Deadly Errors

by Allen Wyler

  Day looked away, the overhead neon light glistening off two beads of sweat over his upper lip. “You can say what you want to whoever you want. But you can’t prove shit.”

  “Before you just blow this off and stonewall again, think about what’ll happen if Med-InDx gets the JCAHO nod and becomes the gold standard. You really want to know you had a chance to stop this but didn’t because you wanted to boost the value of your stock options? Is that what you really want?”

  “Hey, don’t cop an attitude with me.” Day sat upright. “This FBI dude … you really tell him about me? Like what?”

  Tyler saw fear in Day’s eyes. “Like I already told you … said you knew about it and that I’d asked you to help me.”

  “And?”

  “That discussion’s not over yet. So, I guess that depends on how much help you give me.”

  An idea flashed in Tyler’s mind. He raised his hand, cutting off Day’s next remark. “Hold on, let me ask you something first. Every time I asked about changing the radiation dose field you told me you couldn’t. But what about someone like Bernie Levy, could he do it?”

  Day wagged his head. “Oh man, Bernie? Nerdy Bernie?” He seemed to mull this over. “Yeah, guess maybe … He’s the man who penned the code. Don’t see why he couldn’t. But then again, there’d be a record of it.”

  “Yeah? Well maybe not.” He remembered his college roommate, a computer programmer who wrote games as a means of supporting his tuition and board. “I assume since Bernie wrote the code, he’d know the program’s trap doors.”

  “He’d have to. He wrote them.”

  From the intensity of Day’s eyes he could tell the technician had already anticipated the next logical point. “Then couldn’t it be possible for Levy to change the value of, say, Childs’s radiation dose and not leave a record of it?”

  Day let out a long slow whistle. “Lord have mercy, this is getting a bit heavy.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “Shit yeah, it’s possible. But I don’t know, man … geeky old Bernie doing something like that … ?” He wagged his head. “Man, that’s cold.”

  “So let me ask you once more … have you heard anything about a system flaw? A bug that can corrupt or change parts of records?”

  Day exhaled a long slow breath and stroked his upper lip. After a moment he leaned forward. “Okay, so maybe there’s been some rumblings and shit for maybe six months now, maybe longer. No one’s sure what the problem is, but hell yeah, there’s a problem.”

  Tyler’s heart accelerated. If a record existed of trouble shooting the bug and he could get hold of a copy, it could go a long way toward settling the score with Ferguson even if his career as a neurosurgeon was finished. “You know if there’s any formal record of it?”

  Day gave a resigned nod. “Not something formal, but more than likely there’d be notes or a list of traps to trouble shoot it. Word has it someone’s been working on it. Probably Levy since he’s so proud of that part.”

  “Where would those notes be?”

  “Only one place they’d keep something like that. Levy’s office.”

  The other day he might have been sitting within ten feet of that information and didn’t know it. But more than that, Day had just confirmed what he’d suspected all along. Levy had been lying.

  “I want you to help me get in that office.”

  Day laughed. “You what? Man, that’s fucking insane.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Day settled back in his chair, shooting Tyler a funny look.

  Tyler asked, “You going to just sit there admiring my overbite?”

  “Whoa, guess you are serious.”

  “How do you get in the building at night?”

  The right corner of Day’s mouth curled up. He rolled his eyes. “Can’t fucking believe you. The building has security. Not Fort Knox security, but security. For starters, you need a swipe card.”

  Tyler decided to press his luck. “Let me borrow yours.”

  Day barked a sarcastic grunt. “No fucking way, man. They’d be on my sorry ass like Dragnet.”

  “Okay, then I’ll find my own way into the building. How about the main office? How do you get in there?”

  “Oh man …” he hung his head, “you use a key.”

  “Yours will do fine.”

  Day shook his head adamantly. “Uh uh, noooo noooo. You ain’t getting it.”

  “Yes I will. You’re going to get me a copy of yours. And you know why you’re going to do that?”

  Day didn’t answer.

  “Because if I do, I’ll tell the FBI you helped me blow this thing apart. If I don’t, I’ll stick to my story that you aided and abetted a cover up.”

  Day’s head dropped back, his eyes looking straight up at the ceiling. “Fuck.” A moment later he said, “I need some time. Give me a couple hours, then meet me in Pioneer Square,” and gave Tyler an exact location.

  3:34 PM

  FROM AN ALLEY across the street Tyler watched Jim Day saunter into a combination coffee shop and bookstore in historic Pioneer Square. Tyler watched for an additional three minutes before starting across the street. The day was perfect Seattle August—bright, low 70s, low humidity—the type of weather that packs the area with tourists and locals alike. Waterfront salt water, drying kelp, and creosote tinged the air.

  On the other side of the street now, he peered in the shop’s front window. Day sat at an ice cream table for two inspecting a self-standing table menu sandwiched in plastic. A moment later Tyler folded himself into the opposite chair, said, “You got it?”

  Day set down the menu. “You’re a real asshole, you know that.”

  Tyler looked nervously over his shoulder at the front door. “I don’t have time for pleasantries, my friend.”

  Day removed a key wallet from his pocket, unhooked one from a loop, handed it over, muttered, “Oh, man, sure hope you know what the fuck you doin’.”

  31

  TYLER WATCHED JIM Day walk out of the café. He decided to sit for a moment and try to come up with a plan of how to break into Bernie Levy’s office. He reconsidered Day’s advice to stay away from the place. Who knew what kind of security they had or if Day was setting him up. What about just calling Ferguson and handing over what little information he had? He wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t turn out to be a repeat of the California disaster. “History repeats itself,” was one of his father’s favorite clichés. Tyler believed it. No matter what, his medical career was over. Arthur Benson would see to that.

  Tyler decided on a reasonable plan. One he would carry out tonight. The more he thought about it, the more tonight, Sunday, seemed like the best time. Fewer people in the building. More than likely the janitorial services would have already been through the place Friday evening, leaving him only security to deal with. Just how much additional security Med-InDx might have in addition to routine building guards was the real unknown. Being a start up company they probably didn’t have the cash to support much extra, if any at all.

  “May I help you?”

  He looked up at a waitress. “Sorry. I’m just leaving.” He stood. Time to get going anyway. He decided to empty his bladder before leaving and walked to the hall in the back of the store.

  A few minutes later Tyler reentered the store, froze and did a double take. One of the killers—the stockier one—stood just inside the entrance, cellphone against ear. He hadn’t seen Tyler yet.

  Tyler backed up a step, frantically searching his memory—had he noticed a back exit? Had to be one.

  The man’s eyes locked onto Tyler. He gave a sharp nod, slammed the cellphone shut and stuffed it into his pocket. Grinning, he started toward Tyler.

  Tyler turned and ran, searching for an exit sign. The hall turned right past the toilet, then left into a dead end with doors to either side. He pulled open the one to the right. A set of open stairs with a flimsy metal pipe railing led down into darkness. His forehead brushed something.
He reached up and touched a pull string. He pulled. Lights flicked on below. Looked like an abandoned cellar. He slammed the door and threw the deadbolt then scrambled down the rickety stairs to hard packed dirt.

  A quick scan of the large area revealed an old boiler room, maybe the original for heating the building. In a distant corner, an old abandoned coal furnace stood on a cement pad.

  A loud crash of splintering wood came from the top of the stairs. He spun around to look. The door held, but it looked as if another good kick would open it.

  He ran around the room inspecting the bare cement walls for any way to escape. No windows, no doors. He was trapped.

  The boiler—any way to hide in there? He jerked open the heavy cast iron door. Not enough room. Besides, it’d be the first place to look. Anything to use as a weapon? He scanned the floor again.

  Another splintering crash from the door. He glanced up at it again. The hinges were barely hanging on now.

  Instinctively he moved behind the boiler as if to delay the inevitable.

  On the bare cement wall a four-foot-high iron door hung on rusted hinges. Discarded on the dirt below lay a small length of rusted iron pipe. Not a good weapon, but …

  He wedged the pipe under the door edge and pulled, trying to pry it open. It wouldn’t budge. Tyler mustered all his strength and gave one more pull. Metal screeched against metal as the door cracked open two inches, enough to curl his fingers around the edge. Leaning against the cement wall, he yanked with every ounce of strength. Slowly, screaming in protest, the door opened.

  What he saw totally confused him. The door shielded an opening but it was entirely bricked in. He reached out and fingered the mortar. It crumbled to his touch. It dawned on him—he was looking at a remnant of the Seattle Underground. He remembered the story he heard shortly after moving here and taking a city tour. How after the original city burned, a new city had been built on top of the old one. Which meant there was probably a passage or even an old abandoned street just on the other side of the bricks.

  “Shit.”

  He swung the pipe against the bricks and was amazed to see large chunks of mortar and brick fall away. He swung again, this time punching a brick back into a black void. With his back firmly against the cold iron boiler, he kicked the flat of his foot into the bricks. More fell away, landing on the other side of the wall with distant thumps. Another kick gave him an aperture barely large enough to crawl through.

  One more crash from above and the door came bouncing down the stairs.

  Tyler stuck his head through the opening into black dank air, fouled with urine and feces. Had to be underground Seattle. Long since abandoned except for tours through limited areas. He’d heard stories of homeless and psychotics living down here in the sub-sidewalks.

  He wiggled head first through the opening hoping the tight constriction would slow down the bruiser coming down the stairs. His fingers sank into a layer of foul smelling muck. He hand-walked forward, wiggling his torso through until he managed to free his legs. Standing, on slippery ground now, he flicked both hands. Globs of mess splattered against the wall.

  Which way to go?

  He reached out, touched the wall he’d just climbed through. Keeping his right hand against the wall, he stumbled along the side of the building without any idea where it would lead.

  The unstable footing slowed him in spite of the intense urgency to run. He forced his pace to quicken. With his next step his right foot came down on something that rolled away with a clink, driving his full weight onto his twisted right ankle. A bolt of pain shot up his leg. He groaned and steadied himself against the wall while working his ankle back and forth, trying to determine how badly it was injured. A moment later he gingerly placed weight on it. Sore and sprained, but functional.

  Up ahead dim light filtered down from over head.

  Behind him came a crash. Bricks splashed into the same muck he just left. Frantically, he limped forward toward the dim light.

  Footsteps started splashing in his direction now, faster than his own. He tried to speed up but his ankle wouldn’t tolerate it. He tried pushing through the pain as he’d done so many times on the basketball court, but his ankle only throbbed more and threatened to buckle. He accidentally kicked an object. Glass shattered, giving away his position. “Shit,” he muttered and glanced over his shoulder. A circle of pale light angling in from the wall opening silhouetted the killer as he lurched forward.

  A raspy voice whispered, “Come to mama, Mathews,” then chuckled.

  Ahead about fifteen feet, up where the ceiling should be, anemic rays of light filtered down. He remembered examples of surviving old sidewalk-windows that looked like really thick soda pop bottle bottoms arranged in six by eight foot concrete panes embedded in the sidewalks. With his retinas more adjusted to the darkness, the old skylight allowed enough luminescence to pick up his pace in spite of his protesting ankle. Moving more quickly now, his eyes searched the dim light for any sort of weapon.

  Echoing, sloshing footsteps were closing in. How can such a monster move so fast, especially through this darkness? The fetid overpowering air made it impossible to take in a deep full breath.

  He stumbled, fell to his knees, jamming both hands into rubble, scraping his palms. His hand brushed something and his fingers explored it a second before his mind connected an image. Pipe. A piece of discarded water pipe. Old lead pipe. He picked it up, examining its length with his other hand, felt its heft.

  The approaching footsteps slowed. He could hear the man’s breathing now.

  The hoarse voice said, “Nothing personal, you understand. Just doing my job.”

  Tyler gingerly planted his right foot then turned to look. The behemoth stood just inside the rays from the overhead skylight. “Tell me something,” Tyler said.

  “What?”

  Tyler threw his entire body into the swing, bringing the pipe around at full force into the man’s left tibia. There was a sickening crunch of bone. The man gasped but he didn’t go down. Tyler scrambled to his feet, bringing the pipe back for another swing.

  He didn’t get the chance. A fist the size of Alaska slammed into his stomach, doubling him over, stealing his breath. Another fist crashed into the back of his neck sending him down onto dirt and chunks of concrete and brick. Sparkling lights danced where his vision should be.

  Miraculously Tyler’s right hand still clutched the pipe. Gasping for breath, he rolled onto his side just as a foot stomped the dirt next to his ear. A sharp edge poked into his back. He rolled once more moving a little farther away from the hulk. Obviously hurt, the man limped forward clutching something in his right hand. Tyler tried to scramble to his feet, but a round object under his foot rolled, dropping him to his knees again. Kneeling, using a two-handed swing, he swung the pipe for the man’s groin and connected solidly.

  The huge shape groaned and dropped the object as both hands groped toward his groin. He bent forward, trying to deal with the pain yet still do the job he came for. Tyler scrambled to stand, but rammed his head into something hard. For a second he could only kneel, stunned. The killer started to straighten up.

  Tyler raised the pipe and brought it down squarely on the back of the man’s head with a satisfying THUNK.

  The man went down and remained still.

  For a few seconds Tyler crouched, still trying to breathe normally, his weapon ready to hit again. The killer stayed motionless but breathing. Slowly, step by step, Tyler backed away, putting space between them. Finally convinced the battle was over, he turned and hobbled into protective darkness in search of a way out.

  32

  TEN, MAYBE FIFTEEN minutes later, Tyler stepped around a wood slat barrier into a well-lighted cavern of old storefronts and a wood sidewalk. Early Seattle, a replica of Seattle’s business district before the fire that destroyed the young city.

  Fifty feet away a guide told a group of tourists, “In 1889 an overturned glue pot in Jim McGough’s paint shop started the Great
Seattle Fire. What happened was the city burned down, leaving only tough brick shells of the main part of the old city. Since the area had been repeatedly inundated as a saltwater flat, it was decided to lay down iron beams and build a new, higher city on top of the old. Parts of that underground still survive and you can see the doors, windows… .” He stopped to peer, open mouthed, at Tyler.

  Tyler limped forward, his ankle aching like hell, his clothes smelling of gunk. He asked, “Which way’s out?”

  The guide looked him up and down with obvious distaste and pointed to his right. “Just follow that sidewalk. It’s about a half block.” He nodded at Tyler’s hand.

  Tyler glanced down at the two-foot length of pipe still clutched tightly. “Oh that? Been hunting rats.”

  9:15 PM, TYLER’S APARTMENT

  JILL ASKED TYLER, “Can you think of anything you might’ve forgotten?”

  Stupid question, Tyler thought. How would I know if I’d forgotten it? She’s just trying to be helpful, he decided. He told her, “No. I think I have everything,” and tried to ignore a hollow, anxious, weightless feeling in his stomach.

  They were in his apartment, Tyler wearing a fresh pair of black Levi’s, a black mock tee, a black windbreaker, and his dark Navy trail-biking rucksack. Perfect for blending into shadows.

  After climbing out of the Underground, he’d caught a bus uptown and spent fifteen minutes limping around the perimeter of the building housing Med-InDx before heading back to his apartment to dump his soiled clothes into the washer and stand under a hot driving shower for ten minutes before tending the various scratches over his face and hands. He’d taken 600 mg of ibuprofen, iced his ankle and elevated it.

  Then he’d tried to nap but couldn’t sleep, worrying instead about how the killers knew where to find him in the café. Obviously, someone told them. Who? Only three possibilities existed: Jim Day, Jill Richardson, and, unwittingly, himself. Day was the obvious choice since he had the best motivation: to save Med-InDx’s reputation. But if that was the case, why give Tyler the key? To set him up to get caught breaking into Levy’s office? If so, why tip off the killers to come for him in the cafe? Didn’t make sense.