Mr. Monk in Trouble Read online

  "About him," Stottlemeyer said, tipping his head towards Lenihan.

  "He had dinner tonight with a woman at 178 Pine Street and then stabbed her to death."

  "He's out of his mind!" Lenihan said.

  Stottlemeyer nodded, took out his cell phone, and called Lieutenant Randy Disher, his eager-to-please underling, and asked him to stop by 178 Pine Street on his way to Monk's apartment.

  "You believe this lunatic?" Lenihan said to the captain.

  "It can't hurt to check," Stottlemeyer said.

  "It's absurd! What he's saying is impossible," Lenihan said. "He only took one look at me, for God's sake."

  "You're wearing a confession," Monk said. "The blood covers your clothes in distinct impact spatters that show exactly how you stabbed her."

  "I told you, it's chicken blood," Lenihan said.

  "There's too much blood for it to be a chicken," Monk said.

  "There was more than one chicken," Lenihan said.

  "There would be feathers and down stuck to you."

  "I picked them off," he said.

  "You can't imitate spatter like this," Monk said.

  He explained that stabbing a person is a lot like slapping the water in a bathtub. The water splashes, creating a spray of droplets. The same is true when you stab someone. Even where you stab them, like in a major artery or in the heart, can affect the kind of spatter it creates. And when you continue stabbing, raising your knife up and down, you cast off blood in long streaks.

  Monk pointed out the spatter and the streaks on Lenihan's shirt and pants and a partial bloody handprint that the victim left on his sleeve as she tried to defend herself.

  "Judging by the spatter patterns, the streaks, and the relative dampness of the blood," Monk said, "I am certain that forty minutes ago, this man fatally stabbed a woman a dozen times."

  Stottlemeyer nodded. He was familiar with spatter patterns and how to read them, but he'd also learned long ago not to intrude on Monk's summation of the facts in a case. It was one of the few pleasures Monk had in life and the captain wasn't going to deny him that.

  Besides, once Monk showed him the spatter patterns, they were clear to Stottlemeyer, too. But things that were immediately evident to Monk often took others a long time to see for themselves--if they even saw them at all.

  I can see how that would make a person feel blind and stupid, though it was easy for me to shrug it off. I wasn't a cop. Monk's brilliance didn't invite comparisons to my own detecting skills.

  I believe that most of the time Stottlemeyer's appreciation for Monk's abilities outweighed his feelings of inferiority, especially in situations like this, where there weren't other cops around to make him self-conscious about his relative failings.

  "How do you know the victim is a woman?" Stottlemeyer asked.

  "He reeks of perfume," Monk said.

  "I like to wear a nice floral scent," Lenihan said. "So do a lot of men in San Francisco. That's not a crime."

  "How do you know the murder happened after dinner?" I asked.

  "He stabbed her with a steak knife that's part of a six-piece dinner set and dribbled salad dressing and butter on his shirt."

  Stottlemeyer shook his head in disbelief. "He's covered in blood and you're still able to pick out the food stains."

  "That's what I'm saying," Lenihan declared. "It's impossible."

  "Maybe for you and me and just about everybody else on earth," Stottlemeyer said. "But not for Monk."

  I'd seen Monk solve at least a hundred murders and I never stopped being amazed by his detecting ability, much of which could be attributed to the peculiarities of his obsessive-compulsive disorder. His need to organize everything, and to avoid filth and germs, gave him a keen eye for details.

  "How do you know which house it was?" Stottlemeyer asked Monk.

  "I backtracked the candy in his bag," Monk said.

  "You know what candy everybody in the neighborhood is giving out?"

  "Several miscreants have already come by and I saw what they had in their bags," Monk said. "I know where they live and the route they took to get here. The candy I didn't recognize I asked the miscreants about."

  "Miscreants," Stottlemeyer said.

  "And terrorists," Monk said.

  There was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Lieutenant Randy Disher standing there, two uniformed officers behind him. Disher wore his usual off-the-rack jacket and tie, but for some reason he was also wearing sunglasses.

  "Monk was right," Disher said as he stepped inside. "There's a dead woman in that house. Her name is Monica Tyler and she lives alone. I found her by the dining room table. She must have been stabbed at least a dozen times."

  "Exactly a dozen," Monk said.

  Stottlemeyer looked down at Lenihan. "You want to tell us what happened?"

  Lenihan just glowered at him.

  "I didn't think so," Stottlemeyer said. "Take it away, Monk."

  "It wasn't a premeditated murder. Lenihan was at Tyler's house for dinner and they got into an argument," Monk said. "He stabbed her with the steak knife in a fit of rage, then staggered out of the house covered in blood. There were people all over the street. He didn't want to stand out, so he tried to blend into the crowd of bloody trick-or-treaters, to hide in plain sight."

  "It might have worked," Stottlemeyer said, "if he hadn't knocked on your door."

  Disher sneered at Lenihan. "Do you feel lucky today? Well, do you, punk?"

  Lenihan kept his mouth shut. Stottlemeyer stared at Disher and shook his head.

  "What?" Disher said.

  "Just read him his rights and get him out of here," Stottlemeyer said.

  Disher read Lenihan his rights. Stottlemeyer put the bloody knife in an evidence Baggie and handed it, and the bag of candy, to one of the two uniformed officers. The other officer lifted Lenihan to his feet and led him away.

  I was used to the fact that Monk couldn't go anywhere without encountering murderers and dead bodies along the way. But now he didn't even have to leave his own home for it to happen. Murderers were literally knocking on his door.

  I found it a very unsettling development but the only thing that seemed to disturb Monk about it was the bloody newspapers on the floor.

  "I need to clean up," he said and dashed into the kitchen to get his cleaning supplies.

  Disher nodded. "A man's got to know his limitations."

  "Mr. Monk certainly does," I said.

  Stottlemeyer glanced at his watch. "I think we can still make it to the party if we hurry. Do you have your costume with you, Randy?"

  "I'm wearing it," he said in a low grumble.

  "Who are you supposed to be?" I asked. I knew, of course, because he'd been quoting lines from the character since he'd walked into Monk's place, but I enjoyed teasing him.

  Disher took a step towards me, clenched his teeth, and snarled. "Go ahead, make my day."

  "George Bush?"

  "No." Disher grimaced.

  "Shrek?"

  "No." Disher grimaced.

  "Elmer Fudd?" Stottlemeyer said.

  "Dirty Harry Callahan," Disher said.

  Stottlemeyer looked at him dubiously. "You think that all you've got to do is put on a pair of sunglasses and you're Dirty Harry?"

  "I've already got the badge, the gun, the attitude, and the intimidating physical presence," Disher said. "All I really need is my own catchphrase and I'm him in real life. I already get mistaken for him all the time."

  I gave him a skeptical look. "You do?"

  "Tourists always want to have their picture taken with me," Disher said.

  "Dirty Randy," Stottlemeyer said and headed for the door. "That's you."

  "That's what they call me on the street," Disher said, following after him.

  "What street?" Stottlemeyer said.

  "My street," Disher said.

  "I haven't heard that on your street."

  "I've heard it," Disher said.

  "What your mother
says doesn't count." Stottlemeyer turned and winked at me as he closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mr. Monk Arrives in Trouble

  Monk had no problem examining a dead body without flinching, but he couldn't live with the thought that there might be a speck of blood on his door or in his apartment. It was one of the many bewildering contradictions in his character.

  He spent the next two days scrubbing and disinfecting his entry hall before he gave up and decided that the only reasonable course of action was to replace his front door, refinish his floors, and repaint his walls.

  That was actually the compromise that I got him to accept instead of gutting the apartment entirely or moving out and finding a new place to live.

  Monk was trying to figure out where to go while the workers remodeled his place, and I was telling him all the reasons why he should stay with his brother, Ambrose, when Stottlemeyer called and said that he wanted to see us at headquarters right away.

  On the drive over, I continued to make my case for him to stay with Ambrose.

  "It's the home where you both grew up and you can sleep in the familiar, safe, clean surroundings of your old bedroom," I said. "You could even pass the time with your rock shining kit."

  "There's only one problem," Monk said.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "My brother is crazy," Monk said. "I can't take the stress."

  "Now you know how I feel," I said. I regretted the words the instant they were out of my mouth and quickly covered for my gaff. "Living with a teenager is hell. They are so moody and unpredictable. Sometimes it's like Julie has a split-personality disorder."

  Monk nodded. Not only had he bought it, but I think it might even have made him reconsider what I knew was coming next. He wanted me to offer to let him stay at my house.

  I'd let him spend a few days with me when his building was being fumigated and it was not an experience I wanted to repeat.

  "And she makes such a mess," I said, trying to underscore my earlier point. "There's hair all over the bathroom, bras hanging from the curtain rod, and she leaves half-eaten food on the living room couch."

  Monk shuddered. I smiled to myself. Mission accomplished.

  As we came into the squad room, Disher was walking back to his desk with a cup of coffee. He kept bumping into desks and chairs on his way, fumbling around like a blind man. It wasn't until he sat down at his desk outside of Stottlemeyer's office that I saw why.

  He was wearing sunglasses that were so darkly tinted they were practically a blindfold.

  "Why are you wearing sunglasses?" I asked him.

  "The glare," Disher said.

  "There's no glare in here," I said.

  "There is on the street," he said. "You'd understand that if you'd ever been out there."

  "We just came in from the street," I said.

  "I'm not talking about that street."

  "What street are you talking about?"

  "The mean street, lady, the grimy, bloodstained stretch of asphalt where I enforce the law," Disher said. "Disher's Law."

  "Oh," I said. "That street."

  "At least there wasn't any gum on it," Monk said. "You can wash dirt and blood off the street pretty easily. But gum is a living hell. People who spit out their gum should be put in prison for life."

  Disher snarled. "Out there, a cop has to squint straight into the harsh glare of corruption, filth, and despair, and without shades, it'll roast your eyeballs out and incinerate your soul."

  Monk looked at me. "I need sunglasses."

  I smiled at Disher, though he probably couldn't see it with those sunglasses on. He reminded me of Julie when she was a little girl. It took her a week to stop wearing her Halloween costume everywhere. She hated to give up the fantasy of being the Little Mermaid or a Teletubby.

  Stottlemeyer opened the door to his office. "If you two are done chatting with Dirty Randy, I'd like to have a word with you."

  "We're done." Disher reached for his coffee cup and grabbed his pencil holder instead. He lifted it up for a drink and spilled pencils on his face as we followed Stottlemeyer into his office.

  "Did you find out why Lenihan murdered my neighbor?" Monk asked.

  "Yeah. They'd been dating for a couple of months. He killed her because he was tired of her always overcooking his meat."

  "You're kidding," I said.

  "It was also too salty," Stottlemeyer said. "He likes his steaks a certain way."

  "I don't understand how anybody could make a life-or-death issue out of something so insignificant," Monk said.

  Stottlemeyer and I both stared at him.

  "It's not like she was serving him food on a chipped plate," I said.

  "Or letting his vegetables touch his meat," Stottlemeyer said.

  "Exactly," Monk said. "His priorities are all out of whack."

  Stottlemeyer rubbed his temples and took a seat behind his desk. "Forget about Lenihan. He's not the reason I wanted to see you."

  "I know why you asked us to come down here," Monk said.

  "You do?" Stottlemeyer said.

  "You wanted to apologize to us," Monk said.

  "For what?"

  "Desecrating Christmas," Monk said.

  "How did I do that?"

  "You said that Santa only does three 'ho's."

  "That's not why I asked you down here," Stottlemeyer said. "I need you to do me a favor."

  Monk shook his head. "I won't even consider it until you apologize."

  The captain looked at me. I shrugged. We both knew Monk would never let this go. Stottlemeyer sighed.

  "Okay, Monk, I'm sorry I said that Santa Claus goes ho-ho-ho and not ho-ho-ho-ho. Satisfied?"

  Monk shook his head again. "What does a pirate say when he greets someone?"

  "Yo-yo-ho-ho," Stottlemeyer answered with a pained look on his face.

  Monk smiled. "You're forgiven. You may proceed."

  "Thank you. This is about a friend of mine, Manny Feikema. You may remember him."

  "Wasn't he a beat cop in the Tenderloin for decades?"

  Stottlemeyer nodded. "That's the guy."

  "The last time I saw him was May 17, 1997. He had a stain on his tie," Monk said. "It was spaghetti sauce."

  "He retired about five years ago and moved to Trouble, a tiny old mining town in the California gold country. Manny got bored after only a couple of months, so he signed up as a security guard at the history museum they have there. He was glad just to get out of the house and wear a uniform again."

  "I hope he isn't still wearing that tie," Monk said.

  "He was killed two nights ago while doing his rounds."

  "And the tie?"

  "Forget about the tie," Stottlemeyer said. "The man was murdered."

  "I suppose if he's cremated with the tie on, that will solve the problem."

  "I don't know what he was wearing, Monk. I just know that Manny is dead and that whoever killed him is still out there," Stottlemeyer said. "That's the issue that concerns me."

  "Manny was doomed from the start," Monk said.

  "Because of his tie?" I said.

  "Because of where he lived," Monk said. "The place is called Trouble. It's a warning sign that he blithely ignored at his own peril."

  "It was common for Old West towns to have colorful names," I said. "Like Tombstone, Hangtown, Cadaver Gap, Gnaw Bone, Purgatory, or Deadwood. It doesn't mean anything."

  "Would you retire to a place called Misery?" Monk asked.

  "If it was nice," I said.

  "How about a place called Filth?"

  "I don't think there's a place called Filth," I said.

  "That's because nobody would live there," Monk said, then turned to Stottlemeyer. "How did you hear about Manny's murder?"

  "The chief of police out there contacted us about Manny's cases on the off chance someone with a grudge might have come after him to settle a score," the captain said. "I've got Dirty Randy checking to see if anyone Manny
put away has been released from prison lately. But what the request tells me is that the local yokels don't have anything to go on."

  "What did the thieves take?" Monk asked.

  "Nothing. Manny must have spooked them before they got what they were after."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Catch the son of a bitch who did this."

  "Can't the local police do that?"

  "Trouble only has a three-man police force, not counting the chief. They don't have the experience or the resources to solve a murder," Stottlemeyer said. "Manny may have retired, but he was still a San Francisco cop as far as I'm concerned. We owe him our best. And that's you, Monk. I'd go up there myself but I'm all out of vacation days. So I'd appreciate it if you'd look into it for me."

  "It's perfect timing, Captain," I said. "Mr. Monk needs to be out of the house for a few days anyway."

  "I can't do it," Monk said.

  "Why not?" I said.

  "Tumbleweeds," Monk said. He was terrified of them.

  "What do tumbleweeds have to do with anything?" Stottlemeyer said.

  "It's an Old West town," Monk said. "The Old West is where tumbleweeds like to tumble."

  "I'll protect you," I said.

  "How?"

  "If any tumbleweeds come along, I'll throw myself in front of them."

  "You'd do that for me?" he asked.

  "Just like I did when you were nearly hit by that runaway dandelion a few weeks ago."

  "It's not the same thing," Monk said. "Tumbleweeds are like dandelions on steroids."

  "I'm willing to take that chance if it means catching a cop killer," I said. "Don't you think that's worth the risk?"

  Monk sighed and looked at the captain. "All right, I'll do it."

  The little I know about the California Gold Rush I learned back in grade school, so you'll have to forgive me if I'm a bit sketchy on the details.

  The gist of it is this: In 1849, workers at Sutter's sawmill on the south fork of the American River stumbled on some flakes of gold. The accidental discovery sparked a stampede of hundreds of thousands of people into Central California from every corner of the world to seek their fortune. They became known as the forty-niners.

  Whenever someone found a flake of gold in his pan, people would swarm to the same spot like ants. Overnight a mining camp would go up. And so it went, all along the rivers of California's Central Valley and the western slopes of the Sierra Nevadas until there were camps everywhere. If the pickings were good and steady, the camps became boomtowns.