Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder

by Margaret Truman

  They went to one of his favorite restaurants, Cafe Jacqueline in North Beach, where they enjoyed drinks followed by seafood soufflés for which the establishment was known. He considered inviting her back to the house for a nightcap but nixed that notion, not with Itani and Elena there. Ever since the young Iskander had moved in, Borger had been forced to keep everyone he knew away from the house and had grown tired of the restrictions on his lifestyle. Sending Itani on his mission couldn’t come soon enough.

  They topped off the evening with after-dinner drinks at the Top of the Mark, where they danced to a ten-piece orchestra. He dropped her at her apartment building a little before midnight.

  Borger considered stopping in at one of the call girls on his list to address his passion but decided not to and drove directly home. It was twelve thirty when he walked through the front door and headed for his study to check his answering machine. He’d almost reached it, when something stopped him. It wasn’t a noise. It was something less tangible, a feeling, a sense that all was not right. He cocked his head and stopped breathing to better hear. Nothing.

  As far as he knew, only Itani and Elena were in the house. The cook had announced that she was leaving after dinner, and a handyman who’d been called in to repair a leak in the basement was gone by late afternoon. Borger’s full-time housekeeper had taken the day off to spend with her daughter and grandson.

  He didn’t want to disturb Itani and Elena, assuming that they were in bed together in Iskander’s room. He almost ignored the feeling that nagged at him and continued on his way to the study. Instead, he went up a short set of carpeted steps leading to the guest wing and paused in the hallway. Itani’s room was at the far end, a corner room with splendid views. Borger walked slowly and deliberately toward it, realizing after having taken only a few steps that the door was open. Strange, he thought, as he covered the rest of the distance. He stopped just short of the doorway and peered inside. What he saw shocked him.

  Elena, who wore black silk pajamas, hung half off the bed, her head resting on the Oriental rug. A pool of blood formed a crimson circle around it; a few drops of it were on the hardwood floor.

  “Jesus!” Borger said.

  He looked across the room to a corner by the window where Itani sat in a chair, his face a blank. Borger wasn’t sure what to do. He stood frozen in the doorway, his mouth open but saying nothing, his eyes darting back and forth between Elena’s lifeless body and the passive Itani. He finally overcame his inertia and stepped into the room.

  “What happened?” he asked Itani.

  “She shouldn’t have done it,” Itani mumbled.

  “Done what?”

  “She insulted me.”

  “Insulted you? She … I can’t believe this.”

  Itani continued to sit, his eyes focused beyond Borger.

  Borger went to the body and pressed his fingertips against Elena’s neck. “She’s dead,” he said. He turned to Itani. “You killed her.”

  “She shouldn’t have said it to me,” he repeated. “Whore.”

  Borger’s first thought was that Elena had told Itani that Borger was paying her to sleep with him. Itani had made a few disparaging comments about American women over the days he’d been at the house, criticizing their provocative ways, their skimpy clothing, their loose morals. Of course it hadn’t kept him from succumbing to Elena’s sexual overtures.

  “What did she say that made you angry?” Borger asked.

  Itani didn’t reply, and Borger knew that trying to elicit information from him at that moment was a waste of time. He went to where Itani sat, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said, “It’s all right, Iskander. I’m sure she did something that made you angry. But we have to leave here immediately.”

  Itani slowly got to his feet and followed Borger to his study.

  “I want you to stay here, Iskander,” Borger said in a soothing voice. He picked up the gold coin and held it in front of Itani. “I want you to relax and think pleasant thoughts, of your family and pretty places. I want you to stay right here in this chair until I return.”

  Borger observed Itani. His trance was deep, and Borger assumed that he’d been in that state since before attacking Elena.

  He left the study and called Peter Puhlman from a kitchen phone.

  “I need you here right away,” Borger said.

  A sleepy Puhlman complained about being called at such a late hour.

  “Damn it, Peter, there’s been a dreadful accident here. I need you now. Call Jake and bring him with you.”

  Borger returned to the study, where Itani sat in the same rigid position as when Borger had left him. The psychiatrist’s mind was flooded with thoughts and questions. One thing was certain, he knew. If there was ever a time for clear thinking, it was now. Confident that Itani would remain where he was, he went to the living room and awaited the arrival of Puhlman and Gibbons, who showed up a half hour later.

  Borger took them to the guest room.

  “What the hell happened?” Gibbons asked.

  “Itani,” Borger said. “He killed her.”

  “Why?” Puhlman asked.

  “It doesn’t matter why,” Borger snapped. “We have to get her out of here.”

  “What’ll we do with her?” Gibbons asked.

  “Dump her somewhere,” Borger said. “Get a boat and dump her out in the ocean.”

  “Just like that,” Puhlman said.

  “Yes, damn it, just like that,” Borger said. “Wrap her in that rug and dump it with her.”

  Puhlman sighed and approached the body. He knelt and started to wrap the rug around her. He looked back at Gibbons and said, “Come on, for Christ’s sake. I can’t do this by myself.”

  Thirty minutes later, they’d secured Elena in the rug, tying it around her with duct tape that Borger brought from the garage. Gibbons worked on the small stain on the hardwood floor with a paper towel and a Brillo pad. “Careful,” Borger instructed. “Don’t take up the floor finish with the blood.”

  They’d stripped the bed and included the sheets and pillows in the duct-taped package. The few clothes that Itani had in the closet were moved to another bedroom.

  Puhlman had driven there in his Mercedes. He and Gibbons carefully placed Elena’s lifeless body in the trunk.

  “Make sure she’s never found,” Borger instructed.

  As they drove away, Borger, whose adrenaline had sustained him, now felt on the verge of collapse. He sat in the kitchen and conjured the possibilities.

  Had Elena told anyone where she was going to be that night?

  Did she keep records of her clients, including Borger? He hoped that she wasn’t that indiscreet, but she was, after all, a whore who ran a business.

  He knew that she lived alone because he’d visited her at her apartment on a few occasions. But what about family? Did she have a boyfriend? A close girlfriend? Other hookers with whom she shared tales of her customers?

  He decided that if he were contacted concerning her disappearance, he would simply deny that she’d been there that night. Whom would the authorities believe? A prostitute or an eminent psychiatrist?

  What was self-evident was that he had to get Itani out of San Francisco, and do it fast. Landow was arriving the following day. Whatever travel plans Landow had for Itani would have to be changed. He had to leave for Washington immediately and bide his time there until it was time to strike.

  He returned to the study to find that Itani was gone.

  He raced from room to room, finally going downstairs to the gym, where he found Itani, now dressed in a sweat suit, pounding a heavy bag. Borger watched quietly until Itani grew arm weary and stopped.

  “Iskander,” Borger said.

  Itani turned and faced Borger. He’d come out of the trance on his own. “I needed to work out,” he said.

  “Did you enjoy yourself with Elena?” Borger asked.

  “Yes. Is she still here?”

  “No,” Borger said, “she had to go home
. Why not come upstairs and get to bed?” Borger thought quickly. “I’m having your bedroom redecorated,” he said. “You’ll sleep in one of the other rooms. Is that okay with you?”

  “Yes. That’s okay.”

  “Fine. Let’s both get a good night’s rest. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  Few events in his life had caused Dr. Sheldon Borger to have a sleepless night, but Itani’s murder of Elena certainly did. He’d finally given up trying to sleep at five, showered, dressed, and made himself coffee and an English muffin. The cook wasn’t due until seven. The housekeeper would be there at eight.

  Puhlman called at six thirty.

  “Well?” Borger said.

  “We took care of it. We decided to—”

  “Not on the phone. Come to the house.”

  “I have some errands to run. I’ll be there at ten.”

  “Errands?” Borger hung up with force.

  When the housekeeper arrived, Borger told her that he was having one of the guest bedrooms redecorated, including wall-to-wall carpeting, and was keeping the door locked until the decorator arrived. “Mr. Itani will be staying in one of the other rooms,” he added.

  “He’s such a quiet young man,” she said.

  “Yes, he is. He’ll be leaving soon to resume his career as a prizefighter.”

  She made a sour face. “Prizefighting,” she said in a tone to match her expression. “So brutal.”

  Borger ignored her editorial comment and went to the kitchen, where Itani had just walked in.

  “Good morning,” the cook said.

  Itani returned the greeting.

  Borger didn’t want to engage in a conversation with Itani in the presence of the cook and said to her, “Would you be good enough to bring breakfast for Mr. Itani to my study? We have work to do. I’ve already eaten.”

  Once in the study, Borger closed the door and sat across from Itani. “Did you sleep well in your new bedroom?” he asked.

  “Yes. It was fine.”

  “Did you have a good time last night with Elena?”

  Itani seemed puzzled at the question, and Borger wondered whether he was about to recall what had happened. His answer confirmed that he hadn’t. “She went home,” he said.

  “Yes, she went home.”

  Itani nodded and looked up as the cook brought in a tray.

  “Go ahead and eat,” Borger said, relieved that his amnesia of the event had held.

  When Itani was finished with breakfast, Borger said, “I have news for you.”

  “What?”

  “Well, first of all, Jake Gibbons is preparing a management contract.”

  Itani exhibited a rare smile.

  “Not only that, he’s arranged for your first fight to take place in Washington, D.C.”

  Itani’s creased brow wasn’t what Borger had expected.

  “You’ll be going there soon, maybe even as early as tomorrow.”

  “Who am I fighting?” Itani asked.

  “That’s being discussed. We’ll know in a few days. There are details to be worked out, papers to file to get you licensed, things like that.”

  “Will my brothers and mother be there?”

  Borger had anticipated that question and had a ready answer. “As soon as you’ve had your first few fights in Washington, we’ll arrange for your family to attend your next one. Right now, Iskander, it would be distracting to have them there your first time back in the ring. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, let’s do a session to make sure that those headaches don’t come back.”

  Borger worked on reinforcing Itani’s amnesia of what had occurred with Elena and was pleased with the result. It was as though last night had never happened.

  Itani went to the gym to work out following the session.

  Peter Puhlman arrived earlier than announced—he’d sensed Borger’s pique on the phone—and Borger took him outside to a secluded corner of the garden where they sat on a black wrought-iron bench, a pretty setting for an ugly conversation.

  “Tell me,” Borger said.

  “Jake rented a boat this morning, five o’clock. He told the man that we were going fishing. Jake knows boats. He said he used to own one. He wanted to try and rent one after we left the house, but I felt it would look suspicious to rent one at night so we waited until this morning and took her out into the bay, off the airport. Jake tied cement blocks and he dumped her. She went right down. He says she’ll never be found.”

  Borger could only hope that Gibbons was right. One of many thoughts he’d had since discovering Elena’s body was that he wished he was Mafia connected. The mob dealt with getting rid of bodies all the time and knew how to do it. How many years had Jimmy Hoffa been missing, along with countless others? But he didn’t have mob connections, so he had to depend upon Puhlman and Gibbons. While their backgrounds were shady, he needed them to pick up people at the airport and drive them to the Lightpath Clinic, search out suitable subjects for the clinic’s experiments, and deal with troublemakers who posed a threat to the program. They were jacks-of-all-trades, men for whom money was the prime motivator.

  There were differences between them, of course. Gibbons knew little of Borger’s real work, and Borger kept it that way.

  Puhlman was another psychiatrist. He’d been brought into Borger’s inner circle and was well aware of what went on at Lightpath and why Itani had been recruited. He professed his belief in what Borger intended to do with Itani from both a psychiatric point of view as well as for the good of the country, although his convictions didn’t run nearly as deep as his boss’s.

  Both men were well paid for their services and presumably trustworthy. Presumably!

  Was anyone totally trustworthy?

  “Why did the kid do it?” Puhlman asked.

  “He snapped. She said something that set him off.”

  “What’ve we got on our hands, Sheldon, a psycho?”

  “No, he’s not a psycho,” Borger said angrily.

  Puhlman fell silent and stared straight ahead.

  “I appreciate what you did last night and this morning,” Borger said, slapping Puhlman on the shoulder.

  “I don’t like it,” Puhlman said.

  “Do you think I like it?” Borger responded.

  “I’ve never been involved in anything like this before,” Puhlman said, and Borger wondered whether he was about to tear up. “Jake didn’t seem to mind. I almost think he enjoyed it. I suppose he’s been exposed to things like this before. But I don’t like being involved.” He turned to Borger. “What if they trace her back to the house and start asking questions?”

  “They won’t, Peter. You have to trust me.”

  “Maybe it would have been better to call the authorities and tell them what happened, turn Iskander over to them and—”

  “Peter,” Borger said in the tone of a father correcting a wayward child, “you know how important it is to go through with our mission.”

  “But what if—”

  “There is nothing to worry about. Look, Peter, we are about to do something for our country that is monumentally important. You’ve agreed with that since the beginning, when you set out to find the perfect subject. Well, you succeeded. Iskander is perfect, more perfect than I could ever have imagined. Everything will go forward without a hitch—if we keep our eye on the goal. It will be over soon. Colin is arriving here today. Because of what happened last night, I’m insisting that the schedule be moved up. I want Iskander away from here and in place in D.C. sooner than planned. He’ll go through with his part of it, and then we’ll be free to pack up and go our separate ways. I’ll be receiving a large amount of money from those financing the project, and I intend to give much of it to you. You can take the money and leave San Francisco, settle wherever you like.” When Puhlman didn’t react, Borger added, “I’ll tell Colin when I meet with him today that we need more money, a million.
All you have to do is trust me, Peter. No one is going to miss a prostitute like Elena, and even if someone does, there’s absolutely no reason to trace her back to us.”

  “To us?”

  “To me,” Borger corrected, resisting the temptation to remind Puhlman that he was now an accomplice. Not that he had to. That reality had dominated Puhlman’s thinking all morning.

  “Now, here’s what I want you to do,” Borger said. “You’ll be leaving with Iskander for Washington soon, sooner than expected. I’m sending Jake, too.”

  “Why? He doesn’t know the plan.”

  “I want him there to deal with Iskander should he become difficult. Iskander thinks he’s going to Washington to resume his boxing career. Jake can sustain that belief. You and Jake will come back to San Francisco the day of the event. Go on now, go home and prepare for your trip.”

  “You aren’t coming with us?”

  “No. I’ll reinforce Iskander by phone. Colin has made all the arrangements. I’ll find out more when I see him. Go on now, put last night and this morning out of your mind. We’re about to do something that will turn the country on its head, Peter, and you and I will know that we did it, that we proved that it could be done.”

  Borger watched the beefy Puhlman walk into the house. For the first time since embarking on the project, he felt apprehension, even fear. What had occurred last night with Itani and Elena had created a complication that no one could have predicted, certainly not him. Yes, he’d seen growing anger in Itani and had even wondered on occasion whether the physically fit young man would strike out at him during one of their hypnotic sessions. But kill the girl? Preposterous!

  Borger returned to the house and went to the gym, where Itani continued to work out. He watched as the young man battered both the heavy and light bags, skipped rope, and did a series of sit-ups, squats, and push-ups. When he took a break, Borger applauded. “You look splendid, Iskander,” he said, “ready to fight.”

  “Yes, I am ready,” Itani said. “I’ve never been more ready, thanks to you.”