Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (17 page)

Smith pondered what Tatum had said before asking, “Did Sheila admit under hypnosis that she'd been programmed to kill Sedgwick?”

“If she had, I would have yelled loud enough for you to hear me from MPD. No, she didn't, but when I mentioned Sedgwick's name, she shut down. The amnesia that's been implanted in her is powerful, Mac. So is the fear that's been instilled in her of allowing anyone else to hypnotize her. But I was close to breaking through, and I'm confident that I'll be able to if I can work with her long enough.”

“All right,” Smith said through an exasperated sigh. “What's next?”

“I mentioned a former CIA scientist I know pretty well. He left the agency because he was uncomfortable with the experiments he was being asked to undertake. I'm sure he knows plenty about Lightpath and Borger.”

“But will he talk to you about it? Wouldn't that be spilling state secrets?”

Tatum shrugged. “Maybe he won't say anything directly, but he can at least affirm what I already suspect and the assumptions I've come up with. It's worth a try. How did it go with the attorney who saw Sheila this afternoon? I didn't ask Sheila about it because I didn't know how she'd taken to it.”

“Marie told me that she had a good meeting with her, although she did characterize portions of it as strange.”

“How so?”

“Sheila kept insisting that she was innocent. That's not unusual, of course, with people accused of a crime, but her adamant stance in the face of the evidence takes it to a new level. But Marie also said that there were times that Sheila seemed to slip into her own world, as Marie put it, to fade into a daydream.”

“You've seen it happen yourself,” Tatum said. “She goes into a trancelike state.”

“I certainly have. Sheila is being arraigned tomorrow morning at the Moultrie Courthouse on Indiana. Marie will be with her at the presentment. We'll ask for her to be released on a bond, but the chances are slim to none that the judge will grant it in a felony homicide case. By the way, I made a few inquiries at the university why she left her job. They're naturally reluctant to give details, but from what I was told she was considered incapable of focusing on her job. A doctor offered some sort of medical diagnosis that led to the disability finding. Naturally I couldn't have access to the doctor's letter, although it might be possible to get a court-ordered release of it.”

“I don't wonder that she couldn't focus,” Tatum said. “She probably spent the majority of her day going into spontaneous trances.” He then said, absently, “She hasn't worked and owns a home. What's her source of income aside from the disability payments?”

Smith made a note to seek an answer to that question.

“When can you talk with this ex-CIA friend of yours?” Smith asked.

“Tonight. I called him before coming here. We're having dinner together.”

“That was fast.”

“I suspect he's happy to have an invitation. He's a strange duck, Mac, very much a loner, never married, teaches at a psychiatric postgraduate center here in D.C.”

Smith stifled the temptation to link strange ducks with the psychiatric profession.

Tatum left Smith's Watergate apartment and drove to his apartment on Capitol Hill, where he put in a half hour on the treadmill and lifted weights for fifteen minutes before showering and dressing to meet his friend David Considine at Montmartre on Seventh Street, which Tatum knew was one of Considine's favorite restaurants. His friend was already at a pine table, a glass of ginger ale in front of him, when Tatum walked in. Tatum slapped him on the shoulder before sitting. “You got a head start,” Tatum said.

“As long as you're the designated driver,” Considine said dryly.

Tatum ordered a pinot grigio.

“Glad we could get together, Dave.”

“It's been awhile.”

David Considine, ten years older than Tatum, was a tall, thin man with a shaved head, a small clump of reddish hair beneath his lower lip, and active green eyes. For as long as Tatum had known him, his choice of clothing was a blue blazer, white button-down shirt, and tie. This evening was no exception.

“Steamed mussels?” Considine suggested. The moderately priced French restaurant was known for them.

“Sure.”

After ten minutes of initial banter, most of which involved Considine's dissatisfaction with his teaching job, he asked Tatum what was on his mind.

“Do I have to have something on my mind?” Tatum said through a smile. “Just thought it would be fun to get together.”

Considine grunted and drained his ginger ale, then motioned to a waitress for a refill.

“Actually,” Tatum said, “there is something that I wanted to discuss with you.”

“I figured. Go ahead.”

Their mussels arrived, which interfered with their conversation as they eagerly attacked the bowl. When only shells remained in the broth, Tatum said, “I was wondering what you know about the Lightpath Clinic in Berkeley.”

“Lightpath? It's been around awhile.”

“Run by Sheldon Borger.”

Considine didn't react.

“You've worked with him,” Tatum said.

“A long time ago. What's your interest in it, Nic?”

Tatum had pondered how much to tell Considine about Sheila Klaus and her involvement in the Mark Sedgwick murder. It wasn't that he was concerned that what he said would be repeated by Considine to someone who shouldn't know about it. Considine had bailed out of his involvement with the CIA's Medical and Psychological Analysis Center's experimental programs at least two years ago, and when he and Tatum met for dinner shortly after he'd given his notice, Considine was open about his reasons for leaving.

“You reach a point, Nic, when you question what you're doing with your life and education. To be honest, some of the experiments I've been involved in run counter to everything I've believed about medicine.
Primum non nocere.
First do no harm. That's the oath we took, but frankly, a lot of what the CIA is doing in the name of medical research does one hell of a lot of harm to the people involved. Don't get me wrong. Maybe some of it is necessary and justified, national security and the rest. I'm a psychiatrist. I don't know anything about intelligence agencies or military needs or war. But I
do
know when innocent people are being used as lab rats without ever understanding what's being done to them. I just wanted out.”

Tatum had certainly understood what his friend was saying at dinner that night two years ago and admired him for having decided to distance himself from what was in all probability illegal and unquestionably immoral.

“You know about Mark Sedgwick's death,” Tatum began.

“Of course.”

“How well did you know Mark?”

“Not well at all.”

“I didn't know him well either. They've arrested a woman in his death. She's charged with having deliberately run him over.”

“So I've read. What's your interest in the case?”

“I was called in by MPD—I used to work for them, as you know—to help investigate Mark's death. I reviewed Sedgwick's records and came up with this woman, Sheila Klaus, as a possible suspect. It turns out that there's a lot of evidence to prove that she did, in fact, drive the car that killed him.”

Considine took a sip of his refreshed soft drink. “What's this got to do with Lightpath and Borger?” he asked as he picked up a menu and began perusing the entrées.

“This woman went to Lightpath four times with Sedgwick, and two more times on her own.”

“Why?”

“Sedgwick took her. She's a multiple.”

Considine looked up from the menu. “How do you know?”

“I've been working with her in jail. Her attorney, Mackensie Smith, is a friend of mine. He's overseeing her defense, working with another lawyer. He arranged for me to do a psychological evaluation of her.” Tatum leaned across the table. “I'm convinced, David, that she was programmed to kill Sedgwick.”

Considine laid the menu on the table. “Tell me more,” he said.

*   *   *

After they'd each had hanger steak and sautéed potatoes, for which Tatum paid, they left the restaurant. Considine lived only a block away, and Tatum walked him to his apartment building, continuing the story about Sheila Klaus and his theory that she'd been brainwashed at the Lightpath Clinic. Considine had done more listening than talking during dinner and continued to be a good listener all the way to his building.

“A fascinating story, Nic,” he said as they shook hands.

“I appreciate your input,” Tatum said.

“Let me know what happens, huh?”

“Of course.”

Tatum walked back to where he'd parked his car near the restaurant. It was only after he'd gotten in, started the engine, and headed home that he realized that while he'd told his friend the entire story of Sheila Klaus, Considine had offered little more about the Lightpath Clinic and Sheldon Borger than he already knew. Considine had made some unflattering comments about Borger—“he's smarmy,” “he's a money-grubbing guy”—but hadn't revealed the sort of inside information Tatum had hoped for. That didn't come as a complete surprise. It was common knowledge that once someone left the employ of the CIA or any of the other sixteen intelligence agencies, it was expected of him or her to maintain a silence about how the agencies operate, particularly top secret projects such as those involving mind-control experimentation. Considine had also reiterated his reasons for having left the CIA, branding as “barbaric” its widespread use of physicians, psychologists, and scientists to manipulate innocent men and women. But again, that was common knowledge within certain segments of the medical and scientific communities.

As Tatum settled in to watch a movie on TV, he decided that while it had been good to see his friend again and to share a meal with him, it had not been a productive evening. He soon dropped that line of thought as he became engrossed in the film.

*   *   *

Considine, too, intended to watch a movie before retiring. But he first placed a phone call.

“Colin, it's David Considine.”

“Hello, David.”

“Hope I'm not calling too late,” he said to his former superior at the CIA.

“Not at all. I just finished reading a book and thought I'd turn in early. Your timing is good.”

“Colin, I have information that you'll want to hear.”

“Excellent. The usual place, say noon?”

“That will be fine.”

 

CHAPTER

23

Psychiatrist David Considine had indeed severed his connection with the CIA two years earlier and was quick to tell friends and colleagues of his dissatisfaction with the work he'd been called upon to perform. Those in whom he confided were impressed with his sense of honor and his unwillingness to participate in some of the agency's more controversial medical and scientific endeavors. But he was never specific about the work he'd done for the CIA. He kept it vague, including just enough specificity to come off as credible.

What they didn't know was that Considine did so with the spy agency's blessing.

Leaving the CIA and the nation's other intelligence agencies was not easily accomplished, any more than walking away from the Mafia was. Certain conditions had to be met, among them an agreement to keep one's eyes and ears open for any sign of activity that might be considered potentially injurious to the agency and its goals. Countless former employees were kept on a sub rosa payroll in return for feeding damaging information back to their handlers. Some former employees were even encouraged to write books about their agency experiences, to adopt the public stance of being anti-CIA, and to include in their books what they claimed was “inside information” about the agency's operations. Of course, their books contained little more than what was already public knowledge. The books were vetted by the agency before the manuscripts were delivered to a small number of mainstream book publishers who were paid to publish them. By appearing to be anti-CIA, these “authors” tended to be trusted by those who possessed information potentially damaging to the CIA and who willingly shared that information with these “anti-agency” authors who were paid handsomely for their “literary” efforts.

Although Considine had not authored a book, he was one of many former contract workers who continued to be paid for acting as a conduit of information to the CIA even though no longer officially connected to the agency. In the two years since his contract with the agency expired, he'd had little to report, although he had provided the names of a few other physicians or scientists who'd trusted him and who had expressed their suspicions about the CIA's network of agency-funded underground experiments. They'd gone further in some cases: “The CIA ought to be brought to trial for what they've done to unwitting patients whose lives have been ruined as a result,” one had told him over dinner, which he'd dutifully reported to Colin Landow. He'd felt good, useful, when adding those names to an already long list of “enemies.” But he'd wished he could do more to justify the money that showed up each month in his savings account.

Now he could.

He and Landow met at noon at a predetermined bench in the Washington Harbour area of Georgetown. Considine didn't waste time relating to Landow every detail of what Nic Tatum had told him about Sheila Klaus and Tatum's hypnotic sessions with her. Landow listened impassively, his eyes taking in his surroundings, his ears hearing only what Considine had to say.

When the tall, bald psychiatrist, who wore that day a gray running suit and white sneakers, was finished, Landow patted his arm and said, “This is all fascinating, David. Of course the part about this Ms. Klaus having been programmed at Lightpath to kill Mark Sedgwick is pure science fiction. As you know, Sheldon Borger and his people aren't engaged in creating murderers, or I suppose I should say murderesses.”