I’d tried going to Vannen’s office and gotten the brush-off. A little more aggression was in order.
If I’d been at work, doing actual work-related stuff, I could’ve used Accurint. Inside of ten seconds I’d know everything about him. Current address, previous addresses, relatives, associates. But I was at home, on my own time, and he was unlisted, forcing me to get creative.
Using an archived article in a community newsletter (“Local Sisters Turn Old Sweaters into Warm Hugs for Foster Kids”), I was able to connect him to his daughters, both at Stanford, both with hyphenated last names. That led me to Vannen’s wife, Suzanne Barnes. Plugging her into a people finder yielded a residential address in Orinda.
The daughters, I hoped, were away at school.
No need to embarrass the old man unduly.
I went to his house.
The same silver BMW sat in the driveway, beside a Lexus SUV. I trotted up the front walk a few minutes after eight p.m.: late enough for them to have finished eating but before they got too far into whatever show they liked to watch together.
He would groan, hit PAUSE.
She would start to get up off the couch.
He’d stop her.
Better he go, that hour.
I stood at the door, listening to faint, lilting voices.
I rang the bell.
The sound cut off.
Inside: Let me.
Footsteps. Porch light coming on. Interval, as an eye flitted behind the peephole.
I already had my badge up.
The door swung wide. “Yes?”
“Dr. Vannen?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t remember me,” I said, so that he would.
And he did. He drew back half a foot, seeking the safety of his domain. “I told you before, I can’t help you.”
“Actually, that isn’t what you said. I asked you about Walter Rennert and you said you didn’t know him, which isn’t the same thing as saying you can’t help me. Either way, it’s not true. You did know him and you can help me.”
His wife called, “Lou? Who’s there?”
“Nobody,” he called. To me: “I don’t know who the hell you think you are—”
“Are you okay, honey?”
“One second,” he yelled, his voice cracking.
“Your name was in Rennert’s phone,” I said. “Two numbers, home and cell. So you tell me you didn’t know him, I call bullshit on you.”
“This is outrageous,” he said, starting to shut the door.
“When he asked you for the Risperdal,” I said, stopping it, “who’d he say it was for? I have to think he gave a name, or else you were going to have a problem playing along. You and I both know it wasn’t for him. So what did he tell you? ‘It’s for a friend’?”
“Lou.” A woman with a pleasant, round face appeared, tightening her bathrobe. “What’s going on.”
“Evening, ma’am.” I lifted my badge again. “How are you tonight?”
“Is everything okay?” she said.
“It’s fine, honey,” Vannen said. “Go back. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I’m here about Walter Rennert,” I said to her.
“What about him?” Suzanne Barnes asked. “Is he okay?”
Vannen’s mouth compressed into a line.
“You didn’t tell her?” I said to him.
“Tell me what.”
“Dr. Rennert passed away,” I said.
She gasped. “Oh no. How horrible. Poor Walter,” she said. “Recently?”
“Few months ago. September.”
“God, I had no idea.” Turning to her husband. “You didn’t say anything.”
Vannen said, “I—”
“I’m sure he was too upset to talk about it,” I said. “I know they were close.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Suzanne said to him.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” I said. “I have a few quick questions for your husband, if it’s all right.”
She smiled at me. “Of course it’s all right. Would you like to come in?”
I smiled back. “I’d love to, thanks.”
Passing the den, I glanced at the paused TV.
“Foyle’s War,” I said.
“Are you a fan?” Suzanne asked.
“Great show.”
They saw me into the home office. I asked Suzanne if we might have privacy.
Vannen waited for her footsteps to fade, then glared at me. “You’re a real asshole.”
“I’m an officer of the law,” I said, “and you’re writing bogus scrips and lying to me about it. So let’s not start with name-calling.”
A beat.
“They weren’t bogus,” he said. “He told me it was for a nephew of his.”
“And you took him at his word.”
“I decided that if Walter was willing to go out on a limb, then he had a good reason. Of all the drugs people have asked me for over the years — and they ask, believe me, all the time — that’s not one I’m going to worry about. He wasn’t begging for opioids.”
“Why didn’t he go to a psychiatrist?”
“It was a private matter. The kid’s out of a job, no health insurance, estranged from his family. What’s Walter supposed to do, drop him off at the county clinic?”
Vannen lolled back, laced his fingers behind his head. “He’s a psychologist, not just some layman. I saw I could help and I did. I’d do it again.”
On the wall hung his medical degree as well as various professional certifications. The desk and shelves displayed a variety of pharmaceutical company swag, including a plastic cutaway model of male genitalia. Half of one bookcase belonged to trophies — tiny, cheerless, golden men swinging rackets.
He saw me staring and said, “We play once a month. Played.”
“You and Rennert? That’s how you met?”
He nodded. “We moved up here in ninety-nine, I joined the club about a year after that, so I knew him — what. Seventeen years, give or take.”
“Did you socialize outside of tennis?”
“We might have a drink together after the game, but not much else. I think he liked that I didn’t belong to his usual circle.”
“How long had you two known each other before he asked you for the drugs?”
“I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head. A few years.” He smiled to himself. “It became sort of a running joke between us. ‘Gee, Lou, I hate to bother you.’ ”
“You ever meet other members of Rennert’s family? His daughter? Wife?”
“No. I think he was divorced by the time we met. Or pretty soon after.”
“And you never met the nephew in question.”
“I never even learned his name. All I can tell you is that Walter cared about him.”
“He said so.”
“He didn’t need to. It was obvious. You don’t make that kind of request lightly. He knew he was making himself vulnerable by asking me. And, look, we didn’t have long discussions, about the nephew or anything else. We met strictly to play. It’s an escape for me and for him, too. Only thing Walter would say was, I was being a big help. Some folks respond better than others to antipsychotics. The kid was one of those.”
“He’s not getting them now,” I said.
Vannen nodded. “I realize that.”
“What do you think’s happening to him?”
He poked his tongue around in his mouth. “I prefer not to think about it.”
“Think about it,” I said.
Vannen stared down at his desktop.
“That’s why I’m here. I need to find him,” I said. “So whatever you can remember, any hint of his whereabouts — I need to know.”
I let him take his time. Lot of history to review.
He said, “There’s one thing. I’m not sure it’ll help.”