Next to the recliner is a table with a laptop on it. To the right of the credenza is a large chest of drawers, and on the wall to the right is a double bed. It’s a cute little place, little being the operative word. Joey dwarfs the room and the furnishings. I assume the door just to the right of the entrance leads to a bathroom, but judging from how much space there is available behind that door, I can hardly imagine Joey being able to get in there, much less have a shower he can fit into.
Still, the place is Joey’s. He pays his own rent, buys his own food and clothes, and holds down a job. Given his mental limitations, it’s quite an accomplishment, and one that he is unabashedly proud of. He waves me in and offers to let me sit in the sole chair in the room. I thank him and tell him I’m okay to stand because we need to get going soon. The look of disappointment on his face makes me feel bad, so I try to temper the situation by asking him to show me the place—as if I can’t see it all from where I’m standing. This has the desired effect. Joey beams a broad smile and actually gives me a tour, a journey that involves us standing just inside the door and slowly revolving as he points to different areas of the room.
“This is a great home, Joey,” I tell him.
“Thanks,” he says, still beaming. “I really like it.” His smile falters. “Except I wish I had another chair for Rhonda.”
Joey’s new girlfriend is someone I’ve heard about but haven’t met. According to Arnie, who sort of adopted Joey as his younger brother when Joey’s mother died (Joey’s father died when Joey was three) and keeps an eye on him to make sure he’s okay, Rhonda is a young woman with Down syndrome who works at the local grocery store. Arnie gives me updates regularly, and the most recent one had Rhonda, who lives with her mother, and Joey going on a few “dates.” These excursions were to the movies, or a restaurant, or the local bowling alley—both Joey and Rhonda love to bowl—all with Rhonda’s mother in tow. The couple has progressed from holding hands to hugging and even sharing a chaste kiss on the lips on one occasion, something Arnie said has Rhonda’s mother a little freaked out. As far as I know, Rhonda hasn’t been to Joey’s apartment.
“Does Rhonda come here to visit with you, Joey?”
“Not yet, but I want her to. Her mom came here once to see where I live, and she said it wasn’t good enough because there was no place for Rhonda to sit. So I need to get another chair.”
I suspect Rhonda’s mother objected for reasons other than the seating, though I’m guessing she didn’t share this with Joey. She might be forced to address the issue, however, because while Joey has a childlike personality and level of intelligence, he also has a grown man’s drive and sense of determination. He is very goal-directed and good at getting jobs done. That’s part of what has made him successful enough to live on his own like this.
“Maybe you can work something out,” I tell him. “I’ll help you find another chair.”
The beaming smile returns, and Joey then startles me by grabbing me in his huge bear arms and hugging me. “Thank you, Mattie. You’re a good friend.”
When he releases me, I glance at my watch and say, “We need to get going. But first let me tell you what I want you to do, not only to see if you can do it, but also because it won’t be strictly legal, and you could get into trouble for helping me.”
“You mean go to jail trouble?” Joey says.
“Maybe,” I say, wincing. I don’t actually think Joey would go to jail if what we are going to do is discovered, but I can’t be totally sure. So I feel honesty is the best policy.
But Joey not only doesn’t look intimidated by this; if anything, he looks excited. “I will help you because you are my friend,” he says. “And this sounds like a job for HackerMan.”
“That it is,” I say with a smile. “Here’s what I need you to do.” I spend ten minutes explaining exactly where we’re going and what we’re going to do when we get there. “All you need to do is follow me until we get to the actual computers,” I explain. “Then I need your expertise, assuming you can do what I want.”
“It will be easy,” Joey says with a hint of bravado. I hope he’s right.
We head out, and I drive back to the hospital, parking in the rear lot again so as not to draw too much attention to the presence of the hearse. Joey and I get out and walk around the building, across a grassy expanse and part of another parking lot, until we reach the back door to the clinic building. While the clinic is on the same grounds as the hospital, it’s in a separate building with its own parking lot and is run by the physicians whose offices fill it. At this time of night, the clinic is typically empty, particularly since it’s a Friday evening. But just to make sure, Joey and I walk around the building, checking the windows for any light emanating from within.
The coast appears to be clear, and when we return to the back entrance, I use my old key to gain access to the building. I had a key to the office when I was married to David; it made sense at the time, and I used it often so I could visit him in his office without having to go through the patient waiting area. When we split up, I should have turned the key in to someone, but no one ever asked for it, and I never offered. It has been on my key ring—unused and more or less unnoticed—ever since.
Inside, all the main lights are off, but there are a few nightlights, enough to see by.
“I don’t want to turn any lights on,” I tell Joey. “Someone might see them and come investigate. And this needs to be a top-secret mission.”
“Okay,” Joey says eagerly. “Top secret.” He reaches back and tugs at his waistband. A moment later, his red cape appears, and he lets it hang down the back of his pants.
I glance at my watch; it’s a little after 7:30. “There’s a security guard who comes through the building every evening,” I tell Joey. “He typically comes at nine, so I’m hoping we can be done by then.”
Roger Deighton has been a weekday evening security guard for the hospital and the clinic for more than twenty years. I know him well, both from when I worked in the hospital and from when I was married to David and would hang out in his office late at night. I know Roger is a creature of habit, following the same routines shift after shift, and I’m counting on that routine being the same.
Once we are inside, I lead the way down the main hallway to the elevator. The clinic building is two floors of physician and dental offices, but there is also a basement that houses the billing and medical records office for all of the building’s occupants. Hurley and I went down there once before, right after Carolyn Abernathy died, hoping to access her computer workstation and see what files she might have been working on. That time, we gained access to the area by using the dead woman’s ID badge. It didn’t help us much. The office supervisor essentially laughed in our faces and then told us to get lost. Threats of a search warrant didn’t faze her in the least, and since we didn’t really have enough evidence to justify getting a warrant that would allow us to search private, personal medical records of who knows how many people, our visit proved to be a frustrating and irritating waste of time. I’m hoping to remedy that situation tonight.
Using David’s ID badge, Joey and I take the elevator down to the basement level. I’m hoping there isn’t anyone here putting in overtime hours, and I’m relieved to see the area is dark and deserted when the elevator door opens.
“Come on, Joey,” I say. “I don’t think it will matter which computer we use.” We head for the nearest cubicle and computer station, and I sit down in front of the monitor. I say another silent prayer that David hasn’t changed his computer password—he’s used the same one for years—and I boot up the machine and prepare to log in. I type “DWinston” in for the username—the clinic and hospital both use a first initial and the last name for all logins—and when I get the prompt for a password, I type in “A1 Surgeon.” A tiny spinning circle at the center of the screen appears and continues to spin for several seconds. I fear the dreaded warning that my username or password is incorrect, but suddenly the screen fills
with the home page of the electronic charting program used by both the clinic and the hospital.
“Okay,” I say, getting out of the chair and gesturing for Joey to take it. “See if you can work your magic. I need you to find all the records that were reviewed by Carolyn Abernathy during the past three to four months.”
Joey drops into the seat, and for the next few minutes, he just stares at the screen, studying the various icons and drop-down menus. I stand at his side, chewing my lip, wondering if I’ve overestimated his abilities. Finally, he settles his hand over the mouse and starts clicking. He pulls up a screen for requesting reports and then starts filling in blanks for his search. He types and clicks, types and clicks, types and clicks. A variety of new screens pop up, followed by some tables and lists. He continues clicking and typing, and I see graphs and spreadsheets pop up and then disappear. I pace for a bit, looking back at Joey every minute or so. He studies the screen intently, his eyes moving rapidly, his hands busy with the keyboard and mouse. He looks totally involved and focused, and though every fiber of my being is dying to start firing questions at him, I bite my lip and stay quiet. I do a complete circuit of the office area three times, and when I glance at my watch, I see that it’s ten past eight.
My hopes are starting to flag, and I’m about to break my silence when Joey says, “Is this what you want?”
I hurry over to him and stare at the screen. He has a spreadsheet displayed with columns that include service dates, patient names, dates of birth, diagnoses, physician names, insurance information, and some financial data. The very last column, which is labeled “Reviewer,” lists the name Abernathy after each row.
“Yes!” I say, giving Joey a pat on the back. “That looks like it.” I reach down and take over the mouse, using it to scroll through the list. I click several times, and more rows appear with each click. “How many entries are there?” I ask.
Joey points to a number at the bottom of the screen. It says 1,456, and I groan. “That’s way too many,” I say. “We have to figure out a way to winnow it down.”
Joey gives me a perplexed look. “Winnow?” he repeats.
“Sorry,” I say, waving my hand in the air as if I’m trying to wave away the word. “We need to find a way to make this list smaller, to find the charts that might have the information I’m looking for.”
“What are you looking for?” Joey asks.
I think about this, studying the column headings. “We can sort these results using these column headings, can’t we?” I ask him.
He nods.
“Let’s start with the diagnoses,” I say.
Joey takes the mouse, clicks on the header for the diagnosis column, and the results are then sorted alphabetically. I think about a weight-loss drug, and the sorts of maladies a person might have if they were prescribed one. My mind ticks off a mental list: diabetes, heart disease, stroke, and the most obvious one, obesity.
“Can we sort this list by more than one column?” I ask Joey.
“Sure. Just tell me what you want.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, we sort the list first by diagnosis, then by physician, and finally by age. Joey shows me how we can hide all the charts that aren’t relevant to our search—young children, unrelated diagnoses, and doctors who are specialists in areas such as orthopedics, urology, and neurology. While some of those doctors might have a patient or two who would require weight management, I know they aren’t likely to prescribe a weight-loss drug. Specialists tend to leave that sort of thing up to primary care doctors. But I have included David in the list since his initials match one of the ones listed in Hal’s notes. Eventually, we end up with a more manageable list of 386 charts. But it’s still too many.
I glance at my watch, undecided how to proceed. I don’t want to linger down here. The risk of discovery is too great, and while I’m not that worried about getting caught myself, I don’t want to get Joey into trouble. Then I remember Hal’s list, and Hal’s sister.
“Joey, is there a way to search these remaining charts for a particular item, like a drug that might have been prescribed?”
“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “But I can do it another way.”
“You can?” He nods and smiles. “Okay then, search for Leptosoma,” I tell him. This is the name of the weight-loss drug that Hal’s sister, Liz, had been taking. “But save this spreadsheet result. I might want to look at it again.” Then I remember something else: the nudge regarding the prescription bottle that was nagging me earlier. Now I know why it was bothering me. I take out my phone as Joey starts tapping away, and call Arnie. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey, Mattie, what’s up?”
“Any chance you’re in the office?”
“I am. Laura and I are here working on something together.”
Thank goodness for Arnie’s crush on Laura, I think. “I need you to look something up for me,” I tell him. “Remember that prescription bottle we found with Liz Dawson’s name on it? The one for Leptosoma?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Can you look at it and tell me who the prescribing doctor was?”
“Sure. Hold on.” He puts me on hold, leaving me listening to static. I watch Joey, slightly alarmed to see that he is no longer in the software program that provides the electronic medical charts. Instead he is on a screen where lines of what looks like jibberish are scrolling by.
“Mattie?” Arnie comes back on the phone.
“I’m here.”
“It was a Dr. Richard Olsen.”
A light goes on in my mind. “Thanks, Arnie. One more thing. What were the items in the list that Hal had on his thumb drive, specifically the letters that were followed by the locales?”
“One sec,” Arnie says. “I need to pull it up on my computer.”
I grab a pen and a notepad on a nearby cubicle and prop the phone against my ear, waiting.
“You ready?” Arnie says a moment later.
“Go ahead.”
“RO is followed by France, Switzerland, and New York, DW is followed by Miami, Florence, and London, PQ is followed by London, Sydney, and Belgium, and TR is followed by Edinburgh, Prague, and Mykonos.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“What are you doing?” he asks, sounding suspicious, which is how he sounds 99 percent of the time.
“I’ll tell you later if it pans out,” I say. “I have to go.” I disconnect the call before he has a chance to ask any more questions because I don’t want to explain where I am, and also because I see the screen in front of Joey is no longer scrolling. It’s displaying a list.
“Is this what you want, Mattie?” he asks.
On the screen is a list of about twenty names, all of them physicians. Included in the list are the names of my ex-husband, along with Peter Quinn and Robert Olsen. And as I scan the remaining seventeen names I see one that fits the final pair of letters in Hal’s note: Timothy Rutledge.
“Can you print that list for me?” I ask Joey.
“Sure.” He taps a few keys, and I hear the sound of a printer come to life somewhere off to my right. Thanks to my earlier pacing, I know where that printer is. But as I turn to head for it, I hear something else as well, something that makes my blood turn cold. Someone has called the elevator.
CHAPTER 24
“Joey, quick! Turn off the computer.”
While Joey does as I say, I dash over to the printer and grab the sheet of paper in the tray, folding it and sticking it in my pocket. Then I glance at the numbers above the elevator. The car has stopped on the first floor. I hear the doors open, and a moment later, I hear them close. Then the machinery starts running again. I can’t be sure, but it sounds like the elevator is headed in our direction.
“Come on, Joey,” I say, grabbing his arm. “We have to get out of here fast.”
I pull him toward the stairwell, knowing we can get out of the basement that way, even though access to the stairs from the first floor requires a badge. For
fire safety reasons, one can exit the basement into the stairwell without a badge. But from there the only way out is through an alarmed exit to the outside or the badged doorway at the top of the stairs on the first floor.
I push the door open and hurry through, with Joey close on my heels. Just as the door is about to close, I see the B above the elevator door light up and hear a ding. I point up the stairs, and then put my finger to my lips, indicating the need for quiet. Joey nods his understanding, and I set off up the stairs as quietly as I can. I’m afraid that Joey, as huge as he is, won’t be able to be as furtive, but he is surprisingly lithe on his feet, making almost no noise at all. At the top of the stairs, I peer through a glass window in the door and see that the hallway is empty. Then I wave David’s badge in front of the reader, wincing when a buzzing sound emerges from the box, followed by the click of the door lock. That click sounds like a bomb blast to me now, but I don’t wait to see if it has attracted any attention. I push the door open and wave Joey through ahead of me.
Though I know it will use up potentially valuable escape time, I hold the door as it closes, easing it back into place, wincing again when I hear the latch engage. Then I point down the hall toward David’s office and the back exit to the clinic. Joey hurries down the hall, and I follow after him, smiling despite my anxiety as I see his red cape billowing out behind him. When we reach the end of the hall and David’s office, I pause and tell Joey he needs to head back to the car and wait for me. Then I open the door and peek outside, to see if anyone is around. The area looks deserted, so I wave Joey on and tell him I might be a little while because I’ll need to wait for the guard to leave.
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