Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  SIKES’S CELL RANG. The display showed Wyse’s office number. “Sikes.” He was still working on his latte.

  “It’s Wyse. Got a couple thoughts about McCarthy.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He saw two of my patients for a second opinion. It occurred to me he might try to contact them.”

  What was he missing here? “Not sure I see the relevance?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. But there’s a good chance McCarthy might try to contact them in person. I suggest you check it out.”

  Sikes considered how best that might be done. “Since they know you and not me, wouldn’t we be more likely to get a straight answer if you contact them instead of me?”

  “You’re right. Hadn’t thought of it that way. I’ll call.”

  Sikes figured that wasn’t very likely to yield anything, but at this point a weak lead was better than no lead at all. He had to hand it to Wyse for trying to help like this. “Let me know immediately, one way or another.”

  Sikes disconnected and returned to his computer. He was using the store’s Wi-Fi system to search deeper into McCarthy’s life and had just stumbled upon his sailboat. Using Google maps, he located the marina and estimated it would be a thirty-minute drive from here. So fucking obvious. Why hadn’t he thought to check this possibility sooner? He packed up the computer and headed back to the car, latte in hand.

  43

  8:07 AM, INTERSTATE 5, NORTH OF SEATTLE

  AS SARAH DROVE, McCarthy rehashed Bobbie Baker’s story, wracking his memory for bits of information and flaws in his logic. How could Baker remember so many vivid details of an event everyone claimed never happened? At least not to her. Okay, so maybe she’d internalized someone else’s memories. Most likely a girlfriend’s. Unless a person was an accomplished liar or very good actor, secondhand stories didn’t include so many convincing emotions. When Bobbie recounted Jordan’s birth, she spoke with such genuine feeling that it was impossible to believe she was fabricating the story. Yet her family insisted she’d never been pregnant. Same thing with her memories of having to identify her murdered brother’s body at the medical examiner’s office.

  What if she had been admitted to Sisters of Mercy and no one knew about it? Problem was, if the date of Jordan’s birth was accurate, she was married to Trent. How would that work? Her husband didn’t seem like the kind of guy who wouldn’t notice his wife’s pregnancy. And if she really had delivered a baby, why would he deny it? He thought about Anne. Could she have hidden a full-term pregnancy from him? Hardly. And what happened to Jordan? Adopted? Just too many unanswered questions.

  He wasn’t alone in his impression. Sarah agreed that Bobbie didn’t come across as a pathologic liar, and Sarah struck him as an excellent judge of character. On the other hand, doctors were programmed to believe their patients.

  Unless of course, Bobbie was lying and had internalized up all those perfect little details from friends describing their own deliveries. Spin the same lie often enough and you end up believing it. Hell, with all the trauma-induced gaps in her own memory, Bobbie might not realize the difference. Made you wonder.

  If his suspicion was correct—that the memories were the result of Wyse’s treatment of her PTSD—how could that possibly happen? Posthypnotic suggestion was the only thing that came to mind. But this brought on the question of why he would implant such memories?

  The same argument applied to Charlie Russell. It just didn’t make sense.

  IT TURNED OUT neither McCarthy nor Sarah had actually set foot in Everett, only passed by on Interstate 5 a couple times. So, before leaving the hotel she’d Googled Sisters of Mercy on her cell phone, found the webpage, and played navigator. He knew only a few facts about the city. It was in the “convergence zone”—an unfortunate area north of Seattle where weather forces collide to produce even more rain than in the city.

  Sarah exited I-5 onto Broadway and headed downtown. They passed two main streets before reaching a tired-looking Catholic hospital of red bricks. She pulled into a newer three-story parking garage and set the parking brake. “Want me to go with you or stay here?”

  “Let’s go together. Might look more convincing.”

  As a disguise, McCarthy slipped on dark glasses and a Mariners cap he’d picked up in the hotel gift shop. Now wished he’d selected clothes more befitting a doctor. Then again, on Saturday of a three-day weekend most doctors would dress down.

  “This is the best I can do.”

  Sarah nodded approval and unclipped her seatbelt.

  BEING UNFAMILIAR WITH the building, McCarthy passed up a side entrance for the front door above which a weatherbeaten Jesus stared down on visitors, his outstretched arms streaked with years of sunbaked pigeon shit. Although the red brick exterior had been refurbished at some time in the recent past the building still projected a tired institutional aura. The halls were dog-eared and worn also.

  A lobby wall displayed a Western European–looking Jesus Christ with a glowing heart in cupped hands. For McCarthy it brought back sepia-toned memories of Jesuit prep school: sweaty gym clothes, macaroni and cheese, the smell of a rotting orange one locker over. An information desk was manned by a withered, white-haired woman with the masked face of early stage Parkinson’s disease.

  She asked, “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for the medical records department.”

  She pointed a tremoring, arthritic finger. “End of that hall, third door on the left. Can’t miss it.”

  AT A DESK behind a reception counter, an obese woman in pink warm-ups glanced up as McCarthy and Sarah came through the door. Unmasked acne scars fanned out below two beautiful, large, almond eyes. She flashed a pleasant smile of perfect white teeth. Behind her stretched the larger medical records office of a dozen dictation cubicles and desks overflowing with paperwork. Instead of the typical worker bee white noise, the room was eerily silent and smelled of printer toner and overheated electronics.

  McCarthy said, “I’m Doctor Rush. Could you to pull a patient’s chart for me?” From his pocket he withdrew the release of information form with Baker’s signature.

  She inspected it. “You have her Social Security number?”

  He pointed. “Right there on the bottom of the form.”

  She nodded. “Hang on a sec, I’ll pull it up for you.” She typed on a computer keyboard, tapped ENTER, and started picking at something behind her right ear.

  A moment later she frowned. “Sorry, our records don’t show any admission under that number.”

  McCarthy felt strangely disappointed and wondered why. What difference did it really make? “Try Davis. That was her maiden name.”

  “Won’t matter. I searched the Social Security number, not the name. No one with that number is in the system. End of search.”

  He couldn’t let it go at this. “Could you please try anyway? Maybe I got the number wrong.”

  She did, but the search turned up negative.

  Well, that settled it. Bobbie Baker’s story was a fabrication.

  “Sorry to bother you. Thanks for looking.”

  “No problem. Sorta lonely around here today anyway.”

  He was about to leave when an idea hit. “Is there any other hospital in Everett?”

  “Nope. This is it.”

  WYSE APPROACHED THE main counter of Butch’s gun shop and waited for one of the two clerks to finish with customers. He was amazed that such a store would be so busy. Also, the assortment of weapons was astounding. Guns, knives, stun guns—who bought this shit?

  Finished with a woman purchasing a stun gun, a stocky, bearded man in jeans and a gray sleeveless sweatshirt turned his attention to Wyse. A large Stars and Stripes tattoo was prominently displayed on well-developed biceps. “Help you?”

  “I want to buy a gun.”

  The man grinned. “Then you come to the right place. What kind you have in mind?”

  Across the store front hung swaths of butcher paper displaying
weekly specials. PEPPER SPRAY $9.99. GLOCK 9 MM ON SALE, $499. Glock? What the hell’s a Glock?

  “I have no idea. Never owned one before.”

  The clerk sucked a tooth for a moment. “Well, lemme ask you this. What you want it for?”

  That one caught Wyse flat-footed. He scrambled for an answer. “Protection.” Yeah, that sounded reasonable.

  The clerk eyed him so suspiciously Wyse felt compelled to explain. “Our house was broken into a couple nights ago. I need something around, you know, in case it happens again.”

  The guy nodded more to himself than Wyse, straightened up, and swept a palm toward a locked showcase. “You got all sorts of choices. Point out what looks good to you.”

  Wyse studied the confusing array of weapons. “It’d be best if you recommend one.”

  “You plan on your wife using it?”

  “Yes.”

  Pulling a key ring from his pocket, the clerk turned to the display case. “That cuts down your choices tremendously. Seems to me you want stopping power but nothin’ that’s gonna give you a lot of kick. Especially seeing how neither of you are well trained.” He paused, seemingly to think about his last words, and turned to Wyse. “You plan on gettin’ proper instruction?”

  Proper instruction? “By all means.”

  The clerk opened a case and pulled out a black pistol. “You probably also want something compact and light. For the little lady.” Grinning like a proud father, he handed it to Wyse. “This here’s the Glock 19. A real beauty. How’s that feel?”

  Felt lighter than it looked.

  The salesman touched the barrel, pushed it aside. “First thing you gotta learn is never point a gun at nobody unless you aim to shoot ’em.”

  “Sorry.” Now the damn thing felt awkward and heavy in his hand. He inspected it more closely. Black and sinister. An instrument of death, perfect for killing McCarthy. But how did it work? Did they include an instruction manual? Where was the safety? He took a sideways glance at the sole remaining customer and was relieved the guy wasn’t watching him.

  “I’ll take it.”

  The salesman cleared his throat and picked up a clipboard. “That case, I need some information. For the background check.”

  “Background check?” Wyse remembered hearing something about this years ago, maybe some legislation that came about after someone important was shot.

  The clerk put his hand over the Glock and pulled it across to his side of the counter. “Shit yeah. You don’t know? This state, you need one to buy one.”

  “How long does that take?” Hoping it’d be, like, an hour, something that could be done on computer.

  The clerk stroked his beard, eying him. “Ten days, thereabouts. Why? You in a big hurry, or something?”

  “Forget it.”

  PANIC BUILDING, WYSE sat in his Benz listening to Cunningham’s cell ring. Fucking gun laws. Fucking McCarthy. Fucking Sikes. Apparently Cunningham’s dumb gorilla hadn’t even taken McCarthy down yet.

  “Yes, Bert, what is it?”

  “Any word?” His free hand fiddled with the key in the ignition.

  “We’re working on it.”

  Working on it? “Well shit, you’re not working hard enough! Those idiots of yours need to do something before McCarthy ruins us. Us, as in you and me.”

  “Bert, settle down.”

  How dare Cunningham trivialize the risk to him! Mr. Pentagon’s precious military career wasn’t crashing down around him. He wouldn’t be ruined if McCarthy blew the whistle. Fucking Mr. Big Shot.

  “Bert, you know McCarthy better than any of us. Give us some help on this. Got something to write with?”

  “Hold on.” Wyse popped the glove box for a pen. “Got it. Shoot.”

  “I’m going to give you the number for the lead investigator, Warren Sikes. Call him. Tell him everything you know about McCarthy.”

  Wyse threw the pen back and slammed the door. “Fuck that, Clyde. I talked to him already. Couple of times. Gave him a damn good lead which apparently hasn’t done a damn bit of good.”

  “Well, here’s the number anyway. You think of anything that might help, call him right away.”

  The edge of panic in Cunningham’s voice did nothing but fuel Wyse’s anxiety. He picked the pen up off the passenger seat and scribbled the number on the back of a Jack in the Box bag he dug out of the footwell.

  After disconnecting, he sat fuming.

  Then a thought hit: McCarthy wouldn’t really be able to connect all the dots back to him unless he knew about Nora Young. Jesus! It was so obvious. Why had he overlooked this until just now? Nora Young was the key.

  He fired the ignition and decided to call from the road.

  44

  8:51 AM, EVERETT, WASHINGTON

  MCCARTHY SLIPPED INTO the passenger seat as Sarah got in on the driver’s side. She said, “Well, it sounded like a good idea at the time. What now?”

  An amorphous thought—one he couldn’t quite reel in—teased him. He had the impression it was important, but couldn’t quite … It danced on the periphery of conscious reach, taunting him. A glimpse would flash, but before he could capture the idea in words, it would vanish. He leaned back against the headrest, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes. Maybe if I talk through it …

  McCarthy said, “So, what does this tell us?”

  “What we already knew. Bobbie Baker never gave birth to anyone. Meaning, her story is a fabrication. It didn’t happen to her, yet that’s what she claims.”

  “I know, I know, but there’s something else we’re missing.” Then he had it. Only for a fleeting moment because it slipped away again. Must be fatigue slowing his mind. Then it was back, so obvious, he was embarrassed at missing it.

  “No, that’s not it.” He sat upright and banged the steering wheel with his palm. “What it tells us is that Bobbie Baker didn’t deliver a baby on that date at that hospital. But what we need to know is if someone else did. What if a baby boy named Jordan was born under exactly the same circumstances but by a different mother? So obvious, we should’ve checked out.”

  For a moment Sarah seemed puzzled by the statement, and then got it. “Aw man! Which means Bobbie would know the woman. And that would explain how she got the memory—from listening to her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay, let’s say we find out that’s the case. Then what? That explains how she got the memory, but doesn’t say crap about what’s going on now.”

  She was right. He was still missing something. But it would give them a way to find the origin of the memory. “I don’t know. I’m not sure where I was going with that. But for a moment it felt really good, like it was leading to something important.”

  Then the entire train of logic crept back. “Wait, wait, check this out—okay, we identify the woman who Bobbie got the memory from. Once we settle that, it’ll make it easier to figure out how Bobbie became so convinced they’re her memories. That makes it easier for you to treat her. But you’re right, it doesn’t help us find out how Wyse fits in. But I guarantee you one thing—the more we know, the closer we’ll be to solving that part of the puzzle.”

  He opened the car door and stepped back onto the parking lot. “I’m going in to talk with Donna again.”

  WARREN SIKES ANSWERED his cell with a curt “Sikes.” He sat in the rental at Shilshole Marina reviewing, yet again, his computer file on McCarthy. The boat had been a bust. It looked as if nobody had been on the vessel for weeks.

  “Still no activity on Hamilton’s cell. Want us to continue to monitor?”

  Another aggravating question. But the last thing he wanted as to piss off a Verizon technician. “This is a matter of national security, son.” He always liked it when a commanding officer called him son because it gave an impersonal command a personal touch.

  “Okay.”

  Sikes returned to his computer, convinced there was something in the files that would help him find McCarthy.

  MCCARTHY A
ND SARAH took the covered walkway into the east wing, through the lobby, and back to the office where the same clerk sat. He opened the door for Sarah and called out, “Hi.”

  Donna looked up at Sarah, then him. “Back again, eh?”

  Problem was, he didn’t have a release for anything other than Bobbie’s records, which he forged. Would the clerk nail him on that? Flashing his most charming smile, McCarthy leaned against the counter, said, “I bet you’re Canadian.”

  Donna beamed. “Vancouver. How’d you know?”

  “Great city. Love to visit it. Best dim sum on the West Coast.”

  Her grin broadened. “Hot dog! The Silver Dragon, that’s my favorite. What’s yours?”

  “House of Hong.”

  She leaned back in the chair, arms folded, asked, “What can I do for you, Doc?”

  “By the way, I don’t believe I introduced Doctor Hamilton last time,” Tom said, hoping that the presence of two physicians might sway her.

  Sarah smiled brightly at the medical librarian. “Good morning.”

  Tom said, “I was so caught off guard when my patient’s records weren’t here that I forgot to ask for another bit of information. We need to identify the parents of a baby delivered on or about April twelfth two years ago. Male, first name Jordan. It’s crucial.”

  Donna pursed her lips into a tight little O, eyes boring into him. “I can try. Assuming you have the appropriate paperwork. Do you?”

  “No, but it has everything to do with the patient I just gave you the consent for. So, we assume the consent’s still valid.” Bullshit of course, but the only story he could invent impromptu.

  She frowned. “Sorry, Doc. You, of all people, should know the rules. That consent’s for the release of records attached to a specific Social Security number. What you’re asking for now are records on a newborn, a completely different person. Can’t do it.”

  Jesus, why had he even tried? Medical record librarians were worse than IRS agents for cutting you slack.