Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  “Yes, sir, I understand that’s your perception. But here’s the situation. There are always two sides to a story. We’ve heard Lieutenant Sikes’s side and now I want to hear yours so we can sort them out. The only way we can to do that is if you surrender to us. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “Can’t do it if Sikes is there.”

  DELEON FRANKLIN WAVED Hansen to come closer. He, Sikes, and Hansen huddled in the hall outside of McCarthy’s office, waiting for the SPD homicide detectives assigned to the case as well as the crime scene team to show up.

  Hansen mouthed, “What?”

  Sikes said, “Offer him anything so we can get to him. Doesn’t matter what.” Then Sikes asked Franklin, “Any way to get a fix on where that radio is?”

  Franklin shook his head. “Nope.”

  HANSEN’S VOICE CAME back over McCarthy’s radio. “Okay, whatever you say. You want it to be just you and me?”

  McCarthy wanted to believe Hansen, but why should he? There had been nothing to establish the trust Hansen was asking for. And the more he thought about it, how did he even who was on the other end of the radio? Could be one of Sikes’s team for all he knew.

  The radio crackled. “You still there, McCarthy?”

  He pressed the transmit button for a second as a reply. He flat out didn’t trust Hansen.

  “If you don’t want to come here,” Hansen said, “where would be acceptable? What we need to do is cool things down before this situation gets out of hand. Make sense?”

  McCarthy felt trapped, the noose closing tighter around his neck. Sooner or later they’d have him. Would it be to his advantage to be on record as surrendering? “No way will I surrender unless Sikes is completely out of the building and I have Seattle Police protection.”

  “There we go. I can arrange that. Let’s get started with a de-escalation process. I understand you have Agent Washington’s weapon. Is that true?”

  McCarthy became acutely aware of the object pressing the small of his back and saw where this was heading. An asset turned liability.

  “No. That’s another lie.”

  “Yes, sir, but his weapon isn’t on his body and isn’t in the immediate area. If we want a peaceful surrender, we need to know you’re unarmed. So maybe, as I talk through this, the best thing is for me to come to you alone. How does that sound?”

  Sounded like bullshit. McCarthy decided it’d be best to find a way to get out of the building and contact his lawyer and have him negotiate a surrender. Where was the closest exit?

  “McCarthy, listen to me. The situation’s not good. And it’s growing worse each second you remain on the loose. The Seattle police are here. Their SWAT team has sealed the building and is searching floor by floor for you. Once they find you—and they will find you—well, all I can say is things are out of my control. Bad things can happen. And you know why? Because a man is lying up here in your office dead and his weapon is missing. Right or wrong, the police believe you’re in possession of that weapon. See where this is heading? Unless you lay down that gun and surrender now, this isn’t going to end well.”

  How could this happen? What had he done to deserve this? Was this some sort of karmic retaliation for a long-forgotten transgression? He looked from the radio in his hand to the stairwell, thought about his location in the building, the closest exits, the risks of making a run for it. His life had been spent being logical and dealing with logical people. But this situation …

  The squelch broke on the radio. “McCarthy, last chance. Let me come talk with you. What’s it going to be?”

  17

  MCCARTHY FIGURED IF the police were searching the building, it’d probably be with the help of hospital security. Worse, with the damn code black, every hospital employee would be on the lookout for him. Realistically though, the cops had limited time and resources. If they didn’t find him within a couple hours, they’d have other issues cropping up to deal with. Meaning if he could find a safe hiding place to wait for maybe four to five hours he’d have a better shot at escape. The trick would be finding a good place.

  The door on the landing above clicked open, followed by voices, one male, the other female, forcing Tom to make a decision. He started down the stairs, racking his brain for hiding places. Nothing came to mind. But as long as he was being forced to lower floors, he might as well try for an exit. If he could make it out of the building, he’d be a lot safer.

  He stopped at the next landing, opened the door to a deserted hall and started walking at a normal pace to draw less attention. He noticed a storeroom ahead and tried his master key in the lock. To his surprise, it worked.

  The room was small, maybe twenty square feet, cinderblock walls of faded yellow, with the distinct odors of floor wax and stale vomit. One entire wall contained floor-to-ceiling shelves with lightbulbs, electrical switches, linoleum tiles, and paint cans. Another wall held three gray electrical panels with a hodgepodge of circuit breakers and myriad electrical connections. A white porcelain sink in the floor must be there for rinsing mops and dumping buckets. The far end had a narrow alcove for storing a stepladder and poles of various lengths. It was wide enough to slide in behind the ladders and be relatively hidden from a quick glance from the doorway. Then again, it was so narrow that if he were discovered, he’d be trapped like a rat. But with the cops swarming the building and no better place to hide …

  It dawned on him to look for a weapon, something other than Washington’s gun. Firing it in a small concrete room might cause a ricochet. He glanced around, saw the metal handle on the mop squeezer in the large galvanized bucket. It easily unscrewed, giving him a club of substantial heft. Yeah, this could work.

  He backed into the narrow alcove and settled down on his hams to wait at least a couple hours, hoping that by then the cops would decide he’d escaped. Assuming, of course, Sikes’s men didn’t discover him first.

  For the moment he could breathe easier and work on getting help. Better yet, his cell phone showed three bars of signal strength. Call 9-1-1? Probably not wise with the police already buying into Sikes’s fabricated story. Call a lawyer? He knew only one in Seattle, Dan Bishop, who had been a patient. He dialed information, a synthesized voice asked, “What city?”

  “Seattle,” he whispered, self-conscious of his voice, then gave Bishop’s name.

  “Would you like to be connected?”

  “Yes.”

  Bishop’s office was thin on fluff, the practice being low-profile, personal law. Wills, divorces, some estate planning. So it wasn’t surprising to be connected to an automated voice tree. He punched in Bishop’s extension even though the odds of reaching him were slim on a Friday before a holiday weekend, but maybe he could track down an emergency number to call. To his surprise, someone answered immediately. “Bishop.”

  Relieved, he blurted, “Dan. Tom McCarthy. Thank God you’re there. I’m in a huge mess and need help.” Tom quickly summarized what happened.

  When he’d finished, Bishop said, “That’s quite a story,” then paused. “Tom, look, I’m not the one to be talking to. If what you tell me is true—”

  “It is,” McCarthy said defensively.

  “Sorry. Bad choice of words. Of course it is.” Bishop sounded irritatingly patronizing. “What I’m saying is, you need a criminal defense lawyer, not some paper pusher like me who deals with probate and divorce court.”

  “I agree, but I don’t know any. I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Ever hear of Palmer Davidson?”

  “No.”

  “Palmer’s the best around, no question. So if you agree, I’ll try to reach him. If I do, I’ll inquire as to his availability. But I must warn you, it may be problematic with this three-day weekend, and all.”

  There didn’t seem to be any choice but to give it a try. Suddenly it felt they were wasting time talking about it. “Try him. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. I can’t stress how important this is.”

  “Where are you? How
can I reach you?”

  A bolt of paranoia cut off his answer. What did he really know about Bishop? Lawyers, like everyone else, sometimes had their own agendas that didn’t necessarily include their client’s. Besides, what if Sikes somehow could monitor this call? After all, this wasn’t encrypted. Could the cops find out his number by contacting Verizon? And if Sikes was who he claimed, he probably had state-of-the-art technology capable of intercepting cell calls. Now that he thought about it, Sikes knew a great deal about him before ever setting foot in the office this morning. Perhaps he already had his cell identifier.

  “My battery’s low. I’ll wait, what, ten, fifteen minutes, and call you back. Is there a back line to call that bypasses the phone tree?”

  As Bishop recited the number Tom stored it in the cell memory.

  “I grabbed the ten-minute figure off the top of my head—is that enough time?”

  “Probably. He’s either in his office or he isn’t. If not, there’s no telling if I can even track him down. He could already be gone.”

  A ten-minute wait seemed unbearable, but at least they had a sensible plan, an improvement from what he had before the call. “Ten minutes. Thanks. Call you back.” He punched off and settled in to wait.

  The ten minutes crawled by, each one seeming to take longer than the prior one whiles his emotions ping-ponged between hope and despair. Did Bishop have enough time? Could he reach Davidson? And if so, would Davidson be too busy with other clients to help? Was he on vacation? More and more doubts riddled his mind, eroding any hope of securing help.

  After ten minutes he waited two more minutes before finally dialing. Bishop answered before the first ring ended. “It’s your lucky day, so buy a Lotto ticket. I reached him just as he was heading out the door. He’s promised his son they’d do camping this weekend, so if he doesn’t hear from you in thirty minutes he’s gone.”

  “Oh man,” a rush of relieve surged through McCarthy, “thank you. What’s his number?”

  Bishop recited it. McCarthy programmed it into his cell and confirmed it.

  Bishop said, “Now for the bad news. I assured him you were okay with his retainer of twenty-five thousand. Am I correct?”

  The figure sucked his breath away, but Tom figured he had no choice. “Fine, but I don’t have that kind of money lying around.” Davidson may be used to dealing with criminals who did. “Did you explain the situation? That I’m trapped here?”

  “Very briefly. I didn’t want to waste time.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call now.”

  “One last thing. Very quickly. Tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Any truth to the allegations? I mean, about the classified information?”

  “Hell no. I have no clue what they’re talking about.” He felt indignation to even be question about it. But, he reminded himself, wasn’t Bishop’s fault. “Sorry, didn’t mean to say it that way.”

  “I understand, just asking. Want some free legal advice?”

  With Davidson waiting and Sikes searching for him, he really preferred to spend the precious seconds calling Davidson. “Make it quick.” And immediately regretted how it sounded, too.

  “Turn yourself in. With Palmer’s help, of course. Let the legal system handle the details. If you’re innocent it’ll come out in the investigation. Palmer’s the best criminal defense guy in town. Hands down. Hell, as I said earlier, he’s the best in at least a three-state area. Let him deal with this.”

  “Thanks again for the help.”

  Tom cut the call and dialed Davidson. Davidson answered on the first ring and Tom identified himself.

  Davidson asked, “Where are you?”

  McCarthy ignored another rush of paranoia. “Holed up in the hospital. My understanding is the police sealed the building and are searching for me. I don’t know how much longer I can stay hidden before they find me.”

  “Think you’ll be safe for a few more minutes? Enough time to tell me what happened?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, got it. Soon as Dan contacted me, I turned on the news so I think I have a general idea what you’re up against. Still, give me a bullet-point rundown of what happened.”

  McCarthy summarized the event, this time more coherently. When he finished Davidson said, “I’m thinking out loud now, so don’t let anything I say upset you. Our first priority is get you out of that building and into a secure location where you have time to explain the entire story from beginning to end in much greater detail. I already have several questions.”

  Davidson paused. “If what you say about Sikes is true and he really is with the Pentagon, all he has to do is scream national security and he’ll override local jurisdiction. Meaning regardless of whom you surrender to, he can force them to hand you over. We don’t want that to happen. What this also means is that if I try to come to you, I’ll do nothing but expose you.”

  McCarthy’s heart sank. He wanted protection from Sikes and it didn’t sound possible. He tried to look at the positive side of the situation, that Davidson took his situation seriously. “So what are you saying?”

  “You think you can stay hidden until I can talk to whoever’s in charge of the SPD investigation?”

  Good question. “I can try.”

  “Okay, then, here’s the plan: Our first order of business is to let it be known that you have legal representation and are willing to surrender. However, all negotiation must come through me. No deviations. This needs to be made public before either SPD or, God forbid, Sikes can capture you. You agree?”

  “Yes.” His preference would be a faster, more-certain resolution. Hiding like this, unsure of what the next second might bring, was making him crazy.

  “Good. As difficult as this is for you right now, just hunker down and let me work my end of things.”

  Tom checked the battery indicator. Low. “I need to get off the call. How long should I give you before calling back?”

  “Let’s see … forty-five minutes? Think you can hang in there that long?”

  “Don’t have a choice, do I.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m afraid you’re right. Talk to you in forty-five minutes.”

  McCarthy sat on bare cement, back against cold cinderblocks, willing the door to remained closed and locked, searching for a distraction that would speed up the clock. His shirt, damp with sweat, chilled him in spite of the room temperature being in the sixties. Initially the cold felt good but now it provoked occasional shivers.

  To pass time he mentally ran through every route out of the building he could think of, trying to decide on which one would be the least likely to be guarded. No way could security, even with the Seattle police assisting, monitor every exit. There had to be one or two good possibilities. He didn’t even consider the obvious ones, like the front door, emergency room, and the ground-floor cafeteria. Because he had a parking card for the doctors’ lot, security would know the make and license plate number of his car even though they wouldn’t know which stall he’d parked in. By now they probably had his car under surveillance.

  He narrowed the possibilities down to two relatively obscure basement exits that might work. Reaching them undetected would be the problem, since both required getting there via halls with significant foot traffic. At least during the day. At night they’d be less traveled.

  Another possibility would be to enlist someone’s help.

  Sarah Hamilton?

  Would she believe him?

  And this made him think of Bobbie Baker and Charlie Russell.

  And the unanswered requests for their medical records.

  Which brought to mind Bertram Wyse.

  Wyse—his name immediately triggered a nudge, a suspicion that this was ultimately interconnected. But how? He thought about that. Sarah had asked him to consult on Bobbie Baker, a woman experiencing detailed memories of two highly emotional events, both of which part of her knew she’d never actually experienced. The first was giving birth to a bab
y boy, Jordan, although she’d never been pregnant. The other event was having to identify her kid brother’s body for the King County Medical Examiner, in spite of being an only child. Vividly remembering events that didn’t happen to you was bad enough, but knowing they were not reality was terrifying.

  Same thing for Russell, only with him the memories were entirely different.

  McCarthy couldn’t explain these patients’ bizarre symptoms. There were similarities between Russell and Baker. Both had sustained serious head trauma that was treated at Lakeview by Bertram Wyse. While he was painting a hull in dry dock, Russell’s cherry picker collapsed, crashing thirty feet straight down onto cement. Luckily he’d been confined to the cage or his injuries might’ve been fatal. Baker had been raped and beaten. Both had been taken to Lakeview trauma center where Wyse, as chief of neurosurgery, became their treating neurosurgeon. But there was something else nibbling the edge of McCarthy’s consciousness. What was it?

  Wait a minute. Wyse was researching PTSD. McCarthy couldn’t remember the exact details of Wyse’s work, but thinking about it now he remembered hearing Wyse brag at a meeting that his work had DARPA funding. Okay, so this marginally connected him to DARPA through Wyse, but where did classified information fit in? That didn’t make sense unless—

  McCarthy called the hospital paging operator, said, “I need to speak with Dr. Sarah Hamilton, please. It’s urgent.”

  “Hold please while I page her.”

  18

  SARAH THREADED HER way into a group of doctors huddled around the large Sony watching live high-def coverage of the shooting. A pretty, serious-faced Asian reporter holding a KING TV microphone filled the screen, the front entrance to Magnuson Pavilion directly behind her. She was saying, “Police now confirm that a total of two shooting deaths occurred earlier today at an office building that is part of the Doctors Hospital complex. The victims’ identities are being withheld pending notification of their next of kin and initial investigation. However, a source close to the investigation tells KING 5 that one of the victims is a hospital employee. The second one is believed to be a government law enforcement agent.” The reporter glanced over her shoulder, allowing the camera to zoom in on the front doors of the building, the area thick with uniformed police, reporters, and cordoned off rubberneckers.