Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (20 page)

Itani entered. He'd showered and dressed in stylish clothing Borger had purchased for him. The psychiatrist's barber had come to the house and given the young Arab a flattering haircut. Elena had visited again and spent the night with Iskander, and Borger had given him money to send to his mother and brothers using a post office box as the return address. Everything had gone smoothly, although Borger knew that he had to be careful to not do anything that might upset the volatile young man.

“Ready for a session?” Borger asked.

“Yes,” Itani said, taking his usual chair across from Borger.

Borger handed him the notebook that had been part of the initial session, its many pages now filled with Itani's written rants against Jews, Israel, and the “Israel lover” and “Jew lover” George Mortinson.

“Did you see in the paper today, Iskander, that Mortinson is calling for increased military aid to Israel?”

“Bastard!”

“Money to buy weapons to kill your people.”

Itani's fists clenched and his eyes opened wide.

Borger had reached a point with Itani that he no longer needed to hold the gold coin up to him to induce trance. He simply pointed to it on the small table between them. Itani's eyes rolled up into his head and he shuddered.

“You're in a nice place now, Iskander, a restful, peaceful place, with your family and your people, and with Elena.”

Itani smiled.

“I want you to go deeper and deeper into your pleasant trance state. That's it, Iskander, deeper and deeper and deeper…”

The session lasted twenty minutes. During it Borger handed Itani an unloaded Glock 9mm and instructed him to go to the window. He was told that if he saw anyone outside, he was to shoot that person. Itani did precisely as ordered, taking aim at a Hispanic gardener. He was then told to resume his seat and to hand Borger the weapon, which he also did.

When he was brought out of his trance, he had no recollection of what had transpired despite Borger's questioning of him.

“I want to see my brothers,” Itani said. The request came out of the blue.

“You will see them soon.”

“I want them to come here,” Itani said.

“That is not possible, Iskander. It would seriously interrupt the progress we've made with your headaches. Besides, Mr. Gibbons is ready to offer you a management contract as a fighter. We don't want to do anything to get in the way, do we?”

Itani glared at Borger.

“Is something bothering you?” Borger asked.

Itani shook his head and stood. He appeared to want to say something but left the room without another word.

This brief confrontation concerned Borger. He'd been aware of a growing restlessness in Itani over the past few days, a belligerence that was disconcerting. As he sat and pondered the situation, he came to the conclusion that he'd peaked with his subject. Itani would never be more ready to carry out his assignment than he was at that moment.

But that posed a potential problem. There was always the possibility that something, someone, would enter the picture and undo the delicate control that Borger had over his subject. Itani wanting to see his brothers was troublesome, and he'd recently expressed a desire to visit the gym where he'd worked.

Borger made a decision.

He placed a call to Washington and reached Colin Landow at his home.

“I believe he's ready,” Borger announced.

“I'm always nervous when someone says that he ‘believes' something is ready,” was Landow's reply. “It is or it isn't.”

Borger masked his pique and said, “You mentioned eleven days, Colin. Why has that date been chosen?”

“We know what his campaign schedule is,” Landow said.

Which meant that they had someone inside the Mortinson campaign feeding them information.

“He's at his peak,” Borger said. “There's always the possibility of losing him. I'll have to keep reinforcing what I've accomplished, but I suggest that the schedule be moved up.”

“That's impossible.”

“What travel arrangements have been made?” Borger asked.

“I'm coming to San Francisco tomorrow. I'll give you all the details when I see you.”

“It's my suggestion that he be moved to Washington in the next few days. He needs a change of scenery, Colin. We run a risk by keeping him here.”

Borger gnashed his teeth as he heard Landow click off the connection. He'd grown to detest the man with his pinched speech and inflated sense of self. He had a fleeting vision of Itani killing not only George Mortinson but Colin Landow as well. It brought a smile to his lips. In the meantime he had to do what was needed to keep Itani under control. Some time with Elena might serve to calm him down. He reached her at her apartment and asked her to spend the night at the house.

“How is he?” she asked.

“Fine. Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. The last time we were together, he seemed angry. He scared me a little.”

Borger forced a dismissive laugh. “He's a prizefighter, Elena, remember? He's really a pussycat, just a little tense.”

“Pussycat? I wouldn't call him that,” she said. “He can get rough.”

“But nothing you can't handle. I remember enjoying rough sex with you. I really think he needs your charms to calm down. How does doubling your fee sound?”

She agreed to be there at six.

Borger greeted Elena when she arrived and summoned Itani, who'd been sleeping. Seeing her seemed to brighten Itani's spirits, and Borger was glad that he'd arranged for her to be there that evening. He'd instructed the cook to prepare what had become Iskander's favorite dinner, fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and made sure that the makings of a Tom Collins were present and plentiful.

He left the couple alone, got in his Jaguar, and drove to where he'd made a dinner date with Mica Sphere, a striking forty-five-year-old lesbian who owned a successful custom jewelry store on Pacific Avenue. Borger had discovered the shop a few years earlier and had become a steady, free-spending customer. He and Mica had struck it off from the beginning and fell into an easy friendship, one not marred by sexual expectations. Borger often turned to Mica when he was in the mood for good conversation, and she was always available when he called. Sheldon Borger was unfailingly entertaining. Besides, he enjoyed the finer things of life, which included the best restaurants and choice tickets to prime events. It wasn't that Borger didn't find Mica sexually alluring. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, tall and willowy, with a sexy come-hither smile, and Borger seldom left her company without being aroused. Mica was Borger's only female friend. He considered women sexual objects and tended to treat them that way. But Mica was different. He actually listened when she spoke.

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?