’s house?”

  This time a puzzled expression accompanied her cocked head.

  “I was just thinking that she might be more amenable if a woman was with me. Besides, you should at least meet her. I talk enough about her.”

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea, Nic?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “You’ll call first?”

  “No. Better to just show up. Game?”

  The truth was that Cindy had been dying to meet this mysterious lady ever since Tatum had begun talking about her. “Okay,” she said.

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at twelve thirty.”

  * * *

  Jake Gibbons’s day was considerably less structured than Tatum’s. He’d left the safe house at eight that morning, presumably to work on getting Itani licensed to fight in the District of Columbia and to arrange for the first bout on his comeback trail. It was all a sham, of course, and Gibbons knew it, but he wasn’t in a position to argue.

  What the hell is going on? he wondered as he tried to decide how to spend the day away from the house. He’d been to Washington a few times before and never liked the city. He considered the government to be a total waste of time and of his taxes, and his view of elected officials was no more benevolent.

  Gibbons had been told from the outset of Borger’s involvement with Itani that they were engaged in a top secret and vitally important government program. What the hell did that mean? What sort of secret government program would need a young Arab prizefighter with a lousy boxing record and a history of headaches? Gibbons had attempted to make sense of it but couldn’t no matter how hard he tried. All he knew for certain was that Borger paid him well for doing very little, and he wasn’t about to kill that golden goose by asking too many questions.

  When he’d gotten up that morning, Itani was pacing the living room.

  “You have a good sleep, kid?” Gibbons asked.

  “No.”

  “Hell, you went to bed early.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Itani replied. “I’ve been up all night.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe you need some sleeping pills. The doc ever give you sleeping pills?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe we can get you some at a drugstore. There’s gotta be a drugstore around here.”

  What Gibbons was really thinking was that he’d like to give the kid something to put him out for good.

  Puhlman heard the conversation from the kitchen and joined them. “He’s just nervous, that’s all,” he told Gibbons. “It’s good for a fighter to be a little nervous before a bout. Right?”

  “I want to talk to Dr. Borger,” Itani said.

  “Okay, Iskander,” Puhlman said, “but there’s a three-hour time difference between here and San Francisco. You wouldn’t want to wake the doctor, would you?”

  Itani said nothing.

  “Why don’t you take a nap?” Puhlman suggested. “You must be tired.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Gibbons echoed.

  “I’ll put you through to Dr. Borger after you’ve rested,” said Puhlman.

  Itani left the living room and slammed the bedroom door.

  “The kid is getting on my nerves,” Gibbons said.

  “Relax, Jake. This will be over soon and we’ll be back in San
Francisco.”

  “With him?” Gibbons asked, nodding in the direction of Itani’s bedroom.

  “No. He’ll be staying here.”

  “So what’s this all about, coming here and being locked up in this cruddy house?”

  Puhlman’s voice took on an edge. “Jake, will you please stop asking questions. Dr. Borger knows what he’s doing. He’s been working with Iskander on a special project. You know it’s top secret, and that’s all you have to know. That’s all that any of us has to know. Now, you have to get out of here and spend the day somewhere else. Iskander thinks you’re getting him licensed and setting up a bout. Let him think that. That’s what Dr. Borger wants him to think. Go kill some time, take in the sights, have lunch and a beer someplace. Stay away until six. Okay?”

  And so Gibbons left. He followed Puhlman’s instructions to put a considerable distance between him and the house and walked six blocks before hailing a taxi. The cab driver was of Middle Eastern descent and wore a maroon turban.

  “Take me to a monument,” Gibbons said.

  “Sir, what monument?”

  “Any one. Washington. Lincoln. It don’t matter.”

  The driver cursed under his breath in his native language and dropped Gibbons at the end of the Mall nearest the Lincoln Memorial.

  It was a crystal-clear day in the nation’s capital, which brought out its citizens in droves, Frisbee players, couples walking hand in hand, joggers, and tourists in their funny outfits, thousands of them, it seemed, cameras slung around their necks, silly hats to shield them from the sun, little kids screaming and running amok, their metallic voices grating on Gibbons. The more he walked, the more annoyed he became.

  * * *

  He’d been married to a woman who insisted on dragging him on sightseeing excursions. “We should expand our cultural horizons,” she often said to Gibbons, who’d barely managed to graduate from high school and whose idea of culture was to get in the ring with somebody who wasn’t a white, natural-born American and beat his brains out. After a year with her, he announced that he was leaving before they ended up with kids. “Take your culture and shove it,” were his final words as he walked out of their cramped walk-up apartment in the Bronx and headed west to find his fortune the way gold speculators had years earlier. He’d read about those men who’d traveled to San Francisco during that area’s gold rush and admired their courage. Of course, he’d arrived decades after the gold rush was long over, and if his fortune was to be made, it would be with his brawn and the pleasure he took in administering beatings.