Deadly Errors Page 16

  “This isn’t right,” Tyler muttered. He stood and paced, trying to figure exactly what didn’t set well with this case.

  Then it hit him. If, as the first nurse claimed, the first dose had been ordered, filled by the pharmacy, and injected—as the chart claimed—a second could not have been given unless specifically ordered by the physician. This is because safeguards embedded in the software would have alerted the pharmacist that a second dose was being ordered during the period when a second dose would have been lethal. So, if all were working properly the managing physician would have had to overwrite the system with a detailed explanation to justify a second dose within this short time frame. Clearly, that step hadn’t happened.

  Whoever was behind the cover up had done an elegant job hiding the first two cases. Not so for this third case. This was exactly the type of information Ferguson was looking for and exactly the type of proof Tyler needed to exonerate himself.

  Tyler burned a copy of all three cases to a CD.

  Finished, he removed the silver disk. For a moment he sat still, rocking it back and forth slightly, staring at the rainbow dancing across the disk’s shiny surface. Another idea hit. He slid the disk back into the still open bay and pressed it home.

  In the search field he typed Torres’s name, hit enter. A moment later his brain abscess patient’s chart appeared on the screen. He moused the Laboratory tab, then the microbiology section.

  This time, instead of gram-negative rods, the gram stain reported gram-positive cocci. Next, he checked Torres’s pharmacy records. Changed also.

  Tyler fought off a faint smile of satisfaction. Just like surgery, he thought, when you get too sure of yourself, that’s when a complication jumps up and bites you in the ass. Be careful now, pal. Don’t let your guard down.

  He burned Torres’s information to the CD also.

  Task finished, he removed the silver disk from the computer and glanced around the office for a place to hide it.

  18

  YUSEF KHAN’S COMPUTER emitted a series of beeps like a robin chirping. They drew his attention away from the work at hand. A glance at the 19” LCD screen immediately focused his eyes to a red flashing dialog box. This general alarm was programmed to trigger for events of a security nature as well as any number of other contingencies a person holding his administrator level privileges chose to set. During any given day he might monitor for any number of incidents, such as if any of his technicians were sneaking time on porn sites. As Chief Information Officer he also spent some time each day spot checking the work of his system administrators—those people who made sure the hundreds of Maynard Medical Center PCs continued to function seamlessly across a network of numerous servers and storage unit.

  He moused the cursor onto the box and clicked.

  The computer responded with: 191.90.26.05 ACTIVATED.

  His interest in the message perked up. This was the medical center internal network address for Tyler Mathews’s computer. But all the number told Khan was that the computer in Mathews’s office was logged into the network. It did not reveal its user. Keeping the present window active, Khan queried another program for the password used to log onto the system.

  It did not match Mathews’s password.

  Next, he ran the password through the database and found it belonged to a William Leung. A quick scan of the user directory showed Leung was a neurosurgeon, one of Mathews’s partners.

  This left two possibilities. Leung could be using Mathews’s machine. Or, Mathews had borrowed Leung’s password. There was a good way to settle it question.

  Khan dialed Mathews’s telephone. It rang once before Mathews answered with, “Mathews here.”

  Smiling, Khan hung up. Persistent fellow, that Mathews. Sly too.

  He checked another program he’d set to monitor all keystrokes from Mathews’s computer. It was functioning well.

  Out of curiosity, Khan downloaded what had been recorded so far this morning. One by one he issued the same commands and was pleased with what he found. Tyler had called up the medical record system and then a patient’s chart. A bit more searching perked up Khan’s interest further. The record of interest was of a patient who had died last November. Not only that, Mathews had never been involved with the patient case. Interesting.

  He cross checked the patient’s record number with a list he kept hidden in the top drawer of his desk. It matched a number on the list.

  Khan picked up the phone again and dialed a number from memory. A moment later a man answered. Khan said, “It’s me, Khan. Just as we suspected, our friend is snooping again.”

  TYLER DECIDED TO hide the CD in a plane manila business envelope and leave it in clear sight on his desk, figuring something out in the open wouldn’t draw any attention if someone came looking for it. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched—either directly or electronically.

  You’re losing it, pal. That was totally paranoid.

  The telephone rang.

  “Mathews here.”

  “Tyler, Steve Rolfson.”

  Tyler exhaled a deep breath and relaxed. “Hey Steve, did you just try to call me a few minutes ago?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Nothing.” The chill returned. “Wrong number, I guess.”

  “What I’m calling about, I just finished the brain cutting on your patient Childs. Thought you might want to hear what I found.”

  Tyler picked up a pen and pulled over a piece of scratch paper. “Shoot.”

  “You already had it nailed. Clear cut case of radiation necrosis. Not a doubt about it. Want to come down and view the specimen before I sign off on the case?”

  He started drumming the pen against the desk. “No, Steve, but thanks for asking.”

  “Anything else you want to know?”

  Yeah, but you can’t help me with those questions. “No. That was all. Thanks again.” Tyler hung up with a sense of anticlimax.

  For a long time he sat staring at the manila envelop, wondering what to do with the information inside. Without a doubt it verified Ferguson’s claim of a problem with the Med-InDx system. He considered calling him but immediately rejected the idea. Before turning anything over to the FBI he wanted a tangible assurance of immunity from repercussion. Not only that, he wanted it in his lawyer’s hands. Once bitten… .

  Talk to Jill about it? Ferguson’s warning to trust no one in the MMC administration popped into his consciousness again.

  Nancy. If there was one person he needed to talk to, it was Nancy. He glanced at his watch. She should be back sometime this evening. He dialed Alaska airlines to check arrivals from San Francisco.

  3:30 PM

  “WHAT DO YOU mean it’s finally over?”

  Still dripping sweat from a five-mile jog, Tyler stood in his apartment kitchenette toweling his face with one hand while pressing the phone to his left ear with the other.

  Nancy said, “Just what I said, Tyler. It’s over between us. I’ll call my attorney and have her file the papers.”

  19

  “DON’T I AT least deserve to know why you’re having this sudden change of heart? The other night when we went out, I got the impression things were going well between us. What changed all that while you were in California?” A thought suddenly hit: did she have some guy in San Francisco? Maybe she’d come up to Seattle to test their relationship. And maybe she’d gone back to San Francisco to cut things off with him but it hadn’t worked out that way. A huge empty hole suddenly opened up below his diaphragm.

  “Oh Tyler, don’t play innocent with me. You know how that pisses me off.”

  He threw the towel against the wall. “I’m not playing innocent, I am innocent. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Maybe the-other-man-fantasy wasn’t the operative problem here. If not, what? He kicked the towel away from where it had landed.

  “Well then, let me spell it out for you. You swore to me you were clean and sober. Today I learn that isn’t quite true, that yo
u were hiding narcotics in your locker, just like last time.”

  A jarring numbness engulfed him. “Who told you that? Believe me, that isn’t true.” He ran a mental list of possible candidates and immediately stopped at Ferguson. He was the only one who knew about Nancy. And he was the only one to have a motive. Then again, how in hell would Ferguson know about the drugs? Didn’t make sense.

  “Oh Tyler, how can you say that? This is exactly like the last time.” She sighed exasperation. “Why in the world would someone lie about something like that?”

  He slammed his hand on the counter top. “Listen to me, I’m being framed because of what I know about the medical record system!”

  “And who’s behind this?” sounding blatantly skeptical.

  “I don’t know, but I have some suspicions.” He considered mentioning the FBI, but quickly decided with her probing it would only lead to more problems.

  Another doubtful sigh. “This is sounding way too familiar. Just like last time.”

  He knew better than to argue any further. Nancy would just dig in deeper. Best to let her vent, decompress, and try to reason with her later. “Who called and told you? At least tell me that.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “It could help me a lot.”

  “To get off of drugs?” This said with barbed sarcasm.

  “Please.”

  “Tyler, I don’t know. I received a phone call. That’s all I know.”

  “Male or female. What exactly did they say.”

  “This conversation is going nowhere. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Just one last thing. Please.”

  A pause, then, “What?”

  “Don’t file those papers just yet. Give me one last chance to prove myself. Give me a week. Please?”

  She hung up.

  1:15 AM, NAPERVILLE, ILLINOIS

  EVEN AT THIS time of morning the outside temperature hung at a muggy 78 degrees Fahrenheit, the air cloyed with Lake Michigan humidity. Tangible air, the kind you could sweep off your arm one minute after stepping out of air conditioning. The back side of a 175-unit condo complex faced a park bordering a river. A path for strollers and joggers meandered though the greenbelt kissing the river bank every now and then. Two stocky men in black long-sleeved mock-tees and black jeans left the path and crossed the lawn toward the building. Both men wore black nylon fanny packs.

  Approaching the basement door they slid on thin latex gloves before the taller of the two pulled from his pocket a cheap metal ring holding two keys. In the dim moonlight he selected one key and slipped it into the lock. The door clicked open, automatically triggering a hall light. They quickly stepped inside and quietly shut the door and stood still, listening for sounds of someone in the basement storage area. Quiet. Satisfied, they moved forward.

  To their left, a fire door opened into a stairwell. They entered and climbed steadily to the fifth floor. Although both men pumped iron and jogged at least two hours a day, they stopped on the landing to slow their breathing and make one final check. The same key that opened the outside door opened this one. Door cracked, they listened for hallway sounds. The target’s unit was one door down the hall to the right. Having gone through the same drill yesterday while the owner was at work they slipped adroitly inside the unit within seconds of leaving the stairwell.

  With the target’s front door now closed behind them the short entranceway into the living room was completely dark. They deftly removed penlights from their packs and waited for their eyes to accommodate. The penlight bulbs had been changed to red, reducing the risk of light reflecting off windows or, worse, being seen by the target. They remained in place for two minutes, their eyes adapting to the darkness before flicking on the lights. The soft hum of air conditioning became the only sound. The apartment carried the smell of fried cube steak, probably from earlier this evening.

  They crept forward.

  The telephone rang.

  From the direction of the bedroom came a sleep laden, “Hello,” followed by a gruff, “Wrong number.”

  The lead man hand signaled retreat. Both men sank back into the dark entrance alcove.

  Next came the padding of bare feet. A moment later the sound of water hitting water, then a toilet flush. Another few seconds and the condo interior again became silent.

  They settled down to wait.

  2:10 AM

  WlTH SOFT SNORING now coming from the bedroom, both men moved forward. A right hand turn followed immediately by a left turn took them inside Sergio Vericelli’s bedroom. Enough moonlight filtered between the curtain edges to work deftly without penlights.

  Their next moves had been well choreographed. The heavier of the two intruders, at 210 pounds, quickly stepped to the right side of the bed while his partner moved to the left. In one fluid move, the heavier dropped down on Sergio, cupping a pillow over his face to mask any shouts yet allowing him air to breath since signs of suffocation could easily be discovered by a good medical examiner. The other intruder held Sergio’s left arm extended, palm up.

  Vericelli’s violent struggle was no match against stronger, heavier men. Even in the faint light, the man holding Sergio’s arm saw one vessel stand out like a sewer pipe. His free hand withdrew a syringe from the fanny pack. With his teeth he removed the plastic guard. Carefully, making sure not to bruise the skin—for this would surely draw a medical examiner’s eye to the puncture wound—he slid the needle into the distended vein.

  Seconds later Sergio’s movements stopped.

  The heavier intruder pushed off Sergio and felt for a carotid pulse. Feeling none, he put his ear to Sergio’s chest. A moment later he nodded to his partner.

  In a well-practiced routine, each man removed any sign of a struggle. They smoothed the sheets, fluffed the pillow, and arranged the victim to appear to have died peacefully during sleep.

  Five minutes later they retraced their path to the front door, opened it and checked the hallway. Moments later, they were strolling across the freshly cut lawn away from the basement door, latex gloves stuffed deep in their front pocket to be burnt later.

  The outside temperature remained a muggy 78 degrees.

  20

  8:10 AM

  TYLER ENTERED THE large cafeteria at one of those “down” times when the breakfast crowd vanishes and coffee breakers have yet to start trickling in, leaving only a few odd-hour employees—mostly mid-level administrators—planted sparsely at tables. At the far end of the room, the diagonal corner from the entrance, the latte stand was doing a steady business. He recognized Jim Day as the second person in a two-person line. He passed a shadowy wall alcove with a continually-moving conveyer belt to bus dirty dishes and brown plastic trays into a cloistered area wafting the smell of dirty dishwater over to the nearby booths, making it a mystery to Tyler why anybody would eat near there.

  Jim Day said, “Make it a Grande latte with two shots of vanilla.”

  Tyler waited for the moon-tanned, anorexic barista to acknowledge Day’s order before tapping him on the shoulder. “Been looking for you. One of your colleagues said I could probably find you down here.”

  Day turned. He seemed surprised then disappointed. “Oh man, you again.”

  “What can I get for you?” Already tamping espresso into the stainless steel steam filter, the barista craned his neck and shot Tyler an expectantly bored expression. Tyler wondered if the guy was experiencing carpal tunnel symptoms yet from palm-banging the steam filters into the espresso machines. So far, he’d treated two Starbuck’s employees for the problem.

  “I’m here to see him,” with a nod toward Day. Then to Day, “Need to ask you a favor.”

  “It figures. I didn’t think you were here to ask me out for dinner. Can it wait until I get my drink?”

  Tyler decided to push. “I want in to see Bernie Levy and I want you to set it up.”

  Day laughed, shaking his head as if to say don’t be ridiculous. “No one gets in to see Levy unless
they’re Bill Gates.” Then he seemed to think about what he just said. “That is, not without a very—and I mean very—good reason.”

  “Someone’s screwing with his system. That’s good enough.”

  Another laugh. “What? You still on a tear about your mysterious hacker? The one who comes and goes without a trace?” He leaned over toward Tyler’s ear, whispered, “With all due respect, Doctor Mathews, take my advice: get a life. There’s no hacker fucking with you or the network.” Day straightened up and glanced expectantly at the latte stand.

  Something in Day’s eyes told Tyler he knew about the drugs in the locker incident.

  “Is that right? Is that what you’re going to tell some nosey reporter two days from now when another Maynard patient dies and word’s been leaked you were warned there was a bug in the system and you did zip about it?” He let the point simmer a beat before continuing. “Since Med-InDx is a start up, I assume a goodly amount of your compensation—at least your retirement compensation—is in stock options. What if somehow, through some nasty little twist of fate, the New York Times or Wall Street Journal gets wind of this bug between now and the stock’s IPO? What do you think those options would be worth if that happens?”

  “Here you go.” The barista held out Day’s latte.

  Frowning, Day tossed four dollars on the counter then snatched the drink from the man’s hand. Without waiting for change, Day marched toward an empty booth. Tyler followed.