Page 18 of Bad Blood

6

No Proof Necessary

Brighton

Tuesday, May 9 th

9:09 a.m.

Kline’s an idiot.

No, idiot is too generous a word.

I drop into my seat and shake the mouse to wake up my computer. The issue is plain as day. I thought there was nothing incriminating inside the file, but I was wrong. I just wasn’t looking in the right place. It’s not in the paper file, it’s been in the database this whole time. I know this file forward and backward, like all the others, but this wasn’t there before. I would have caught it. I re-read the report, stopping where Kline dictated the patient’s surgical findings—the part he does after I’ve already electronically signed—and see what everyone else has been missing.

The part that was edited two days ago.

The chart shows the original note dated a month prior with the new edits and updates. I flip back and forth between the patient’s chart and the computer screen, losing my place. Why do we still use this archaic form of charting? Half of it’s on the computer, and the other half is in a file. This couldn’t have happened if we kept better records.

Bill Lee, Stage II anaplastic thyroid cancer. Chemo failed; surgery ensued.

But chemo didn’t fail. His CT scan shows he’s clear. His cancer had a high chance of recurrence, but there was no need to take him under the knife.

I consider giving Kline the benefit of the doubt. There has to be a logical explanation. He forgot to add notes at the initial follow-up visit, or the paperwork got misplaced and he added it once he found it. The more excuses I make for him, the more it seems like this was deliberate.

What is he up to? From the looks of it, it seems like insurance fraud. But why? And why is he including me? I return the chart to the cabinet.

The next patient’s note lists surgery for a tumor biopsy on February third. But the electronic file on the computer says the patient had chemoradiotherapy for six weeks. I only find it because I’m looking. I lean back in my chair, shocked. I want to scream, but all that comes out is a strangled, whispered groan. “Fuck.”

The timing coincides with the lawsuits, but could it be more? I click on the insurance tab and scroll to where it shows the treatment billed for a therapy that was never performed. The date of the surgery and a simple follow-up are the last appointments noted. The supposed six weeks of chemo never happened.

I grab the last file and pull her up. It’s the same damn thing. Strange changes to the chart a couple of months after surgery. After I signed. I don’t like this. Who has access to the files? Doctors, nurses, billing? I reevaluate, think through the idea of who would want access to the files. Who would want to do something like this?

My jaw tenses. Rebecca Smith, Neuroblastoma in the file—leukemia on the computer—changed a month after treatment ended. I’m so lost. The remaining files get put back between the J and K.

Why would he include me? He could have easily gotten away with this on his own, but changing things on the charts I worked with him raises the chances of him getting caught.

What’s his motive? Money? The sake of getting away with it? To lord it over me? A challenge? More blackmail? The possibilities are endless, and none of them make sense.

I don’t want to be a snitch, but someone needs to see this. Someone besides me, someone important. Like Luca. If I can show this to him, get him to understand—I’m in the clear.

I scoot my chair and turn to face the filing cabinet in one push. I grab the files and return to my desk, scribbling notes on Post-its and tabbing them on the pages where I find the errors. The USB refuses to go into the port, and I rotate it twice before I get it to insert. I copy the notes of the chart inconsistencies onto the drive. Twice. And email them to myself for good measure.

The back of my desk drawer would probably be the safest place to hide the drive. I open the side with the lock and slide the extra pens and highlighters out of the way, dropping the USB at the back. I close the drawer and change my mind. It’ll be safer if I keep it on me, and I slide it into my breast pocket, patting it to make sure it doesn’t stick out.

A quick search on the internet reminds me I can’t scan the paper evidence onto my phone. It’s against HIPAA regulations, but there’s no way I can get copies of the paper charts without Lauren getting suspicious. Maybe in the file room? That copier is the worst.

I bite my lip as I lean at the waist to eye the files on my desk. The pile is too thick to slip under Luca’s door. I need to streamline the evidence to what’s essential.

Shit. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? If Luca gets these, Kline will suspect they came from me, even if he doesn’t know which files I have. I need to come up with another way to get these to Luca, a way to get Kline to wrap the noose around his own neck.

A knock at the door has me scrambling as panic lances through me. My mind is already weaving a million explanations as I stuff the papers back into the files between J and K. He can’t find out which patients I have. The thought of being caught by Kline pops into my brain like a jolt of electricity.

I check over my shoulder. My stomach plummets and rebounds. The door remains closed. There’s another knock. I cringe as the cabinet squeaks and shove my foot against the floor, rolling the chair to face my desk as I paste on a faux smile. Copies can wait.

I try to swallow, but it’s like my esophagus is in a vise. In a matter of point two seconds, the knock comes again.

“Dr. Fields, you in there?”

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