Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder by Margaret Truman Page A

5, travel arrangements were made to bring them to the clinic under the guise of participating in “clinical trials” that would provide advanced techniques to treat their problems, whether behavioral, addictions, or pain management. They were treated therapeutically, as promised. At the same time they were subjected to experimentation outside the therapeutic realm, their responses to myriad suggestions carefully evaluated and recorded.
    After observing the failed session, Borger went to his office in the basement of the building, where Colin Landow, who’d flown in from Washington the previous day, sat with Peter Puhlman.
    Puhlman, a clinical psychologist by training, had suffered a series of failures as a private practitioner. An inveterate gambler with a particular love of blackjack, and with two ex-wives, he was deeply in debt when he was approached by Borger to join the Lightpath Clinic project. CIA money funneled to him through Borger had bailed Puhlman out and provided him with a steady paycheck. He’d been fascinated with hypnosis early in his career and enthusiastically accepted the chance to work with a master who was willing to share his knowledge. He also enjoyed being close to Borger’s lavish lifestyle and his friendship with celebrities.
    Puhlman was a pragmatist, a man of few principles, which suited Borger, who’d learned from his involvement with the CIA that the only trustworthy motive for someone offering to spy against his country was money—not idealism, not anger, not misguided patriotism. As long as the money flowed, Borger knew that he could trust Puhlman. Should the funds stop … well, he would deal with that should the situation arise.
    Landow was reviewing a file containing news reports of Dr. Mark Sedgwick’s death when Borger arrived.
    â€œHello, Sheldon,” Landow said, looking up from where he sat at a small round table.
    Puhlman stood. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said.
    â€œGood flight?” Borger asked as he joined Landow at the table.
    â€œIs there such a thing anymore?” Landow replied through a small smile. He was a gaunt man with sandy hair that was longer than one might expect for a CIA employee. He wore half-glasses perched low on an aquiline patrician nose and was fond of Harris tweed sport jackets and solid-colored turtlenecks. On this day his shirt was navy.
    â€œYou flew coach?” Borger said.
    â€œNo, of course not. I’m referring to the poor souls in the back of the plane. I don’t think I’d ever take a flight again if I was subjected to that nonsensical harassment that occurs at airports these days. I often think that I would like to be alone in a room with that moron, Reid, who tried to blow up the plane by lighting his sneaker. Because of him, millions of shoes are taken off every day around the world.”
    Borger laughed. “And if you were alone in that room with him?”
    Landow made a pistol out of his hand and pointed it at Borger. “Bam!” he said.
    â€œSad what happened to Mark,” Borger said, not sounding as though he meant it. “Anything new in the press coverage?”
    â€œAccording to some articles, and information we’ve received through police channels, Ms. Klaus is still being considered a person of interest in the case.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œYour work with her seems to have been highly successful. From what I’m told, she continues to profess her innocence and has no recollection of having done what they’re accusing her of.”
    Borger adjusted himself in his chair and frowned.
    â€œSomething bothering you, Sheldon?”
    â€œWhat? Oh, no, nothing is bothering me. I do wish they’d arranged a better way to dispose of the car. It never should have been found by the police.”
    â€œThat’s not posing a problem, Sheldon. It can’t be traced back to her.”
    â€œStill—”
    â€œMark’s