Mr. Monk Helps Himself (6 page)

“Why do you clean the garbage disposal?” I said instead of hello. “You never use it.”

“Of course not. Garbage disposals are full of, you know, garbage. They’re filthy.”

“Not if you never use them.”

“It’s still a garbage disposal. It’s like saying a pig isn’t a pig because it’s had a bath. Natalie, stand back. You’re within ten feet of the switch. What in heaven’s name are you thinking?”

“Sorry.”

Luckily, the refrigerator and the toaster were twelve and sixteen feet away, respectively, and I could safely make our breakfast without endangering life and limb. “Mr. Monk, I’ve been thinking about yesterday. . . .”

As Monk cleaned already clean things and I assembled the muffins, I went on to explain. I told him all about last night with Ellen—about my hunch and the phone call and my deduction about the prearranged tryst.

“And Damien Bigley, according to the retreat brochure, is a licensed hypnotherapist.” I said this dramatically. It was my big finish. “My theory is that he hypnotized her, maybe over a period of weeks, maybe giving her drugs, leading her closer and closer until finally he got her to jump.

“That’s how he did it.” I placed the toasted and buttered muffins, each half perfectly centered on a dessert plate, in front of him on the eat-in island.

Monk had remained silent throughout. Now, finally, he rearranged the muffin on the left and scrunched his face. “Ellen was at your place last night?”

“That’s not the point. The point is, it wasn’t suicide.”

“Because I called Ellen every ten minutes and she never picked up.”

“I know. Ellen and I needed to spend some time together. Alone.”

“To talk about me?”

“No, not about you. Our mentor, our icon, our life coach just died. We were talking about her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” I wanted to shake him to make him focus, but I knew it would just make things worse. “Mr. Monk, it’s possible, isn’t it? I know a person can’t be hypnotized to do something against her will. But if there are drugs involved? If the suicide is something as simple as jumping a foot or two forward?”

“Ellen’s been getting more argumentative lately. The last time I tried to talk to her about her horrible shop . . .”

We could have kept going on like this forever. Luckily for my sanity, the phone rang. It was Captain Stottlemeyer with a fresh murder.

•   •   •

The crime scene was an apartment, occupying the lower half of a shabby two-story house on Willow Street on the edge of the Tenderloin. Even people who don’t know San Francisco know about the Tenderloin. Despite the lure of gentrification, which had transformed other parts of town, it has proudly remained a sketchy neighborhood for the past hundred fifty years.

Lieutenant Devlin was waiting on the street. She didn’t come over to meet us, but stayed by the front door. “The captain’s in the back bedroom.” Devlin is not the type to mince words.

As we walked past, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a sign beside the door, perhaps a homemade business sign, with a colorful round design, like a balloon. It was mostly hidden behind Devlin’s torso, so I didn’t think much of it.

In the narrow hall, a row of three cops stood against the right wall, lined up, drinking cups of coffee and ignoring us. Again, as we passed, I noticed something half hidden behind them. A painting or a poster? Colorful again, with a striped tent and flags, although I couldn’t really tell. Monk was preoccupied with keeping any part of his body from touching anything in this grimy hole.

Captain Stottlemeyer stood at the end of the hall, holding a set of plastic gloves in each hand. “In here, Monk. Natalie, good to see you. Put these on before you step inside. And don’t touch anything, even with them on.”

Lying in the middle of a multistained, rumpled bed was the body of Dudley Smith, late forties, curly dark hair, not unlike Monk, except he was dressed in a stained T-shirt and ratty jeans. Stottlemeyer neglected to tell us his occupation. Whatever it was, it must have paid well, because surrounding him on the bed were stacks of money, everything from singles to twenties. Hundreds of bills.

“He dialed nine one one, complaining of nausea, dizziness, seizures. When the EMTs arrived, maybe twelve minutes later, he was like this.”

“Shouldn’t the CDC be here?” I asked, taking a big step back. “If this is a disease . . .”

“You mean the CDC branch at the Department of Public Health? Been and gone. They took their hazmats and left a few minutes ago. It’s not viral or bacteria-based. It’s a poison. Monk?”

This is one of the strange things about Monk. Well, there are plenty of strange things, but I mean strange as in “out of character.” Here is a man who actually called the CDC when I had a cold and demanded I be quarantined. He’s a man who’s been quoted (by me) as saying, “Nature hates us. Nature wants nothing more than to kill us all.” And yet corpses don’t bother him.

He bent over Dudley’s face, hands clasped behind his back so that he couldn’t touch anything, even by accident. “Dilated pupils, massive sweating. Quick acting. Combined with the other symptoms, I’m guessing atropine. How was it ingested?”

The captain wriggled his mustache. When he had weird news to deliver, this was his tell. Not good news or bad news, just weird news, which in our world happened quite often. “The EMTs called our boys before trying to move the body. An hour later, both EMTs were admitted to their own ER. Same symptoms.”

“Are you saying it’s airborne?” Monk almost shrieked. “Augh. Why are we even here?” He slapped a hand over his mouth and began to hyperventilate, which of course made him breathe even harder.

“Not airborne.” Stottlemeyer tilted his head toward a corner of the room. A trio of canaries fluttered in a large hanging cage, chirping and flapping their wings. “The proverbial canaries in a coal mine,” he said. “If it was airborne, they’d be dead.”

“What if they’re immune?” Monk asked.

“The canaries are not immune.”

“They could be super canaries. We could die any second—horrible, gasping deaths—and they’ll still be chirping away.”

“It’s not airborne,” Stottlemeyer insisted. “Get a grip.”

And, surprisingly, Monk did. It took him a minute or two. But with a sheer force of will, he paced in a tight little circle, each time a little calmer. I was so proud. This was his job—more than a job; it pretty much defined him—and he was now willing himself to be a professional.

“Topical, then,” he said, and returned to his normal breathing, at least normal for him. “The poison was on the body?”

“The EMTs said they didn’t touch him, but obviously they did.”

“Or maybe they didn’t,” Monk argued. “After all, they’re pros. And no one lies to an ER doctor who’s trying to save his life, especially something minor like an EMT touching a body. By the way, are they dead?”

“They both survived. Thanks for asking.”

I’d like to say Monk ignored the sarcasm, but he probably didn’t realize it was there. Instead, he held out his hands and framed the scene. “So the EMTs lied. They must have touched something. And it had to be something serious enough to risk their lives over.”

Okay. Sure, when you phrase it that way and you’re looking at a bed covered with money . . . “Money,” I said before anyone could beat me to it.

“The poison’s on the money,” Stottlemeyer added. “Of course. Guess they couldn’t resist a little fringe benefit.” He turned to a CSI. “Bag a handful from the bed and take it in. Now. Devlin!”

The lieutenant appeared in the doorway, ready for action.

“Call the ER at St. Mary’s. Have them isolate the EMTs, their clothing and equipment. Also the ambulance. We’re looking for contaminated currency the guys may have filched from the crime scene. Also, anyone who may have come in contact with the bills.”

“You think the poison’s on the money?” Devlin asked, staring down at all the tempting cash.

“I do,” said Stottlemeyer. “More important, Monk does.”

“Good enough for me. Do you want me to make an arrest?” Devlin always seemed eager to slap on the cuffs.

“No, but keep them separated. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I can question them.” Devlin volunteered. She was stopped by one of Stottlemeyer’s patented glares.

“Also, we need to clear this with the Secret Service and the Postal Inspection Service.”

The lieutenant eyed the corpse and shook her head. “They’re not going to want this one.”

“Maybe not. But we need to inform them and keep them in the loop. I’ll take care of it.”

“I can do it,” said Devlin, only to be met with another glare. “Okay,” she said, and turned and walked away.

“What is that under the bed?” Monk was pointing to a pair of large bright yellow objects barely visible under the dust ruffle.

“Shoes,” the captain said. “Our guy has big feet, huh? Look, Monk, our priority is finding out where this money came from.”

“What did you say Smith did for a living?” I could hear his throat getting a little constricted.

“He’s an entertainer. Small stuff.”

Monk was suddenly alert. His hands went up again, framing bits of the room. “What’s that?” He pointed to a shiny piece of tin sticking out of a bookcase shelf.

“Looks like a bike horn,” Stottlemeyer said. “Our friend must have taken up biking. Now, Monk . . .”

“And that?” He pointed to what resembled a red rubber ball on the dresser behind the captain.

“That? Looks like a rubber ball.”

“It’s not a rubber ball.” He was hyperventilating again. “It’s a rubber nose.”

Monk can move fast when he wants to. Within a second, he was out of the room. Within five, he was probably out of the house and across the street.

So much for being a professional.

“Dudley Smith was a clown?” I asked Stottlemeyer, dumbfounded. He shrugged yes. “You know Monk is afraid of clowns. It’s a real condition. Coulrophobia.”

“What?” Stottlemeyer chuckled. “You know the names of all his phobias?”

“Not all,” I had to admit. “Some of them don’t have official names.”

“Because he invented them. What about his fear of milk?”

“That has a name. It’s lactaphobia. And don’t try to distract me. His fear of clowns is a real affliction. You knew that. You knew and you didn’t warn him.”

“Then he wouldn’t have come in and we wouldn’t have gotten to the money so fast.”

“Well, now he’s gone and is not coming back. Congratulations.”

The captain seemed unfazed. “You can make it work, Natalie. Isn’t that what you do? Monk is brilliant and you keep him controlled.”

“Wrong. That’s what I did when I was his assistant. Now I’m an ex-cop. I’m a week away from getting my PI license. I’m not his babysitter. If you want to fix the mess you made, do it yourself.” I was almost ready to follow Monk into the street.

Stottlemeyer gave a thoughtful nod, then sent out the last CSI and closed the door.

“It’s still your job to fix it,” he said, looking me straight in the eyes. “Monk is making you his partner out of respect. Do you honestly think the force would hire you as a consultant? On your own?”

I wanted to say yes. I’d been involved in hundreds of cases by now. Many of them probably wouldn’t have been solved without my participation. “Think carefully before you answer,” said the captain, eyeing the clown in the T-shirt and jeans.

I knew what he meant. Was I ready to take over a crime scene, frame my hands in front of my face, and come up with some genius insight to kick things into high gear? “No,” I had to admit. “No one can take Mr. Monk’s place.”

“Then I suggest you get him back in here.”

“It won’t be easy. He knows by now you betrayed him. I mean, having a row of officers blocking the painting? That was a circus scene, right?”

“Right. And Devlin was by the front door to body-block the guy’s business sign. ‘J. P. Tatters. Clown to the Stars. Dudley Smith, proprietor.’ I’m surprised Monk didn’t see either one of those and put it together.”

“That’s because he trusted you.”

“Okay,” growled the captain. “Tell him I’m sorry.” He sounded like he meant it. “I didn’t think his clown thing was so bad. Isn’t it like number one hundred on his list?”

“It used to be. Now it’s ninety-nine. Aardvarks is the new one hundred.”

“Aardvarks? Shouldn’t that be at the top of the list?”

“That’s what I keep saying.”

CHAPTER SIX

Mr. Monk’s Virtual Tour

“M
onk, I owe you an apology,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Sooo . . .” Monk paused.

“What are you doing?

“Waiting for the apology.”

“I just said it.”

“No, you didn’t. You said you owed me an apology. That’s like saying you owe me ten bucks. Just saying that you owe it to—”

“You’re right. I apologize. I apologize.”

“For what? For messing up your apology or for—”

“For everything!” The captain was sounding less and less sorry.

“Apology accepted,” I ordered them both. “Let’s move on.”

The three of us sat in my Subaru, at the curb outside the clown’s apartment. Captain Stottlemeyer was in the back. Monk was riding shotgun with his seat belt on, even though we weren’t planning on moving.