Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  They rode the elevator in silence, Sarah’s face grim and determined. He said, “Maybe you should go back to the car.”

  She shook her head. “No need.”

  They exited into a deserted, dim reception area for an outpatient clinic. To the right was a hall with exam rooms on either side. To the left, toward the office building, were two closed fire doors with an overhead sign that read, NEUROSURGERY OFFICES. McCarthy couldn’t see alarms on the doors. “Think they’re locked?”

  “Usually. They lock all entrances to the office building at six.”

  Tom figured what the hell and pushed the horizontal bar. To his surprise the door opened. He raised a finger to his lips and flashed Sarah a questioning look. The area was eerily silent.

  They stepped into a long carpeted hall. The windows on the east wall framed a magnificent city view whereas the west side contained closed doors to what he suspected to be small offices. The far end opened into a plush reception area. Mc-Carthy leaned close to Sarah and whispered in her ear, “This isn’t right. The door shouldn’t be unlocked. Stay here. I’ll take a look.”

  She nodded and slipped into a shadow between the windows. He removed the crowbar and set it on the carpet where it wouldn’t be noticed, then crept the hall toward the reception area.

  Only weak city light came through the windows at the end of the hall but it was enough to allow him to make out a sleek glass reception desk behind which the hall T-boned. The left hall was in total darkness. At the end of the right hall was a glowing rectangle of light from an open office door. McCarthy crept toward it until he could see Bertram Wyse behind at a large desk, his body turned toward a picture window. Wyse’s reflection showed marked changes from the med school days: bald now with a closely cropped crescent of black hair, more lines of course, deeper than expected. More than the physical chronicle of age, his face was lined with sadness and worry. A face, McCarthy believed, that was perpetually hidden from the public.

  53

  MCCARTHY WHISPERED TO Sarah, “He’s in there,” with a nod toward the reception area.

  “Wyse?”

  “Yeah. Just sitting there, gazing at the view.” He knelt, retrieved the crowbar, and slipped it under his scrubs again.

  “On a Saturday evening?”

  He gave her right shoulder a gentle tug, leading her back to the doors to the hospital. Without a sound, he opened the right one far enough to slip through and then reset it. They moved to the outpatient area where they could keep an eye on the doors. McCarthy whispered, “We need to get him out of there long enough that I can look at his files.”

  Sarah nodded and pursed her lips. “How’s he dressed? Scrubs?”

  “No, why?”

  “Just thought he could be waiting for a case to start. Saturday night on a holiday weekend … there’s got to be a reason he’s here.”

  Because he knows I’m coming. “You bring your cell?”

  She opened her purse, held it up in the dim light. “I did.”

  “Good. You know if he has reserved parking spot in the garage?”

  She nodded. “He should. All chairmen do.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Their area is out back, the doctors lot, under the helipad.”

  “How many ways can you get there from here?”

  She thought about that a moment. “Two I can think of right off the top of my head. From outside, you take the stairs on this side of the helipad. But the most direct way is to use the tunnel.”

  McCarthy liked the tunnel option because it seemed like the most reasonable route at this time of night. “Can you think of a good place to watch the tunnel without being conspicuous?”

  “There’s a vending machine area he’d have to pass if he goes that way. Yeah, that should work.”

  “Okay, here’s how we do it. Soon as you get there call me to tell me you’re in position. Then I’ll call Wyse and make some excuse to lure him out of the building. The moment you see him walk into the tunnel, call me. Got my cell number?”

  She nodded. “What if he takes the outside route?”

  “Then it won’t work. But it’s a bad neighborhood and dark out, so chances are he’ll use the tunnel.” McCarthy noted the time on his watch. “If he hasn’t shown in fifteen minutes, call me. If he’s left and you didn’t see him pass, then check his parking spot. Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  McCarthy made sure his cell was set to vibrate, then watched the elevator doors as he waited for her call. Two minutes later Sarah called to say she was in position. He dialed Wyse.

  WYSE JUMPED, STARTLED by the ring of the phone. He looked at it just as it rang again. Who’d call this time of night? Sikes? Cunningham? No caller ID. Answer? Hmmm. Who could it be? “Wyse here.”

  “Hello, Bert.”

  He recognized McCarthy’s voice. “Well, hello, Tom,” he answered. Whatever you do, don’t show emotion. Be cool, in control.

  “Here’s the deal. You know I know you’re doing memory transplants. That would be sort of cool if it weren’t for the fact that it’s a felony. It’s also unconscionable.”

  Fuck you. Wyse said, “The hell are you talking about?”

  McCarthy said, “Okay, got it. You’re worried the phone is tapped. This isn’t intended to be entrapment, it’s supposed to be détente. So what do you say, can we discuss this issue in person? Maybe work out a deal?”

  Hell no! Let the cops find him. They will. Eventually. Then what? What happens if they don’t kill him in the take down? What if he survives and goes to trial? Any reasonable defense would bring Russell and Young into the story. Baker? Well, she’s dead from the overdose. Although, on second thought, her death hadn’t been confirmed with a death certificate. Meaning McCarthy had to be dealt with tonight. Preferably by Sikes. Wyse asked, “Where would you suggest we meet?”

  “How about Gas Works Park. The playfield over by the old buildings?”

  Wyse smiled. Perfect. “When?”

  “Soon as you can get here.”

  WYSE CALLED SIKES with the news then headed for the elevator.

  MCCARTHY WATCHED WYSE enter the elevator and waited until the floor number hit one before taking off down the hall, crowbar in hand.

  SARAH SAT IN a molded plastic chair at a chipped Formica table nursing a cup of bad vending machine coffee as Wyse marched past. She turned her head away and punched speed dial.

  BERTRAM WYSE CAUGHT movement out of the corner of his eye, cocked his head, and slowed. The woman in the vending area turned away from him and put a cell to her ear. Something familiar about her … He entered the parking garage tunnel, stopped, thought, Yeah sure, the psychiatrist. Last night he’d studied her ID photo. So why should she be here at this moment? Being here on rotation would be too coincidental. Was she working with McCarthy? Was she part of the plan to get into his office?

  Fuck yes, she’s spotting for him.

  With the tunnel a cellular dead zone, his BlackBerry registered no signal strength, so he started jogging toward the parking lot. If I go back the same way she’ll know I’m on to her.

  54

  “JUST STAY PUT,” Sikes said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Shit, staying put was the last thing Wyse wanted to do. Or could do. He wanted to be there to see Sikes put a bullet through McCarthy’s egotistical, self-centered brain. “You know where my office is?” he asked, thinking that, as a guide, he could tag along.

  “No, but you’re going to tell me when I get there. Then you’re going to stay the hell away and let me handle this. You’re in a parking lot?”

  Bingo. He’d get his chance to watch. “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  Wyse explained how to find it.

  “Doctors Hospital is what, maybe three blocks away? I’ll be there in whatever time it takes to walk. Probably be faster than trying to find parking at this hour.”

  Wyse dumped the cell in his pocket and glanced back down the tunnel, considered checking on Hamilton, blew a
hard breath, and dried his palms with his scrub shirt. Fuck! Sikes said to stay. What am I, a fucking poodle? He wiped his hands again.

  WYSE’S FILE CABINET turned out to be a hell of a lot easier to bust open than the damned fire doors. Had only one locked drawer, which narrowed down the choices of where to start searching for the sensitive files. McCarthy set the Sony camera for close-ups, grabbed a random page from a folder, and focused. Even when squinting he couldn’t read the print on the small screen so snapped the shot anyway then used the zoom feature on the viewer to look at the detail of the picture. Yeah, all the typing was there. And if you enlarged it even more—piece of cake with Photoshop.

  He scanned the dividers, pulling out files he thought were relevant. After dumping them into a pile, he sat on the floor cross-legged and started sorting and taking shots.

  SARAH GREW INCREASINGLY restless, making it impossible to wait any longer. She stood, but now didn’t know where to go or what to do. Tom’s instructions were to wait fifteen minutes. But fifteen minutes from when? From the time of the call? Then what? Go upstairs? She’d been so damn nervous about getting caught that she hadn’t really concentrated on the instructions. Crap! Go help Tom, or continue to lookout? Look out for what? Wyse was long gone. Oh crap city! Waiting here was unbearable. Besides, what if Tom needed help? She dumped the cup of tasteless coffee in the trash bin and started for the elevators.

  A big hand grabbed her arm. “Ma’am.”

  She spun around, coming face-to-face with a security guard. A big black guy with a receding hairline and yellow fat in his eyes. Wyse stood to the guard’s right, eyeing her with a smirk. She jerked her arm free. “What!” Call Tom. Wyse knows.

  “May I ask what you’re doing here?”

  Sarah reached in her purse for the cell phone.

  The guard raised his voice. “Ma’am, hand out of your purse, please.”

  She raised the hand, opting now for righteous indignation. “You afraid I’m going to pull a gun? Jesus, how ridiculous.”

  The guard asked, “May I see your ID?”

  “It’s in my purse. That what I was reaching for.” Asshole.

  “Go ahead, but do it slow.”

  She flashed her Doctors Hospital ID. “I’m a resident. I work here.”

  “Yes, ma’am. What service?”

  Another smirk from Wyse.

  “Psychiatry.”

  The guard said, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

  MCCARTHY MARVELED AT Wyse’s work. If he were not so furious with the man, he’d have to admit the work bordered on brilliant. Not only did he understand what Wyse was doing, but also why he was doing it. Simple enough: money and fame. Two age-honored motivations.

  McCarthy now had evidence that Baker, Russell, and eight other patients had unknowingly become human guinea pigs in a classified research study to demonstrate the feasibility of transplanting small cores of brain from one person to another. In addition, it was hoped that if the transplants were viable, they would actually transfer memories from the donor to the recipient.

  Head trauma patients requiring emergency surgery were the donors. PTSD patients seeking relief from intolerable symptoms served as recipients. None of the patients were informed of the experiment, so of course none had consented to become subjects.

  DARPA funded the work. The assumption was that if this initial experiment proved feasible, a larger, more in-depth study would be conducted. This next phase would use suspected terrorists as donors. The recipients—inmates of military prisons—would be offered reduced sentences for agreeing to be recipients of the transplants.

  Although the exact mechanism for laying down and storing long-term memories is not entirely understood, evidence suggests that the process involves changing short-term memories from electrical signals between neurons into stable proteins stored in neurons. It would be similar to storing a Word file in a computer’s memory to the hard disk.

  To remain alive, brain requires oxygen and glucose supplied by blood. However, small pieces can be kept alive by diffusion if placed in an oxygen-and glucose-rich solution. Wyse had been taking small pieces of temporal lobe—a brain region noted for storing memories—from trauma patients undergoing emergency surgery. He kept these pieces alive until they could be implanted into PTSD patients.

  Transplanting these plugs from one patient to another wasn’t such a big deal—tissue exchanges have been done for years. The challenge is to force the transplanted neurons to make new, functional connections with the recipient brain. Wyse had apparently solved this problem by using a special combination of growth factors in the implant bed.

  The only way to prove that the transplanted tissue actually functioned was if the recipients began experiencing memories that could only have come from the donor. The one major problem that Wyse hadn’t anticipated was that some of these memories might be upsetting to the recipients. Baker and Russell, for example.

  McCarthy snapped another photo and shook his head in disgust.

  55

  BAM.

  McCarthy jumped, looked up. What was that?

  Shit, a door slammed. Oh man, here we go!

  He jumped up on his feet and headed for the office door, Washington’s gun in hand. He reached the jamb and edged his line of sight around it. Warren Sikes stood beside the reception desk, staring at him with a hateful expression. It only took a second before Sikes’s face blossomed into a wide grin.

  “Well, son of a mother bitch. Look who we got here.”

  Tom aimed the gun. “You come down that hall, I swear to God I’ll shoot.”

  Sikes raised a gun and aimed at Tom. “The fuck you will.”

  One second later splinters of wood flew from the jamb above his head. Tom ducked, slammed the door, snapped home the dead bolt, and glanced around frantically for something to barricade the door with. Chairs, a couch, a couple tables that would be of little use. He saw nothing of substance other than Wyse’s desk, but that was too heavy to move. But it could at least be a barrier to slow down a bullet. He ran to it and lifted one side until the entire desk fell over, crashing onto its front. He crouched behind it and aimed the gun at the door where Sikes would enter.

  He remembered the camera on the floor by the folders, between the desk and the door. It now contained proof that he was stealing classified information. He sprinted around the desk, grabbed it, and returned to the desk just as something crashed against the door, almost ripping it from the hinges.

  McCarthy popped out the camera’s memory card and slipped it into his wallet, and threw the camera back at the folders.

  Another deafening impact and the doorjamb splintered. Sikes yelled, “Goddamn, McCarthy, you’re one fucking dead man. You know that, don’t you!”

  Intense tingling burrowed into the base of Tom’s tailbone. He checked to make sure the safety on the pistol was off. There was no safety.

  Another impact and the door burst open. “McCarthy, I’m talking to you.”

  Tom sighted over the desk but the doorway remained empty as the room became eerily silent. The overhead lights flickered out. He glanced at the wet bar, saw the red LED on the coffeemaker out too, and figured Sikes must’ve cut the power.

  “McCarthy, you are not gettin’ outta here alive. You understand that, don’t you, boy?” Sikes’s redneck twang was becoming thicker now.

  What about Sarah? Was she still downstairs? Had they caught her?

  Call 9-1-1? He picked the phone off the floor, thinking it’d be better than his cell because landlines have automatic caller ID, letting them know the call’s origin. He pressed on but the line was dead.

  Sikes yelled, “Fair warning asshole. I’m coming for you.”

  Tom yelled, “Listen, Sikes, you’re making a huge mistake. The classified material thing is all bullshit. Wyse made it up. It never happened. You try to kill me and you’re in a heap of trouble.”

  Silence.

  “My lawyer knows it’s bullshit. So does
Tony Cassera. Know who he is? He’s an investigative reporter. So, the word’s out. They’ll prove this is all bullshit. You kill me and you’re totally fucked. Understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Got me a very sensitive pigshit meter, McCarthy. And you just pegged it. Ooo weee, you fuckers are all the same. Deny, deny, deny.” He mimicked a woman’s voice: “Oh, I’m innocent. I didn’t do nothing wrong.” Then, back to normal: “But I know different. You’re a traitor. You killed my partner. You deserve to die so guess what, that’s exactly what’s gonna happen. I will personally make sure of it.”

  McCarthy licked his lips, glanced around for Sikes. Shit, where was he? His voice seemed to be coming from all directions. “Killed your partner? How’d you figure that?”

  “You tricked him with the beeper. That makes you responsible.” A flashlight angled in low from the doorway, swept the room, clicked off.

  Tom realized Sikes’s strategy: locate him by sound. Even though he knew to stay silent, he had to at least try to reason with him. “Is that why you dragged him down out of the ceiling? So you could take responsibility for pulling the trigger?”

  “The ball started way before that. If you hadn’t been dickin’ around in government property, we never would’ve been there in the first place.”

  “Listen to me, Sikes. Who said I took them? Cunningham?”

  “How would you know about Colonel Cunningham if you’re innocent?” Sikes’s voice came from a different direction now and McCarthy realized Sikes had made it into the office and was edging closer.

  “Sounds like one of those Sunday school arguments, Sikes. Goes like this: Since you can’t be sure God doesn’t exist, you’d better cover your ass and believe, because otherwise, you’re condemned to hell. You weren’t trained by the Jesuits, were you?” He listened hard for Sikes’s voice to see where it came from, but he didn’t answer.