Deadly Errors (25 page)

Tyler selected his next words carefully. “Are you saying that it’s absolutely impossible that my patient’s radiation dose didn’t change between the time it was entered and given?” He wished he’d thought to bring a tape recorder.

A momentary flicker that looked like fear traced through Levy’s eyes.

“It’s Tyler, isn’t it?” He nodded agreement to his own question. Without waiting for an answer, “Tyler, I’ve been programming computers since I was seven years old. The one thing I’ve learned is that once the software’s been validated any data field error is always human error. Machines simply don’t make those types of errors, humans do. Rest assured that I personally coded that particular database routine, so I know those lines backwards, forwards, upside down, and downside up. I’ve sweated over each line command by command. You can be absolutely dead certain there’s not a goddamn thing wrong with that program.”

“It’s Bernie, isn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, “Bernie, I never said anything was wrong with the program.” There! It was out. He watched Levy’s reaction.

B
ERNIE LEVY STUDIED the man sitting across the desk from him. Intense seemed the best descriptor, if forced to pick only one. Intent, would be the second. Question was, intent on what? Ruining the company he’d spent ten years building from nothing? For what reason? Some ill-defined sense of self-centered righteous indignation? As if critically ill patients didn’t die every day in hospitals all over the freaking world. A flash of hatred speared his heart. How dare that sanctimonious sonofabitch walk in here and act so freaking smug.

Carefully masking any emotion, Bernie slowly nodded agreement. “Perhaps not, Tyler, but somehow you gave me the distinct impression that was exactly what you implied.”

“Then again, it may well be what I believe. What would you say if I told you I have a couple examples of errors that resulted in serious—hell, fatal—complications that can only be explained by an intrinsic problem with your database?”

Bernie tapped an mechanical pencil on the desktop—tap tap tap—and considered his options. For sure, talk to Arthur soon as this little shithead left. Arthur would know how best to handle this. “I want to know more details. Do you have any direct proof to back up your insanely preposterous allegation or is this all purely hypothetical?”

Mathews looked smug. “Nothing’s hypothetical at all. I have several other cases documented in addition to Larry Childs’s.”

He flashed his winning smile at Mathews. “Tell me about them.”

Mathews leaned back in the chair, arms folded across his chest. “Why so interested if there’s no problem?”

He considered his next answer carefully. Was the sonofabitch joking? “I don’t get it. What’s with you? You get off on being a royal pain in the ass?”

“Pain in the ass?” Face red, Mathews pushed out of the chair. “My only reason for coming to talk with you was to warn you you have a problem with your database. I hoped to come away with some assurance you’re going to fix it before there are any more catastrophes. But apparently you don’t give a rat’s ass. All I’ve seen from you and your company is stonewalling. You apparently don’t give a damn you’ve got a serious problem. Perhaps I should tell my story to someone who gives a shit.”

Without thinking, Levy picked up the violet nerve ball next to the mouse, started squeezing it. He watched Mathews turn and take a step toward the door. “Is that a threat? I think not. You’re in no position to threaten me.”

Mathews stopped and without looking back, said, “Really! And why is that?”

“Good day, Doctor Mathews.”

“If that’s supposed to be a threat, I suggest you need to rethink your position.”

“I said good day, Mathews.”

Bernie watched the sanctimonious putz leave the room. Soon as the door closed his finger punched speed dial. Benson’s voice answered.

“Mathews just left the office. He knows everything. Worse than that, I think he’s stupid enough to try to do something about it.”

“A
ND JUST WHAT in the world am I supposed to tell the Finance Committee next time they ask? I’m running out of excuses.”

Arthur Benson looked Neddy Longmire up and down while wondering whatever possessed him to hire the fucking little wimp in the first place.
Because you could control him, that’s why
, he thought.

Neddy. Even that prissy Ivy League name was beginning to piss him off. What kind of parents named their son Neddy, for Christ’s sake?

The kind of people who can get their kids into Dartmouth or Yale, that’s who
, his inner voice answered again.

And that’s exactly where Neddy had matriculated. Fucking Darthmouth. Then an MBA from Columbia. In contrast, Benson thought bitterly, he’d attended the University of Texas at Austin before entering the University of Minnesota School of hospital administration.

They were in Benson’s office, Neddy pacing, making Arthur nervous with his jerky little squirrel-like movements. As a kid growing up in Plano, Texas, Arthur used to shoot the pesky little tree rodents with his .22 rifle. Too bad he couldn’t shoot Longmire now. That would chill him out. Arthur smiled, visualizing it.

“For Christ’s sake Neddy, I know damn well you can come up with something. That’s why I gave you the title of Chief Financial Officer. So you can dazzle those sombitches with enough financial spin to keep them off our backs for one more month. One stinking month. That’s all we need.”

Neddy pulled on his collar, hooking his index finger over the edge and running it back and forth like the heat was set too high even though it was a crisp 70 degrees in the room. Arthur couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen the little fag with his collar unbuttoned.

“But McCarthy keeps asking questions.”

“Fine. Let him ask. Just keep stalling with your answers. The thing is, just be careful, don’t trip up and say something you’ll regret.”
What a whiner.

“But he’s the chairman of the board. I can’t hold him off forever.”

Neddy clasped both hands in front of his heart, just like that fucking two-faced Baptist preacher Arthur’s parent forced him to listen to for hours on end every Sunday morning growing up.

“Oh dear,” Neddy moaned, “I wish I hadn’t let you talk me into this. I don’t know if I can hold up.”

He certainly couldn’t argue with that last part. Neddy looked about ready to decompensate any second now. But maybe he was right. Maybe he’d made a mistake using Longmire to help float the deal. Maybe he should’ve picked someone else. Too late now. “I’m telling you, Neddy, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one has to account to the finance committee. Lord, if they ever get wind of what we’ve done …”

“Horseshit!” Longmire’s words punched a hot button in Arthur’s soul. “You know damn well every cent I own’s tied up in this deal too, so don’t be preaching to me that this is easy.” That much was dead-on true. Fact was, he was leveraged up to his fucking eyebrows on this one. Eyebrows and then some.

Neddy started hyperventilating.

Christ, just what he needed right now, Longmire passing out in his office. Then he’d have to either leave him on the floor until he finally came around or call a Code 199 and have the whole damn resuscitation team pile into his office like a fucking Chinese fire drill. There’d be questions and that’d upset Neddy even more and maybe that would be all it took to push the nervous little faggot over the edge.

“Now slow your breathing down or you’re going to have one of your spells,” Arthur said, finally pushing out of his high-back executive leather chair and coming around the desk to lay a calming hand on his CFO’s slumped shoulder. “We don’t need that right now.” He was behind Longmire now, massaging the man’s deltoids like a trainer might do to a prizefighter between rounds. “There’s not a damned thing to worry about. This is going to play out just fine. It’s orchestrated to a tee. Once we get JCAHO’s thumbs up, we can cover the loan with stock options. Nice and easy, Japanesy. Then you can throw the bank statements in Aldridge’s fat boozer face and tell him to piss up a rope.”

The CFO inhaled a slow, deep, calming breath and dropped his chin toward his chest. “I just wish this was over. The pressure’s getting to me.”

Never would’ve guessed it, Neddy, you little queen.
“It’s all going to be over in a few weeks. You’ll be fine. We’ll be rich. You can even quit this job after a respectable amount of time passes, if ’n you wanta.” He was slipping into his down-home, folksy tone now. People liked that. Made them feel he was sincere.

Times like this triggered second thoughts in Arthur about the scheme. But, he reminded himself, it was a sure thing. Or at least the closest thing to a sure thing there was. His mind drifted back to how it all started, how Bernie Levy had come to him asking if prestigious Maynard Medical Center could be used as a show case beta site for his company’s state-of-the-art solution to an electronic medical record. Coincidentally, Arthur, having read both the federal regulatory tea leaves and the hospital’s slipping bottom line had decided an integral strategy to the center’s survival was to completely retool their antiquated IT department.

Levy’s proposition couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. Med-InDx needed a high-profile medical center to test their product and Maynard Medical Center didn’t have the ten million dollars it would take to buy a complete Clinical Information System, install it over the next two years, and train three thousand employees and 1,500 physicians in its use. It was a marriage made in heaven.

Or so it seemed.

What he hadn’t done well and regretted, Arthur knew, was good due diligence. He never really looked into the venture capital behind the first and second rounds of funding. And then, during one dinner meeting Bernie mentioned a need for an additional ten million dollars to satisfy the current capital burn rate until the product was ready for prime time and the company could slake its remaining capital thirst on an IPO.

Ten million.

Arthur realized he could get his own hands on the sum. Nine million sat in the MMC reserves collecting paltry returns from T-bills and high grade corporate bonds after the dot-com bomb market crash. Benson could leverage the final million from his personal assets. The problem, of course, was how to borrow from the reserves without the finance committee discovering the “investment.”

A week after assuring Levy of being able to fund the rest of the project he orchestrated an accidental meeting between Neddy and a gay prostitute at the medical center’s annual black tie fundraiser. Two weeks later he and MMC were partial owners of Med-InDx.

Shortly after that he met the other investors.

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

W
ITH 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.”