Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  “I don’t believe that’s what you really want. I know you hurt. I know how much pain you’re in. That’s why I’ve always tried to help you. But I also think you’re covering for someone and I want to know why. Especially when that person wants to harm you.”

  Bobbie didn’t move.

  “Okay, fine,” Sarah said with a note of finality. “Obviously you want to shield someone who wants you dead. I, on the other hand, have my career to worry about, so I plan on hounding you until you tell me.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  The nurse put a protective hand on Bobbie and flashed Sarah a nonverbal warning.

  Sarah ignored the nurse. “I will not leave you alone. Know why? Because my name was on that bottle. It was the wrong drug for you under the circumstances, and it makes me look like a frigging idiot. I’m not going to let you get away with that.” Raising her voice, “Who gave it to you?”

  Baker squeezed her eyes tighter, shook her head again.

  Sarah felt terrible for yelling at a vulnerable patient but saw no other option. With a defiant glance at the nurse, she said, “Bobbie, stonewalling won’t work. If you don’t tell me now, I’ll give you drugs that will make you talk.” Bullshit, of course, but necessary bullshit. One way or the other, she was going to find out.

  Still, Bobbie said nothing.

  “Is this what you want? To have me force the answer out of you?” Then, to the nurse, “Okay, bring me the pentothal.”

  Bobbie whispered, “Doctor Wyse.”

  The words stunned Sarah. Then, a moment later, it almost made sense. Almost. Wyse had treated Bobbie’s head trauma. And after she developed PTSD he had enrolled her into a clinical trial to treat that too. But logic ended there.

  Sarah glanced at the nurse beside her. “Did you hear what she just said?”

  The nurse nodded. “Yes. Doctor Wyse.”

  Sarah placed a gentle hand on Bobbie’s forehead. “Would you be willing to repeat this to a lawyer?”

  Bobbie opened her eyes. “I’ll do anything you want if you just leave me the fuck alone.”

  24

  THE TRAFFIC LIGHT turned green, allowing Ernest Womack a right-hand turn onto the steep upward grade of Queen Anne Avenue North. One block past Lee Street, he turned right onto a street traversing the hill and curbed the Toyota rental long enough to recheck the address and confirm his location on his portable Garmin GPS. Fucking neighborhood had a confusing array of streets with dead ends that resumed blocks away. Three-story homes and apartments took every inch of impossibly small lots in competition for drop-dead views of downtown Seattle and, on clear days, majestic Mount Rainier. He didn’t want to imagine what these puppies sold for. Way beyond his pay grade, for sure.

  Satisfied with his location, he proceeded east two blocks, took two more right turns, which brought him back to Lee Street. He slowed while passing McCarthy’s address for the first time, a three-story structure of taupe stucco no more than five years old. The front faced the street, the back faced the view. It was one of three contiguous townhouses, each with a steep drive down to a basement garage. Separate steps to the left of the driveways led up to the front doors.

  He continued on to Queen Anne Avenue, then back to park on Lee, locked up, and sauntered away with the casualness of a neighbor enjoying the pleasant summer afternoon. While approaching McCarthy’s building he looked for law enforcement vehicles like a Crown Vic or a Caprice. Ford manufactured the Victoria as a police special so they stood out. The only people to be caught dead driving a fucking Caprice were cops or seventy-five-year-old ladies, making both models as inconspicuous as a nuclear blast. He also checked for a panel truck with tinted windows because police typically converted them to surveillance vehicles. If cops were around, he intended to introduce himself. It made no sense to ask for problems by being mistaken as a prowler. He saw no evidence of a police presence, so he walked a leisurely pace around the block, came back, and was up the three stairs to McCarthy’s front door to ring the bell.

  No answer.

  He rang it again. Still, no answer. Tried the door. Locked. No problem.

  Then he was inside, standing on black marble yelling, “Yo, Tom, you home?” figuring he could gain the element of surprise by sounding friendly.

  No answer.

  No sounds of life either: no television, no music, no running water. Just stillness and the warm, stuffy air of a closed-up house baking in the sun. To his right was a small den with a reasonable sized LCD TV, laptop, desk, a bookcase with a sleek black Bang & Olufsen CD player, and a couple shelves of CDs.

  He moved into the kitchen/dining area. Looked expensive even though he had no idea of the cost of the appliances and furniture. Contemporary. He suspected the decor might be considered tasteful by some, but wasn’t sure. And he didn’t give a shit because it probably cost more than his pay grade allowed. Granite counters, maple cabinets, stainless steel appliances. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a view of downtown.

  He quickly checked every room upstairs, clearing the entire floor in less than sixty seconds. One thing for sure, Mc-Carthy wasn’t here. And the place felt like he hadn’t been here all day. He had two choices: Wait here or out in the car. He checked the fridge, saw only catsup, mustard, a jar of pickles, and a big jar of peanut butter (extra crunchy). Nothing worthwhile to eat, he decided. He eyed the TV again, but decided to play it safe and wait in the car. But not before stopping by the john to take a leak.

  He left the same way he’d entered, not caring if McCarthy could tell that someone had been inside.

  Across the street, he fished out a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo from his breast pocket and paused to admire the engraving. A going-away present from his Delta Unit CO five years ago when transferring to Cunningham’s command. He flipped it open and shut, listening to the distinctive clunk he loved. Only a real Zippo made that sound.

  He glanced around for the best surveillance spot. The problem was a lack of parking. Every fucking driveway was occupied and there was no space along the curb. Ah, but wait, two houses down from McCarthy’s a woman was getting into a car. He took off for the rental and felt lucky that the vacated space remained unoccupied when he returned.

  He checked his sandwiches, cigarettes, and bottled water. He’d use McCarthy’s place to take a leak. Satisfied, he settled down in the seat to wait. Only problem was the fucking rental didn’t have SIRIUS radio so couldn’t catch the Braves game.

  25

  MCCARTHY’S NERVES BECAME increasingly twitchy as each second lurched to the next. Being cooped up in this cramped, overheated room made him a sitting duck. He tried to distract himself and not to worry, but every occasional sound from the hall—a voice, the rattle of a cart’s wheels, a door closing—made him face his situation. Sooner or later someone would come to check out this call room. And when he didn’t answer the door, that person would try the knob and find it locked. If he still didn’t answer, he or she know.

  Where was Sarah? What was taking so long?

  He stretched out on the bed and tried the relaxation exercises he’d learned last year at yoga class but he still couldn’t relax. Was this what it felt like to do hard time in solitary? He’d go crazy.

  He picked up the wall phone and called Davidson.

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “We’re still deadlocked.”

  “Tell me again why you can’t simply come escort me out of here? Have the press cover it so nothing bad can happen.”

  Davidson said, “I can do that, but then what happens? Soon as we get out of the building we’d be forced to turn you over to Sikes.”

  This was what didn’t make sense. “Why? Can’t the local police hold me until this gets sorted out?”

  “No. Not with a Pentagon official declaring you a terrorist.”

  He checked his watch. Where was Sarah? Should have been back by now.

  The plain beige walls inched closer, the ceiling lower. He sat on the single bed, wiped his sweaty face, and
thought, do something. Getting shot trying to escape seemed better than enduring another minute of this hell. Besides, if he made a break for it, there was a chance—albeit small—he might make it. Sikes and the cops couldn’t be everywhere.

  Okay, but what about Sarah?

  “Tom?” Davidson asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You okay?”

  “Just thinking. Look, I know this is a stretch, but bear with me on this. I saw two patients, a woman named Baker and a guy named Russell, both with prior head injuries treated at Lakeview. I had both of them sign a release of records, but the records never came. I’m thinking this is somehow related to what’s happening.”

  A long pause, then Davidson said, “What am I missing? How does this relate?”

  “Sikes mentioned something about having classified information. The only thing I can think of that even comes close to that is the chief of neurosurgery at Lakeview has done research funded by DARPA.”

  “I still don’t see any connection.”

  “Guess I haven’t explained it very well, but it’s a feeling I came away with after thinking about things. See, I ordered both patients’ medical records twice, and neither one has been sent. Lakeview is notoriously slow in responding to requests, but even factoring that in, to not send either patient’s records after two requests? That’s unheard of. The only way I can explain that is if Wyse denied the requests.”

  “Like you said, it’s a stretch. Keep thinking. Maybe you know things that just aren’t coming to the surface yet. Any closer to getting out of there?”

  “I’m waiting on something.”

  “Don’t mean to cut you off, but I need to get a few more calls in before it gets too late in the day. I’ll keep this line open. Call if something breaks.”

  McCarthy hung up and immediately reviewed their conversation. There were so many little details to support the foundation of his conclusion—many still a bit fuzzy—he forgot to mention. To sell Davidson—or the authorities, for that matter—he’d need better proof. For that, he’d need someone to poke around in areas neither he nor Davidson could access. A person like Tony Cassera.

  Cassera was a KING TV investigative reporter with a record of incredible perseverance in politically loaded high-profile cases. One in particular involved a local Korean politician suspected of protecting three businessmen involved with smuggling illegal Asian aliens through the Port of Seattle. Tony blew that story wide open in spite of receiving death threats. A year ago he had treated Cassera for a herniated lumbar disk, luckily with excellent results. From there they’d developed a casual friendship.

  He dialed information and was connected to the KING TV main number which dropped him into an automated menu. He chose to be connected to the news desk. A male answered. “News desk.”

  “Tony Cassera, please.”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “A friend. I need to talk to him. It’s urgent.” He hoped that using Cassera’s first name might validate the request.

  The person turned testier. “Sorry, Mister Cassera is busy at the moment.”

  Tom figured he only got one shot at this, so he dropped the bomb. “Tell him Dr. Tom McCarthy is calling.”

  “I’m sure he can break free.”

  Five seconds later, “Tom?”

  Suddenly, time began evaporating, and if he didn’t explain his side of the story in a few seconds Sikes would burst through the door to kill him. “If you want the truth to what happened this morning listen carefully. I may not have much time.”

  “Mind if I put this on speakerphone and turn on a recorder?”

  “Perfect, but make it quick, I don’t know how long before they’ll find me and try to kill me again.”

  26

  SARAH ENTERED THE physicians’ lounge and glanced around, not sure what she was looking for other than a distraction from the relentless fear in her chest. Certainly she didn’t expect to find Tom drinking coffee and chatting up the anesthesiologists. Where was he, damn it?

  By this time life in the lounge had returned to normal, the earlier excitement over the shooting churned into the wake of unrelenting workloads. A few stragglers, coffee cups in hand, still clustered at the television, which was showing the same reporter camped outside Magnuson, recapping the same story. Otherwise, the activity level appeared to be in the usual afternoon slump. She’d spent the last hour wandering halls on the off chance of spotting Tom. In the process, she’d casually checked out the more obscure exits—one in particular that led from the basement straight out to a side street—in case she found him still in the medical center. But as time passed with nothing on the news, the more optimistic she became that Tom had escaped. Certainly if he were captured the reporters would be all over the story instead of rehashing the old one.

  She desperately needed a distraction to calm her nerves. What? Tea? That usually helped. But she doubted it’d work this time. Still, she pulled a white Styrofoam cup from an inverted stack, selected mango flavor from the picked-over assortment of bags, and filled the cup with steaming water.

  She chose one of the unoccupied tables, sat down, and began raising and lowering the tea bag in the darkening water. What to do now? Her clinical duties were scaled back until the residency director returned from vacation to review all the facts surrounding the Baker prescription fiasco. So, in contrast to her usual hectic schedule she wasn’t pushed for time. Basically she had two options: continue to search for Tom or go up to the psychiatry offices and try to sweet talk the executive secretary into giving her a few minutes with Dr. Ripley, the department chairman. If she could convince the Ripper to hear Bobbie’s story, it might help remove her probation. Crap, she hated this stigma. Every psych resident knew about the Valium prescription, probably making her the butt of a new series of jokes. Double crap.

  With a glance at her watch, she decided to do both. On her way to the Ripper’s office, she could swing by the call room again on the off chance Tom had circled back. That was doubtful, but worth a try. If he wasn’t there, she would continue on to the psych office. But first she needed to finish the tea and chill a bit.

  She lifted the tea bag from the water, captured it in the white plastic spoon, and cinched the string tight around it, squeezing out water before setting the trussed teabag/spoon on the table. Finished, she sat back to try to relax, but her mind drifted to another married man and another huge mistake.

  She tells Doctor Jeff Kennedy, “I need to speak with you.”

  The tall, distinguished cardiologist with graying temples looks up from the tablet computer and peers over half-height tortoise-shell reading glasses. “Oh, hello there, Ms. Hamilton.” He glances nervously around the crowded nursing station. “Certainly.”

  “Not here,” is all she says.

  Unable to completely smother a grin, he mouths the words, “The call room?”

  “No. How about the end of the hall.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  A minute later, “Well?”

  They stand outside a narrow alcove used to store folded wheelchairs: the classic picture of medical student and attending physician discussing a case. He even contemplatively strokes his firm dimpled chin.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  She’d agonized over how to break it to him but couldn’t come up with any better words than the simple truth. Her stomach acid has to be at an all-time high. She fears she sounds like she’s whining.

  A collage of emotions flash read-a-board style through Jeff’s eyes: confusion, fear, distrust, anger, back to sheer fear. After a beat he asks, “Are you quite sure?”

  In that split second, the endearing head tilt she used to love now pisses her off. She wants to slap him. Is she sure? What the hell kind of a question is that? “Goddamn it, Jeff.”

  “All right, all right.” He raises both hands in surrender and nervously glances around again for listening ears. “Keep it down.” He takes a deep breath and twists his simple gold wedding band. Several heartbeats
later he mutters in slow deliberate words, “I don’t know what to say … I’m sure you’ve thought about this. What are you planning—”

  A loud laugh snapped Sarah back to the lounge, to an anesthesiologist and cardiologist over by a plate of cookies to the right of the coffee urns. The gas passer must have cracked a good one because the cardiologist was red-faced with laughter.

  Her anxiety came crashing back like a tsunami, destroying any desire for the tea. She needed to find Tom and know he was safe. She’d try the call room one more time. And if he still wasn’t there she’d decide what to do next. Right now she just had to be moving.

  She dumped the cup in the trash on the way out.

  DELEON FRANKLIN WAS seriously pissed that his team came up empty-handed in the sweep of the medical center buildings, a maze interlinked by tunnels and sky bridges and obscure halls. Although he couldn’t change the fact that the search missed the terrorist, there was nothing to indicate McCarthy had actually escaped. So until another assignment arose or McCarthy was sighted elsewhere, he’d keep his men patrolling the halls. No one killed a law enforcement officer, federal or local, and got away with it. He’d see to that.

  27

  MCCARTHY HUNG UP the phone after talking with Tony Cassera but stayed on the edge of the bed, thinking through his best escape route one final time. Take the stairs at the end of the hall down to the first floor, turn left, head straight to the emergency room, and simply walk out the ambulance entrance. Sure, traversing the ER carried a high risk of being noticed, but paradoxically it seemed to be his best shot. Mainly because it would be so bold that nobody in a right mind would figure he’d do it. So the vigilance level might be low. And, by wearing scrubs and a surgical cap, he’d blend into routine flux of employees. If he moved with the purpose, the docs and nurses might be too preoccupied to notice. Hopefully security would be looking for a nervous male in a white shirt and slacks. He didn’t know how many men Sikes had roaming the halls, but the cops probably outnumbered them. He hoped so, because getting picked up by the cops carried a higher chance of survival than with Sikes. The more he mulled it over, the more reasonable the plan seemed. Who knew, if he got lucky, he might actually just walk away.