Deadly Errors

by Allen Wyler

  “No problem.”

  “No, that’s not what I was getting to.” She reached out, touched his arm. “You know where Isabella’s restaurant is?”

  She gave him the address and said, “I want to hear the outcome of this. Why not meet me there for dinner, say 6:30?”

  Her proposition caught him off guard. He had no plans, not now with Nancy refusing to see him. “Sounds fine.”

  Arthur Benson entered the large office with the loping stride of an ex-athlete. At 6’1” and 200 pounds he struck Tyler as being in extremely good shape for his age and demanding job. He wore dark gray suit pants but no suit coat, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows and the collar button undone behind the loosened knot of a black and white checkered tie. He nodded to Jill. “Morning Ms. Richardson.” He extended his hand to Tyler. “Doctor Mathews, I’m embarrassed to say I don’t believe we’ve formally met yet. Arthur Benson.”

  The thing that caught Tyler’s eye was the shock of white hair just to the left of Benson’s widow peak. After shaking hands Benson offered them seats at the south end of the conference table.

  Richardson led off with, “I know you’re busy with the budget Art, but I consider this extremely important.” She turned to Tyler. “Doctor Mathews came to me with what he believes is a problem with our EMR. I recommended he tell you about it before doing anything else.” She nodded for him to begin.

  Tyler explained Larry Childs’s complication and how the field had been changed to a normal value after filing the NIH report. He went on to explain the near disastrous result from a mix up with the gram stains. For a brief moment he caught Jill’s eye. Then he mentioned there were other “examples” but didn’t elaborate. She seemed to understand.

  When he finished, Benson turned to Richardson. “Would you please excuse us, Ms. Richardson?”

  Rising out of the chair, she checked her watch. “Not a problem. I’m due for a meeting with your favorite Teamsters bull dyke.” She shot Benson a wide-eyed innocent look. “Should be loads of fun.”

  Once Richardson was out of the office and the door closed Benson locked eyes with Tyler. “Obviously you aren’t as smart as brain surgeons are cracked up to be or you would’ve taken the hint. Guess that means I have to spell things out for you. Mention another word to one more person about any alleged computer problems and I’ll personally see to it you’re brought up to the state Quality Assurance board for narcotic theft. I’m quite certain you’re smart enough to understand the repercussions of that. Do you not?”

  24

  “HEY SAILOR, LOOKING for a date?”

  Tyler snapped out of ruminating over his encounter with Arthur Benson, The Asshole, and glanced up to see Jill Richardson removing an ankle-length black raincoat. She handed it to the Restorante Isabella maitre d’ then slipped into the chair across the table from him. She wore a simple white silk blouse beneath a tailored black linen blazer and slacks, a single string of pearls her only jewelry. She looked stunning in the tastefully simple outfit.

  The maitre d’ asked, “And would you like to start with a cocktail?”

  Without consulting the menu Richardson said, “A glass of the house Pinot Grigio, Gregory.”

  “Very well, Miss Richardson.” He turned to Tyler. “Sir?”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Very good.” Their tuxedoed host turned heel.

  “So,” Richardson smoothed the tablecloth immediately in front of her, “how did the rest of your meeting with Art go?”

  “It sucked.” He described Benson’s threat.

  When he finished, she said, “I can see why that upset you but you need to appreciate what the medical center has at stake.”

  “Are you serious? He threatened me, goddamnit. Don’t even try to defend that. Jesus, you’d think he’d want to correct the problem. What’s going to happen to Maynard’s precious image if word gets out he covered up a flaw in their medical record system? Think that’s going to play well with the media?”

  She reached across the table, squeezed his hand, said, “Simmer down,” but held on a second longer than needed to make the point. “Yes, their reputation is at stake, but that’s only part of it, Tyler.”

  “Oh, I see … and that makes it okay for him to threaten me.” He felt pressure build in his head.

  “Oh Tyler, you’re so intense.” She shook her head, making an admonishing tsk-tsk sound. “No, not at all. I’m just saying I can see why he might have reacted the way he did.”

  Fists clenched, Tyler started to push out of the booth. “I can’t do this. I’m outta here.”

  She grabbed his arm. “Please don’t leave. At least not until you hear my side of this.” She released his arm.

  “There is no other side of it. The fact is a patient died from a radiation overdose. Now Benson’s trying to cover it up. That in itself should be enough to cause a serious investigation. Give me a break here.”

  “From your perspective they might. But where’s your proof? Look at the other facts. You claim a hacker diddled Childs’s medical records but the head of IT claims it never happened.” She shrugged. “Who’s Benson supposed to believe? You or his own lieutenant?”

  Tyler felt his face go red with anger. “Don’t you get it? He didn’t even listen to me. I bet he never bothered to check the pathology report on Childs’s brain.”

  She put her hands to her ears. “Okay, okay, keep your voice down.” She paused a beat. “Let’s go with that last thought of yours. Let’s assume for a moment he bought your hacker story. Why would he want you,” pointing a finger at his chest, “mouthing off to the press?” She cocked her head questioningly. “You have any media training?”

  He waved dismissively. “No, but why would I need media training if I was simply telling the truth?”

  “Why? Well let me tell you, a press conference can be a real bitch if you don’t know how to control it to give your own message. You get a couple of aggressive reporters on you tail and you’ll lose control in a millisecond. So, if there’s any media coverage of this, Art’s going to want Cynthia Wright from communications to handle it. Not you. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “In other words, white wash it.”

  “Oh, Tyler… .” She sighed. “What are you planning to do about this mess?”

  “Larry’s funeral is tomorrow. I thought I’d stop by.”

  “I don’t do funerals unless I have to.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard of a doctor going to his patient’s funeral? Isn’t that kind of against union rules, kind of like admitting you did something wrong?”

  “Don’t know. Never thought of it that way.”

  Their drinks arrived. Richardson picked up her glass in a toasting gesture. “Here’s to better days.”

  He thought of Nancy, of repairing the damage and getting back together. “To better times.”

  “May I ask you something?” Richardson looked at him now with an impossible-to-read expression. “You wear a wedding ring.”

  He glanced at his left hand, nodded, sat back in the booth and became aware of the clatter and chatter of diners, the interlaced fragrances of garlic and pesto and melting butter.

  “We’re separated,” was all he said. Then, on impulse, “How about you, you ever been married?”

  She chuckled. “No. The only men I’ve hooked up with have been one colossal series of Mister Wrongs. I seem to have perfected the knack of zeroing in on good-looking, self-assured, financially well off, narcissistic bastards, any one of whom would’ve resulted in an unmitigated disaster as a husband. A couple months ago I consulted a therapist about it, to see if I could snap out of the rut. But I never really had faith she’d do me any good so I dropped out.”

  Her unguarded frankness seemed completely out of character with her at-work persona. “You’re kidding.”

  When the waiter brought the bill Tyler reached for it. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She snatched it away. “Why? This was my idea. You can pic
k it up next time.”

  Next time?

  As they headed for the coat check she slipped her arm through his and asked in a soft voice, “Would you like to stop over for a nightcap?”

  “Sorry. I have some things to do tonight.”

  She seemed to take this in stride. “Then how about this. If you’re not busy tomorrow, why not come over for dinner?”

  “Look, I’m not trying to be high maintenance or anything, but I don’t know what kind of mood I’m going to be in after the funeral. Understand what I’m saying?”

  She nodded agreeably. “It’s Saturday. I don’t have anything planned. I can walk down to the market and find a few odds and ends to throw together at the last moment. Just give me a call and let me know, but don’t make it later than four thirty if you expect me to cook.”

  He reconsidered. “Tell you what … a home cooked dinner sounds great. I accept.”

  1:13 AM

  FOR A MOMENT Tyler stood in the shadows cast by the solitary low wattage bulb atop the corner of the long, one-story storage building directly across from his own 10 by 10 foot rental locker. The complex of storage buildings was closed this time of night forcing him to scale a high cyclone fence to sneak into the grounds, making him wonder if the owners kept a watchdog on duty. Before climbing the fence he’d scouted the area but saw few security measures—no CCTV or movement sensors—an oversight when renting the stall. Next time—if there were a next time—he’d know better. Then again, why? No one would want to steal his junk. He listened again for sounds of a dog. Nothing.

  Tyler moved to the side of the roll-up metal door to keep from casting his shadow on the heavy brass padlock and spun the dial. After leaving Jill, he’d returned home to burn another copy of the CD, which he placed in an envelope with a note to Nancy saying if anything should happen to him to turn it over to Gary Ferguson. He’d mail it in the morning when the post office opened. The original was in an envelope wedged in his left armpit as he worked the padlock free.

  Paranoid, maybe. Cautious, yes. Considering Michelle and Vericilli’s deaths, Walker’s disappearance, Benson’s threat, and Ferguson’s warning, he felt this precaution seemed definitely warranted.

  Kneeling, he grabbed the bottom of the storage locker door and raised it with a grinding metallic clatter. From his back pocket came a flashlight. For a moment he used it to survey his stuff. That’s exactly what it was: stuff. Meaningless items to others, precious to him. The game-winning basketball from the state championship played as point guard. Already-out-of-date medical school textbooks, a photo album chock full of worthless snapshots taken with his childhood Kodak.

  He slipped the envelope into the photo album and replaced it lovingly in the cardboard U-Haul moving box.

  A moment later he rolled down the metal door and secured the lock.

  25

  1:45 PM SATURDAY

  THE LAST SOMBER face hurried across the parking lot through thick unseasonable drizzle to disappear past the plate glass door into Bonney Watson funeral home. Tyler Mathews waited for the clustered mourners to clear the lobby before climbing out of his Range Rover and following. Just inside the door a marble-top desk held an open guest book. He didn’t sign it. To his left, organ music played a hymn vaguely familiar from long inattentive hours perched on a hard oak pew beside his parents during obligatory Unitarian services. That was thirty years ago when he still believed in God and the goodness of people.

  A left hand turn and twenty-five feet of oriental runner brought him to closed double doors. Inside, heavy organ chords accompanied a female’s soprano lilt. Careful to not attract attention, Tyler pushed open one side and slipped into the back of a room crammed with parallel rows of blond oak pews. The air smelled of the Tiger Lillies arranged around the podium in front. The room was packed, which surprised him. Friends of the family, he decided. Larry Childs had not been the kind of young man to garner sympathy, not be popular.

  He stood along the back wall, drifting into thoughts about the series of bizarre events this past week, when a sudden vibration against his left hip jerked him back to the funeral. He plucked the beeper from his belt and checked the display. A number he didn’t recognize, but the exchange was for the hospital.

  He slipped out the door into the deserted hallway. Twenty feet away a single glass door exited to a wheelchair ramp and the parking lot.

  Outside now, pulling his cell phone from his suit pocket, a voice demanded, “Doctor Mathews, what are you doing here?”

  He spun around. Leslie Childs held something out to him. “Want a hit?”

  He recognized a roach proffered between chewed, unpainted nails. Her choice of the “layered look”—a hand embroidered amateur crafts vest, untucked dress shirt over a tee shirt—couldn’t hide her unhealthy thinness. Bulimia or a bad macrobiotic diet? An eating disorder either way, he decided.

  “No thanks.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugged, prepared to take another toke, but paused. “You didn’t answer my first question. Why are you here?”

  He wanted to ask why she was out here getting loaded while her brother was inside being laid to rest, but instead replied, “Came to pay my respects to Larry.”

  Lips in a tight o, she held the marijuana smoke deep in her lungs, a raised index finger delaying her response. Finally, she exhaled with a phlegmy cough. “Sure it’s not out of guilt?”

  He met her incriminating stare. “Perhaps a bit. Larry was my patient. I always feel guilty when a patient dies. I wish I could’ve done more to save him.”

  Her eyes softened. “Even if there is nothing you could do to save him?”

  “Especially then.”

  When she didn’t respond he felt compelled to justify his answer. “Makes me feel useless as a doctor.”

  “You knew Larry didn’t have a chance when you took him to surgery, didn’t you?”

  Once more he saw no good answer, one that would end the conversation. He remembered the reason he’d come out here. “Excuse me,” holding up his cell phone, “I have to call the hospital.”

  Without waiting for an answer he turned and moved a few feet away, staying under the eves of the roof to keep off the heavy drizzle, his back to her.

  “Doctor Mathews, Christine Dikmen. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but this is important. You have a moment?”

  He glanced at the building, thought about the service in progress and decided to stay outside. “Yeah, sure.”

  “You don’t know me. I’m a nurse up on peds.” She paused as if searching for the right words. “There’s this kiddy up here, his name’s Toby Warner. He’s been diagnosed with agranulocytosis.”

  Tyler tried to remember what he’d learned about that in med school. No granulocytes, or white cells. Could be caused by medications. That was about it. “You sure I’m the person you want to talk to about this? I’m a neurosurgeon.”

  “I guess I’m not making much sense. Okay, here’s the story. This kid’s studies show his bone marrow is completely wiped out. I mean fried. His hematologist, Norton Sprague, you know him?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s placed Toby in protective isolation and is socking it to him with some big time bug killers. But that’s not all. Sprague wants the kid to have a bone marrow transplant and the parents aren’t buying into it.”

  Marrow transplant? “Why not? Admittedly, it’s a major procedure with a lot of risks, but if it’s indicated it’s indicated. What, they have some religious issue with that?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s they just don’t believe the diagnosis.”

  “And the reason you’re telling me all this is?”

  “Hold on a second, let me close the door to this office.”

  Tyler watched two-way traffic zip by on Broadway, the cars’ windshield wipers slapping clear arcs across windshields. A moment later, “There’s a rumor going around the hospital that you think there might be something wrong with the medical record system. Is that right?”


  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Is it true?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will you come up here and take a look at Toby?”

  Tyler decided he couldn’t just walk away from Leslie Childs without saying goodbye, so he turned.

  She was gone. So was the smell of marijuana.

  1:45 PM, SATURDAY

  “NANCY FAN?”

  Gary Ferguson stood in the open doorway to a laboratory of black counter tops and scientific instruments he couldn’t even begin to name, looking in at an attractive Asian woman hunched over a microscope. She wore a knee length white lab coat with her lustrous black hair rubber-banded into a pony-tail. Her large glasses did nothing to hide or detract from her intrinsic beauty.

  Her head jerked up. “Yes?” She glanced nervously around the room, perhaps looking for the familiar face of a colleague, her right hand delicately touching the base of her throat.

  “No need to be frightened.” He pulled his ID wallet from his blazer inside pocket. “Here,” offering it to her for inspection. “Special Agent Gary Ferguson, FBI.”

  She tentatively accepted the ID but handed it back immediately as if contaminated. “Is something wrong?”

  “Sorry to startle you. I tried your apartment but your roommate said you were here working.”

  “Is this about Tyler?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  She blushed, glanced around the room again, tense. “Nothing … I mean … nothing.”

  He returned the ID to blazer pocket. “You’re Tyler Mathews’s wife, correct?”

  She seemed to consider her answer. “Yes?”

  “May I?” Ferguson pointed to another counter-high lab stool and accepted his own offer. He leaned an elbow on the counter. “Yes, Doctor Fan, this is about Tyler. I need your help with something.”