Deadly Errors (14 page)

“D
OCTOR MATHEWS. IT’S Jim Day. Sorry it took so long getting back to you, but I’ve been up to my ass in alligators and the swamp’s still rising. I checked the history on that medical record you asked about?”

Tyler’s pulse accelerated. “Yeah? What’d you find?”

“I’m afraid it’s not what you want to hear. Far as it shows, there’s been no alteration to that field, or any field on that medical record ever. What you see is what was put in there from the git go and that’s the end of it.”

A paralyzing chill hit Tyler. Did this mean it was
his
mistake? “Are you sure?”

“Hey Doc, there’s no way no how any field can be altered without that alteration being recorded. Don’t know how to say this any more clearly than I just did.”

Dizzy, he dropped into his desk chair and sucked a deep breath. “Bear with me a second … I need to make certain I have the facts straight.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Any time any entry is made into any field in the medical record, the identity of the person making that entry is recorded. That’s correct isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

Tyler palm-wiped his mouth. “Okay then … who entered the radiation dose in Larry’s chart?”

“Thought you might want to know that.” Tyler heard Day’s keyboard clicking away in the background. “Record shows that it was transmitted electronically from outside the center by Doctor Nick Barber, but that since he’s not privileged here, it was validated by you per your research protocol.”

Precisely per protocol. But the overdose still could not be accounted for. “Hang in here with me a little longer. Okay?”

“It’s your dime.”

“Let me walk you through this one more time, then you tell me how come Larry Childs got an overdose. I checked with Barber. Their records show they ordered a ten gray dose. My independent records confirm a ten gray dose was ordered. But the chart says he got zapped with a 200 gray dose and his brain rotted out from too much radiation. Explain how the hell that can happen.”

Day gave a sigh of exasperation. “You know damn well I can’t tell you that. All I can tell you is that field hasn’t been changed since it was populated.”

“What makes you so goddamned certain? If I hear you, you’re saying it wasn’t changed by the
standard
means … by another person with privileges, like a doctor. But I still don’t see why couldn’t it have been changed by someone
without
privileges, like a hacker.”

“Because that’s flat out impossible. It just can’t happen.”

“And I say that’s bullshit. You just told me that Barber ordered a dose and I confirmed it. Both our records show a ten gray dose. But he got a 200 gray dose. That means we—by that I mean you, me, and Maynard Medical Center—have a major problem on our hands.” Tyler flashed on his conversation with Michelle. He made a mental note to call her and go back over the story.
Better yet, check with Doctor … what was her name?

Day said, “If you know so much about computer security I suggest you tell me how that could happen and the field not show evidence of being tampered with.”

“Thought we went over this before. If a hacker had access to the source code he’d know how the system security was written. If he knew that, it makes sense he could get in and out without leaving a footprint.”

“Now that’s a huge stretch. Chances of that happening are worse than me hitting Mars with a brick.” Day paused, exhaled an audible breath. “Anything else you want to know? If not, I’m gonna sign this ticket out.”

“You sign off on this and I’ll personally see that you’re named on the root cause analysis as obstructing an investigation into a patient death. Is that clear?”

A
RTHUR BENSON SAID, “Goddamned straight it’s a problem. It’s a big problem, Bucko. In fact, it’s more than a problem. It’s a potential catastrophe waiting to unfold on us. And don’t give me any of your it’s-only-hypothetical horseshit. I’m in no mood to hear it.”
God, what I’d give to strangle that fucking little Jew geek.

Benson realized the portable phone was pressing against his ear so tightly that a headache was radiating into his right eyeball. He let up on the pressure and stood. Pacing always helped at times like this, and the office was large enough he could do laps around the 18-chair conference table. His eye caught the oil portrait of Chester Maynard staring down at him. The old man’s piercing green eyes seem to follow him through the room.

Bernie said, “Chill way down, dude. What are we talking about, a minor problem, right? Go and get your panties in a knot and you’ll elevate your cholesterol, have a stroke maybe. You don’t want that and I don’t want that.”

That’s all he needed, more of the little fucker’s attitude.

“Minor problem you say? Minor fucking problem? You think some NIH bureaucrat calling to ask about a research patient who died of brain rot is a minor fucking problem?” His heart pounded his ribs. Maybe Bernie had a point about needing to calm down. But not until the fucking geek understood the potential hazard they were facing.

“Let me make this perfectly clear to you Mister Bill Gates wannabe. Your entire fucking company will be a one paragraph post mortem on page 14 of the
Wall Street Journal
if you don’t fix it.”

When Bernie didn’t respond, he asked, “I thought you’d fixed it.”

“No shit. I thought so too. But obviously that isn’t the case. What do you want me to do, fall on my pencil? Cut my throat?”

“Wrong answer, Bernie.” Benson pictured Bernie in his chrome and black leather office, probably wearing suntan Dockers and a pale blue, button down oxford, open at the neck just like Bill Gates. Every book Gates had ever written was lined up on the credenza like a shrine. Even named his daughter Willamina. Jesus!

“Let me ask you something, Bernie.”

Bernie said, “Shoot,” seemingly unfazed.

“If it’s such a minor problem, why hasn’t it been fixed yet?”

“Gimme a break, Dude. You know I’ve been wickedly busy. What with the IPO and everything.”

“Oh yeah, busy. Important things like schmoozing reporters at press conferences. Maybe you should be spending more time taking care of business rather than working on that klieg light tan of yours.”

“Oh, a little sensitive are we? What are you saying? I should not be pushing our product? I should, like, hide it? I’m telling you we have the wickedly superior solution and that is what’s going to win in the end. Med-InDx rocks, man, but every piece of software ever written has a few bugs. They all do. And they all get ironed out sooner or later. At least the important ones do.”

“You seem to be forgetting something, amigo. This is a hospital. We’re in the business of healing people, not killing them. According to you, this type of problem would never happen.”

“Hey, dude, way I see it, you’re
way
over reacting. So one lousy patient gets a wicked case of brain rot. You think that condemns the whole product? Hell no. You trying to tell me everything that’s done at your fancy carriage trade medical center is perfect? That you’re the Martha Stewart of health care? That your staff doesn’t have their fair share of screw ups? Helllloo … Earth to Arthur … screw ups are what this little escapade is all about. Reducing them … and that’s exactly what we’re doing.
Reduce
them. Not
eliminate.
That, dude, is the
big
picture.”

“Jesus, you really don’t get it, do you. The
real
big picture is that any of this leaks, you can stand back and see Prophesy trample you to death. The big picture is the longer that bug stays in there, the more risk we’re taking. Get it?”

“How many times I gotta tell you? I’m on it.”

Arthur kicked a chair that wasn’t aligned perfectly with the table. “Horseshit you are, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” A bolt of pain shot up his leg causing his knee to buckle. He caught himself and hopped on one foot, cursing silently. “I don’t see why you can’t assign some of your hotshot coders to it.”

“Like I said before, the medical record is my baby. No one else codes it. No one.”

“And as I said before, you’re fucking ego isn’t the important thing here. That bug is.”

“Hey, great thinking Arthur … so I tell a few coders there’s a wicked bug in the system … and so now we have even more people know about it. That what you really want? Some disgruntled employee shooting off his mouth? Worried about Prophesy finding out? Hey, here’s a perfect way to do it. Brilliant, just absolutely brilliant.”

Benson picked a decorative crystal paperweight off the desk and threw it the length of the office. It smashed into the wall leaving a noticeable dent. “Just fix the fucking thing.”

“Speaking of which, who found it?”

“No one’s found it yet. That’s the whole fucking point to this little conversation. We don’t want to take the chance someone will find it. We want it fixed.”

“Understood. But if I knew where the problem popped up it would help me trouble shoot it.”

“Bernie, it’s the same goddamned problem as before. A data field apparently changed. Spontaneously, so I’m told.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You got to give me more than that. Which data field?”

“A radiation treatment dose.”

“Huh! That’s just wonderful,” he said with a hugely sarcastic edge in his voice. “Not even in the same general area as last time. See? This is what I’m talking about. It’s like an intermittent. They’re the worst kind to trouble shoot. You never know where or when to look.”

“I know. You’ve said all that. You’ve also said quite convincingly you can fix it. Just see that you get it done this time, got it? Meanwhile I’ll keep a lid on things from this end.”

With that, Benson slammed down the receiver.

L
UNCH FINISHED, TYLER hurried back to his office via the back hallway, having learned the hard way to never enter through the reception area where he’d been sandbagged once too often by a patient asking a question about their problem before having had time to review their chart. He dropped into his chair, hit the intercom for the receptionist, said, “I’m back,” in a mimic of The Terminator.

“Have a good lunch?”

“Depends on what you think of cafeteria food.”

“Sorry I asked.” She paused a beat. “Your one o’clock canceled but as luck would have it we have a work-in for you. Sharnel put him in Room 3.”

“Thanks.” He used the desk computer to call up the new patient’s chart. He scanned meager information but didn’t see the Chief Complaint—the problem that brings the patient to the doctor—listed.

He punched the intercom again. “He mention what his problem is?”

“No, he didn’t. Said it was confidential.”

Tyler shrugged this off, thanked her and picked up the tablet computer for electronically recording the patient’s history and headed for the exam room. He knocked on the door as a warning, then pushed it open. In a chair, reading an outdated copy of
Newsweek
, sat a blond, freckled-faced man about Tyler’s age wearing gray slacks and a blue blazer, a white shirt with rep tie, and a military crew cut.

“Mister Ferguson, Tyler Mathews.” Tyler set down the computer on a small table and extended his hand.

After the handshake Ferguson withdrew a wallet from his inside blazer pocket. “Doctor, I’m not here about a medical problem. Here.” He flipped open the wallet and offered identification. “Special Agent Gary Ferguson, Seattle Field Office, FBI.”

Caught totally off guard, Tyler inspected the identification. Appeared official enough, but then again, what did he know? An uneasy feeling skewered his gut. Tyler tried to think of something benign the FBI might want from him but couldn’t come up with anything.
More repercussions from California? Had to be.
“I don’t understand.” His heart started pounding. His fingers tingled.

Ferguson waved a palm toward a stainless-steel rolling stool beside the small charting table. “Why don’t you sit down so we can talk?”

“Why? How long is this going to take?” He folded himself onto the stool.

The FBI agent jutted his chin toward the computer. “You’re using Med-InDx on that, aren’t you.”

Tyler glanced at the computer. “Yes.” A sinking feeling replaced the tightness in his gut. Maybe this wasn’t about California.

“Like it?” This said in an overly conversational tone that implied anything but casual interest.

Tyler wiped both palms on his thighs then rubbed them together. “I didn’t realize the FBI does marketing surveys for software companies.”

Ferguson’s eyes hardened. “I am. Had any problems with it?”

Tyler’s gut tied a square knot. “No.”

“Huh! Really!”

Silence.

“Why would you even ask?” He felt the agent’s eyes sizing up his awkwardness.
Never have been a convincing liar, pal.

Silence.

Tyler started to stand. “Look, if there’s nothing else, I’m busy.”

“Sit down, Doctor.” The agent’s eyes hardened further. “We’re not done yet.”

Tyler stood. “Far as I’m concerned we are.”

“Doctor, we think there’s a problem with Med-InDx and we think you know about it.”

“A problem? What kind of problem?” The rototiller in Tyler’s gut roared to life.