Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu (17 page)

“But it’s too soon to plant strawberries. The optimum time is between November first and tenth to catch the winter chill; otherwise you’ll get very few, if any, berries.”

“It could be that he’s just a lousy farmer,” I said. “I wouldn’t know when the right time to plant strawberries is, either.”

Officer Curtis spoke up. “I’ve got one hit for a 1999 Ford Taurus off that partial plate, sir. It’s here in San Francisco and is registered to Charlie Herrin.”

“I know that name,” Porter said.

“You do?” Monk said.

“I think it’s mine,” Porter said.

“It’s not yours,” Sparrow said. “Your name is George Clooney.”

“Then there’s another reason I know that name.” Porter sorted through the loose papers on his desk. “Ah. Here it is. Charlie Herrin. He sells overstock shoes at a flea market in the Mission District.”

My heart skipped another beat. If this continued, I’d have to schedule an appointment with a cardiologist.

Charlie Herrin had to be the killer. Otherwise all these facts coming together the way they did would have qualified as one of the biggest coincidences in the history of coincidences.

The only downside was that Bertrum Gruber was going to get $250,000 for his tip. I admit it: I was envious and resentful. Monk solved eighteen or twenty murders a year and got a paltry consulting fee, from which I drew my pathetic salary. But some jerk came in with a license plate number and got a quarter of a million dollars. It would take Monk years of servitude to the city to make that much.

Wyatt rose from his seat and leaned over Officer Curtis’s shoulder. “You got a residential address on Herrin?”

Officer Curtis nodded. “It’s coming out of the printer now.”

Wyatt marched over to the printer and snatched the sheet out. “He lives in a dive in the Mission District. We’ve got to take it down with a full tactical assault ASAP.”

“Couldn’t we just knock on his door and see if he’s home?” Monk said. “That’s how I usually do it.”

“We’re talking about a psycho. If a couple uniforms interviewed him about the dead women today, he knows it’s only a matter of time before we’re on his ass,” Wyatt said. “He’s either getting ready to bolt or preparing to hunker down and fight it out.”

“He’s right,” Jasper said. “Psychologically speaking, of course.”

“I’m sure the police showing up at his place of business made him very angry,” Arnie said. “But having them show up at his home, violating his personal space, will make him livid.”

Monk motioned me over to a corner and whispered, “What do I do?”

“I hate to say it, but Wyatt is probably right,” I said. “If anybody here should lead a tactical assault, it’s him. Just make sure you’re wearing Kevlar from head to toe.”

“Do I really have to be there?” Monk whined.

“You’re the captain,” I said.

 

The tactical assault team met in the parking lot of a Safeway supermarket around the corner from the building where Charlie Herrin lived.

Monk stood in his Kevlar vest while the thirty other officers double-checked their weapons and communications gear. He looked uncomfortable in his vest and awkward in his surroundings, as if he were the only straight man in a gay bar (like that would ever happen to him). He couldn’t stop fiddling with his headset and adjusting the microphone in front of his mouth, which probably took his mind off of how out of place he felt.

Wyatt, however, was entirely in his element. His Kevlar vest fit him so well, I wondered if he’d had his tailored. He spread a blueprint of Herrin’s building out on the hood of a car and confidently gave orders to the officers while Monk stood to one side, still adjusting his headset until it was balanced just right.

When Wyatt finished his briefing, everybody synchronized their watches and moved into position. He glanced disapprovingly at Monk.

“Are you carrying a weapon?” Wyatt asked.

Monk reached into his pocket and pulled out half a dozen packets of disinfectant wipes.

“They kill germs on contact,” Monk said.

Wyatt grimaced with disgust. “Remain behind me and take cover when the shooting starts.”

Monk nodded. “And when should I begin cowering?”

“You never cower,” Wyatt said.

“I’m pretty sure that I do,” Monk said. “I thought it might help if I warmed up by cowering now so I’m fully cowered when it counts.”

Wyatt just shook his head and walked away. Arnie intercepted him.

“Remember those breathing exercises I taught you,” Arnie said. “Try to stay calm and focused.”

“I’m always calm and focused when I have a gun in my hand,” Wyatt said.

“Don’t let your anger drive you,” Arnie said. “Drive your anger. Steer it to the garage and park it.”

Wyatt gave him a steely look. Arnie wilted and shuffled away.

Since Arnie and I were civilians, they wouldn’t us go along on the raid. I was thankful for that. Instead we got to watch the entire operation unfold from the comfort of the mobile command center, a retrofitted Winnebego with TV monitors that played live feeds from the microcameras mounted in the SWAT guys’ helmets.

Before I tell you what happened, keep in mind that I wasn’t actually there. This account comes from what I saw on those “cop cams” in the command center and what I learned later from Monk, so if I sound omniscient here, you’ll know why.

The cops swarmed the building from several different entrances. They moved with choreographed precision, with the exception of Monk, who was like a dancer in a chorus who couldn’t stay in step. Wyatt kept yanking him back into formation.

The cops cleared out the first-floor tenants before going upstairs to Herrin’s apartment. The corridor was narrow and badly lit, with stained carpet and peeling paint.

Wyatt and the officers hugged the walls. Monk did his best not to brush against the walls or step on the stains on the floor, which made him look as if he were playing hopscotch down the corridor.

The officers flanked Herrin’s door, their weapons trained dead center. Wyatt stepped up, raised his foot, and with one mighty kick smashed the door open.

He dived low into the room, rolled, and came up in a firing stance, the officers rushing in behind him, their guns aimed at a giant poster of a smiling Jessica Simpson in short-shorts and a halter top. At her feet, on a tiny table, was a pile of left-foot running shoes.

The officers swarmed into the empty apartment, throwing open doors to make sure nobody was hiding in the bathroom or bedroom. When Wyatt yanked open the closet door, a ladder fell out and he nearly shot it.

Monk came in behind the officers and quickly went to the shoes.

“Get these back to headquarters right away,” he said to the nearest officer.

Several cops dutifully followed Monk’s command and bagged the shoes.

“Stand down,” Wyatt said to his men, and holstered his weapon. “It looks like we’re too late.”

Monk began to wander around the tiny living room, examining the thrift-shop furniture, shoe catalogs, and podiatry journals. He stopped beside the coffee table and crouched to examine a fine white powder on the surface.

He frowned, looked up at the ceiling, and saw a crack opening up like a zipper. And just when he began to register what the crack and the powder meant, the ceiling split open, raining plaster, wood, insulation, and one very fat man right on top of Monk.

I screamed, startling everyone in the mobile command center, which wasn’t wise. When cops are startled, their immediate reflex is to draw their weapons. Within an instant, I had three guns aimed at me. I immediately forgot about Monk and began worrying about my own safety.

“Sorry,” I mumbled sheepishly.

The flustered cops holstered their weapons, and we all turned our attention back to the screens.

“Relax,” Arnie said to me. “This is what Wyatt does best.”

Charlie Herrin had scrambled to his feet, lifting Monk up in front of him. He had one arm across Monk’s chest and held a gun to Monk’s head with his other hand.

Every officer in the tiny apartment spun around and aimed their weapons at Herrin and Monk.

“Drop your guns or I’ll blow his head off,” Herrin rasped, coughing on the plaster dust, which covered him and Monk.

“You heard the man; lower your weapons,” Wyatt stepped out in front of the others and pointed his massive gun directly at Monk’s stomach. “With the price of bullets, we need to economize.”

The cops followed Wyatt’s command.

Monk tried to wipe the dust off himself, but stopped when Herrin jammed the gun in his ear.

“Stop squirming,” Herrin said to Monk, then shifted his attention to Wyatt. “Put your gun down, too.”

Wyatt shook his head. “Here’s what’s going to happen, punk. I’m gonna shoot your hostage.”

Monk’s eyes widened. “Okay, that’s one idea. Let’s set that one aside for a moment and see if the three of us can put our heads together and come up with something else.”

“The bullet will go clean through him,” Wyatt said to Herrin, “and lodge deep in that oversize belly of yours.”

“I’ll shoot,” Herrin said. “I’ll splatter his brains all over the room.”

“You’ll spasm, piss yourself, and lose control of your bowels,” Wyatt said. “But you won’t shoot.”

“Hey, I have an idea. How about everybody puts down their guns and we settle this with an arm-wrestling competition?” Monk said. “It’ll be fun and won’t leave a mess.”

“You’ll both live and I’ll only be out one bullet,” Wyatt continued, ignoring Monk’s suggestion. “As opposed to shooting off your kneecaps and putting a bullet in your skull when you let go of your hostage. That’s three bullets, which is pricey for a guy on my salary.”

“He’s wearing Kevlar,” Herrin said, squeezing Monk tight against him. “I’m protected.”

“My gun is loaded with cop-killer bullets,” Wyatt said. “They’re armor-piercing.”

“Those are illegal.”

“You gonna arrest me, punk?” Wyatt said.

“These bullets can cut through that Kevlar like it was toilet tissue. While you’re squirming in agony in a puddle of your own excrement, I’ll convince you to confess.”

“I’d really like this to be an excrement-free hostage situation,” Monk said. “What if we let Charlie go, count to ten, and
then
chase after him? I think that would work for everyone.”

“So what do you say, punk?” Wyatt cocked the trigger of his gun. “Ready to have some fun?”

“This is great progress,” Arnie said to me, nodding with approval.

“It is?” I said incredulously. “Wyatt is talking about resolving the situation by shooting Mr. Monk in the stomach!”

“Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Somehow I don’t see it that way.”

“The old Wyatt would have shot him already and not wasted his time talking about it first.” Arnie smiled, pleased. “This is a meaningful step forward for him.”

I had no doubt at all that Wyatt would really shoot. I’m sure that Monk had no doubt, either. And, apparently, neither did Charlie Herrin. The killer dropped his gun, stepped back from Monk, and raised his hands.

Two of the SWAT guys immediately tackled him, pinned him to the ground, and cuffed him. While that was going on, Wyatt holstered his gun and approached Monk, who was frantically slapping his clothes, stomping his feet, and shaking himself to get the dust off.

Wyatt shook his head at Herrin, disappointed. “Spoilsport.”

“The old ‘shoot the hostage’ ploy,” Monk said, brushing himself off. “It’s amazing that people still fall for that one.”

“I don’t ploy. I
always
shoot the hostage,” Wyatt said. “Until today, that is. I must be getting soft.”

“No one in his right mind would do that,” Monk said.

“It helps to be a little crazy. That’s what gives me an edge over everyone else,” Wyatt said. “You, of all people, should understand that.”

He winked at Monk, flashed a cynical grin, and strode out the door.

Charlie Herrin was in a holding cell asserting his right to remain silent. Wyatt felt he could convince Herrin to be more talkative, but Monk wisely chose not to take the detective up on his offer.

The crime lab quickly confirmed that the missing shoes belonging to the three murdered women were among those in Herrin’s collection. They also found red gravel from the McKinley Park track, as well as forensic evidence relating to the other two killings, in Herrin’s Ford Taurus, inextricably linking him to the murders.

Although the police recovered dozens of left running shoes in Herrin’s apartment, Monk didn’t think that they were souvenirs of other killings Herrin had committed. Monk believed Herrin had been stealing shoes from women for years and only recently escalated to murder. Even so, Monk asked Frank Porter to start investigating Herrin’s past and to contact other law enforcement agencies in any cities where Herrin had lived before.

Regardless of what that investigation turned up, one thing was certain: The Golden Gate Strangler case was closed.

Within minutes of Herrin’s arrest, Mayor Smitrovich called Monk in the squad room to congratulate him and arrange for a press conference that night to announce the news to the public.

“How did the mayor find out so fast?” I asked Monk. Before he could answer, Cindy Chow spoke up.

“He has spies everywhere,” she said.

I hated to say it, but she was probably right. What other explanation was there?

But if the mayor was spying on us, I couldn’t help wondering who else might be watching us and eavesdropping on our conversations. I tried not to think about that too much, or things could spiral out of control, and before I knew it, I’d be using aluminum foil to wrap my head instead of for leftovers.

Jasper was eager to interview Charlie Herrin and delve into the killer’s bizarre left-foot fetish, but Monk wouldn’t allow it. The DA was taking over the case and bringing in his own psychiatric expert.