Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (30 page)

“Dr. Borger,” Tatum said into his phone, “my name is Nicholas Tatum. I'm a psychologist who worked with Sheila Klaus when she was incarcerated for the murder of Dr. Mark Sedgwick. I'd like very much to speak with you.” He left his cell number.

Tatum killed time by walking around Fisherman's Wharf, his cell phone in his shirt pocket so that he'd be sure to hear it ring and feel its vibration. At two he called Borger's number again and received the same recorded message. It had been a fool's errand, he decided, and he regretted that he'd succumbed to such an impetuous act. He called United Airlines and secured a seat on its red-eye flight back to D.C. that night. He had no way of knowing, of course, that Borger had been at home and had heard both of his messages.

*   *   *

Borger had been in his study when Tatum's call played on the machine. He wasn't surprised. He'd received a call that morning from the young man at Lightpath who'd met Tatum.

“What did he want?” Borger asked.

“He said that it was a professional matter concerning Sheila Klaus.”

“I see,” Borger had said. “Thank you for the call.”

Borger turned to where Sheila rested on the couch.

“Get up, Sheila,” Borger said. When she didn't respond he said, “The red sage Lantana are blooming.”

She got up and approached him.

“Sit here,” Borger said, indicating the black leather recliner across from the one in which he sat. Once she had, he said, “It's a beautiful day for a cruise.”

He waited until Carla emerged.

“What do
you
want?” she snarled.

“It's good to see you again, Carla,” he said. “We have work to do.”

 

CHAPTER

36

The medical examiner assigned to autopsy the body of the woman found in the water near San Francisco International Airport had reviewed notes and photos taken at the scene of the deceased's discovery. In addition to these notes and photographs, the lead detective who'd managed the crime scene was present for the autopsy, a routine established years ago by the SFPD. The ME and her staff had determined that the victim had been in the water no more than a few days based upon the condition of her body. She was dressed in black silk baby doll pajamas with a label indicating that the clothing had come from Victoria's Secret. One piece of jewelry was found on her, a simple thin gold ring on the middle finger of her left hand.

A criminalist who'd been called to the scene reported that there was an absence of white leathery foam in the mouth, the most indicative characteristic of drowning. The body had been wrapped in a rug, but the bindings had come apart. An officer who claimed some knowledge pegged it as being an expensive Oriental. Rope marks from where the victim had been secured to a weight were observed on her wrists.

After steeping herself in what the officers and the crime scene specialists had observed and documented, and with the lead detective on hand to answer questions, the pathologist went to work. She carefully washed down the body and did an external examination beginning with the feet and working up to the head. She said into a microphone hanging over the table, “There's a large bruise on the left side of the head, possibly the result of blunt force trauma.” She measured and photographed it before proceeding with her external exam. She opened the deceased's mouth and examined her teeth. “Dental work was performed,” she said into the microphone. “Refer to an odontologist for ID.” She said to the detective, “She had nice teeth, took good care of them.”

“How old do you figure?” the detective asked.

“Late twenties.”

“What about prints?”

“Shouldn't be a problem,” she said. “She wasn't in the water that long. Her fingers are shriveled, but the skin is still intact. A tech should be able to lift prints from her. He can inject water into the fingers to bring them back to their normal contour. There was no ID on her?”

“Nothing. Just the pj's and that one ring.”

The pathologist laughed. “Victoria's Secret, huh? Sexy lady. No missing person report to link to her?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

Following the external exam, the pathologist began the process of opening the body, starting with the head and moving downward. “Whew!” she said after having examined the brain. “Whoever did this really whacked her. It broke her skull. Massive bleeding.”

“Can you tell her race?”

“Mixed, I'd say.”

The pathologist stepped back, removed her gloves, and finished what was left of a scone on a paper plate sitting on a stainless-steel cabinet near her and downed the last few sips of coffee that had grown cold. She put on new gloves and proceeded with her examination. When she was finished, she said to the detective, “I hope you find the guy who did this. She was too young and pretty to die.”

The detective, Duane Woodhouse, left the autopsy room and joined up with his partner, who'd been with him when the body had washed up. “Okay,” he said, “let's pay a visit to local Victoria's Secret shops.”

“There's four of them,” his partner said and rattled off the addresses.

Armed with photographs of the pajamas the victim had been wearing, and with a general description of her, they started hitting the stores famous for their lingerie. The first three on the list didn't provide any help in identifying the victim, although the managers were extremely cooperative and went through their records of people who'd purchased the item. It was at the fourth location, on Powell Street, that some headway was made. The manager there told them that while there had been recent purchases of that particular set of pajamas, none of the buyers as far as she could recall matched the description of the victim. “Oh, wait,” she said. “There's one.” She pulled out a sales receipt. “Her name's Elena Marciano. She's a regular customer. She's bought three or four pairs of this particular item. It's her favorite.”

“Have an address for her?” Detective Woodhouse asked.

“Yes. She always paid with a credit card, American Express Platinum, but we had things delivered to her a few times. I have it right here.”

“She had some money.”

“I wouldn't know,” the manager said, “but she was always beautifully dressed. Very nice, pretty, too, never without a big smile.”

“Do you know where she worked?”

“I have no idea.”

After establishing their identities and the official reason for their inquiry, they were given the address and phone number of the Platinum card holder, Elena Marciano, and went to the address. There was no response from her apartment, so they sought out the building's superintendent, an older Asian man who wore a black patch over one eye. They identified themselves as police officers and asked about the tenant named Marciano.

He shrugged. “Nice enough young woman,” he said, “never gives me any problems.”

“You know where she works, what she does for a living?”

The question brought a smile to his face. “I really can't say officers, only…”

“Only what?”

“Well, she does have a lot of boyfriends, that's for sure.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Oh, nothing wrong with it, only there are, like I said, a hell of a lot of them.”

The detectives looked at each other and were thinking the same thing: a hooker?

“Anybody else in the building friendly with her?” Woodhouse asked. “Anybody who might know more about her?”

“She keeps pretty much to herself, never bothers nobody. Maybe Mrs. Crowley might be able to tell you something. She lives next door to Ms. Marciano.”

The super led them to the apartment and knocked on the door. The voice of an old woman asked who it was. “Harvey, the super,” he replied. “I have two police officers with me who need to talk to you.”

“Police officers? Just a minute.”

A series of inside bolts and locks were disengaged before she opened the door a crack, its security chain still attached. “Yes?” she said.

Woodhouse showed her his ID and said, “Could we have a few minutes of your time, ma'am?”

“What is it in reference to?” Her voice was like chalk on a blackboard.

“About your neighbor, Ms. Marciano.”

“Her?”

“Yes, ma'am. May we come in for a few minutes?”

“I don't know, I—”

“I promise we'll stay only a few minutes,” he repeated.

“Well, I suppose so,” she said, unlatching the chain and stepping back to allow them to enter.

“Nice place you have here,” Woodhouse's partner commented.

“I try to keep it neat and clean,” she said.

Woodhouse turned and said to the super, “It's okay. You can go now.”

He grunted and closed the door behind him.

“We'd like to talk with you about your neighbor, Ms. Marciano,” Woodhouse said.

Mrs. Crowley straightened pillows on her couch as though to avoid answering the question. The detectives waited until she'd finished her unnecessary chore and had said something to a canary in a cage by the window.

“Have you seen Ms. Marciano lately?” Woodhouse asked.

“No, I can't say that I have, never have seen a lot of her since she moved in a year ago. Keeps to herself for the most part. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but I like to be neighborly, get along with people.”

“Yes, ma'am, I'm sure you do. Do you know what Ms. Marciano does for a living?”

“I have my suspicions.”

“And?”

She's … well, she's that sort of woman.”

The detectives waited for her to amplify her comment.

“I don't like to make judgments about another person,” she said. “My deceased husband, Martin, never liked it when I made judgments, but sometimes you have to be honest with yourself.”

“I take it that Ms. Marciano is self-employed,” Woodhouse offered, hoping he'd found a less jarring metaphor for what he and his partner had already surmised.

“I wouldn't know,” said the older woman, who now was busy rearranging knickknacks on a coffee table.

Woodhouse decided there was nothing to be learned by continuing the conversation. He thanked Mrs. Crowley for her time, complimented her on her neat apartment, and they left.

“We see if the super will open Marciano's apartment?” Woodhouse's partner suggested.

“No. We don't even know if this Marciano woman is the same one who was pulled out of the bay. We'd need a warrant. Let's see what the print guys come up with, and maybe the dental records. If she was a hooker, it's possible she's been pulled in before. Maybe one of her johns did her in.”

“Or a pimp.”

Woodhouse looked up at the apartment building from where they stood on the sidewalk. “I doubt if there's a pimp involved. If she
was
a hooker—and we don't even know if it's the same woman—she was high-class, more in the call girl category. All we know is that this Ms. Marciano liked black silk pj's. No crime in that.”

*   *   *

Sheldon Borger hadn't read the newspaper that day and didn't know about Elena's body having emerged from the bay. He was too busy interacting with Sheila Klaus.

With Puhlman and Gibbons in Washington, he had to pick her up at the airport himself. He didn't look forward to it. Although he'd successfully manipulated Sheila to the extent that she would do his bidding, and was able to summon Carla without difficulty, Carla often emerged of her own volition and could be difficult.

At first Sheila balked at getting into Borger's silver Jaguar. “I don't want any vitamin shots,” she'd said.

“Of course not,” Borger had replied. “I didn't plan to give you any, Sheila.”

“You always do.”

“But not this time. Come on, get in the car.”

Carla's sudden appearance startled Borger. He recognized her by her deep, harsh voice and the sneer on Sheila's face.

“Hello, Carla,” he said.

“Leave her alone,” Carla said.

“Why do you say that? I've always been good to Sheila.”

“I'm the only one who's been good to Sheila.” She laughed.

“Why don't we get in the car where we can talk about it?” he suggested.

“You and your fancy cars,” Carla said as she slid into the passenger seat.

“Don't you like fancy cars?” Borger asked as he got behind the wheel.

“They don't mean anything to me,” she said. “Go on, drive. Let's go to your big house, only leave Sheila alone. Don't hurt her.”

*   *   *

Borger was well aware that Carla's protective stance of Sheila went back to Sheila's childhood. He'd had her revisit her growing-up years during some of their hypnotic sessions together, regressing her until she became a small child again, speaking in a little girl's singsong voice except when her “playmate” Carla emerged to help fight her battles. It wasn't a matter of Sheila recalling those early years. In her hypnotic trance she was there, reliving them in real time.

Sheila had grown up in a household characterized by hostility and conflict, which is typical of men and women who suffer from multiple personality disorder. The annals of psychiatric research document a direct link between the disorder and childhood abuse of all kinds, physical, emotional, and sexual. Her mother had been a strict, puritanical matriarch with a short temper who constantly berated her daughter for what she considered her sloppy, undisciplined habits, and inflicted a series of punishments far beyond what was reasonable. Her father, who left the family when Sheila was in her early teens, had become addicted to prescription pain medications and alcohol following lower back surgery and was himself someone with seemingly two personalities, violently erupting at times but capable of gentle love for his daughter at others.

Like all multiple personalities, Sheila had tried to cope with the irrational atmosphere in her home by bending over backward to be “a good little girl.” But while that was effective at times, it seldom protected her from the harshest of punishments. That's when her imaginary playmate, Carla, began coming to the fore. When Sheila was locked in a dark room for hours on end, it was Carla who took over and suffered for both of them, taking the blows. She increasingly began to emerge, standing up to Sheila's mother, which resulted in only further infuriating her. The punishments, which became more physical over time, kept Carla busy, and Sheila came to depend upon her more frequently. When Sheila attended secretarial school and moved away from home, Carla went with her and continued to fight her battles.