Deadly Errors Read online

  “Apparently you don’t understand. Let me go through it again. The other day the record showed Childs received 200 gray of radiation to his brain. Two hundred gray is a massive overdose, I guarantee you.”

  Khan flashed a puzzled smile, “Come,” beckoning while moving to his desk. “I will show you.”

  Khan typed a command. Larry Childs’s chart popped up on the monitor.

  Khan said, “I will open his chart,” and moused the tab for radiation treatments. The radiation dose showed 10 gray.

  Tyler blinked, looked again. “That can’t be.” He checked the name on the chart. Correct—Larry Childs. The treatment date was also correct.

  Richardson asked, “What?” and craned her neck to see over his shoulder.

  Tyler straightened up, bumping her out of the way in the process. “Goddamnit! Day must’ve changed it.”

  She shot him a funny look. “Why would he do that?”

  “He’s on the company payroll, for Christ’s sake. He was the last one to open the chart. He’s had every opportunity.”

  “But are you forgetting,” Khan piped in before Richardson could respond, “such orders can only be changed before a medication or treatment is being given. This one,” tapping the flat panel screen with a pencil eraser, “cannot be changed, not now.” He shook his head adamantly.

  Tyler looked from Khan, to Richardson. “Bullshit. It was 200 gray the other day. It’s 10 gray now. It’s been changed in the past 24 hours!”

  Richardson said, “Looks like 10 to me, Dr. Mathews.”

  Tyler’s temples tightened, his head feeling ready to explode as he looked at the screen again. Had to be Day who changed it. No other explanation seemed reasonable.

  “… a mistake.” He realized Khan was speaking to him. “I am thinking it is entirely possible.”

  Tyler stormed to the door.

  “STOP.”

  Tyler felt Richardson’s hand on his arm. He stopped, glanced around. They were in the tunnel connecting the Annex to the main hospital building. He must have walked down the two flights from Khan’s office on autopilot, his rage so intense.

  “What the hell’s going on, Tyler?” She drilled him a hard look.

  “You have to ask? You stood right there and saw the record and you have to ask? They changed it.”

  “They?”

  “Stop it! You know what I mean.”

  “They? No, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Fine, then let me be very specific. Jim Day must’ve changed it.”

  Her intense blue eyes turned questioning. “For what earthly reason, Tyler? Besides, you heard what Khan said. The only time a treatment field can be changed is before the treatment is logged as given. After that, no one, not even God can change it. ”

  Tyler threw up his arms in exasperation and frustration. He was sounding crazy and knew it. “It’s a cover up.”

  “A cover up?” She spoke each syllable slowly and deliberately, each one with a questioning tone.

  “Don’t start with me. You heard me. They,” throwing it right back at her, “don’t want anyone to know a hacker’s been in the system.”

  “They? A cover up? You mean, like the Warren Commission? Are you into some sort of conspiracy theory here?” She coughed a cynical snort.

  He glared back at her. “Oh, right, you think I’m crazy! Then how do you explain Larry Childs’s brain?”

  “C’mon, Tyler …” She glanced at an expensive watch on her left wrist. “It’s just about Miller Time … or at least it is in Topeka. What say I buy you a drink so we can talk this out without you doing a Ted Bundy on my bones. Is that a deal, or what?”

  He studied her a moment. “Don’t try to blow this off Ms. Richardson. It won’t work.” He turned and headed toward the exit.

  12

  5:07 PM, FIRST AVENUE AND PIKE PLACE STREET

  TYLER GLANCED AT his watch. Seven minutes late. He broke into a trot just as the traffic light changed to green in his direction, leading to the narrow one-way street bisecting the Pike Place Market with its eclectic meld of funky shops. Ahead, above the green two-story structure, towered Seattle’s large trademark Public Market sign Hollywood directors love to showcase.

  He crossed First Avenue, passed a sidewalk flower vendor, continued into the dead-end of Pike Place with its signature tourist spots smelling of fish, vegetable earth, and musk—the large bronze pig children ride and the seafood stall where salesmen toss fifteen pound salmon like baseballs to delight gawking tourists. A few feet further he started threading his way between passage-clogging shoppers and sightseers through an endless block of produce stalls, the air thick with spices, coffee, and sweat.

  Another block brought him to the wood-framed glass doors of Lowell’s Restaurant.

  He preempted the hostess with, “I’m looking for someone.” He walked along a lunch counter toward the back of the restaurant where a line of tired wood booths with half-opened single pane windows allowed customers an urban back alley view of the waterfront/harbor scene below. A huge white and green Washington State ferry departing Coleman dock blew its horn.

  Ferguson was already seated in one of the booths, a bowl of chili and a bottle of red Tabasco sauce in front of him. Tyler slid onto the opposite hard wood bench. The warm inside air thick with the smell of corned beef hash, reminding him of his dinner date later.

  Ferguson propped his spoon back in the bowl and reached for the hot sauce. “Thanks for showing up, Mathews.” He uncapped it and began shaking drops over his chili.

  Tyler glanced about. No one seemed to be watching. “I don’t have a lot of time. What’s this all about?”

  Ferguson raised an index finger before mixing the hot sauce into the chili with the spoon. He brought a small dollop to his mouth and contemplated it like a wine taster. “Needs just a little more.” He sprinkled several additional drops on the thick brown mush before capping the bottle. “You like hot?” He pushed the bottle aside and nestled his elbows on the wood table.

  “I didn’t come all the way down here to discuss our respective tastes in chili seasonings.”

  Ferguson set down his spoon again. “Fine. Let’s talk about Med-InDx. I asked if you’ve had any problems with it and you became defensive as hell. What was that all about?”

  “Hold on a minute. I find it short of astounding that the FBI would even have the slightest interest in a software product. What’s the deal?”

  Ferguson shoved the bowl of chili toward the center of the table, leaned forward on his arms. “Fair enough. Where do you think the money comes from to start a company like Med-InDx?”

  Tyler took a moment to dredge up a reasonable answer. “Since it’s a start up, my wild-ass guess would be venture capital.”

  “Exactly. So my next question is, who are the investors bankrolling Med-InDx?”

  Tyler rolled his eyes. “Jesus, I don’t believe this. You get me down here to ask something like that?” He stood up to leave.

  The right corner of the agent’s mouth twitched as if suppressing a grin. “Sit down and don’t be copping an attitude with me, Mathews. It’s what we call a preparatory question.”

  Tyler leaned over the table. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Ferguson held up the Tabasco sauce bottle. “Have any idea how much money the initial investors are going to be worth when their stock goes public in a couple weeks?”

  How many more of these inane questions should he endure before just walking out? Tyler looked at the FBI agent in disgust. “I guess that depends on how well the market treats it.”

  “Correct. But consider this …” he waved the red bottle as if it were the company. “The success of the Med-InDx IPO will be directly impacted by the JCAHO committee report. They give it an enthusiastic two thumbs up and a pat on the back, say ‘that’s our baby,’ that stock will pierce the ionosphere. Any investor holding shares before it hits the secondary market is going to make a megaton of bucks. But …” he paused, “if the committee
’s nod goes to Prophesy, Med-InDx stock will be as valuable as two-day-old dog shit.”

  Tyler shrugged. “So far all this conversation is nothing but economics 101. What’s this have to do with me?”

  Ferguson pointed the red bottle cap at him. “Just stick with me on this for a second.”

  Tyler checked his watch again. “Speed it up. I have another engagement. And an important one.”

  Ferguson shot him a warning look and shook his head. “Not as important as this one, you don’t.”

  A gut feeling warned Tyler that Ferguson had a trump card he was about to played. Something to do with the incident in California? Couldn’t possibly be. That had been closed long ago. Still, he didn’t trust the man.

  Tyler said, “Go on.”

  “I had a high school teacher once that told me everything can be explained by studying history. That if you understand the past, you’ll be able to explain the present. Having said that, you know what the mafia did after a few of their big guns ended up in the slam for tax evasion?”

  Unable to resist the feeling of being watched, Tyler glanced over his shoulder again. “No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”

  Ferguson set down the bottle. “They started buying up legitimate businesses with cash flows that made it easy to launder beaucoup bucks from illegal operations.”

  “I still fail to see what this has to do with me, Ferguson. And your attitude is beginning to grate on me. Make your point or this conversation’s over.”

  Ferguson’s expression hardened. “My point is this: since the crack down on terrorists after 9-11, those international factions who are, shall we say, unsympathetic to the United States, have been forced to be a wee bit more canny about how and where they generate money to finance activities. They can’t just tap some Middle Eastern billionaire on the shoulder and expect a few million bucks to flow into their bank accounts unnoticed. Because of this, they started looking around for innovative ways of getting high returns on legitimate investments. Venture capital is one of them.”

  “You’re saying terrorists funded Med-InDx?”

  Ferguson tapped his temple. “Smart thinking. Problem is we don’t have enough hard evidence to do anything about it.”

  “Got it. If you can’t prove the company’s backed by dirty money, you’ll settle for a way to destroy the entire company. That about sum it up?”

  Ferguson leaned back in the booth and grinned. “Score one for the doctor.”

  “But you don’t know for sure the money’s dirty.”

  “Stow the soap box, Mathews. I don’t want to hear any righteous crap. I didn’t say we didn’t know it, I said we couldn’t prove it … not in a court of law, we can’t.”

  Tyler almost told him how someone was diddling the system. Thing was, he didn’t have any proof. Especially now, with Larry Childs’s record changed back to normal. And after what happened in San Francisco, he didn’t trust the FBI.

  Ferguson continued, “There was a technician worked for Med-InDx at your hospital. Helped troubleshoot problems. He surreptitiously contacted a member of the committee and leaked that he suspected a flaw existed in the database engine … one that causes data fields to be corrupted at random. Once a value is inputted, it might be stable or it might change at random for no obvious reason … maybe it became corrupted when another patient’s data was entered.” He shrugged. “He didn’t know how exactly. All he knew was, it was happening.

  “We found out about it, but before we could fully debrief the man he took an abrupt vacation. Turns out he died in a scuba diving accident down in Mexico. Very convenient, don’t cha think?” The agent’s face was grim.

  “Corrupt random fields … you mean change information at random?” A sense of relief washed over him. The overdose wasn’t his fault.

  Ferguson asked, “You gonna answer my question or just sit there stealing looks over your shoulder like a bunny rabbit in a carrot patch.”

  Anger shot through Tyler.

  “Why the hell are you leaning on me, Ferguson?”

  “Because you reported a complication involving an overdose of focused radiation. From what I understand, that kind of treatment is directly under medical record control and shouldn’t happen. If that’s the case, it might be an example that supports his allegation of spontaneous data field corruption. So Mathews, tell me about this patient of yours.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “Your patient’s problem? Through NIH. Contrary to popular opinion, we feds do talk to each other. Especially since the Homeland Security Act reorganized our job descriptions a wee bit.”

  “You know anything about my recent past?”

  “Tyler, we know more than you could imagine. I know what hand you wipe your ass with.”

  “I’m talking about what happened to me.”

  “I know you grew up in Los Angeles. I know your dad was professor of neuropathology—whatever that is—at USC and raised you to have high academic ideals. His first wife turned out to be an alcoholic, so he dumped her and married a younger woman, a grad student who does obscure Gaelic translations. Kind of similar to the way you picked your wife, Nancy. Right?”

  Tyler sat in silence.

  Ferguson continued, “I know you attended an inner city public school because your father believed this was a better character builder than private school. He supplemented you with lessons on the side to make up for any educational deficiencies public school might’ve offered. I know you wanted a collegiate basketball scholarship—UCLA, to be exact—but your high school ranking blew it. Seems you always took impossible shots with only one second left on the clock … messed up your average, so you were never seriously considered for college-level point guard. Got your MD degree at UCLA medical school. Did a residency at Moffitt in San Francisco with an interest in brain tumors. You even spent some time at NIH. How am I doing so far?”

  Ferguson’s knowledge angered Tyler. “I asked about my recent past.”

  “What? That you dropped the dime on your chairman for bilking Medicare out of several million dollars?” The twitch returned to the corner of Ferguson’s mouth. “You seem so surprised. Why should you be? Shit, Tyler, we investigated your allegations. Why shouldn’t I know all these things. It’s all in your file.” He paused to lick his lips. “Tell you something else that’ll blow your mind. I was assigned to the case.”

  “Then you know what happened.” Long festering anger boiled deep within Tyler’s chest. “I got fired on trumped up drug charges. No one would hire me. I was lucky to get the job I have.”

  Ferguson’s expression softened. “I know. I’m sorry about your career, but at least you did the right thing.”

  “The right thing?” Tyler coughed a sarcastic laugh. “Considering what happened, that’s debatable. But you know what? I learned from that experience. And here’s what I learned. One—” holding up a finger, “Don’t get involved. Two—” up came a second finger. “Don’t trust the FBI to stand by you. They’re only out to win their own game. They don’t give a damn about the people they ask to help them get there.”

  “What happened to you was unfortunate, but believe me, there was nothing we could do to help the situation.”

  “Bullshit.” His anger flared. “I trusted you guys when you agreed to protect me. Protection? Jesus, what a joke. Nothing happened to Weiss, not even a slap on the hand. But me? Hey, my professional record is stamped ‘Impaired Physician’ and I get carted off to a drug rehab program and my wife leaves me. Wow, what a hell of a good deal that turned out to be. And now you’ve got the nerve to ask me to make the same mistake twice? Jesus, where do you guys get off?” Tyler realized a waitress and two customers were staring at him. He dropped his voice to a hiss. “You have any idea what that’s done to me?”

  Before Tyler could answer his own question, Ferguson leaned forward. “Believe me, there was nothing we could do. Someone got word to Weiss before we had a chance to subpoena the records. That gave him enough
time to blow the smoke from the gun barrel before we could nail his sorry ass. We could’ve protected you from any collateral damage, but once those drugs were found in your locker there was nothing we could do about it.”

  “So you just watched me go down the toilet on trumped up drug charges? Like a chump? Jesus!” Tyler slammed his palm on the table. His heart was pounding his sternum like a sledge hammer.

  A moment later he added. “This job at Maynard? It’s all I could get coming out of rehab. Nobody wants an impaired physician on staff. It’s like asking a sex offender to live next to a grade school.” He turned to Ferguson. “Know what my dream was going into neurosurgery? To be a department chairman at a good university. Know how much chance I have to get there now?” He raised his hand, thumb tip to index finger. “Zero. You guys ruined my career and my marriage.” He started to slide out of the booth.

  Ferguson grabbed his arm. “Sit down and listen up.”

  Tyler jerked away, but couldn’t break the agent’s grasp. “Let go. I’ve listened up enough.”

  Ferguson’s grip released. “Sure, have it your way hot shot, but before you go, take a look at this.” Ferguson handed him a folded piece of paper.

  Tyler snatched the paper from his fingers and opened it. A mixture of embarrassment and rage hit.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  In the next instance he realized it would’ve been easy to obtain if the FBI had wanted it. They must’ve targeted him a while ago.

  “We have every one you ever wrote, Mathews, so sit down and listen up.”

  He remained standing, undecided what to do.

  “I said, sit down.”

  “Asshole!”

  Ferguson grinned but not one of amusement. “In my job that’s a term of endearment.”

  “You think it’s funny what you guys did to me? The way you ruined my life?” He caught himself from saying anything about Nancy. He didn’t want to jinx the possibility of getting back together.

  “That’s in the past.” Ferguson held up the paper Tyler had dropped on the table. “This is the present.”