Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (39 page)

The director scribbled notes as Woodhouse talked. “What have you found out about Mr. Puhlman?”

Woodhouse sighed and said, “Puhlman is a psychiatrist who's been charged with Medicare fraud on two occasions. Charges were dropped both times. He's been sued twice, once by a landlord claiming back rent was owed, and once by a woman who claimed he'd made unwanted sexual advances to her during a therapy session. Both suits were settled out of court. By the way, did the flight attendant describe the second man as ‘puffy'?”

“No.”

“That's how the boatyard owner described him. You've never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Puhlman, but ‘puffy' would be an apt description.”

They ended their meeting and pledged to stay in close touch as new information developed.

Woodhouse returned to his office and met with colleagues to report on what had come out of the meeting.

“Catch this,” a junior detective said as he handed Woodhouse a report that had just come in from the FBI after the bureau, at the urging of the SFPD, had run a check on the tax status of Borger, Puhlman, and Gibbons. Borger's record as a taxpayer was clean, everything paid up to date, but neither Gibbons nor Puhlman had filed tax returns for the past two years.

“They got paid off the books,” the detective offered.

“Right,” Woodhouse said, “but for what? Borger says that these two guys are in business with him. What kind of business? Dumping murdered hookers' bodies in the bay?”

Woodhouse and his wife had planned dinner out at Waterbar at the Embarcadero. She'd already secured the table when he walked in a half hour late. “Sorry,” he said, kissing her cheek and taking the chair across from her. “I got tied up.”

“The Marciano case?” she asked, knowing the answer. It was all her husband had talked about for the past few days.

Woodhouse's obsession with the Marciano murder and the possible role Sheldon Borger had played in it wasn't hard to miss. His wife had seen it too often before, cases that were particularly grim and involving victims with whom her husband had bonded in a way. She was never comfortable when he worked on such cases but understood that it went with the territory of being a detective. Like all cops, he spent his days, and too many nights, dealing with the sort of carnage and evil people that most of society only read about in novels and see in movies.

After twenty-two years on the force, Woodhouse was well aware that turning a case into a personal vendetta was futile at best. But this one was different. Very different. There was a beautiful young woman whose life had been snuffed out prematurely. Sure, she'd been a prostitute, a lawbreaker in her own right. But she didn't deserve to die by a vicious blow to the head and dumped into San Francisco Bay. The vision of her mother coming to San Francisco to identify her daughter's body had stayed with him.

Now there was the assassination of a man who was poised to become president. Woodhouse liked George Mortinson and had intended to vote for him.

But that wasn't the driving force behind his obsession.

It was Dr. Sheldon Borger.

The detective had no idea how Borger might have been involved in the assassination, nor did he have any evidence that he'd played a direct part in Elena Marciano's murder. But he knew one thing for certain. He'd formed an immediate dislike and distrust of the man and was committed to pulling out all the stops to nail him for something—anything.

Dinner at Waterbar was delicious as usual. Woodhouse successfully compartmentalized his constant obsession with Borger in order to be a pleasant, involved dinner companion to his wife of more than twenty years.

But once they were home and she'd gone to bed, he sat up late, nursing a drink and writing down what was known so far.

Elena Marciano had been a patient of Dr. Sheldon Borger. (Or was she more than a patient?)

Two men, Jacob Gibbons and Peter Puhlman, claimed to work for Borger. One of them, Gibbons, had rented a boat the morning that she was killed from a boatyard near where her body had been dragged from San Francisco Bay.

Both Gibbons and Puhlman fit the description given by the flight attendant as possibly having accompanied Itani, the assassin, on the trip to Washington from San Francisco, and Gibbons had been in D.C. just days prior to Mortinson's murder, according to the local police. Yet if it was Gibbons with Itani, he'd booked his flight and gone through airport security using false identification. If it was Puhlman on that flight, he, too, had concealed his true identity. Why?

Senator Mortinson's killer, Iskander Itani, had been a patient of Dr. Borger's just as the slain prostitute had been. (Hell of a coincidence!)

According to a witness (Mica Sphere), Itani had claimed to her that he had a girlfriend named Elena. (The same Elena? Must be.)

When the detectives had visited Borger's house, there had been two suitcases in the foyer. (Gibbons and Puhlman just returning from Washington? Good bet.)

Itani had gained entrance to the rally using a forged pass from the Westside Boxing Club in San Mateo. Detectives had interviewed everyone there and reported on the anger the owners and managers expressed that their organization had been misused by someone in order to kill the next president. It was clear from the report that no one there had ever heard of Iskander Itani and that his credential was phony. (Question: Who arranged for Itani to be on the invite list, and who provided the false ID?)

Senator Mortinson was killed with four bullets from a Smith & Wesson 638 Airweight revolver. (How did he get the weapon past security? Everything points to his having had help.)

Woodhouse had also checked out Borger's history. The physician had a clean criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. The only blot on his professional record was an ethics charge brought against him by the girlfriend of a prominent West Coast columnist who'd shot himself after spending a night at Borger's house as a patient. The girlfriend claimed professional negligence. The charges were summarily dropped by Borger's professional peers.

Borger was in hibernation and being repeatedly questioned by the FBI about what he knew of Itani. According to the bureau, the psychiatrist had nothing to offer aside from having treated Itani as a patient.

Woodhouse knew in his bones that there was a link between Borger and both the Marciano murder and the assassination of Senator George Mortinson.

But feelings in one's bones didn't make a case in court.

After an abbreviated night's sleep, he went into the office the following morning and, after receiving approval from his superior, sent detectives to bring Jacob Gibbons and Peter Puhlman in for questioning in the Elena Marciano murder. His timing was perfection. They arrived at Gibbons's apartment hours before he was about to leave San Francisco, and it was obvious to the officers that Puhlman was poised to do the same.

 

CHAPTER

46

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Nic Tatum was twice interviewed by the FBI and found the experiences frustrating. They made it plain from the outset that their interest was in what he'd witnessed during the shooting, which took him only a few minutes to cover. It was then that he'd expressed his belief that Dr. Sheldon Borger may have played a role in the assassination. His thesis was summarily dismissed by the special agents. As one of them said, “We don't need idle speculation about CIA conspiracies, Dr. Tatum.”

His second meeting with special agents from the bureau was even more dismaying. There was a new face at the table. He was introduced as Bret Lancaster. “Mr. Lancaster is CIA, Dr. Tatum. He'll be sitting in on our meeting.”

At first Lancaster's presence in the room dampened Tatum's enthusiasm for outlining his beliefs that Borger, using mind-control techniques developed and funded by the CIA, programmed Sheila Klaus and Iskander Itani. But he soon overcame his reluctance and laid out every aspect of his “case.” The two special agents said little; Lancaster uttered not a word, nor did he take notes, leading Tatum to believe that he was being taped. At eleven that morning, when the allotted time was up, one of the agents thanked Tatum for his assistance, and an angry Nicholas Tatum left the room.

He had a lunch date with Mac Smith scheduled for twelve thirty, but before going to the restaurant he called his friend Dave Considine.

“Hi, Dave, it's Nic Tatum. Got a second?”

“Got two of them,” Considine said. “A patient just left. What's up?”

“I was wondering if you ever ran across someone at the Company named Lancaster. Bret Lancaster.”

Considine paused before answering. “Yeah, I do remember him. Strange-looking guy.”

“What's he do there?”

Another pause, longer this time. “He worked in the Medical and Psychological Analysis Center at Langley, reported to Colin Landow. Why are you interested in him?”

“He was at a meeting I just got out of.”

“At the Company?”

“No, FBI. They've been interviewing me about the assassination. Lancaster works for Landow, huh? No surprise.”

“I meant to call you. Not often that I have a hero for a friend. I read about what you did.”

“Nothing heroic about it, Dave. You'll be reading more.”

“Oh?”

“I've been trying to get someone in government to listen to me about Borger and his role in the assassination.”

“
His role in it
? Hey, pal, are you going off the deep end?”

“Maybe so, but I'm not going to let the official stonewalling shut me up. I've avoided press interviews, but I think it's time that I start agreeing to them.”

“I'd walk easy, Nic.”

“Why? So that bastard Borger can keep on destroying people? Can't do that, Dave.”

“I think we need to get together again, have a few drinks, maybe more than a few.”

“Love to, but not for a few days. I'm sort of busy right now. Thanks for the info. I'll call.”

Tatum asked Smith over lunch at a restaurant in the Watergate complex if he knew a good investigative reporter who would listen to his charge.

“I know a few of them,” Smith replied, “but the good ones will question you the way a lawyer would, looking for evidence to corroborate what you're claiming. Your word won't be good enough, I'm afraid. Sandra Harding's column in today's
Post
questions the lone assassin theory. She wrote that chalking up the assassinations of the Kennedys, King, and now Mortinson strains the imagination. She doesn't cite anything to support her feelings, but maybe she'll listen to what you have to say.”

“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.