Deadly Errors (40 page)

“Tyler, he’s gaining.”

He glanced directly ahead. No more airplanes. Another quick glance over the shoulder. The speedboat bore down on them.

He scanned the lake ahead of them, searching frantically for a boat or someone to flee to for help but saw nothing out there that looked useful.

He yelled, “Lean forward,” and scrunched down below the windscreen hoping to lessen wind resistance. He cranked another millimeter out of the gas and the craft seemed to accelerate slightly, but he knew it wasn’t enough. How long could they go before the boat came along side? Then what?

By now the finger of land protruding into the lake, Gasworks park, lay dead ahead. Soon he’d be forced to turn right or left. Since they were closer to the west shore, he chose left rather than cut across the larger expanse of open water and make a run for Portage Bay, figuring the closer to the boat moorages, the better chance of ditching the Jet Ski at the last minute—maybe just aim for a populated moorage, run the ski aground, jump off and yell bloody murder and hope like hell help would materialize. He saw nothing but marine supply shops, dry docks, and boat moorages along the shore.

They shot under the Aurora Bridge. That’s when it dawned on him; they were heading into Salmon Bay, which would very quickly dead end at the locks—the equivalent of a dead end street. Just then the engine began to cough and sputter. He glanced at the gas gauge. Empty.

“Tyler!”

“What?”

“Behind us!”

Tyler swiveled his head around. A police boat bore down on them, blue lights flashing, Benson’s boat no longer in sight. Tyler cut the throttle but the engine had already died.

A moment later the shore patrol boat pulled along side. A frowning cop yelled down, “You Tyler Mathews?”

Something in the cop’s voice alarmed Tyler. “Yes”

“Put your hands in clear sight. You’re under arrest.”

T
HE COP TIED the Jet Ski bowline to the starboard stern cleat, then helped Nancy climb aboard. With her safely on deck, Tyler followed and sat down next to her on a hard bench lining one side of the small cabin. After eagerly accepting thermal blankets from a second policeman and wrapping themselves snuggly, they huddled together, Tyler hugging her but saying nothing. A moment later the idling engines clunked into gear and the bow started cutting a wide circle back to Lake Union.

Nancy wrapped her arms around Tyler’s chest and placed her head against him.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked.

“No. I just so thankful it’s over.”

He squeezed her a little more. “You’re safe.”

She squeezed back.

The trip segued into a haze of engine noise, disbelief.
Under arrest? For what?

And somewhere during the trip Toby Warner crept back into his consciousness. He’d forgotten completely about him.

The engine rumble cut back and the boat bumped to a stop, jarring Tyler back to the present. As the second cop lashed the vessel to dock cleats the other cop tapped Tyler’s shoulder. “Out.”

Tyler glanced up. On shore stood two uniformed officers and one gray haired stern faced man in jeans and a navy Gortex raincoat with yellow block SPD on the left breast.

Tyler followed Nancy onto the dock. The gray haired man approached, said, “Mathews. I’m Detective Jim Lange, Seattle Police.” He held up a badge. “This your wife?” with a nod toward Nancy. The two uniformed officers approached.

“Yes. Why?”

Lange said to Nancy, “Go with these two officers, Ma’am. My partner needs to interview you.”

She shook her head. “I’m staying with Tyler.”

Lange’s face grew stern. “No, you’re not.”

One of the officers moved forward, touched Nancy’s arm. “This way, Ma’am.”

“Just a goddamned second,” Tyler said stepping forward. A cop held out an arm to block him. Tyler said, “This is a joke, right? Being under arrest?”

Nancy said, “I’ll be all right, Tyler. We just need to resolve this … this misunderstanding,” and headed to the patrol car with the two officers.

Lange nodded toward an idling unmarked blue Caprice sprouting two VHF antennas from the roof. “Do I look like I’m joking? In the car.” The two harbor cops edged closer as if expecting trouble.

Tyler didn’t move. “What are you charging me with?”

Lange shoved him toward the car. “Accessory to murder and fleeing the scene of a crime. Now get moving.”

Tyler stepped to the waiting car. “Where are we going?”

“If I say downtown it’ll sound like a cliché, but that’s your answer.”

“Can I at least stop and get my clothes?”

Lange pulled open the thermal blanket. “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said so far.”

D
RESSED IN THE clothes he’d stashed by the lake, Tyler returned to the back seat of Lange’s car. Lange shut the door behind him and climbed into the driver’s seat. They were parked alongside Benson’s Mercedes.

“Look, since you seem to know everything about me, you know I’m a doctor, right? I need to call the hospital. It’s important. Can I use your cell phone?”

“No.”

“Hey, this is ridiculous. I’m serious. This is an emergency. A kid’s life is at stake here.”

“Stow it, Mathews. I’m not listening.”

“This is bullshit. If you know anything about the shooting you know an FBI agent, Gary Ferguson, was there. He knows what happened. He’ll vouch for me.”

“Wrong, Mathews. He’s the one put out the warrant for your arrest.”

Shocked, Tyler slumped back against the seat.

Lange drove around the south end of Lake Union, down Broad to Second Avenue, then south toward the down-town core.

Minutes later Tyler sat up to attention when, instead of heading to the Public Safety Building, Lange nosed into the Federal Building basement garage. The car stopped, Lange popped the door locks. “Out.”

Two surly men with close-cropped hair and shoulders the width of a billiard table stood waiting. They ushered him, via elevator, up several floors to an obvious interrogation room: a mirrored window in one wall, a battleship-gray steel table with two mismatched chairs. “Inside,” ordered the agent who seemed to be in charge.

“Hold on, I’m a doctor. I need to call the hospital. It’s urgent,” Tyler pleaded again.

The door slammed with a solid
THUNK.

Within seconds it opened again and Gary Ferguson entered followed by a tall slender African American woman in a tan pantsuit. He was scowling. She didn’t look all that happy either.

Tyler threw both hands up in surrender. “Hey look, Ferguson, if I wasn’t supposed to leave I apologize but what the hell was I supposed to do? I mean, Jesus, they had Nancy, you refused to help me and I sure didn’t have time to wait for the police. And like you said, what were they gonna do?”

“I’m glad she’s safe Tyler, but this isn’t about her or you. It’s about this.” Ferguson waved a shiny CD platter in front of Tyler’s face. Tyler recognized it immediately. The one from the storage bin.

“So? What about it? That’s the goddamned evidence you wanted from me. That was the deal. Our agreement should be finished now.”

Ferguson’s jaw muscles rippled. “No, no, we’re not done yet. This fucking disk is worthless. It’s as blank as that wall behind you.” He threw the disc onto the table. It hit on its edge, bounced into the air, and fell.

Tyler watched the CD spin around twice before settling on the floor. “But it can’t be. I—” He flashed on Jim Day verifying the disk’s contents. “Wait a second! Jim Day … he must’ve erased it. If so, it’s still there. All you have to do—”

“No, Mathews, it’s not there. Who do you think we are,” Ferguson’s face grew more crimson, “a bunch of old ladies? Think we don’t know shit about data recovery? Think again. And when you do, wipe that condescending tone out of your voice. The fucking disc was formatted. It’s been leveled.”

Tyler glanced at the large mirrored window and wondered if whoever was watching was recording his words. Did it make any difference? “I burnt it off my office computer. I have a copy there,” he said hopefully, thinking maybe this would mollify Ferguson enough to allow him a phone call.

“No it’s not. Someone wiped the hard disk too.”

Khan.
Tyler finally seemed to notice the other person in the room. “Who’s she?”

Ferguson turned to her. “Ms. Hamilton, meet Tyler Mathews.” Then to Tyler, “She’s with the King County District Attorney’s Office.”

Tyler looked from Ferguson to Hamilton. “Oh for Christ’s sake, c’mon, I need to call the hospital. You know how important this is.”

Ferguson shook his head. “You’re not calling anyone until we get this settled.”

Tyler looked directly at the mirrored glass. “I demand to call my lawyer.”

“It’s not going to happen, Mathews. Not until you agree to a couple things.”

The pressure in Tyler’s head increased. “Hey, what about my constitutional right to a lawyer?” He wasn’t certain if this was true, but it sounded good.

Ferguson spread his stance a little, interlocked both arms across his chest. “Not under the Patriot Act you don’t. You don’t cooperate with me, you’re aiding a terrorist organization. In that case I can keep you here as long as I want and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Tyler blew an exasperated breath between pursed lips, threw his arms in the air and turned a tight circle. “Everything I had was on the computer and that disk. What do you want from me?” He thought of the disk he’d mailed to Nancy. He decided not to mention it yet.

“A couple things,” Ferguson replied. “I want everything you have against Med-InDx and I want you to go public with it in a press conference.” He turned to the ADA. “Owita?”

The woman cleared her throat. “Your buddy Benson survived and was taken to Harborview a few hours ago. Just before they rolled him into surgery he asked for his lawyer. You ever heard of Mel Tomkins?”

“No.”

“Well he’s the local equivalent to Johnny Cochran. Now, with what we got so far my boss is thinking murder. Whether we’re talking murder one or two we haven’t decided. Not until we get more information.” She shrugged and rocked her hand back and forth suggesting ambiguity. “But whatever we decide on, your testimony’s going to be crucial. You following this, Mathews?”

Tyler sighed and shook his head at Ferguson. “Why can’t
you
be the one to blow Med-InDx out of the water? I do it and my professional career will be toast.”

“That should be obvious, Mathews. Because you’re a doctor and the software killed one of your patients. You’ll have much more credibility. Besides, my boss and I will see to it that you’re protected from any reprisals from Maynard. You have my word on that.”

“Your word, huh,” Tyler repeated the phrase with sarcasm and thought about California, about the assurances then, about how it had all blown up in his face. “What time is it?”

“Stay on point,” Ferguson answered.

Tyler locked eyes with him. “And what about Nancy? She still thinks those drugs were mine.”

T
YLER GRIPPED THE podium edges, squinted, and listened attentively to the disembodied voice asking the question out there in the blinding supernova of klieg lights. All he could see were the shoes and ankles of the participants seated in the front row. Nancy was one of them, he knew, because he’d planted her there early, before the room filled up. Toby Warner’s parents were too, and he smiled knowing Toby was safe at home with his babysitting grandmother.

Question finished, he stalled and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead while choosing his words. “I am a neurosurgeon, not a computer programmer. I guess you’ll have to ask Mr. Levy that question. Assuming, of course, that you can find him.”

“Any truth to the allegation he’s been murdered?”

“I have no knowledge of what’s happened to Mr. Levy. You’ll have to address those questions to the appropriate law enforcement officials. Next question?”

Another voice, this one female, came from the right side of the room. “Is it true that one of your patients died as a result of the computer flaw?”

Tyler wiped another bead of sweat away with the back of his hand and considered his agreement—a debriefing was what they had called the meting—with the chairman of the MMC Board of Governors. His hospital privileges would be returned and the bogus drug charges removed if he would agree to not press charges against the Board or MMC for Arthur Benson’s transgressions.

“One of my patients suffered an unfortunate complication during the course of treatment. Because of the severity of this complication we instigated a root cause analysis. As a routine part of the root cause analysis we looked closely at the electronic medical record.” There! Close enough to fact to not be considered a lie. Far enough from the truth to keep the Maynard’s halo untarnished.

How much longer
, he wondered,
do I have to endure this?

Another voice asked, “Doctor, what steps is the medical center taking to assure a similar problem will not and can not happen again?”