Crime Scene

Chapter 27

It was my second consecutive late night, and the next day I woke up late. Like the last time I’d stayed over, Tatiana was nowhere to be seen. Somehow I didn’t think she’d be bringing breakfast.

Nevertheless, I decided to stick around a bit, in case she did return. I texted to let her know I was up, made myself a cup of tea, and sat on her living room futon. The banker’s boxes had been shoved up into one corner like refugees. I laid the ukulele in my lap, plucking at it as I charted the possibilities that had been brewing overnight.

Scenario one: the chairs were not the same.

End of story.

A no-frills explanation, and Tatiana’s obvious preference. For years she had conceived of Julian Triplett as a malicious force, nameless and faceless, responsible for everything that had gone wrong in her father’s life. Having to redraw the boundaries galled and disoriented her.

Scenario two: the chairs were the same, but Rennert had come into possession of it indirectly — buying it at the school auction, say.

His little secret. Write a check, take the thing home, lug it upstairs, give it a place of honor. An object, hard, undeniable, taking up space where he lived, giving him something tangible to focus on when he meditated on his sins.

No relationship between him and Triplett, other than the fantasies in Walter Rennert’s head.

End of story.

Scenario three: the connection between the two men was not slight, but personal and ongoing. I gravitated toward this explanation for the same reasons Tatiana hated it.

How else would Triplett know where Rennert lived?

How had Triplett, a man of limited intelligence and resources, gotten into the house?

Simple, once you assumed a direct link: he knew where the spare key was hidden.

Or — too terrifying for Tatiana to consider — he had a key of his own.

If Triplett and Rennert did have a relationship, what kind?

How far back did it go?

The ugliest question of them all: why did Triplett need a gun?

Why now?

Hearing voices again? Frantic to purge them, by any means necessary?

Another target in mind?

Maybe Rennert, once upon a time, had promised him something. Money. A token of reconciliation, offered rashly. Offered to put him in the will, even.

Triplett’s disappointment when his prize didn’t materialize.

Hatred toward the true heirs.

Tatiana’s face was plastered all over the house.

The gun drawer wasn’t the only part of the desk that had been messed with.

The liquor cabinet had been opened.

Abandoned bottles, racked tumblers.

But that wasn’t true a few months ago.

A few months ago, there’d also been pills. One of which was an antipsychotic. Prescribed by a urologist who got squirrelly when questioned.

Pills Walter Rennert had no medical reason to take. Pills you took if you were schizophrenic, if you suffered from hallucinations and delusions.

Rennert was a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. He could talk to Triplett for hours, months, years, but he couldn’t prescribe medication.

He’d have to get someone to do that for him.

The time had come to pay Louis Vannen, MD, another visit.

Back at my apartment, I texted Nate Schickman the candid of Triplett. Still ten years out of date. But better than twenty.

The rest of the day went to small tasks: stripping sheets off my couch, restocking the fridge, jogging. Waiting for Tatiana to call or write back. By sundown I had yet to hear from her. I pushed it out of my mind and sat down with my laptop.

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.”

“Go on.”

“Walter called, once, to cancel our game. This was years ago. Very out of character for him; he was a fanatical player. I’m sure I canceled on him a dozen times or more, but he never did. He sounded pretty bothered, so I asked if everything was all right. He said no, his nephew was in trouble and he had to go out of town.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“He didn’t say. I said, ‘Anything I can do...’ He told me he had it under control. He canceled the next game, as well.”

“Out of town where?”

“I don’t know.”

“When was this?” Seeing Vannen hesitate, I said: “Around two thousand five?”

“Could be.”

“Dr. Vannen, are you aware of what happened in Walter Rennert’s life before you met him? How he lost his position?”

“Something about his research,” he said. “I make it my business not to make other people’s business my business. If a person comes to me first, all right. But I don’t like to pry. I wish I had more to tell you.”

I glanced at the trophies. “You must be one heck of a tennis player.”

He flexed his hands. “We all do what we can to stave off death.”

“I spoke to Rennert’s primary doctor,” I said. “He said he played like a maniac.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“What word would you use?”

A long silence.

“Punitive,” he said. “Like he wanted to punish himself.”