Mr. Monk in Trouble (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

Mr. Monk and the Trick

A
drian Monk dreaded Halloween.

He didn’t like people coming to his house, he was afraid of children—whom he called “two-legged rats” and “plague carriers”—and he considered trick-or-treating a form of extortion. So I always tried to be around on Halloween night to keep him out of trouble.

Actually, it’s also what I do every day as his full-time assistant. Monk has an obsessive-compulsive disorder and an encyclopedic list of phobias that make day-to-day life a challenge for him, and everybody around him, especially when he’s out solving murders as a consultant for the San Francisco Police Department.

But staying with him on Halloween went far beyond the call of duty.

It wasn’t as much of an imposition now that my daughter, Julie, was well into her teens and past the age of trick-or-treating herself, but it still wasn’t much fun. I would have much preferred to be at a Halloween party somewhere, like Julie was, or even sitting at home answering the door to trick-or-treaters.

Of course, it could have been worse. At least we weren’t spending Halloween with Monk’s agoraphobic brother, Ambrose, like we did a few years back. That night, Ambrose was nearly murdered by poisoned candy from a deranged killer, but that’s another long story.

The point I’m trying to make is that you don’t want to spend Halloween with Adrian Monk if you can avoid it. You are guaranteed to face embarrassment or murder, usually both.

I hoped that this Halloween would be different. He wasn’t looking forward to it much, either. From the moment it got dark, Monk stood in the entry hall, staring warily at his front door.

“You don’t have to stand there like that,” I said.

I was curled up on the couch reading trashy magazines that I’d brought along so I could catch up on all the news. There was a big, important feature in the
National Inquirer
on what Hollywood stars look like without their makeup and another in
Star
on who had what done where to their bodies.

“They’re coming,” Monk said. “I just know they are.”

“You don’t have to be a detective to know that,” I said. “It’s Halloween.”

“It’s a night of unremitting terror,” he said.

“That’s the general idea,” I said.

It would be easy to dress up as Monk on Halloween because his clothing style is so rigid and consistent that it’s practically a uniform. His 100 percent cotton shirts were always off-white, with exactly eight buttons and a size sixteen neck, which he buttoned at the collar. He wore a brown sports coat and Hush Puppie shoes tied with perfect bows. His pants were crisply pleated and had eight belt loops around the waist.

Monk lived in a ground-floor, street-front apartment in a Deco-style, two-story apartment building that he admired for its streamlined look and perfect symmetry.

His neighborhood had somehow retained its homey charm, eclectic mix of architectural styles, and middle-class affordability even though it was only a few streets away from Pacific Heights, an old-money neighborhood known for its elaborately ornate Victorian houses, manicured gardens, and extraordinary bay views.

Most of the families on Monk’s block knew better than to stop by his door on Halloween but there were always some newcomers each year who didn’t get the word.

I hoped that the word would spread fast that night.

“The streets are full of little monsters,” he said, peering anxiously through his peephole.

“They’re children wearing masks.”

“Of course they are,” Monk said, looking back at me. “So nobody can identify them.”

“They aren’t doing anything illegal,” I said.

“They’re terrorizing me,” Monk said. “Terrorism is a crime. This is probably how Osama bin Laden got started.”

“Trick-or-treating,” I said.

“It’s possible,” Monk said.

The doorbell rang and he went to answer it. I jumped up and joined him as he opened the door.

Two little kids, around five or six years old, stood on his doorstep dressed as a ghost and a mummy. They were absolutely adorable. Their parents stood behind them, all smiles. The mother held a tiny camcorder.

“Trick or treat,” the ghost said and held out her bag of candy. She had a slight lisp because she was missing some of her teeth.

“I choose treat,” Monk said. “But I want you to know that I am doing it under duress.”

“You don’t have to choose, Mr. Monk,” I said, standing behind him.

“They wouldn’t make the demand if they didn’t expect an answer.”

“It’s not a demand,” I said.

“You’re right,” Monk said. “It’s a threat. You have to perform for them, or pay them off, or you’ll have to bolt the door, turn out all the lights, and hide in your closet until they stop tormenting you or the sun finally rises.”

I smiled at the parents, who had shell-shocked looks on their faces.

“Your children are adorable,” I said. “Cherish it while you can. Pretty soon they’ll be surly teenagers who are embarrassed to be seen with you.”

I was talking too much. I do that when I am nervous. I should have stopped at
adorable
. Now they were looking at me as if I were as strange as Monk. I stopped myself before I started to explain that I wasn’t like him at all, that I was a rational, normal, psychologically stable parent just like them.

Monk picked up a bowl from a side table and held it out to the kids.

“You can each take two,” Monk said.

“What kind of candy is that?” the mummy asked, peering into the bowl.

“It’s not candy,” Monk said. “It’s something much better.”

The parents took a step forward and looked suspiciously at what he was offering to their kids.

“You’re giving them Wet Ones?” the father said. The bowl was full of packets of moist towelettes.

“Your kids really lucked out this year,” Monk said. “I got the party size.”

“We like Snickers,” the ghost said.

“They will rot your teeth and make you fat,” Monk said. “Haven’t you lost enough teeth already?”

“It’s not from candy,” I said. “It’s normal for children at her age to lose their teeth.”

“What about that flab?” Monk said, gesturing to the little girl’s tummy. “Is that normal?”

“That’s not flab,” the mother said indignantly. “That’s baby fat.”

“Fat is fat,” Monk said. “And she’s a fatso.”

The mother gasped. So did I.

The father scooped up his daughter protectively and tugged his son away from the door. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“What about our candy?” the mummy whined.

“The awful man doesn’t have any,” the mother said.

The mummy started to cry. So did the ghost. Monk immediately closed the door, practically slamming it in their faces. Crying children terrified him—too many tears and too much mucous.

“My God,” Monk said. “What is wrong with those people?”

“You called that little girl a fatso.”

“She is,” he said. “And if she keeps knocking on doors without disinfecting her hands, she’ll be a sick little fatso.”

“You can’t talk to children that way,” I said. “You’ll traumatize them.”

“That makes us even,” he said.

“You’re not going to endear yourself to them by calling them names and giving out disinfectant wipes.”

“I’m stopping the spread of disease,” Monk said. “They’ll thank me later.”

“They’ll egg you,” I said.

“See?” Monk said. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along. It’s extortion.”

There was a knock at the door. Monk opened it. Two teenage boys stood outside. One looked like he had an ax in his head, with dried blood all over his face. The other kid had a very convincing alien bursting out of his chest in a spray of internal organs.

I was impressed. Monk was repulsed.

“I choose treat,” Monk said before either one could speak. He threw two packets of disinfectant wipes in each of their bags and slammed the door shut, throwing his back against it in case they decided to come in after him.

“You know that’s just makeup, right?”

“They’re a disgusting mess,” Monk said. “How can they go out in public like that? They should be ashamed of themselves.”

“It’s Halloween,” I said.

“It’s insanity.”

“A little insanity is good sometimes,” I said. “It keeps you sane.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Monk said.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to just let loose and do something wild? It can be exhilarating.”

“You mean like drinking water out of the tap?”

“I was thinking of something a bit more reckless than that.”

“You mean like putting a loaded gun to my head and playing Russian roulette?”

“There’s a big middle ground between drinking tap water and playing Russian roulette.”

“No, there isn’t,” he said. “They are exactly the same thing.”

“One can kill you,” I said.

“They both can,” he said. “I don’t see anything fun about suicidal behavior.”

“Who said anything about suicide?”

“You did,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything about risking your life. I meant doing something wacky and outrageous, just for the fun of it, without caring what anybody might think of you. Haven’t you ever wanted to do something like that?”

“No,” he said.

“I think that’s sad,” I said.

“I’ve never stuck my hand in a blender and switched it on, either,” Monk said. “Do you think that’s sad, too?”

“I’m talking about dressing up in costumes and having a good time on Halloween.”

“You’re talking about insanity,” he said. “You’d have to be crazy to dress up as a corpse, knock on a stranger’s door, and demand a performance or candy. On any other night, we’d arrest people for doing something like that.”

“This isn’t any other night,” I said.

“It should be,” he said.

I felt the onset of a throbbing Monkache in my head. I decided to stop arguing with him before I had a stroke.

There was another knock at the door. Monk opened it. A young man stood outside. I pegged him to be in his twenties. His white shirt and blue jeans were splattered with blood. He held a bloody knife in one hand and a grocery bag full of candy in the other.

“Trick or treat,” he said.

“Aren’t you too old to be out trick-or-treating?” I asked.

“It’s like Christmas,” he said. “You’re never too old to act like a kid.”

He had a good point.

“I choose trick,” Monk said and decked the man with a right hook.

The man dropped like a rock, out cold.

I stared at Monk in shock. “What did you do that for?”

“Call Captain Stottlemeyer,” Monk said, taking a disinfectant wipe from the bowl and tearing it open. “Tell him there’s been a murder.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s unconscious, not dead.”

“I’m not talking about him,” Monk said, wiping his hands with the moist towelette. “I’m referring to the woman that he stabbed to death twenty minutes ago.”

CHAPTER TWO

Mr. Monk and the Pirate

I
put on a pair of rubber gloves, rolled the unconscious man over, and bound his hands behind his back with duct tape while Monk laid newspapers down in his entry hall.

I dragged the man inside and onto the newspapers just as a pack of trick-or-treating kids and their parents showed up at our door.

They took one look at what we did to the last trick-or-treater and moved along to the next house.

I kicked the door closed and faced Monk. “I hope you’re right about this.”

Monk examined the man’s bag of candy and bloody knife, which he’d placed on a piece of newspaper on the dining room table.

“It’s obvious,” he said. “He was covered with blood and carrying a knife.”

“It’s Halloween, Mr. Monk. There are hundreds of people out there covered in blood and carrying knives.”

“That’s what he was counting on,” Monk said.

“How do you know?” I asked that question a lot in a typical day with Monk.

“Fake blood is red,” Monk said.

“So is real blood,” I said.

“But it changes color as it dries, becoming a rusty brown,” Monk said. “That’s real blood on him and on his very real knife.”

I turned and looked at the man, who was beginning to moan as he regained consciousness.

“It doesn’t mean that the blood came from a murder,” I said. “Or that it’s even human.”

“I don’t know many animals that wear perfume, though I wish they would.”

Before I could ask him what he meant by that, there was a knock at the door. I opened it expecting the police but instead faced a group of costumed kids. They all looked past me to the bloody body on the floor as they said “trick or treat” in unison.

“Cool corpse,” a vampire said.

“You should have a pool of blood underneath him instead of newspapers,” a wicked witch said.

“I’m trying not to stain the floor,” Monk said as he picked up the bowl and began dropping towelettes in their bags. “Where did you get the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?”

“The house with tombstones out front,” a werewolf said.

“How about the Three Musketeers bar?” Monk asked.

“The house on the corner,” the vampire said.

“You should take it back and ask for a Four Musketeers bar,” Monk said.

“There’s no such thing,” the vampire said.

“Then don’t eat it,” Monk said.

“Why not?” the witch asked.

“It’s odd,” Monk said.

“Not as odd as getting a Wet One,” she said.

Monk closed the door and set down the bowl.

“Why did you hit me?” the man on the floor said with a groan. “Why am I tied up?”

“Because you’re a deranged psycho-killer,” Monk said.

“It’s a costume, you idiot,” the man said. “Let me go.”

“You’re covered in real blood,” I said.

“It’s chicken blood,” he said.

“You butchered a chicken?” I said.

“I strive for authenticity,” he said. “Untie me right now.”

“The police are on their way,” Monk said.

“You better let me go before they get here or I’ll have them arrest you both for assault and kidnapping.”

“You’re saying you don’t want to be here when the police arrive,” Monk said.

“I’m saying that
you
don’t want me to be here,” he said. “Think about it.”

“I have,” Monk said. “I know exactly what happened.”

Someone knocked on the door. Monk opened it to reveal a flamboyant pirate brandishing a plastic cutlass above his head. He wore a three-pointed hat, a wig with beaded dreadlocks, a frilly shirt, a skirted frock coat, and harem pants. There were even some beads on the twisted ends of his bushy mustache.

“Yo-ho-ho!” Captain Stottlemeyer said.

“You look great,” I said.

“I was on my way to a party when I got your call,” he said, sheathing his plastic cutlass. “If we hurry, I can still make it.”

“Help!” the man on the floor cried out, squirming towards the door. “These crazy people are holding me hostage.”

Stottlemeyer stepped inside and regarded our prisoner on the floor as if it weren’t an unusual sight at all. He took most things in stride. I think that was his overall coping mechanism. It certainly helped when dealing with Monk but it was a skill I’d yet to master.

“You missed a ‘yo,’ ” Monk said.

“What?” Stottlemeyer said, shifting his gaze back to Monk.

“The pirate greeting,” Monk said. “It’s yo-yo-ho-ho or yo-ho, yo-ho.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a classic pirate shanty.” Stottlemeyer began to sing and do a little jig, much to my delight.
“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum—”

“Who cares?” the man on the floor interrupted. “Look at me. I’ve been attacked. I need help.”

“They were clearly drunk from all that rum or they would have said ‘yo yo ho ho,’ ” Monk said. “Everybody knows that.”

“I guess that makes me a drunken pirate,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Not doing two ‘yo’s would be like Santa not doing four ‘ho’s before wishing you a Merry Christmas.”

“Santa only does three.” Stottlemeyer dug into his pocket and pulled out his badge, which he showed to the man on the floor. “I’m Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, San Francisco Police. Who are you?”

“Clarence Lenihan. Your friend is insane, as you obviously know. If you’ll release me now, I won’t press charges and you can get him the help he desperately needs.”

Stottlemeyer nodded and turned to Monk. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Ho-ho-ho-ho, Merry Christmas.”

“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.