Deadly Errors Read online

  The telephone rang. A moment later Bernie Levy was saying, “Mathews just left the office. He knows everything.”

  WITH NO PARTICULAR place to go—since he no longer had any responsibilities at the hospital—Tyler sat in the front seat of his Range Rover. There were a couple of times during the interview that Tyler swore he hit a nerve. A look in Levy’s eyes, the quick masking of a spontaneous expression.

  His cellphone rang. He fumbled it out of his pocket and pressed the send button. “Mathews here.”

  “Hello dear, it’s your spurned lover, Special Agent Ferguson, calling to check on you. Guess since you answered the phone you’re alive and well. What a relief.”

  “What the hell you talking about?”

  “Before I get around to that, let’s just say I’ve been getting worried about you since I didn’t hear back, like we’d agreed upon.”

  How in hell did he get my unlisted number?

  Stupid question. He’s the FBI, pal. “I’m working on it.”

  “Working on what?”

  Good question. “Just working on it. That’s all.”

  “Well, Mathews, while you’re working on it the chairman of the JCAHO EMR committee turned up seriously dead this morning.”

  A chill burrowed between his shoulder blades.

  “His cleaning lady found him in bed when she entered the condo.”

  “You didn’t say murdered. But that’s what you’re implying, right?”

  “That’s not affirmative yet.” A pause echoed over the airwaves. “Someone tried to make it look like death by natural causes, but there’s a highly suspicious puncture mark directly over a vein on his left arm. Certainly caught the attention of the medical examiner. From his read, it’s fresh. Probably minutes before death. Vericelli’s being posted as we speak.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Wise up, Mathews. You don’t want to play games with Levy’s buddies. If you know anything about that flaw, tell me. Don’t be a fool.”

  Tyler flashed on being stood up by Robin Beck, the visit to her house, the feeling he got looking into her kitchen. For a moment Tyler wanted to tell him everything—the drugs in his locker, Nancy leaving, the Levy discussion, everything. But if he did, he ran a high risk of losing Nancy forever. He had to hang in there a little while longer and see what he could do to salvage the situation.

  “Tell you what. There is something you might want to look into.” He told him about Robin Beck, how she’d seemingly disappeared after agreeing to meet with him.

  “I don’t get it. What do you want me to do about it?”

  Tell Ferguson about the drugs found in his locker and the stock options in the Schwab account? With him holding the forged prescriptions, what were the chances he’d believe they were planted? Probably zero.

  “Check on her. Go into her house, see if she’s alright.”

  “And why would I want to do that if there’s nothing wrong with the software. C’mon Mathews, we both know you’re holding out on me. What’s going on?”

  “Here’s the deal. You check out Robin Beck. Then we’ll talk.”

  22

  5:30 PM, FBI OFFICES, FEDERAL BUILDING

  “WHAT THE HELL’S his hang up?”

  “Have no idea,” Ferguson said to Nina Stanford’s back. They were in Nina’s office, she was standing at the window, peering out at the magnificent view of the harbor and an anchored container ship waiting its turn to be unloaded. Ferguson’s cubicle had a view of the water cooler.

  “You’d think with us holding evidence against him he’d play ball.”

  “You’d think so. But I have another idea.”

  Stanford grunted for him to continue.

  “His wife moved to town. I think there’s a chance she might be testing the waters for a reconciliation. I think maybe there’s an angle we can play here, you know, leverage that.”

  Stanford turned a quizzical expression on him. “How’s that supposed to work? I thought they were divorced.”

  “Not exactly. Seems she had the papers all drawn up, but never filed. From what I can determine she was never quite sure of what to do. I think there’s a good chance they’re trying to get it back together.”

  A trace of a smile crossed her lips. “So what do you propose? Squeezing him? Thought we were already doing that with the prescription thing. Look where it’s got us. Nowhere.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Gary, you can’t make a career out of this case. You know that. The kid’s either going to play ball or we’ll turn him over to the FDA. There’s no other way to deal with it. Besides, I’ve got other things for you to focus on.”

  “What if I convince her to work on him, get him to cooperate with us?”

  Nina hiked a noncommittal shrug. “Thought we just went over that. Why should that work?”

  Ferguson frowned. “Just a hunch I have.” Just then Ferguson’s cell phone rang. He held up an index finger to his boss as his other hand plucked the Motorola from his blazer breast pocket. He punched the send button, said, “Ferguson.”

  “Gary, Tom Washington. I’m over at Beck’s house. I think you wanta get your ass over here and see this.”

  5: 30 PM

  TYLER LEANED HIS trail bike against the wall while he unlocked the door to his apartment. From inside came the annoying beep of the answering machine. Had Nancy called while he was out riding? Maybe she reconsidered? A flame of hope ignited in his chest.

  Right foot propping the door open, he rolled the bike into the apartment then let it shut on its own while he wheeled the bike to the sliding glass door and then out to the small balcony. He propped it against the wall, next to a rusted charcoal-fueled hibachi. He’d driven up to Whistle Lake on Fidalgo Island to ride his favorite five-mile trail over rocks and gnarled tree roots. The exercise and round trip three-hour drive allowed him to put things in a little better perspective. And he’d come up with an idea. Maybe he could strike a deal with Ferguson: turn over what he knew about the patient complications in return for the FBI convincing Nancy the drug cases—both in San Francisco and here—were trumped up. Hell, Ferguson knew the truth, what difference would it make for him to set the record straight with her?

  The plan’s potential downside was the risk of losing his job and more. If MMC filed charges of narcotics theft, he could kiss his medical career goodbye. The way it was now looking, Ferguson was his only way out.

  He pressed the answering machine’s play button.

  “Tyler, it’s Jill Richardson. I just found out something that really, really spooked me. The JCAHO committee chairman, Sergio Vericelli, died last night. Someone found him dead in bed this morning. They’re saying natural causes … his heart maybe … but I don’t know … seems kind of fishy, the timing thing … give me a call. It’s got me spooked, what with everything that’s been going on.”

  Why would Vericelli’s death spook her? And why call him about it? To scare him or warn him?

  Ferguson’s warning echoed in his mind. Should he trust her? She’d given him the name of the other patients who had complications. Didn’t that count for something?

  In the meantime, maybe it was time to start playing ball with the FBI.

  He decided to put off talking with her until morning. and removed Ferguson’s card from his wallet and dialed the cell phone number. One ring and a simulated male voice announced the subscriber’s phone was not in service. Next, he dialed Ferguson’s office number.

  “FBI,” a male voice answered. No “may I help you,” simply “FBI.”

  “Agent Gary Ferguson, please.”

  “Office’s closed. You want his voice mail?”

  “No, this is important. Can you beep him or something, have him call me back?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  Tyler gave him his name and home phone number and hung up.

  From the refrigerator he pulled a piece of lasagna bought earlier that day from an Italian deli on the next block. For a moment
he studied it, then replaced it. Instead, he grabbed a Red Hook long neck from the fridge. He knew in his gut that Michelle’s and Vericelli’s deaths were linked. He just had to figure out how.

  9:55 PM

  TYLER HUNG UP the bath towel after drying off and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Nancy was right. He looked like hell. All skin and bones. None of the muscle he’d had when playing ball. Well, his life had turned to shit. No wonder his body had followed. He shrugged, slipped into a pair of well worn scrubs he used as pajamas, then opened the below-sink drawer and picked up the amber plastic Ambien bottle. For a moment he almost opened the white plastic lid. Nancy’s image floated by his mind’s eye. He dropped the bottle back into the drawer and slammed it. He’d rather spend the entire night wide awake studying the ceiling and listening to passing traffic than take the damned thing.

  He slid between the sheets and clicked off the beside lamp.

  Flat on his back, interlaced finger under his head, staring into the gray shadowy ceiling it dawned on him: Ferguson hadn’t returned his call.

  23

  6:53 AM

  TYLER AWOKE ALMOST an hour later than usual. The last thing he’d done after crawling into bed last night was turn off the alarm. No need to get up at the usual time since he had no surgery or inpatients to round on, nothing to do at the medical center anymore.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he raked his fingers through his hair and realized he’d actually fallen asleep sometime during the night. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he had slept through much of the night. In contrast to the heavy chemical slumber so familiar to him, natural sleep had been so light it seemed like no sleep at all. His dreams—realizing now he had dreamed—were filled with more vibrant colors and clearer sounds, a state responsible for initially believing he’d lain awake all night.

  Still, he didn’t feel refreshed. More like he’d repaid only the first installment to a huge sleep debt. But the fact he’d gone his first full night in God knew how long without Ambien left him hopeful—probably, he decided padding toward the toilet, like the alcoholic who completes his first twenty-four hours without a drink.

  9:30 AM

  “DO YOU KNOW about the drug thing?”

  Sitting on the opposite side of desk from her, Tyler watched Jill Richard’s eyes as the question hit. She held his gaze, said, “Yes, of course I know,” as if considering the question ridiculous.

  “Don’t you find that a bit coincidental, the timing I mean?”

  She frowned. “What? Coming on the heels of your assertions?”

  Her tone wasn’t at all assuring, certainly not what he expected.

  “It’s a set up. To impeach my credibility. That’s what that was.”

  She said, as if totally disregarding his statement, “I can only imagine how embarrassing it was, Khan showing you Childs’s dose was recorded as normal.”

  As surge of anger ignited in the center of his chest. “What the hell are you saying? I planted those drugs to make it look like I’m being persecuted?” Had it been a mistake to trust her? At least he hadn’t mentioned Ferguson.

  He immediately reconsidered this last thought. Would telling her that the FBI suspected a software flaw redeem some of his credibility? Did it even matter at this point? He pushed up out of the chair, started pacing a tight circle in the cramped office, tightening and loosening his fists, trying to calm down.

  “I haven’t said what I believe. Fact of the matter is, I’m not sure what to believe. But I have to admit the possibility did cross my mind.” She said this in the same voice he’d heard psychiatric nurses use on distraught, possibly violent patients.

  He glared at her. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s clear that you think I planted the drugs. Well, let me tell you about me and drugs … how I’ve been through this before. Maybe then you’ll understand.”

  She watched him now with both hands on the edge of the desk as if ready to jump up. “Want to take a break? I could have Tony bring us a couple cups of coffee?”

  He stopped pacing and leaned over, hands on the top of the chair he’d been sitting in. “Nice try. No. You’re going to hear this.”

  She shot a nervous glance at the phone.

  He continued. “The story goes like this. The place where I got fired? My chairman, the head of Neurosurgery, was heavily into Medicare fraud … not that he didn’t even spout off all the requisite rationalizations to justify it: the lousy reimbursement, the overwhelming federal bureaucracy forced on the practice of medicine, the huge cost of malpractice insurance. I could go on and on but you get the point. He was just greedy and it got outrageously egregious. Doing things like billing for cases residents did when he wasn’t even near the operating room. I mean not even close. It wasn’t like he was down the hall and available if a problem came up. Hell no. One time he was in Hawaii slamming down Mai Tais while the billing office was submitting a week’s worth of cases the residents were doing under other faculty members’ guidance. They were billed under his name.

  “I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t say much since I was low man on the totem pole. I tried to steer clear but then one day I couldn’t dodge it any longer. He asked me to cover a few cases … you know, make myself available if there was a problem. I told him no. His response was classic him. He threatened to fire me if I didn’t play ball.

  “See, the thing you don’t know about me is I always wanted to end up chairman. He knew that. He also knew that his department was the big time, the job that’d launch me in the fast track. If he fired me I’d be screwed. I’d never get another chance.” Tyler snorted a bitter laugh. “Turned out I got fired anyway. Which means in the academic circles I’m now a pariah. He made sure of that. What chairman wants to hire a faculty member who blew the whistle on his last boss?

  “It became a classic double bind. I wanted to keep my job, but the more he had me cover cases the more I could end up in a federal penitentiary with no chance of ever practicing medicine again.

  “The feds assured me they’d protect me.” He barked another sarcastic laugh and shook his head in disgust. “Didn’t happen. My boss found out about their investigation in time to kick a lot of dirt over his tracks. Once that happened the Federales backed off. The moment that happened, drugs were discovered in my locker. I mean it was exactly like happened here. I find that a little too coincidental. Somebody knew what happened to me back then and is now using it to set me up again.”

  “So you were never abusing?”

  “There’s no way I could practice neurosurgery and be a junkie. Maybe an anesthesiologist could—hey, all the gas passers do is sit next to their computerized machines and read Road and Track or PC Magazine during cases anyway—but neurosurgery? No way.”

  She seemed to consider his story a moment. “Why would someone plant drugs in your locker?”

  The question surprised him. Then again, not if she missed the ramifications. “I just told you why. To silence me. Why? Because they know this job is my last chance to salvage my career. I get busted for narcotics one more time, I lose my license forever. They’re telling me to keep quiet and in the process make certain they have a way of impeaching my credibility just in case I don’t.”

  “And who are they?” She used her fingers to signal quotes around the word, they.

  He studied her. Trust her? Better not.

  “Look at the facts. The medical record is flawed somehow. A security hole. Something. It’s killing or severely hurting patients. You know that’s fact. You’ve seen examples. And I don’t need to spell out the potential trouble I pose by being aware of it. I’m not trying to threaten or hurt anybody with this knowledge, I’m just trying to get the problem fixed. And because of this, someone’s trying to destroy me.”

  “And you expect me to help you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because as head of Risk Management you should damn well know there’s a problem. You can back me up.” Again
he considered telling her about his visit to Bernie Levy and Ferguson but decided against it.

  “Last time you asked my advice I suggested we talk with Khan. That didn’t seem to work too well. Now you’re asking me again. Is there any reason to think things will turn out better this time?” She smiled as if questioning his judgment.

  He resented her tone. “Yes.”

  “Then before you consider doing anything else, I suggest we talk with Art Benson. If there’s something wrong with our medical records system, he needs to know about it.” She gave him a scrutinizing look. “Are you absolutely certain of your proof this time? I don’t want to go through a repeat of our conversation with Khan.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Fine, but you’d better be damned sure because Art’s up to his hips in preliminary budget planning meetings this morning. If I pull him out of that, your story better be bullet proof.” She shot him a sideways warning look and reached for the telephone.

  “HE’LL BE WITH you momentarily,” said the frumpy secretary before shutting the door, leaving them alone in Benson’s spacious office.

  Richardson and Tyler stood next to a rectangular conference table capable of seating 18. A few feet beyond the table’s far end a ceiling-recessed screen hung down in front of the wall. Beyond the other table end sat a large desk behind which, over the credenza, hung an oil portrait of a distinguished looking man with piercing eyes.

  Tyler kept his hands clasped together to keep them from fidgeting. To distract Richardson from noticing he asked, “Who’s that,” with a nod toward the oil portrait.

  “Chester Maynard, founder and first surgeon at Maynard Hospital.”

  Tyler had seen pictures of the medical center’s humble roots. A three-story house atop a forested hill, which at the time, was beyond the Seattle city limits.

  Richardson said, “Tell you what … I have a meeting with the main honcho in the nurses’ union in a few minutes. It’s going to take all day. If this runs on too long I’m going to have to leave.”