Deadly Errors

by Allen Wyler

  She set down the grinder and leaned against the counter. “And why would he come to you with that particular question?”

  “This is beginning to feel more like an interrogation than idle conversation.”

  She shot him a hard look. “It’s important, Tyler. Now answer my question.”

  “Because I reported Larry Childs’s death to NIH. He was following up on it. Now get off my back.”

  She frowned. “Odd. Why would he be interested?”

  “I have no idea,” he lied.

  She seemed to consider this a moment. “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him what I knew … that Larry Childs had a bad case of radiation necrosis and despite the record saying he received a normal dose, he didn’t.”

  “And that’s all you told him?”

  “Right.”

  Seemingly relieved at his answer, she poured the grinder contents into an espresso machine, put two cups beneath the outflow scuppers, and pressed a button. “And when you talk to Ferguson this time, what do you plan on telling him?” Brown liquid began flowing out the scuppers into the cups.

  He studied her body language a moment, looking for … what? “Why so curious?”

  Her eyes held his a moment. “You have to ask? You just had two attempts on your life. Should I not be concerned about that?”

  He believed her. “I’m going to tell him everything I know about this mess.”

  “Fine, but do you have anything to back up your story? Last I knew you had nothing to prove the Childs thing.”

  “True, but I have the other patients you turned me on to.” He almost forgot Torres. “And my brain abscess patient.”

  “Yes, but do you have direct proof? That’s the real question. Without it, who’s going to believe you?”

  “Yeah, I have proof,” he said reluctantly. “I burnt all of it to CD. If anyone changes those records now, it’ll be even better evidence.”

  She seemed to think about this a moment too, “You stored that someplace safe, I presume.”

  “Yes.” He waited to see if she’d ask the obvious.

  Instead, she said, “And when you get to the part of your story about last night … the killers … who are you going to point the finger at?”

  29

  “ARTHUR BENSON.”

  “Arthur Benson! You’re joking. Why? Because he threatened you?” She barked a little you’ve-got-to-be-kidding laugh, like clearing her throat.

  “Seems like a good enough reason for me. Besides, he’s got a hell of a lot to lose if word gets out of a flaw in the system.”

  “Tyler, we all lose if that word gets out. Every one of us … from Benson on down to the dish washers in dietary. Think about it … sure, the CEO always takes the fall for a bad decision, especially one of that magnitude, but it was the board that signed off on the commitment to Med-InDx. My god, if it got smeared all over the press a security flaw was causing problems, no one would ever want to be admitted to Maynard again. If that happened, the whole hospital would go under. Every nurse, clerk, pharmacist and doctor—including you—would lose their job. Is that what you want? To lose your job?”

  He slammed the countertop with his palm and stepped off the bar stool intending to leave. “Jesus fucking Christ, I don’t believe what I just heard. What are you suggesting? That I not talk to Ferguson? That I turn my back on the fact patients are dying because of a software bug? That I simply forget that twice in the past twenty-four hours two thugs have tried to kill me?”

  Her right eyebrow arched. “Software bug? What’s this about a software bug?”

  Mistake. He’d forgotten. Far as she knew, he still believed in the hacker theory. He tossed a dismissive wave. “It makes more sense to suspect a software problem than a security breach by some serial killer hacker.” He couldn’t leave now, not until he deflected her attention from the software. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you suggesting, stay away from Ferguson because I can’t prove who’s trying to kill me?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all.” Anger filled her voice. A second later she held up a hand. “Time out.”

  She came around the counter, took him in her arms and hugged him. For a moment he did nothing, too caught off guard to know how to respond. His arms encircled her and for a moment he relived the fantasy from the other night.

  Nancy’s image floated into his consciousness. He pushed Jill away. “This is bullshit. I have to go.”

  She straightened up, a hurt look on her face, and brushed her hair back into place. “Hear me out on this, okay?”

  He glanced at his wrist, realized he didn’t have his watch. “One minute and I’m out of here.”

  She raised her finger. “All I’m saying is you’ll be more convincing if you can go to Ferguson with facts, not suspicions. If I understand you correctly you have some evidence from four patients’ charts that suggests complications. Isn’t that true?”

  “Yes but it’s more than just suggestion. They died because of errors in the records.”

  “But you have no idea what really caused those complications, do you? What I mean is, couldn’t some of them—if you really look closely—have been human error?”

  “You and I both know it wasn’t human error. Even you must’ve thought there was more to it than just human error. Why else would you give them to me?”

  “I never said I was convinced. They looked suspicious, that’s all. And as far as accusing Benson of hiring killers … man oh man, that’s one serious accusation to make without something other than an undocumented conversation between the two of you.” She shot him a questioning look. “Does any of this make any sense?”

  In fact, it did. He nodded. Any move against Benson without absolute proof would result in exactly the same type of reprisal his ex-chairman had leveled on him. Only this time it’d be worse, he’d lose his license to practice medicine. Maybe his life.

  Jill rotated her cup, seemed to consider asking something. “Is there any way to get more supporting information before you call your FBI contact?”

  “There might be.”

  30

  JILL ASKED, “WHAT?”

  Trust her? He wanted to. For what reason, he wasn’t certain. If nothing more, he wanted someone to bounce the idea off of. Who else was there?

  “My only hope of finding the kind of evidence you’re talking about is to convince someone inside of Med-InDx to help me. I only know three people even remotely associated with the company. Jim Day, Yusef Khan, and Bernie Levy. Levy sure as hell isn’t going to do anything. Ditto with Khan. That leaves Day.”

  “You’re not planning on going near the hospital are you?”

  “Not if I can help it,” he lied.

  She seemed genuinely concerned. “After all that’s happened, what makes you think you can trust him?”

  “He may not have a choice.”

  TYLER COULD FEEL the doorman’s eyes size him up as soon as he exited the elevator and headed through the lobby of Jill’s condominium heading to the front door. Too discrete to ask a point blank question—like who the hell was he—the doorman pulled open the huge hinged hunk of plate glass protecting the high-end building from outside urban uncertainties and uttered a simple, “Good morning, sir,” without completely masking a distinct note of curiosity from his voice.

  Tyler figured probably not many homeowners come strolling through the lobby in scrubs. And the pair of heavy, black Zeiss binoculars in his left hand did little to clarify the picture. Or maybe it was something very simple—a security thing—like the guy had never laid eyes on him before now. He decided whatever the issue, it was the doorman’s problem, not his. He avoided eye contact, muttered, “thanks,” and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  He stood to the side of the door, mentally running through his plan. Although the street was still in the building’s shadow, the air temperature was now on the chilly side of mid-sixties. The scent of salt water from a gentle harbor breeze had washed aw
ay all evidence of Saturday night car fumes but did nothing to calm the brewing anxiety in his gut. A moment later he turned away from the harbor and started toward the next corner.

  9:40 AM

  TYLER CROUCHED, BINOCULARS steadied on a rusted, metal-capped parapet, studying his apartment windows across the street. The downward angle didn’t allow an entire view of the living room and kitchen, but gave him enough coverage to believe no one was waiting inside. He’d been crouched up here on this stinking tar roof for what felt like a half hour but was probably more like fifteen minutes, making his knees ache, making him edgy to move on. Besides that, the black roof was radiating enough heat to make breathing the putrid exhaust from a nearby vent a real pain in the ass.

  Leaning forward, the heavy German glasses angled downwards, he studied the cars and pedestrians once again, coming back to an anthracite BMW 7-series still curbed just down from the entrance to his building. It had been parked there doing nothing since he first looked. The driver side window was down, an elbow perched on the edge, a wisp of what could be cigarette smoke curling up over the top edge every once in a while. Short of walking up and asking what the hell the driver was waiting for, there was no way to prove they were watching for him or not and it seemed highly doubtful it would be Ferguson’s car.

  Might as well get on with it, he decided.

  He duckwalked back from the edge before standing and heading for the bare concrete stairwell. A few minutes later, on the basement level of the apartment building, he hit a button switch. A roll-up, metal-slat garage door groaned upwards, allowing him to walk up the steeply angled driveway into the alley. From here he traveled two blocks north, turned east for two blocks before heading south for another two blocks, bringing him to a 24/7 convenience store. He entered and nodded to the familiar counter clerk, the air thick with the smell of spicy hotdogs rotating under a set of heat lamps.

  He passed a wire stand stocked with various potato chip choices and followed an aisle to a large cooler filled with beer, soft drinks, and half gallon milk cartons. A narrow hall led past a unisex lavatory radiating ammonia fumes to a metal fire door.

  Tyler cracked the door and peered out. The alley, atherosclerotic from green dumpsters, was impassable to any vehicle wider than a Volkswagen Jetta. Twenty feet away a man in soiled clothes was urinating against a brick wall.

  Tyler crossed the alley to his apartment building back door and punched a six digit security code onto an aluminum keypad. The door lock responded with a hard, metallic snap. He stepped inside and for the next thirty seconds stood on the stairwell landing breathing deeply, trying to slow his heart and light headedness. He listened for someone in the stairwell. Nothing. Slowly he cracked the door and peeked into the first floor lobby. Seeing no one, he slipped into the hall and punched the manager’s doorbell and waited down the hall so that he couldn’t be seen from the street. A moment later the door opened, framing an unshaven face with bloodshot basset hound eyes.

  “Doc Mathews.” The manager combed nicotine stained fingers through greasy salt and pepper hair.

  “Sorry to bother you, Carlos, but I—”

  “Y’don’t have no keys.” The man yawned, scratched both love handles and nodded. “You okay, man? Sure as shit din look worth a damn last night when they drug you outta here. Juz a minute.” For a beat he vanished from view only to reappear, keys in hand. He wore a faded Grateful Dead tee shirt and black jeans, no socks. He started toward the elevator without bothering to close his own door, probably figuring no one would have the nerve to enter, much less steal anything.

  “I gotta tell ya, Doc, the owners don’t want no druggies livin’ here. I’m gonna cut ya some slack this time, but anything like last night happens again… . Well …” He let it float.

  Fed up with trying to defend himself, Tyler answered, “Understood.”

  Carlos pulled a ring of keys from a retractable belt holder and opened his door. “Here ya go, doc.”

  “Hold on a second, I want to give you something.”

  Carlos shot him a suspicious look. “Gimme something?”

  Tyler swept his hand toward the entrance. “A thank you for your trouble here.”

  The manager grinned, showing a missing canine. “No need.”

  “You can wait here or come on in.” Tyler entered his apartment, figuring if someone were waiting for him Carlos could run and call the police. Carlos followed him in.

  “Hold on.” Tyler make a quick tour through the one bedroom apartment before stopping in the kitchen and grabbing the only bottle of wine in the place, a Merlot he’d bought in hopes of cooking dinner for Nancy. “Here you go.”

  Carlos smiled. “Hey thanks, man, but ya know, you don’t need to do this.” He held up the bottle. “Ya sure?”

  Tyler gave him a shoulder pat, ushering him toward the door. “For all your troubles. Thanks again.”

  A moment later he locked the door and surveyed the place more closely. His keys were on the counter where he’d left them. There were no signs of a struggle in either living room or bedroom. Even the syringe was gone. He checked the answering machine. Unplugged. At first he considered plugging it back in, then decided to let it go. If the killers knew it was unplugged, called, and found it plugged in again, they’d know he’d returned.

  A floorboard creaked. Tyler froze.

  Could he have overlooked something?

  Both eyes on the bedroom, Tyler backed up toward the coat closet where he kept a baseball bat for the occasional pick up games between MMC surgeons and anesthesiologists. It was a well-used Louisville slugger from high school. Bat raised, ready to swing, he moved toward the bedroom and stepped inside. His breath caught. The bathroom door was closed—something he never did living by himself. Tyler turned the doorknob until he heard it click. He waited a beat before throwing it open and stepping back into a batting crouch. He waited.

  No one.

  TYLER DUMPED THE Range Rover two blocks from the hospital, fed the parking meter with enough quarters to stave off the meter maids for an hour, and took off on foot. He was wearing black Levi’s, a black cotton mock tee, and his Nike jogging shoes. A few minutes later he approached the main loading area for the medical center. As expected for this time of morning, a truck was backed up to the dock. With his ID badge clipped to his belt, in clear sight but difficult to read, he moved briskly along the sloping driveway, up a set of chipped concrete stairs onto the loading dock. With a cordial nod to a worker, he slipped inside, jogged a set of stairs down to the subbasement, then a tunnel to the annex. Moving quickly and purposefully, he climbed the stairs to the correct floor, darted through the hall to the office.

  Jim Day looked up from his desk with a startled expression. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Keep your hand away from the phone and your keyboard.” Tyler surprised himself with the force of his command. He shut the door isolating the two of them from the hall and anyone passing by. He leaned over the desk, both hands on the surface and locked eyes with Day. “How long have you known about the bug?”

  Day’s face went expressionless. “Excuse me?”

  “The bug. How long have you known about it.”

  Day glanced nervously around as if someone else might hear. “The fuck you talking about?”

  “Don’t start with that shuck and jive routine. I know you know exactly what I’m talking about. The medical record system. It’s got a bug and it’s killing patients. And if word gets out, you and everybody who hid the fact is going to be running for cover. And you know what? Those of us on the low end of the totem pole are the ones going to take the fall for the other guys. Know what I’m saying?”

  Day coughed into his first. “Man, I don’t need this shit. You been shooting again? That what this is all about? ’Cause sure sounds like you’re high.”

  “Think so? Think that’s why the FBI came sniffing around two days after I filed the NIH report on Childs?”

  Day stopped fidgeting and stared back. />
  “Yeah, that’s right. Wasn’t even 48 hours before a federal agent was in my office asking about it. Seems that one of your predecessors got worried about what was happening and … well, you know … went to Mexico scuba diving and never came back.”

  Day picked up a ballpoint pen, started drumming it on the edge of the desk. After a moment he said, “So, what are you trying to say?”

  “I think you know about the bug. Least that’s what I told the FBI.”

  “You what!” Day slammed down the pen, started drumming his fingers on the desk instead. “You fucking crazy?”

  “That’s right,” Tyler smiled insanely, “I told them you not only know about the bug, but that you’re part of the cover up. They’ve had you under surveillance for the past week.”

  Day studied Tyler’s eyes a moment, perhaps looking for a bluff. “And what’s this bug supposed to do?”

  “Hell, you know more about this than I do. You tell me. What can go wrong? A value gets corrupted because of a magnetic flaw in the storage media? Maybe two values are inputted at exactly the same time so the CPU confuses them? What? I don’t know how it happens. I only know it does happen. So,” meeting Day’s eyes full on now, “you tell me.”

  Day continued drumming the table and studying Tyler’s face. “It’s possible, I suppose … just not likely.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’d know about it already. That’s what this past few years of beta testing’s been all about.”

  “Now there’s an interesting answer. It can’t be happening because we don’t know it’s happening. I think there’s a name for that kind of logic but I can’t exactly remember it at the moment.”

  Day just sat glowering at him.

  “Know what I think?”

  Day shook his head. “No, enlighten me.”

  “I think everybody in your company knows about it but prays to hell word doesn’t hit the media before the IPO hits Wall Street. Either that or you believe by some sort of miracle it’s going to be fixed in time to hold a press conference in which your PR guru or Bernie Levy will announce to the world that you discovered it just in the nick of time, before it before it could cause trouble. That’s what I think.”