Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (7 page)

“Looks like the doc was cheating on his wife,” Owens commented as they drove to headquarters. “According to the records, they were divorced three years ago. That first trip occurred a year before that.”

“Why would she use a phony name?” Breen pondered aloud.

“Cover his tracks with his wife,” was Owens's guess. “I know one thing. Ms. Klaus, or Ms. Rasmussen, has some explaining to do.”

 

CHAPTER

11

Annabel Lee-Smith had spent Saturday afternoon preparing veal martini for that evening's guests. She'd been toying with the recipe for months, never quite satisfied with the way it came out. Too many shallots or too few basil leaves? Needs more dry white wine or fewer sun-dried tomatoes? Her husband, Mackensie, thought that her previous attempts had tasted just fine, but Annabel disagreed and continued to tweak the recipe until she considered the dish perfect. That eureka moment had occurred two weeks earlier, and she now prepared the entrée brimming with confidence.

Tatum and the woman he'd been dating recently, Cindy Simmons, were the first guests to arrive at the Smiths' Watergate apartment. Cindy, a psychiatric nurse at Walter Reed Hospital, had met Tatum a few months ago when he'd joined a team of psychologists and psychiatrists studying new approaches to treating servicemen and -women who'd returned from Iraq and Afghanistan with post-traumatic stress disorder. Cindy was a short, solidly built thirty-year-old with a no-nonsense demeanor that Tatum found characteristic of most nurses, and to which he responded favorably. Drinks in hand, they stood with Mac Smith on the balcony and admired the view of the Potomac River and beyond.

They were joined by the evening's other guests, a couple who were friends of Annabel long before she'd met and fallen in love with Mac. The six of them fell into easy conversation as they enjoyed their drinks and hors d'oeuvres along with the setting sun over the spires of Georgetown University.

After dinner—Annabel's veal martini received unanimous praise—and back on the balcony with coffee and dessert, Mac asked whether there was anything new in the Mark Sedgwick incident. He knew of Tatum's past association with the dead psychiatrist and that he'd become involved in the police investigation.

After giving the other couple a thumbnail briefing of what Smith was referring to, Tatum said, “It's being treated as a homicide. They've narrowed in on a suspect, a woman who'd once been his patient.”

“Obviously a mentally unbalanced woman,” the wife said. “Only a crazy person would deliberately run someone down.”

“And you knew him?” the husband asked.

“Not well,” said Tatum. “I was involved in some research projects with him.”

“This woman,” the husband said, “you say she was his patient?”

“Yes,” Tatum confirmed. Under ordinary circumstances he would not have revealed even that much to strangers. But he'd been tipped late Friday by Owens that a reporter from the
Post
was researching an in-depth story on the case, aided by a leak from MPD concerning Sheila Klaus who, according to the leak, was considered a “person of interest.”

The conversation drifted on to other subjects until the couple announced that they were calling it a night. “We're off at the crack of dawn,” the husband explained. “Driving up to Maine to visit our daughter.”

“Travel safe,” Mac said as he and Annabel escorted them to the elevator.

They rejoined Tatum and Cindy on the terrace.

“If you're up to it, Mac,” Tatum said, “I have something to discuss with you.”

“The night is young,” Smith said. “What's it about?”

“The Sedgwick killing.”

Smith smiled. “I had a feeling that you knew more than you were willing to discuss earlier in the evening.”

“There're issues involved,” Tatum said. “I've already told Cindy about it. I've been working with the police on the case. They got a court order to release Sedgwick's patient records, at least those that involved females. You might recall that bystanders said the car that hit him was driven by a blond woman. Anyway, I went through Sedgwick's records and came up with a possible suspect. I went to interview her with a couple of detectives. You might know her, Mac. She worked at GW's law school in admissions. Sheila Klaus.”

Annabel drew in a deep breath. “Of course we remember her. Sheila and I became friends when she was at the university. We were in a book group together.”

“And I remember her,” Mac said. “A nice lady. I was sorry when she left GW.”

“She left on a disability,” Tatum said, “but I've never learned what that disability was.”

“I don't know,” Smith said.

“At any rate,” Tatum continued, “the police have really focused in on her as a suspect in the Sedgwick murder.” He looked at both Mac and Annabel before adding, “And it was murder no matter what weapon was used. In this case it was a white Buick Regal. The police have found the car and have gone over it. When I accompanied the detectives to talk with her, she lied about certain things regarding her relationship with Sedgwick. Those lies don't help her cause.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Smith. “Do you agree with the police that she's the one who drove the car?”

“Based upon the circumstantial evidence, yes. But there's something about her that bothers me.”

“What's that?” Annabel asked.

“I almost get the feeling that she believes the lies she told. I mean, there's no doubt that she was involved with Sedgwick outside of the usual doctor-patient relationship. She denies it, but there are records that nail it down.”

“Mind a question?” Smith said.

“Of course not.”

“Why are you telling us this?”

Tatum broke into a wide grin. “Ah, the attorney's mind at work,” he said. “Okay, here's why I bring it up. She needs legal advice, Mac. The police haven't formally charged her yet, but I think they're close to it. My hunch is that she doesn't realize the trouble she's in and will blunder into incriminating herself.”

“Why do you feel that way?” Annabel asked.

Tatum held up his hands. “Let me explain,” he said. “I don't want to come off as practicing some form of pop psychology, but I did spend time with her, not as a patient in any formal sense but enough to form some conclusions.”

“You checked her eye roll,” Smith said lightly.

Tatum nodded.

“He's always checking eye rolls,” Cindy said lightly, too.

“And Sheila Klaus is a Dionysian,” Annabel surmised.

Like Mac, she'd been educated by Tatum in the HIP developed by Tatum's onetime teacher, Herbert Spiegel. They'd spent an evening together at the apartment when Tatum had explained the theories behind Dr. Spiegel's groundbreaking work and its importance to medicine. It was determined that night that both Annabel and Mac were Odysseans—sort of in the middle—with Annabel leaning toward Dionysian (more pliable) and Mac more Apollonian in his hardwiring (more head oriented). It was a fascinating experience that Mac and Annabel often talked about.

Tatum continued. “There are notations in her file that indicate that Sedgwick had done a HIP on her. His findings go hand in hand with her extreme eye roll.” He paused as his mind shifted gears. “You remember that panel I was on last year sponsored by Justice that looked into false confessions, people who confessed to crimes they hadn't committed?”

“Sure I do,” said Mac. “I was asked to be on that panel but I couldn't clear the time.”

“That's right,” Tatum said. “I forgot that you'd been asked. Anyway, I have no doubt that those people who falsely confess are high on the HIP scale. They're suggestible and always want to please others even when it means being convicted of crimes of which they're innocent. I think that Sheila Klaus can easily fall into that trap.”

“Which would be a terrible miscarriage of justice,” Smith said as he refilled their coffee cups. “But why your interest in this particular case, Nic? I gather that you didn't know Sheila before Dr. Sedgwick's death and the MPD investigation into it.”

Tatum shrugged and sipped his coffee. “I can't answer that, Mac, except that there's something about her that raises a red flag with me. She traveled to San Francisco with Sedgwick four times using an assumed name, Carla Rasmussen. It appears on the surface that Sedgwick arranged that to keep his affair with her from his wife. But that doesn't hold water for me. What difference did it make what name she used? If his wife discovered that he'd made those four trips with another woman, the name she'd traveled under is irrelevant. Airline records confirm those trips they took together. They also indicate that she made two additional trips to San Francisco in the past few months using the same assumed name Carla Rasmussen.”

“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.”