Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (37 page)

“I'm closing up,” Mica told the accountant. “I just got off the phone with Sheldon … Sheldon Borger, the psychiatrist. I'm going to his house.”

“Call the police first, Mica,” the accountant said.

She dialed 911, told the operator that she had important information regarding the Mortinson killing, and was put through to the SFPD, where a detective took the call. After telling him that she'd known the shooter, she mentioned that she'd met him at the home of Dr. Sheldon Borger. “Dr. Borger is a friend,” she said. “He's a psychiatrist who'd been treating the young man who shot the senator.”

“Where are you?” the detective asked.

She told him.

“Don't leave,” Mica was told. “We'll have someone there shortly.”

The detective hung up and told others in the office about the call.

“Wait a minute,” Detective Duane Woodhouse said. “What's this about Dr. Borger?”

After Woodhouse had been filled in on the gist of the call, he told a colleague, “Get hold of the FBI. Tell them to send someone to the caller's address. I'm heading there now.”

While Mica awaited the arrival of the police, she called Borger and told him why she wouldn't be coming, at least not right away.

“Oh, Mica, I thought you agreed to not contact the police until we've had a chance to talk.”

“I wasn't sure what to do, Sheldon. It doesn't matter. I would have had to contact them at some point. I'll come after I've spoken with them.”

*   *   *

Word that Itani was from San Francisco sent the FBI's headquarters on Golden Gate Avenue into high gear. Using information transmitted from the bureau in Washington, the special agent in charge of the San Francisco office sent special agents scurrying across the city and neighboring counties. A team was dispatched to San Mateo to interview people at the boxing club. Another went to the home address taken from Itani's driver's license. When the call from Mica came in from SFPD, two special agents were told to meet Detective Woodhouse at Mica Sphere's shop.

Woodhouse, a second detective, and two agents sat with Mica in her office after her accountant, whose name and address were taken, had been told to leave.

“Tell us about your meeting with Mr. Itani,” an agent said as he placed a small tape recorder on her desk.

Mica gave them a succinct accounting of how she'd ended up having a drink with Itani at Borger's house. When she'd finished, an agent asked if she could remember any further details of what they'd talked about.

“He was a nice young man,” she said, “very polite but not very talkative. He seemed to be in his own world at times.”

“What did he tell you about his relationship with Dr. Borger?”

“Just that Dr. Borger was helping him with headaches, and that he was also helping him resume his boxing career.” She smiled. “He was very sweet. He told me that he had a girlfriend. Her name was Elena, I think.”

Woodhouse jumped into the questioning. “You're sure the girl's name was Elena?” he asked, unable to keep enthusiasm from his voice.

She nodded. “Yes,” she said, “that was the name.”

The agents, unaware of why Woodhouse had injected this line of questioning, followed up. “Can you tell us more about this Elena?” one asked. “Where she lives, a last name?”

“He did mention her last name,” she said, her face twisted as she tried to remember. “It was a common name. Jones! Yes, I think it was Jones. That's all I know. Sorry.”

“You say that Mr. Itani was living with Dr. Borger?” an agent asked. “Isn't it unusual for a psychiatrist to have a patient living with him?”

“I suppose so,” she said, “but Dr. Borger is a very compassionate physician. He's treated some big celebrity names, and patients have stayed with him before. It gives him a chance to do more in-depth, sustained treatment.”

One of the agents said, “We'd like you to come with us, Ms. Sphere.”

“Where? Why?”

“Our headquarters. We'll want a detailed statement from you.”

“I've already given you one,” she said. “You have it on tape.”

“Yes, ma'am, but we're dealing with the assassination of a leading political figure. We can take you in as a material witness, but we'd rather not.”

“I have to close the shop.”

“Just make it quick.”

“Can I make a phone call first?”

“All right, but we have to move.”

Woodhouse and one of the agents went to the sidewalk. “Let me bring you up to date on something,” the detective said. He recounted his interest in Borger because of the Elena Marciano case.

“This dead prostitute might have been involved with the shooter?”

“Seems so, doesn't it?” Woodhouse responded.

“And this psychiatrist, Borger, was involved with both of them?”

“Right again.”

*   *   *

Peter Puhlman and Jake Gibbons arrived back in San Francisco early that evening and went directly from the airport to Borger's house. Gibbons was in an agitated state. He and Puhlman had heard coverage of the assassination on the taxi's radio, including that the alleged assassin was a twenty-six-year-old male named Iskander Itani.

“What the hell is going on?” Gibbons demanded the minute he walked through the door. “The kid shot the next president, for Christ's sake. Jesus!”

“Calm down,” Borger said, although internally he was anything but calm.

“You knew that this was goin' to happen all along, didn't you?” Gibbons yelled.

“I had no idea that he would do what he did,” Borger said. “It doesn't matter. It's done. I have money for you to leave the city and—”

A buzz indicated that someone was at the gate. Borger looked out the window. A half dozen cars were at the foot of the driveway. A voice came through the speaker: “Dr. Borger, FBI special agents Carlson and Morel. We're with detectives from the San Francisco Police Department. We wish to speak with you.”

Borger looked at Puhlman and Gibbons. The timing was atrocious.

“What are you going to do?” Puhlman asked.

“Let them in,” Borger said, forcing a smile. “Go into my study. I'll speak with them out here. If they realize that you're here, I'll say that you work for me and that we've been having a meeting. Say nothing about having been in Washington. Understand?”

“I want out of this,” Gibbons said.

Puhlman grabbed Gibbons's arm and yanked him in the direction of the study. Once they were behind its closed door, Borger said into the speaker, “I'll open the gates.” He pushed a button and watched as the cars piled into the driveway, led by two marked SFPD vehicles.

He opened the door and greeted the two agents, and a familiar face, Detective Duane Woodhouse. “I've been expecting you,” Borger said. “I've just heard about the dreadful event that's taken place in Washington this afternoon and that a patient of mine was involved. Come in, come in. I'm eager to cooperate in any way I can.”

They went to the living room. Borger sat, the agents and Woodhouse remained standing.

“I suppose you want to know anything and everything about Iskander, about Mr. Itani. Let me begin by saying that in more than thirty years of practice, I have never had anything even approaching this happen. Where do I begin? He became my patient because of debilitating headaches, the result of having been badly beaten in two previous boxing matches. He was confused, in pain, frightened, almost suicidal. I took him on as a patient without compensation and—”

Five minutes into the questioning, Gibbons's loud voice was heard from behind the door to the study.

“Someone else is here?” an agent asked.

“Yes,” Borger said. “Colleagues of mine. We were having a meeting when you arrived.”

Woodhouse had noticed two suitcases in the foyer when they'd entered and asked, “Going on a trip, Dr. Borger?”

“Oh, those suitcases. No, no trips planned.”

“We'd like to speak with the others,” said an agent.

“Of course, although I'm sure they have nothing to offer.”

He opened the door to the study and said, “We have visitors from the FBI and police. They're here regarding the terrible thing that happened in Washington today. Come, they'd like to meet you.”

Gibbons followed Puhlman from the room and greeted the agents. Woodhouse took note of Gibbons's nervousness; he sweated profusely. He also wondered what possible business connection the rough-hewn man might have with the smooth-talking psychiatrist.

“In previous conversations I've had with Dr. Borger,” Woodhouse said, “he's admitted that he was friendly with a Ms. Elena Marciano who, according to Dr. Borger, was also a patient. Did either of you gentlemen know Mr. Itani or Ms. Marciano?”

Gibbons shook his head. Borger jumped in and said, “I believe they might have met her once or twice.”

“That's right,” said Puhlman. “I met her a couple of times. Itani, too.”

“You?” Woodhouse asked Gibbons.

He shrugged and said, “Yeah, maybe, once or twice.”

“We have a witness who says that Mr. Itani told her that Ms. Marciano, or the other name she used, Jones, was his girlfriend,” Woodhouse said.

Borger laughed. “Oh, my, how pathetic. It was all part of his fantasies. I did introduce them once, and I remember how smitten he was with her, his eyes following her every time she crossed the room. He lived in a dreamworld, gentlemen. It was one of the things I tried to work on with him, to give him a healthier sense of reality.”

“Ms. Marciano is dead,” Woodhouse said flatly.

“I'm well aware of that,” Borger said.

“Not a great track record, Doctor,” Woodhouse said. “One patient assassinates the next president of the United States, the other is murdered and dumped in the bay.”

“I resent that,” Borger said.

Woodhouse said nothing as the agents asked more questions of Puhlman and Gibbons. When they were finished, Puhlman said, “We were just leaving. Those are our suitcases in the hallway. Are we finished?”

“You both live in San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

“How can we contact you?”

They gave their names and addresses and left.

“Obviously, Dr. Borger, your close knowledge of Mr. Itani will be valuable as we try and put together the pieces of Senator Mortinson's assassination. You aren't planning any trips.”

“No, as I told you, no trips planned.”

“The press will get hold of your connection and want statements from you. You're not to give any while the investigation continues.”

“I have no intention of talking with the press. You have my word.”

“We'll leave uniformed officers outside your house.”

Borger started to protest, but the agent added, “For your protection.”

“All right,” Borger said. “I suppose I don't have a choice.”

The agents were polite as they said good-bye to Borger, but Woodhouse, who was the last through the door, fixed Borger in a laser stare and said, “We'll be talking again, Doctor.”

 

CHAPTER

44

WASHINGTON, D.C.

In Washington, Mortinson's assassination had sent an emotional tsunami washing over the city. The Woodrow Wilson Plaza had been locked down following the shooting, but by that time most people had fled. The FBI, CIA, and Department of Homeland Security had gone into high-alert status. Had the shooter, this Arab American named Iskander Itani, acted alone, or was he part of a larger plot? The official rulings on the killings of John and Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were that Lee Harvey Oswald, Sirhan Sirhan, and James Earl Ray were “lone nuts,” demented, evil people who'd violently acted out their warped grievances.

Conspiracy theorists immediately went into action, blogging that another whitewash was in the making à la the Warren Commission, which had concluded that JFK's assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, had not been part of a conspiracy, nor had Oswald's killer, Jack Ruby, acted out of anything but a need to personally avenge the fallen president.

President Swayze held a press conference in which he praised Mortinson as a formidable opponent, a man of integrity and vision, and assured the nation that the investigation would be thorough and ongoing. But he urged all Americans not to jump to conclusions about whether some sort of cabal was behind the shooting. “From what we know at this early date the assassin”—he consulted his notes—“Mr. Iskander Itani, was not a part of any organized plot, and I repeat
not.
My prayers go out to the Mortinson family.”

*   *   *

The Smiths navigated those left in the plaza and found Cindy Simmons, who wept openly, her arms wrapped tightly about herself.

“Where's Nic?” Mac asked.

“With agents,” she replied, pointing to where he was being interviewed. “He knocked the bastard down,” she said between sobs. “It can't be,” she said. “It just cannot be.”

Smith gave her a hug and said, “You were right behind him.”

“I know,” she said. “It all happened so fast.”

“Did you or Nic have any hint that something was about to occur?”

“No. Nic had noticed him earlier and commented about his T-shirt. He's from some boxing club in California. Nic said that he looked a little odd, sort of a vacant expression on his face, but it didn't mean anything then. He joked about it. ‘Too many punches,' he said. Oh, my God, this can't be true.”

They waited until Tatum was able to join them.

“You knocked him down,” Annabel said.

“Not soon enough. He tried to kill himself. He put the gun to his head, but an agent hit him and his arm went straight up. They wanted to know what I saw.”

“Let's get out of here,” Mac said. “I could use a stiff drink. We'll go back to the apartment.”