Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  It was time to plead. “Look, I understand the need for privacy, but this is critical. Here’s the situation …” Without citing names, he explained Bobbie’s condition and the need to discover anything they could about the origin of her memories.

  The clerk shook her head woefully. “See, Doc, much as I’d like to help that poor gal, I can’t. You know the rules.” With thick arms defiantly folded across her chest she settled back in the chair, clearly in no frame of mind for further negotiation.

  Yeah, he’d cover his ass too, if in her place. For all she knew, this could be a sting operation.

  “Is there an administrator I can talk to? Would an administrative consent get you off the hook?”

  “You can try, but,” with a noncommittal hike of a shoulder, “it’s not going to do you any of good. Good intentions aren’t sufficient reason to break the law.”

  Well, shit, time to become resourceful. He smiled, nodded. “Know what, you’re absolutely right. I’ll just have to think of another way to solve this poor woman’s problems.” With his best no-hard-feelings smile and a two-finger salute, he thanked her and led Sarah back into the hall.

  With the door shut behind them, Sarah poked his chest. “You’re scheming, Dr. McCarthy. Your eyes are a dead give-away.”

  He put his hand on her arm, guiding her back toward the dismal lobby. “My, my, my, Dr. Hamilton, how could you suggest such a thing?”

  He led her to a large a floor-by-floor map of the hospital. Silently he studied it a moment, then with a grunt, headed to the parking garage.

  She kept abreast of him this time, matching him stride for stride. “Do you plan on letting me in on your scheme any time in the foreseeable future or am I expected to follow you around forever like a puppy dog? Because if—”

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” he said, grinning at her. “We need to lure Donna away from her office for about fifteen minutes or so. Think you can do that for me?”

  With a bemused smile, she considered it. “Why, so you can break in there?” They exited the glass door into a covered walkway to the garage.

  He shrugged. “Walk in, not break in. Why, you have a better idea?” Being a rhetorical question, he didn’t wait for an answer. “Your part is to call the hospital operator and ask to be connected to the newborn nursery. When I checked the map, that place looks about as far from medical records as you can go and still be in the hospital. When the nursery answers, tell them you were connected to there by mistake and that you really wanted extension 278. Which is obviously Donna’s. You with me so far?” They entered the garage.

  Eyes twinkling, she nodded. “Easy. But why the transfer? Why not just call and pretend to be the nursery?”

  “Because Donna’s too smart for this to work any other way. You call her directly from outside the hospital and she happens to look at the caller ID she’ll know the call’s a fake.”

  Sarah jabbed his ribs. “You’re a sneaky one, McCarthy.”

  “Once you have Donna on the line, tell her you have some paperwork on a discharge that was held over from yesterday. Tell her it needs to be coded and forwarded to billing today. Ask her to come pick it up.”

  “Ah, I get it.” Sarah nodded appreciatively.

  MCCARTHY BROWSED A shelf of stuffed animals and a rack of get-well cards in the lobby gift shop while keeping an eye on the main hallway. So far, no one was paying any attention to him, which was encouraging considering yesterday’s news splash. Maybe being this brazen instead of skulking around made the difference between being noticed or not. Or maybe it was the disguise. Whatever, he didn’t plan to push his luck further than necessary to get into Donna’s office, discover what he could about a baby born on the date Bobbie claimed, then move on to the next step of his plan.

  Assuming Donna fell for the story, the most direct route from medical records to the nursery should take her straight across the lobby to the elevators. Unless, of course, she chose to climb two flights of stairs. Which he seriously doubted.

  Ten minutes passed. No Donna.

  Did she peg Sarah’s call for a ruse? Was it that obvious?

  Back the lobby he glanced down the hall at medical records but from where he stood he couldn’t see inside the room, which made him nervous. Move closer for a better look? No, too risky. With his luck, Donna would walk out and see him. Instead, he admired the photos of the hospital board. And waited.

  Still no Donna.

  Go back to the car and see if something with Sarah caused the delay? He decided not to because the moment he left the lobby would be when Donna would leave for the nursery. He had to wait here.

  Two more minutes dragged past.

  He was just about convinced the trick hadn’t worked when he saw the door to medical records open. He busied himself with peering through the gift shop window as he heard the slap of Birkenstocks grow louder, then recede. He looked up to see her lumbering along the hall toward the elevators and checked his watch, thinking ten minutes tops. That’s all he could safely allow. If she wised up and hurried back she could probably make it in five. But she struck him as a talker. Couple that with being alone in the office today and chances were she’d spend a few extra minutes chatting up anyone she could along the way.

  An elevator pinged and the door rattled open. Soon as the doors closed he was out of the gift shop, moving down the hall.

  McCarthy tried the doorknob but it was locked. Shit. He checked the time and licked his lips. Seconds were flying past. Now what?

  Three months ago when his office had been burglarized, the head of security observed that the lock on his front door was so poor it could be opened with a credit card and suggested they have a new deadbolt installed. He’d heard the credit card trick before but never actually tried it. At the moment he had nothing better to offer, so why not?

  He worked his Visa card into the crack, slid it down to the deadbolt, and pushed. Nothing budged. He wiggled it into a different angle but there was no way in hell he could see how this might work.

  Someone boomed, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  McCarthy spun around. A beefy security officer stood, feet spread, hands on his wide leather belt, drilling him a serious dose of cop eye.

  45

  9:15 AM, MONROE, WASHINGTON

  BERTRAM WYSE DROVE along the winding street, checking house numbers in a middle-class suburban housing development of buried power lines, inflatable wading pools, and for sale signs. The neighborhood had a pretentious name, The Parkside, but Wyse hadn’t seen a park within miles. Just a maze of cutesy, vomit-inducing street names, like Hawthorn Hedge Lane, and an SUV or Ford-150 in four out of five driveways.

  Aw, there it was! A one-story house, what some people at one time called a rambler. He drove around the block. If you could call it a block. Fucking street wound around like a cobra. But he eventually found his way back to the right street and parked three lots down from the Young’s. He picked his cell off the passenger seat, thumbed in the number scrawled on the Jack in the Box bag, and waited for someone to answer.

  “Hello, Mr. Young?”

  “Yes?”

  “Dr. Bertram Wyse calling. Remember me? I took care of Nora while she was at Lakeview?” He believed turning a statement into a question made it sound benign, establishing an innocent tone that would grease the skids for gathering information.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  Young’s voice carried a hint of suspicion, making Wyse uneasy. Why should he be suspicious of the person whose saved his beloved spouse’s life? Ungracious prick!

  “How’s Nora doing?” Not that he gave a shit.

  “About the same as last time you saw her.”

  Hmm, the question was meant to be friendly, but since he had no idea whether the answer was good or bad, he changed subjects. “Have you been watching the news by any chance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve surely heard what happened at yesterday when that whacko doctor went postal and shot all those
innocent people in cold blood?”

  “Yes.” Young still sounded suspicious, damnit.

  “The man doing the shooting, Tom McCarthy, is a doctor. He hasn’t contacted you by any chance, has he?”

  “No. Why should he?” Young’s suspicion was now tinged with concern.

  Good. The conversation just veered in the direction and tone he intended. “You see, that’s the thing, I don’t know. The police contacted me and said they have evidence that Mc-Carthy had been digging around into the affairs of several of my patients. I have no idea why he’d do such a thing, but out of concern for my patients’ confidentiality, I’ve been calling them to see if I might learn something to help the authorities find him. I don’t want to compromise patient confidentiality by releasing their names to the police. You follow?”

  “Well, I can’t help you there.”

  Wyse scowled at the phone. Well, fuck you too, chump. In his professional voice, he said, “Thank you. Sorry to interrupt your morning. If he does call or contact you, please let me know right away. Will you do that, please?”

  Wyse dropped the phone on the seat. Might as well hang out here in Nora Young’s neighborhood on the off chance that McCarthy did show up. He had nothing else to do. He couldn’t pace his office all fucking weekend while incompetent Sikes ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. Besides, going home meant putting up with Samantha. He checked his watch and decided to give it a couple hours. If McCarthy didn’t show by then. Well, then he’d figure out another place to look.

  46

  9:15 AM, SISTERS OF MERCY HOSPITAL, EVERETT, WASHINGTON

  PALM PRESSED FLAT against his chest, McCarthy sucked a deep breath and fought to keep both knees from buckling as he looked straight into the security guard’s eyes and said, “Whoa! You just about gave me a coronary. Jesus, you guys always try to scare people to death?” Holy shit, does he recognize me?

  The officer—a skinny Asian with a buzz cut and horn-rimmed glasses—was definitely sizing him up. “If we see someone attempting to break into a locked office, we do.” He nodded at the credit card in McCarthy’s hand. “Want to tell me what you think you’re doing with that?”

  Tom’s face reddened, his mind running through a list of excuses that might sound halfway credible. He stalled for two more seconds by sucking another deep breath and slipping the credit card back into the open wallet. “Glad you came by, officer. I’m Doctor Rush.” He flashed the false ID in hope of convincing the officer he wasn’t Tom McCarthy. “I need to get into medical records. It seems that Donna—you know, the one in charge here—is out.” Perhaps a casual name drop might bolster his credibility. Impatiently he checked his watch. “She’s probably on a coffee break. The thing is, I have important dictation to finish. If it’s not done by noon they’ll revoke my admitting privileges. Unfortunately, I only have an hour or so, this morning. Any way you might help me get in that room?”

  Oh man, Donna comes back now, I’m totally hosed.

  The officer’s face softened. “Well, see, if you had called I would’ve let you in without you having to go to all that funny business with that card.” He jangled a key ring from his black leather belt, making McCarthy feel like a real shit for lying to him.

  MCCARTHY DROPPED INTO Donna’s oversized vinyl chair and studied her computer. And couldn’t believe his luck: Sisters of Mercy was running the same electronic medical record system he was familiar with, one of the few he knew how to navigate easily. He moused the SEARCH button.

  The computer responded with PASSWORD.

  Shit. Either she’d logged off before leaving or the computer timed out. Now what? He rubbed his sweating palms together, acutely aware of the seconds flying by. He couldn’t begin to guess what the password might be. It could be anything from her pet anaconda to some nonsense alphanumeric case-dependent string.

  He caught the slap slap slap of sandals approaching the door and dove for the foot well of a nearby desk. He dropped out of sight just as a key scraped in the lock.

  Curling into the small space, he went perfectly still.

  He heard the chair springs groan from her weight, followed by the clickity click click of a keyboard.

  Shit, trapped like a rat. No telling how long before he’d get the opportunity to make a break for it. And Sarah was waiting in the car. Christ!

  He waited.

  Ten minutes passed.

  The phone rang. Donna answered a few questions and chatted with the caller before hanging up. The chair springs squeaked relief, followed by more sandal slaps. The door clicked, then came the snap of a deadbolt locking.

  He quickly crawled out of the cramped position and headed for the door. As he passed her desk, he cast a final glance at her monitor. And stopped.

  Whoa, wait a minute. Right there were several Post-its pasted to its lower edge. Sometimes people did the stupidest things, like displaying password on sticky notes. He bent down to scan them. One did look suspiciously like a password.

  Aw Christ, where did she go and how long before she returned?

  He glanced from the door to the glowing screen saver of a Siamese cat. Hurry up, if you’re going to do something, do it now. What the hell—in for a pound, or whatever the saying was. He dropped into her chair. This time she hadn’t logged out, probably because she wasn’t expecting to be gone long. Maybe only a quick restroom run.

  He started by sorting for all admissions on April 12 two years ago. The list scrolled down the screen. Next, he narrowed it to admissions to only the newborn nursery. Then typed JORDAN into the first-name data field, hit SEARCH, then ENTER. The screen filled with data.

  Tom froze, blinked, and reread the response.

  His heart rate began racing. He checked his watch. Shit, she could be back any second.

  He scribbled two lines on a Post-It, dumped the screen, and was out the door, halfway down the hall when he heard her distinctive footsteps from around the corner. He ducked into the first office on his right.

  “May I help you?” A young man stared up at him from a desk, a large computer printout spread out in front of him.

  “Ah, yes … matter of fact you can.” McCarthy’s brain felt like it was working overtime making up so many lies. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Doctor Rush.” He held out his hand.

  Caught off guard, the man rose from his desk and shook hands.

  In awkward silence McCarthy let the seconds tick past so Donna could return to her desk.

  “And?” the man asked.

  “Just got paged and I left my cell phone at home. May I could use your phone?”

  “Sure,” and rolled his chair away from the desk.

  DONNA GLANCED UP when he came back through the door. “One thing I can say about you, Doc, you sure are a persistent one. What now?”

  “I’d like you to pull a chart on one other patient, Nora Young. Here’s the release.” He handed her a signed consent. “And here’s her Social Security number.”

  Donna turned a doubtful eye to the consent. “You didn’t forge this, by any chance?” she asked, before drilling him a dubious look.

  “Donna, would I do that to you?” Another pang of guilt hit. Would she actually check the signature against the previous one for similarity? He hoped not.

  Donna studied him a moment. “Guess not. You look like too nice a fellow to stoop to something as low as conning me into walking all the way over to the newborn nursery on a wild goose chase.” She pushed up out of the chair.

  Eyes twinkling good-naturedly, she said, “It should take me only a minute. I’ll get you the paper chart. Nora Young was admitted before we migrated our records to be all electronic. We haven’t converted any of simple OB admissions yet. Probably never will since it’s her only admit. Coffee’s over there. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Relief washed over him.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Tom stopped taking notes and sat back to stare at the acoustical tile ceiling. On April 12, two years ago, Nora Young gave birth to
a male she and her husband, Don, had named Jordan. Every detail of Bobbie Baker’s story, from the names of the OB physician, anesthesiologist, down to the nurses, was perfectly accurate. Even the tiniest details, such as her room number.

  So what? Bobbie and Nora might be friends, making Bobbie’s memories nothing more than a recitation of Nora’s story. Meaning Bobbie was a liar.

  Okay, Bobbie was a liar. So what?

  One rule he’d learned practicing neurosurgery was to verify of every detail of a case before making a critical decision. Meaning, he should make the extra effort and talk to Nora Young in person to confirm her relationship with Bobbie Baker. But why bother? Because confirming that the two women knew each other was the only way to explain how Bobbie might know Nora’s story.

  47

  10:30 AM, MONROE, WASHINGTON

  “I’M IMPRESSED,” SARAH said.

  Tom pulled the Civic’s door shut. “Because?” he asked, as he settled in, securing the seat belt across his chest. He missed the ease of using his car’s GPS system. He fired the ignition. It was his turn to drive while Sarah navigated in their quest to find Nora Young’s home in Mill Creek, a growing bedroom community between Everett and Seattle in the Cascade foothills. They were parked to the side of a busy Exxon station at the intersection of two four-lane roads with surprisingly heavy traffic for this hour of the morning.

  “You actually stopped to ask directions.” She grinned, accentuating the cute overbite he found attractive.

  “What’d you expect? We’re lost.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  He shook his head in disappointment. “I hate female stereotypes of males. Especially that one.” Instead of leaning over to kiss her like he wanted, he nosed the Honda out onto the street.

  “That’s because you don’t fit the stereotypes.”

  “Nor do you.” Then, to change the subject, he said, “The guy said take the second right a half mile up.”