Mr. Monk is a Mess (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Mr. Monk Gives Chase

“W
hat the hell?” I said, still stunned by Kelsey Turek’s unexpected and very sudden flight.

“Don’t just stand there in a daze,” Monk said. “She’s getting away.”

I hurried back to the car, blinking hard as I ran, trying to clear my eyes. We got in, I hit the siren, and we raced after Turek’s Range Rover. I still had a speck of something in one eye and kept blinking until I had tears rolling down my cheeks.

Monk took the radio and called the dispatcher, informing her that we were now in pursuit of a killer. He didn’t even qualify his statement by saying “suspected” killer because he was that sure of himself. And he had every right to be. He was never wrong when it came to homicide—but that didn’t make his unexpected pronouncements of guilt or smug self-confidence any less irritating.

We closed in on the Range Rover, which was going about ninety miles an hour now, and one of my tears finally washed the speck from my eye.

“We can add driving at excessive speed to her list of heinous crimes,” Monk said, then looked at me. “Don’t worry, Natalie, it’s okay. We’ll catch her.”

“I’m not crying,” I said, wiping the tears away with the back of my hand. “Why would I be crying?”

Monk shrugged. “Shame? Embarrassment? A crippling sense of inadequacy?”

There was a truck ahead of Kelsey. She swerved around it, right into oncoming traffic. Two cars veered off the road onto the shoulder to avoid her. One of the cars crashed through a fence into an open field, the other spun out.

I had to slow down to weave around the truck and the two cars while Kelsey gained even more distance, disappearing around a curve.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked Monk.

“I’m answering your question,” he said.

“I had something in my eye, that’s all,” I said. “But what I’d like to know is why you think I’d feel inadequate.”

“Because you’re crying over almost letting a murderer go.”

“I had no idea she was a murderer,” I said.

“That’s what I mean,” he said. “Are you going to start crying again now?”

“No, because I don’t have anything in my eye anymore,” I said as we caught up to Kelsey’s Range Rover. “What makes you think that she murdered her husband? Was there a corpse in the back of her car that I didn’t see?”

“Of course not. She has already disposed of the body. She covered the body with black plastic garbage bags, dragged it out of the car into a shallow grave, poured lye over it, and then buried it.”

Turek’s Range Rover charged up behind a Honda Accord and passed it, intentionally sideswiping the vehicle as she went by.

The driver of the Accord, startled and fighting for control of his car, swerved wildly across both lanes, cutting us off and forcing us onto the inclined shoulder to avoid a collision.

Our car tipped hard to the right, slamming Monk against the door as I raced along the shoulder. We passed the Accord and then I wrenched the wheel hard to the left, vaulting our car back up onto the asphalt with a sharp bounce, setting off sparks that I could see reflected in the side-view mirror.

Turek had managed to gain even more ground on us. I floored the gas pedal and tightened my grip on the wheel.

“How can you possibly know that’s what happened?” I asked.

“Because I am not legally blind,” he said.

“You really don’t want to criticize me while I’m in the middle of a high-speed pursuit, Mr. Monk. Just give me the facts, okay, so I know why the hell I’m doing this.”

“The organic matter in the mud on her car clearly indicates that she was in the forest. You can see where some of the mud was dragged off her rear bumper when she pulled out something heavy wrapped in a black plastic trash bag from the cargo area,” Monk said. “The bag snagged on her trailer hitch, leaving a shred of plastic behind.”

“That doesn’t mean she killed her husband and dumped his corpse.”

We were now only a few yards behind her vehicle and closing fast.

“The missing wedding ring indicates there was tension in her marriage and the fresh, disgusting blister on her palm is clearly from digging with a shovel.”

“It is?”

“She should have been wearing leather work gloves,” Monk said. “Instead, she was wearing rubber gloves, which protected her hands from the lye, but not from the friction of holding the shovel handle while digging. For further protection, she was also wearing a long-sleeve shirt, jeans, and goggles, which she cinched too tight, hence the redness on her face. After she buried the body, she got rid of the shovel, her goggles and gloves, and the lye somewhere, but she forgot about the unopened jug of vinegar, perhaps because in and of itself it wasn’t obviously incriminating.”

“What’s the vinegar for?” I looked ahead to see if there was any traffic apart from the SUV we were pursuing. There wasn’t.

“To neutralize any lye that got on her skin before it burned her.”

“Vinegar neutralizes lye?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“Why would I know that?” I asked.

“Basic human survival. It’s like asking if I know how much exposure to radiation is fatal or how long I’ll live from a rattlesnake bite without medical attention.”

“I don’t know either of those things.”

“It’s a wonder you’re alive.”

Now I really did want to cry, and not because his brilliant deduction made me feel stupid for missing everything. It was because
I didn’t miss any of it.

For the first time, after years of training myself to be more observant, I’d finally managed to see all the details that he did. I saw the mud and the scrap of the Hefty bag on her trailer hitch. I noticed how she was dressed, the blister on her hand, her missing wedding ring, and the impression the tight goggles had left on her face. I even saw the bottle of vinegar.

And I
still
couldn’t put all the pieces together.

How dense could I possibly be?

Maybe it was because I lacked his extreme sense of order.

Maybe it was because I didn’t have all the obscure knowledge that he did.

Or maybe it was because I just didn’t have his gift.

No matter how hard I tried, I doubted I’d ever be as observant as he was or have the insight, the
artistry
, to recognize the significance of what I saw.

On the other hand, there was the very real possibility that his talent for detecting arose from his crippling psychological disorder, one that had deprived him of enjoying so many of the simple and profound pleasures in life that I’d experienced.

It wasn’t a trade I would like to make.

Perhaps, I thought, it was time that I accepted my limitations.

The hell I will.

I pressed the gas pedal harder and edged past Turek on her driver’s side until the patrol car’s right-front edge was near the left side of her rear bumper.

“Careful,” Monk said. “You’re going to hit her.”

“That’s the idea,” I said.

“Are you insane?”

That’s when I executed a standard Pursuit Intervention Technique maneuver, something I’d seen cops do on the news in real-life car chases but that I’d never tried myself, mainly because I’d never had a reason to before.

I turned to the right and clipped the edge of the SUV. The Range Rover abruptly spun sideways directly in front of us and I rammed it, pushing it off the road onto the shoulder, Monk shrieking in terror the whole way, his hands pressed against the dash.

I stopped the car, quite pleased with myself. I hadn’t solved the murder but at least I was able to pull off the PIT maneuver without any training besides sitting in front of the evening news.

Monk and I both got out, our guns drawn and aimed at the vehicle. The air bags in Turek’s car had deployed and one had burst open right in her face. She was sitting in the driver’s seat, unhurt but dazed, as we approached her vehicle.

“Come out with your hands up,” I said.

Turek blinked hard and looked at me as if waking from a dream.

“Now,” I said. “Nice and slow.”

She opened the door and staggered out, immediately collapsing to her knees on the pavement, more out of dizziness than submission.

While Monk kept her covered with his gun, I holstered my weapon, got behind her, and cuffed her hands behind her back.

“You’re under arrest for murder,” I said.

“I don’t believe this,” she said. “How did you know what I did?”

I looked up at Monk, who holstered his weapon, rolled his shoulders, and tipped his head from side to side, setting himself and the world right again.

“We’re police officers,” Monk said.

CHAPTER THREE

Mr. Monk and the Talking Car

R
andy Disher, Summit police chief and acting mayor, showed up in his Suburban police cruiser twenty minutes after the forensics team, the tow trucks, and the paramedics, who I’d called for Turek just to be on the safe side. He was in full uniform, and that included a wide-brimmed Ranger-style hat with the Summit police emblem on the front, which appeared too big not only for his head but for his body as well.

Despite the powerful leadership positions he now held, Disher still looked like an eager-to-please boy to me and I had a hard time taking him as seriously as he wanted to be taken, especially since we’d been friends for so long. But I made the effort because I genuinely liked him and he was, after all, my present employer.

He surveyed the wrecked cars, which the forensics team was examining and photographing, and glanced at Turek—who sat handcuffed in the back of an ambulance, being checked out by the paramedics—before he finally worked his way over to where we were standing, on the side of the road.

“You caught a murderer before anyone knew a murder had been committed,” Disher said. “That’s impressive even for you, Monk.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Monk said.

“I wish you could have apprehended her without smashing a quarter of our fleet in the process.”

“That’s her fault,” Monk said, pointing at me.

“Thanks for the support, partner,” I said.

“I also wish you had evidence,” Disher said. “You know, something like a dead body, before you decided to run her off the road.”

“She fled the instant Mr. Monk accused her of killing her husband,” I said.

“Freaking out isn’t quite the same thing as a confession,” Disher said.

“She also asked how we knew what she did,” I said, “which is sort of like a confession.”

“It’s not,” Disher said, “but even if it was, did she ask you the question before or after you read Mrs.Turek her rights?”

“Before,” I said glumly.

“Has she told you where she buried the body?”

I shook my head. “She’s not talking and has demanded a lawyer.”

Disher sighed. “So, in other words, we have nothing but a smashed hundred-thousand-dollar Range Rover, a smashed police car, and Monk’s hunch.”

“There’s more,” Monk said.

“I certainly hope so,” Disher said.

Monk told him about the blister, the missing wedding ring, the bottle of vinegar, the shred of plastic bag, and the leafy mud on her bumper.

“Which means,” Disher said, “that all we have to hold her on is a speeding ticket and reckless driving.”

I cleared my throat. “We didn’t give her a ticket.”

“Because she sped off before you could write it?” Disher asked.

“Because she wasn’t speeding,” I replied. “That wasn’t why we pulled her over.”

Disher looked at Monk. “Are you telling me that all she had to do was drive by and you knew that she was a murderer?”

“No,” Monk said. “Of course not.”

“Then why did you stop her?”

“Her car was filthy,” Monk said.

“So you pulled her over without any probable cause whatsoever and then you accused her of being a murderer.”

“She is,” Monk said.

“No wonder she sped off. She thought you were insane.” Disher took off his hat, regarded it for a moment as he held it by the rim, then threw it like a Frisbee out into the open field beside the highway. The three of us watched the hat sail through the air, then land in the tall weeds.

“What did you do that for?” Monk asked.

“Because I’m finished,” Disher said, tipping his head toward Kelsey Turek. “She’s a very rich woman. She’s going to sue us and when she wins, and owns Summit outright, the first thing she’s going to do, even before she renames the place Kelseyville, is throw me out.”

“Would it help if we found the body?” Monk said.

“Yes, Monk, that would make a big difference.”

“She may not want to talk,” Monk said. “But her car will.”

He marched over to her Range Rover and we trailed after him. I thought I knew what he had in mind and I wanted to stop him before he made a big mistake.

“We can’t look at her GPS navigation system without a warrant, Mr. Monk, because if we do, and we find the body as a result, the evidence will be thrown out as fruit from the poisonous tree and she’ll walk.”

Disher gave me a look. “You watch a lot of
Law & Order
, don’t you?”

“What do you think I do in San Francisco when we don’t have a case to investigate and I’m stuck in Mr. Monk’s apartment while he cleans?”

“Contemplate suicide?”

“Now you know why I accepted your job offer,” I said.

“I don’t need to access her GPS unit to know where this car has been,” Monk said.

He walked around the vehicle, his hands stretched out in front of him, framing his point of view. He stopped here and there to crouch, cock his head, stand on his tiptoes, and basically examine the car from every angle. When he was done, he turned to us and presented his findings.

“There are pine needles, bark, and decaying leaves in the mud, which indicates she was in a forested area,” he said.

“That’s a big help,” Disher said.

“Thank you,” Monk said, oblivious to Disher’s sarcasm. “But there’s more. The dirt on the car was still moist when we stopped her, so, given the composition of the mud, the amount of water in it, the temperature and humidity of the environment, and the speed at which she was driving, I believe she couldn’t have traveled more than five miles from the grave.”

“You know how fast mud dries?” Disher said.

“Of course I do,” Monk said. “It’s a matter of basic human survival.”

“It is?” Disher asked.

I spoke up. “It’s like knowing what a fatal dose of radiation is or how long you’ll live after a rattlesnake bites you.”

“I’ve never been exposed to deadly levels of radiation,” Disher said, “or been bitten by a rattlesnake.”

“Yet,” Monk said.

“Let’s say you’re right about how fast mud dries,” Disher said. “Knowing the body is within a five-mile radius doesn’t narrow it down much.”

“It will when we find the skunk,” Monk said.

“What skunk?” I asked.

“The dead one that she ran over.” Monk pointed to the wheels. “There’s fur and bits of flesh stuck in the front and rear passenger-side wheel wells.”

“Gee, she really was on a killing spree today,” I said. “No living thing in her path was safe.”

“Actually, the skunk was already dead when she drove over it,” Monk said, “or there would be much more blood.”

“How do you know it was a skunk?” I asked.

“I can smell it,” Monk said. “Can’t you?”

“No,” I said.

“The odor is overpowering,” he said. “It’s almost as strong as the egg-and-cheese burrito the chief had for breakfast.”

“You can smell that on me?” Disher said.

“I can also see it,” Monk said. “You dribbled some on your shirt.”

Disher examined his shirt, finding the tiny spot on his stomach. “Damn. How do you know she drove over the roadkill after she left the grave and not before she arrived there?”

“The skunk matter is stuck on the mud rather than coated with it,” he said. “If we find the dead skunk, we’ll know we are in the right vicinity.”

“And then what?” Disher said. “How will you know where to go from there?”

Monk crouched by the right side of the Range Rover’s front bumper. “It appears that she was going too fast when she turned onto a narrow, rust-colored mud road, and she clipped a post or a tree, shattering her fog light.” Monk pointed to the scratched bumper and the broken light below it. “There is mud inside the fog light casing, which means it was broken before she went on the dirt road. All you have to do is go back five miles, look for a dead skunk, an unpaved road with rust-colored mud, and an object with scrapes of red automotive paint on it. You’ll know you’re in the right spot when you see the broken glass and the unique tire impressions from this vehicle in the mud.”

“Well, if that’s all there is to it, why are you still standing here? Call me when you find the grave.”

And with that, Disher went out to retrieve his hat and we drove off to find where Kelsey Turek had buried her husband.

Twenty minutes later, we found the shallow grave and secured the scene. And ten minutes after that, we found the bottle of lye, the shovel, the gloves, and the goggles in a gas station Dumpster a mile from the dirt road.

* * *

Once we found her husband’s body, Kelsey Turek decided to ignore her right to remain silent and instead energetically exercised her right to get everything off her surgically enhanced chest.

Disher drove us all back into Summit in his Suburban. On the way, Turek told us her tragic tale, which she prefaced by telling us all about the rich and wonderful life that she, a literary agent, and her husband, Rick, a Manhattan architect, had enjoyed during their ten years of marriage.

They had a beautiful home in Summit, a beach house in Maine, and four European cars. They were connoisseurs of exquisite wine, collectors of fine art, and masters of tantric sex.

“We could go for hours,” she said. “Sometimes even days.”

“Stopping only to open a bottle of wine and admire one of your paintings,” I said.

“I am only trying to give you some background so you will appreciate my actions from the proper perspective,” she said.

“Let her talk,” Disher told me.

Yesterday at breakfast, Rick calmly informed her that they were penniless, a consequence of his long, secret addiction to online gambling.

But the news was even worse. When he’d used up all of their money, emptying their accounts, maxing out their credit cards, and leveraging their property, he’d embezzled three hundred thousand dollars from his firm, which he also lost. The firm just discovered the missing money, so she’d realized that he’d most likely be going to jail very soon, leaving her to deal with their financial mess.

Kelsey got up from the table without saying a word, found the heaviest frying pan they owned, and hit him on the head with it a few times.

She dragged his body to the garage, put Hefty trash bags over him, sealed them tight with duct tape, and then put his body into the Range Rover.

Kelsey was thankful that she was strong enough to do all of this without having to cut his body into pieces.

“All of those hours of Pilates and tantric sex really paid off,” she said. “I’ve got the body fat of a gazelle.”

After that, she spent an hour on the Internet doing research on the best ways to dispose of a body and settled on burying him and covering him with lye to speed decomposition. All she had to figure out was where she should bury the corpse.

She recalled a piece of land that her husband had considered buying as investment property a few years back, right before the real estate bubble burst. It was nearby, but forested enough to offer seclusion and the strong possibility that his body wouldn’t be found before it turned to mush.

So she bought the supplies and then, in the wee hours of the morning, drove out to the plot of land and buried him. It took her all night, but she got the job done. She ditched the shovel, lye, gloves, and goggles on the way home.

“I bet that everyone would think that he fled to avoid arrest and it wouldn’t occur to anyone that his poor shocked and devastated wife had killed him,” she said. “But apparently I’m as luckless a gambler as Rick was.”

I couldn’t argue with her on that point, nor could I particularly blame her for what she did. In fact, I thought she had a pretty good chance at getting sympathy from a jury, but I kept that opinion to myself.

Her lawyer was waiting for her when we got back to police headquarters. Disher told us he was one of the most expensive and respected criminal attorneys in the state. But when the attorney learned that she’d spilled her guts to us, he abruptly quit as her counsel. I think his resignation had less to do with her confession than his realization that she was broke. Disher got her a public defender.

While all of this was going on, we wrote up our reports and then submitted them to Disher in his office.

“It was a stroke of brilliance inviting you two out here,” Disher said. “It’s that kind of bold, decisive action that got me where I am today.”

“I thought it was Sharona’s idea to bring Mr. Monk here to help out,” I said.

“Yes, but I didn’t hesitate to act on it,” Disher said.

“And to take the credit for it,” I said.

Disher got up, looked around the empty squad room, then closed the door and turned back to me. “Natalie, I’m the chief of police here, remember? You need to be much more intimidated by me, at least around the office.”

“Sorry, Randy. I’ll work on it,” I said.

He groaned. “‘Randy’?”

“Sorry, Chief,” I said. “It’s hard for me. I guess I’ve known you too long as good old Randy, Captain Stottlemeyer’s right-hand man.”

“And I’ve always known you as Monk’s assistant, driving him around and handing him wipes, but that didn’t stop me from seeing you in a completely different way,” Disher said. “As a capable police officer.”

That shamed me to my core. I felt my skin instantly flush. “You’re right. I’m really, really sorry, sir.”

“That’s more like it,” he said with a smile.

“I hope you’re not going to cry again,” Monk said.

“Again?” Disher asked.

“Never mind, sir,” I said, hustling Monk out the door. “We need to get back out on patrol. We can’t catch crooks in here.”