Amalgam-Man

By J. Matthew Neal

Dr. Dan Rudbeck is a talented academic physician whose career advancement has been limited by his abrasive, politically incorrect manner and penchant for excessive interest in eclectic areas outside of medicine. His greatest claim to fame came in high school when he created the fictional character Barclay Dixon, a vastly talented Renaissance man, a living amalgam of all things excellent - the amazing Amalgam-Man. He has found that his life hasn't paralleled that of his creation, and that his own personal shortcomings have resulted in him not achieving his goals.

Rudbeck's latest conspiracy theory about healthcare ransomware attacks leads him to believe a prominent medical society president has been murdered, when others feel it was just natural progression of her advanced cancer. He must enlist the help of several others in order to investigate the "crime" that absolutely no one, including the authorities, has any interest in.

Along the way, he meets up with Jayna, an old flame whom he has not seen in over thirty years, who has had her own share of personal problems. He must somehow also convince the skeptical authorities this isn't one of his other wild goose chases. In the end, he realizes the things he has been searching for have been within him all the time, and he must somehow become greater than the perfect hero of his novels to avoid losing his old love for the second time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dunn Avenue Press
• Release date: Dec 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781734937299

Book preview

Prologue

Children’s Memorial Hospital

Cincinnati, OH

First-year pediatrics resident Dr. Allison Rodriguez began her morning rounds on the pediatric hematology-oncology unit at approximately 5:23 am at the 300-bed pediatric teaching hospital on the cool spring morning. It would be a busy day for the slightly overweight five-four young woman, as she had attending rounds followed by clinic and then being on call that night.

It was payday, and she thought about looking at her bank account deposit to make sure she had enough to cover her rent, student loan payment, and utilities due next week. She often fantasized about what it would be like to be a millionaire, but she would settle for having an extra few hundred bucks in her account, given the price of gas and other things.

She then remembered the lesson from The Old Man and Death—one of Aesop’s fables her father read her as a child—to be careful what you wish for, as you might just get it. Right.

Most new physicians in the United States had at least a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of debt, some over three to four hundred thousand. Residency took at least three more years, and some much longer than that; residents did get paid a modest stipend, but most residencies were in larger cities (with higher housing costs), and most residents weren’t independently wealthy and were therefore dependent on student loans, where the payment could be deferred until after medical school, but the interest still accrued. Plus, she was in the field of pediatrics—not one of the most highly-paid specialties; this meant she would be paying off loans likely well into her late forties. But that was what she had a passion for doing.

She then took a phone call from a colleague and forgot about her money problems as she attended to various urgent patient issues over the next eighty minutes. She was just finishing rounds when she was greeted by her chief resident, Dr. Elise Windrow, who was usually cheerful but seemed rather solemn on this cold morning at about 7:21 AM.

Hi, Elise. You’re here awfully early. Getting ready for morning report?

The usually jovial chief resident had an emotionless expression on her face. Allie, there’s something big going on. We need to go to Administration immediately.

What? She sat her lukewarm cup of stale, strong hospital coffee on the ledge at the nurses’ station. Is this about that Benken case? You know I did all I could with that, and I thought we had resolved the issues. Now the attorneys want to talk to me? I’m just an intern.

Elise shook her head nervously. The attorneys want to talk to you, but it’s not about that or any other case.

But I have rounds to finish, and then meet with Dr. Kiplinger at seven-thirty, you know how she is about punctuality, and then get to the conference—

Don’t worry about it. I have Luke Diller coming up to cover for you. Dr. Kip will understand.

I sure hope so. They walked to the elevator, down to the first floor, then to the administrative C-suite, where the president and other hospital officers had their offices. She had only been there once, as most residents would have no reason to go there.

This is scaring me a little bit, Elise. Are you going to tell me what this is about?

I can’t, Allie. We need to go to the conference room. They walked into the large Board room, where she saw two prominent men in dark suits accompanied by who she believed to be the hospital attorney and a couple of HR representatives.

Dr. Allison Rodriguez?

"Yes? She said as she sat down nervously in a leather chair.

I’m FBI Special Agent Stephen Baxter, and this is Special Agent Richard Delgado. They showed her their credentials as she sat in a leather boardroom chair; she wished she had been in such luxurious surroundings under more favorable circumstances.

She cleared her throat and took a sip of cold coffee. "FBI? What’s going on? Am I in trouble?"

We don’t know yet. First, we need to know—did you recently receive a very large deposit in your checking account at First Bank of Cincinnati?

She nodded. Sure, I guess. Today’s payday, so about fifteen hundred dollars should’ve been deposited. That would put my balance at about fifteen hundred fifty dollars.

Baxter shook his head. Dr. Rodriguez, I don’t mean your paycheck.

Well, to me, that’s a very large deposit.

No, you don’t understand—you received a deposit of over three million dollars from this institution to your checking account early this morning.

She looked around and smiled. This isn’t an April Fool’s joke, is it? I know it’s a few days late, but come on. If it is, it isn’t funny.

Baxter frowned. I’m sorry that it’s not a joke, Doctor.

She took out her smartphone and opened her mobile banking app as her mouth opened wide. Oh, holy shit! But that’s impossible. I’m no accountant, but that would be a gross paycheck of about five million, right? You say it came from the hospital?

Baxter nodded. That’s correct.

I see the hospital’s lawyer is here. Do I need one of my own?

We aren’t accusing you of anything, Doctor, but we’re just trying to figure out how this error could’ve happened. Nothing like this has ever occurred before.

I promise you I have no idea. Normally I check my balances each morning, but I was kind of busy today and had to get here super early, and if there were any alerts, I wouldn’t have had time to check. But where did that money come from if I was paid five million dollars? It must’ve come from somewhere, right? It’s real money?

Audrey Warner, the director of human resources, spoke up. It came from other people’s paychecks; yes, it’s real. We have hundreds of employees who got no paycheck today, with over a dozen nurses threatening to quit and work for a competitor at a higher salary. Do you have any idea how this could’ve happened?

She shook her head. None. I would’ve freaked out if I’d seen that in my account this morning. I’m a lowly intern, the most primitive organism in existence here. How would I know anything about how the payroll system works? I barely have time to take care of basic activities of daily living.

Do you know or associate with anyone with a knowledge of healthcare informatics systems? Baxter asked.

She laughed. Mr. FBI agent, sir, I work seventy-five hours per week and spend another twenty hours per week studying for my board exams and preparing for rounds. My roommate is an intern like me, and neither of us has had a date in over six months, so get real. Tina knows less about computers than I do. The less I can see of that crummy program, the better.

I can vouch for Allison, Elise said. She’s one of the most hard-working, upstanding people I know, and she has no special computer knowledge other than what we all do working with the electronic medical record.

She speaks the truth, Allison said. I don’t really like computers at all. I like them less now.

We started working on this about three AM when the FBI and legal called me out of bed, Audrey said. An audit of your pay sheet shows that your yearly pay rate of $60,000 was somehow inserted into the payroll system for your correct hourly rate of $28.85.

What? No way. How could that have happened?

Someone put it there and then zeroed out the other employees to make up for it.

But how? I mean, I’m no software person, but I’d think there should be some alert or something that would stop the transaction if somebody put in a value of that outrageous amount. That’s a salary of over a hundred million dollars a year. If I put some absurdly wrong dose of a medication in, it wouldn’t take it until multiple other people signed off on it, and even then, I’d have to talk to several people personally to justify it. It’s not the same with this?

Audrey nodded. Yes, it should’ve been impossible—first of all, only a handful of people have the administrative rights even to change employee payroll. Some legitimate reasons for changing it include nursing shift bonuses, last-minute overtime, etc. Still, there need to be about five executives who need to approve anything over ten percent. This is, rather, over a two-thousand-fold increase.

Ohmigod. Can you get this money out of my account?

We can, but it will take a couple of days since today is Friday, Audrey said.

I won’t have to pay taxes on this, will I?

If we can get it fixed, no.

"But why would someone do this? I’m just a random low-level person with no reason to be involved in something like this. I could see someone wanting to steal five million dollars, but if this is a band of criminals, I don’t see how they would benefit by giving it to me."

We believe it to be . . . some type of hacker attack, possibly a ransomware operation, Baxter said.

Ransomware? You mean when the crooks hack into stuff and then ask for money to fix it?

That’s right. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to access the system to fix it, so I suspect a ransomware request is coming.

Wouldn’t it have made more sense for someone else to have stolen the money, one intent on using it? What does depositing it in my checking account accomplish?

In this instance, it seems that the motive was primarily to cause chaos, disrupt the healthcare system, and scam the hospital out of some money to fix it. And that it did, as we already have people threatening not to come to work because of this. They needed to have obtained access somehow, but we don’t know the mechanism.

Elise smiled. Well, at least the pediatrics residency just completed its accreditation site visit. It would’ve been awful if we had to go through this now if we’re going to be short of nurses and other staff.

When did that occur, Doctor? Delgado asked.

About three weeks ago, Elise replied. Why would you care about that? It’s the most boring thing you could imagine.

I’m certain it is, but any information you could give us would be extremely helpful, no matter how insignificant you might believe it to be. What happens during these accreditation site visits? Delgado asked.

Well, they look through a lot of documentation that the program director and coordinator prepare, for one, Elise said. They are in charge of the quality of our physicians’ education.

Where does this take place?

Most of it occurs in the medical education conference room. Second floor, east wing.

What else do they do?

They interview many residents and faculty, and then they go around and see some of the floors and maybe a patient or two, although they don’t spend much time doing that.

They actually have physical access to the hospital? Delgado asked.

With an escort, of course. Allison was one of those during the site visit.

Dr. Rodriguez, was there anyone you were with who acted odd or raised suspicion in any way? Baxter asked.

She nodded. Maybe. These guys have limited interpersonal skills, but the guy I was with kept answering his phone and asking to go into a conference room or nurses’ lounge to take private calls while I waited outside.

Do you remember his name?

No, but it would probably be easy to find out from the report. About five-ten, two-twenty. Portly guy with glasses, about fifty, I’d guess.

How many times did he do this?

I think three. I didn’t think much about it.

He was alone in those rooms? For how long?

She shrugged. I didn’t time him, sir, but maybe ten minutes each. There wasn’t anything valuable in there except some computers, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t steal those.

No, of course not . . . but he could’ve gotten access to the physical network.

But he wouldn’t have had any logins for anything for it to work.

I believe you can log on with your proximity badge in addition to your username and password, correct?

Elise nodded. That’s true. But surely he didn’t have a working badge. They don’t give those to the visitors.

Maybe or maybe not, and he might not have needed that, depending on the goal. To download protected health information, yes. But if he just wanted to stick some viruses or malware onto the network, he could’ve done it that way by using some type of Trojan Horse so that the next person logging in unwittingly infected the system. And proximity badges aren’t that difficult to clone.

What happens now?

Dr. Rodriguez, we’ll make every effort to get your bank account straightened out today and rectify the paychecks of all who were shortchanged. We thank you for your time, and if we need any further information, we’ll get in touch with you.

Allison Rodriguez got up and left the room somewhat shaken, realizing that this wasn’t how she wanted to become a millionaire.

Chapter One

Amal·gam \ эmalgэm\ noun

1 : an alloy of mercury with another metal

2 : a mixture of different things

Dr. Barclay J. Dixon took a puff on his thousand-dollar briar pipe, the aromatic tobacco (blended to his exacting specifications by an elite tobacconist in Denmark and flown in on the Concorde twice weekly) perfectly lit. The ritual of preparing the pipe was almost as enjoyable as smoking it. He was from a long line of cultured individuals, but at age thirty-three, he was arguably the most accomplished of them all.

While many health-conscious individuals would have derided a physician using tobacco in 1980, Dixon did what he pleased, not what pleased other people, as he set the standard. He took risks, lived on the edge, and enjoyed life’s luxuries to the fullest. Such was his mantra, and he cared not if others disagreed with him. It was reasonable, he thought, that he allowed himself this one vice. Women didn’t count as one of those; he considered interaction with them part of normal human biology. Biology was essential to him.

Dixon looked towards the fifth-largest satellite in the Solar System from the third-story balcony of his well-appointed home in Southern California and wondered if man would ever colonize the lifeless rock or even set foot on its surface again. After all, the far side was rich in helium-3, which could someday be useful in controlled nuclear fusion. The man with an IQ of 172 could understand such concepts that most others could not, as he tried to envision the world as it could be in the future, not as it was now. As he took another puff on his pipe, he reveled in his excellence. Still, his singularity often left him with a sense of loneliness, often with a diminished ability to relate to other people.

He contemplated the deep secrets of the universe as he took a sip of his rare, hand-picked Kona Peaberry coffee, which he had personally roasted in his $7,000 microprocessor-controlled roaster to ensure the peak of freshness. It was then ground to precise tolerances (each particle had to be between 0.87 and 0.93 mm in diameter—coarse grind), and the brew made in a French press with ultra-purified mineral water at a perfect 199.6 degrees Fahrenheit; like his tobacco, the raw beans were flown in twice weekly by his exclusive supplier.

He drank it black, of course, as he tolerated no cream, sugar, or other adulterants that might alter the pure flavor of his sterling brew of Coffea arabica. The high elevation, constant cloud coverage, and rich volcanic soil from Hualalai Volcano in the upland slopes of Kona created an ideal environment for harvesting these flavorful, hand-picked coffee beans, whose steep price put them out of range for all but the upper crust. No disgusting common suspension of substandard supermarket coffee would ever do for Dr. Barclay J. Dixon.

The highly educated man had earned his undergraduate degree in engineering summa cum laude from Stanford, his medical degree from Harvard, and his Ph.D. in biophysics from MIT. In addition, he was a literate thespian, an expert pianist, and fluent in French, Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, and Mandarin Chinese. He was, indeed, the best combination of all these disciplines, a living amalgam—a singular mixture of all things excellent.

There was seemingly no activity beyond the talented grasp of the Amalgam-Man; his only limitation was that there were only twenty-four hours in a day. Even he suffered from the realization that his immense talents could not create any more time on Earth, unless he learned to master near-lightspeed travel (completely possible in theory someday given enough resources; he had outlined in detail how that might be achieved), so he had best optimize the use of his time and live life to the fullest, attempting to find new mountains to climb to achieve all that was humanly possible. He had always sought that elusive opportunity—encountering something challenging to him.

His preternatural ability to predict the volatile financial markets resulted in him becoming a multimillionaire by age thirty-one, leading to financial independence and the ability to do as he pleased, a luxury few in their early thirties enjoyed. He had been offered lucrative jobs on Wall Street and vice president positions of major corporations due to his exceptional mathematical, leadership, and financial abilities, as he was a highly sought-after commodity—but he found such work too prosaic for someone of his diverse creative abilities that seemingly knew no bounds.

Dixon was a commanding presence at the height of six feet, three inches, and his booming bass voice (giving him an aura of power and sexual allure) with a three-octave range coupled with natural musical ability made him an immensely attractive guest to have at social gatherings; if a piano, organ, banjo, or guitar was available, he could do a lounge act with the best of them, in almost any musical style, and in multiple languages. In addition, his intellectual excellence made him a superb conversationalist on virtually any topic. Athletics also came naturally to him; he was a dazzling tennis player and golfer, always in demand as a partner at the elite country club where he was a member.

While he was adept at all things scientific, artistic, and literary, he also excelled at wooing the fair sex, as legions of females were mesmerized by his rugged masculinity coupled with supreme physical endowment and ability under the cool bed sheets. Clearly, most other men wanted to be him, and women wanted to be with him. The few men who tried to antagonize him regretted it. There was room for only one at the top of the mountain.

He looked at the silver Patek Philippe Nautilus watch adorning his thick right wrist (extra links had to be purchased at exorbitant cost to accommodate his musculature, honed from years of free weight training) and observed the rare precision in-house Swiss movement oscillating at 28,800 beats per hour (4 Hertz). No mere Rolex, Breitling, or Omega would be suitable as the Amalgam-Man’s timepiece, as he deserved only the best, and those wannabe brands weren’t it. He laughed at such pretenders. Even high-end quartz watches had no place in his collection; he would not even waste his breath contemplating owning such useless garbage. Such timepieces were for lesser men.

The ultimate alpha male went out to the garage of his well-appointed estate and tried to decide which high-end car to drive into town this evening—would it be the Mercedes, Jaguar, Cadillac Eldorado convertible, or Lincoln Town Car? It was hard to make such choices when so many fine vehicles were at his disposal. It was like deciding which beautiful woman to date tonight. What would be the solution to the latter dilemma?

Why, date all three at once, of course. Three lovely ladies would be ecstatic to share even a third of the Amalgam-Man, whose stellar performance characteristics were enough to satisfy all. Such options were not available for the average man, who could not pleasure three women at once in ways they could never have imagined. But Barclay was anything but average. After some contemplation, the cherry red Lincoln Town Car seemed to be the best choice for him and his entourage tonight, as even he couldn’t drive multiple cars, and all of them wouldn’t fit in some of them. He hadn’t decided on the overnight accommodations yet, assuming things went well. They always did.

He contemplated what he and his lovely dates would have for dinner. Menu selections were of no concern to Amalgam-Man, as the master chef at any restaurant worth having him would prepare anything he desired and go out for ingredients if needed. Did he want lobster Thermidor, the boeuf bourguignon, or perhaps something more adventurous tonight? The sky was the limit.

They would, of course, wash it down with five-hundred-dollar bottles of Dom Pérignon, as lesser champagne would be like drinking toilet water—unpalatable to his discriminating taste. Where fine wines were concerned, he could read a wine list like most people could read the alphabet. Only a supremely cultured individual such as he could appreciate the finer things of life; many would not be able to enjoy them as only he could.

A night of dancing in one of the town’s most elite night spots would logically follow, with his own private table and wait staff, of course. He was naturally a skilled dancer with fantastic coordination and endurance (in many areas of interest to his female guests besides dancing). The latter skill would be handy tonight, as the possibilities were unlimited.

Rud·​beck·​ia \ rэd-be-kē-э \ noun

Any of a genus (Rudbeckia) of North American chiefly perennial composite herbs having large, showy flower heads with mostly yellow ray flowers and a usually conical scaly receptacle.

ABPE National Conference

McCormick Place Conference Center

Chicago, IL

I hate these damn stupid meetings, Ted. They’re so boring, Dr. Daniel Andrew Rudbeck, the program director for the Central Ohio University medical toxicology fellowship, said in his deep mixed Midland/Appalachian accent to his best friend, Ted Brannigan (the hospital medicine fellowship program director) as he yawned sleepily at the end of the national conference’s morning session and stared blankly at the presentation screen, not caring in the least what new educational theory the speaker was trying to teach him.

Not even the gallon of dark roast coffee he had consumed could keep the six-three, bald, muscular, modestly overweight man’s attention now, as it was the same old stuff over and over from the hallowed ABPE (American Board of Physician Education), the accrediting body for training physicians, which was kind of an important thing, as everyone wanted their doctor to be competent. He didn't disagree about that point, although he wished the conference was more exciting. He wished excitement was his middle name, but it wasn't.

He hated those academic elitists, although he sometimes secretly wished he was one of them. Yeah, fat chance of that. They liked him even less than he liked them; they begrudgingly tolerated him because of his academic expertise in specific areas and surprising ability to recite astounding amounts of information in detail. Yet, the rural-sounding man was like a living piece of sandpaper—constantly grinding and irritating anything he encountered.

The ABPE headquarters had large photos of its officers hanging obnoxiously in the lobby of their headquarters a few miles away on State Street, a tribute to their great egos. It was unlikely that his image or portrait would be displayed in any place other than the floor of the men’s room, a destination for pee that didn’t make it into the urinal. He was used to being pissed on, but he’d also pissed on a few folks in his day. He did remember his picture was displayed prominently in the dining room of Working Guy’s Buddy for eating a two-pound cheeseburger and onion rings, so he stood corrected.

You and me both, Malgy. Gotta do it, though; it’s accreditation time. It’s only once a year. They walked out of the conference room. Wanna see what they have for lunch?

He shook his head as he stood. Naw, it’ll be some crappy garbage from the hotel’s catering. We had that yesterday, so let’s go somewhere else to satisfy my discriminating palate.

It’s too healthy; that’s what you mean.

That too, although such trivial matters are of minimal concern to Amalgam-Man. Chinatown’s only about a half mile from here, and we have almost ninety minutes until the next session. He realized he could go work out or swim in the pool in that time or even catch up on email, but sustenance was a higher priority.

They walked briskly down the sidewalk west on Cermak Road on the way to Chinatown, the third largest in the United States.

Chinatown? Hey, that reminds me—remember last month when that dumb college kid drank a liter of soy sauce on a bet, Malgy the Toxicology-Man?

He nodded. Yeah, that was a bad one. The guy’s sodium was about forty points elevated at 180 milliequivalents per liter. That amount of soy sauce contains over two hundred grams of sodium, which is six times the lethal amount. Let it stay that high, and you’re hosed, but lower it too quickly, and you get permanent brain damage, so treating it’s damn tricky. Soy sauce is a condiment, not a beverage, and should be used sparingly.

Good to know. But you and the residents got him through it, did you not? He lived on to go accomplish great things, hopefully.

Hardly—Soy Sauce Steve had a bad case of P³, and I just kept him alive until he does the next stupid thing. P³, or P-cubed, was original Rudbeckian nomenclature for piss poor protoplasm, referring to a patient with a significant deficit of adequate genetic material—cognitively, physically, or both. He postulated that patients with enough chromosomal deficiencies were prematurely destined for the boneyard despite whatever expert medical care was rendered. This and innumerable other pejorative pearls of wisdom helped cement his reputation as an unpromotable academic entity, as no one could predict what insensitive comment might next spew from his larynx.

P³—glad to see that sensitivity training HR made you do paid off. The five-eleven, red-haired, overweight Ted looked around. I hope you know where the hell you’re going. By the way, why didn’t we invite your buddy Roland Okdar? He looks like he could use a few kilocalories.

He laughed. "He’d be the last one I’d invite. That skinny bastard probably drinks celery juice or some other crap; he’s not welcome with us. I think he undergoes photosynthesis to get his energy; that’s why he looks a pale shade of green all