Mr. Monk on the Couch (11 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T
here wasn’t much for Monk to do. As I’ve said before, performing the backaching, shoe-leather-grinding, buttin-the-chair basics of investigative work wasn’t one of his skills, though it was clear to me that his brother excelled at it.

I was still marveling at all the information Ambrose had managed to glean, and so quickly, from a single photograph of the nurse and the little girl. Genius was a quality that seemed to run in the Monk family, though it was offset by psychological problems of equal scale.

I’d come to the conclusion that Monk’s detecting style, his nearly crippling obsessive-compulsive disorder aside, was based on observing people’s actions and the placement of things around him. He relied almost entirely on discrepancies in the environment and in an individual’s behavior as the basis for his deductions.

That dry, analytical explanation might make what Monk does sound simple and even easy, but as you’ve probably gathered already, it’s not. It’s a gift and, as Monk was fond of saying, also a curse.

But at that particular moment, stuck in police headquarters, we were both cursed.

Ostensibly, Stottlemeyer wanted Monk there to assist in the investigation. But Monk had nothing to contribute at this early stage, and I had even less.

So he began passing the time by sweeping floors, and I read old issues of
American Police Beat
while the detectives dug into the backgrounds of Casey Grover, the thrift store manager, and Mark Costa, the real estate appraiser, to see where their paths may have intersected with each other and with that of a serial killer.

Meanwhile, Devlin went through the motions of checking Costa’s many lovers and their spouses and significant others to confirm their whereabouts during the killings, rule them out as suspects, and to see if they might have had a connection with Grover.

Monk and I observed as some of those people were brought in and questioned, we read some of the forensics reports, and we were generally about as useful to the investigation as two potted plants.

But after that brief flurry of detecting excitement, Monk busied himself dusting, emptying trash cans, and organizing the squad room while what he really wanted to do was get over to Costa’s house and help Jerry and his team clean up.

I decided to take advantage of the situation. I sat myself at an empty desk in homicide and used the phone to call the hospitals on Yuki’s list.

At each hospital, I asked for the personnel director and then asked that person if I could speak to any doctors, nurses, technicians, or custodial staff who’d been working at that facility since the late 1970s or early 1980s.

I contacted those employees, then asked if I could show them the photo of the nurse, either in person or by e-mail, to see if anyone recognized her or the girl on the bike.

Once I got their e-mail addresses, I told them I’d be in touch soon and gave them my cell phone number and the phone number of my temporary desk in police headquarters.

I knew, of course, that by doing so, that I was implying that I was a police officer even though I was careful not to claim that I actually was one. I simply said that I was Natalie Teeger, that I was trying to identify a dead man, and that I was calling from the homicide department of the San Francisco Police Department, all of which was true.

Was it also deceptive?

Yeah, it probably was.

But it was also something that Thomas Magnum or Jim Rockford would have done in my position, so that made it okay.

My cleverness paid off almost immediately. Many of the personnel directors or employees that I contacted called me back within minutes through the SFPD switchboard on the pretense of confirming my e-mail address or some other insignificant detail, when, in fact, they were really just double-checking that I wasn’t some scammer.

Which, of course, I was, but kudos to them for making the effort to unmask me.

I was heading toward Stottlemeyer’s office, preparing to argue that keeping us there was a waste of our time, when he bolted out, nearly colliding with me.

“There’s been another murder,” he said.

“Is it connected?” I asked.

Stottlemeyer glanced past me at Monk, who was making his way over to us. “He can tell me when we get there. All I know is that the victim is a young woman, she was killed in her home, and it’s near Twenty-third and Vicksburg.”

That was only a few blocks away from the thrift shop, Costa’s place, and my house. So I didn’t really care whether or not it was the same killer. Three people had been murdered practically right outside my door, and that was too close for comfort. Until this killer was caught, I’d be sleeping with my doors locked and a baseball bat beside my bed.

We weren’t usually at police headquarters when a homicide call came in. It was a bit like being at a fire station when the alarm goes off, only there were no poles to slide down and no uniforms to put on in a hurry.

And although we were off to see a corpse rather than rescue anyone in immediate danger of becoming one, we still left the police station in a rush, sirens wailing, faces taunt with grim determination.

Except for Monk, who seemed preternaturally relaxed, totally distanced from the urgency and seriousness of the situation.

But show the man spilled milk, a crooked picture, or a shelf of unalphabetized books, and he’d jump on those situations as if he were preventing the imminent release of poison gas in a nursery school.

The crime scene was a house on Twenty-third Street, a half block east of Vicksburg at Nellie Street, which was basically a long alley that somebody had actually bothered to name.

When we got there, the paramedics were sitting in their unit out front, waiting to deliver their official report that the woman inside wasn’t merely dead, but really most sincerely dead.

There were also two police officers at the scene. One of them stood at the front door while another unfurled crime scene tape around the house, which looked like someone had lopped off the top three floors of Costa’s place, dropped them on the corner, stripped off the fretwork, and painted everything powder blue.

Stottlemeyer approached the officer at the door, a woman built like a wrestler. From her physique, I wondered for a moment if
she
might have once been a
he
, which wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility, especially in San Francisco.

“Howdy, Claire,” Stottlemeyer said. “How are your feet?”

“Sore as hell, Captain. Have been since the day I left the academy.”

Devlin spoke up before Stottlemeyer could.

“When they stop hurting, that’s when you know you’re sitting on your ass too much and it’s time to retire.” Stottlemeyer and Claire both looked at her. Devlin shrugged, almost sheepishly. “I trained under Captain Hudson at the academy, too, right before he traded in his gold shield for a fishing pole.”

Claire didn’t appreciate the intrusion on her little ritual with the captain. She turned to him and asked him a question that made her feelings very clear.

“Have you heard from Randy lately?”

“You mean the chief,” Stottlemeyer said. “That’s what he likes to be called now. We spoke a couple of days ago. He’s leading a crackdown on scofflaws who chain their bikes to trees on the mean streets of Summit.”

“I’d trade those streets for this one any day,” she said, tipping her head toward the house. “This is some ugly stuff.”

“Tell us about it,” Stottlemeyer said and we all gathered closer around the officer.

“The victim is Cheryl Strauss. Twenty-nine years old, single, a sales associate at a clothing store. She lived at this address for only a few months,” Claire said. “The mailman was crouching down, trying to shove some big magazines through her mail slot, happened to catch a peek inside and saw it.”

“It?” Devlin said.

Claire took out her nightstick and used it to nudge open the front door of the apartment behind her.

The door swung slowly into the living room, almost like a curtain opening on a stage.

And there, draped on her back over the coffee table, her arms and legs bound to it with tie strips, was Cheryl Strauss, covered with cigarette burns and knife slashes, her mouth duct taped shut, a clear plastic bag over her head, her dead eyes staring past us into the abyss.

I didn’t have to be a medical examiner to know that she’d been tortured and asphyxiated.

It was a shocking sight that galvanized everyone except Monk, who stepped past all of us and went into the room. He walked right up to her, his head cocked at an angle, his hands out in front of him, framing the gruesome image along with the matched red chairs that were at either end of the table.

And then he lowered his hands, turned around, and faced the three of us. He rolled his shoulders and tugged his sleeves.

“This is a four-piece living room set,” Monk said.

Devlin marched angrily into the room, careful not to step on the mail on the floor.

“There’s a woman in front of you who suffered an agonizing, horrific death and all you can see is the living room set? What the hell is wrong with you, Monk?”

“It’s what I’m not seeing that matters,” he said.

“Yes, exactly,” Devlin said. “Try to focus on what really means something.”

Monk nodded and said, “The matching couch that’s missing from the set.”

“No, Monk, the life that was taken here.
That’s
what matters. What difference does a couch make compared to that?”

“Because it’s the couch that she donated to Casey Grover’s thrift shop and that Mark Costa bought for his home office,” Monk said. “And it’s the couch that got them all killed.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

W
ell, that certainly put things in a new perspective, at least for Captain Stottlemeyer and me. We’d learned a long time ago that whenever Monk made a totally ridiculous assertion, like saying that three people were murdered over a thrift store couch, we had to take it seriously.

Devlin hadn’t learned that yet. All she heard was the absurdity of Monk’s statement, and she couldn’t get past it. I could sympathize with Devlin’s difficulties, since I still had to make a conscious effort to look for the sense in Monk’s theories.

So while the captain and I mulled what Monk said, she fought him.

“You don’t know the couch has anything to do with these killings,” Devlin said.

“Yes, I do,” Monk said.

“That same living room set could be in a thousand homes,” Devlin said. “Just because she and Costa both own a few pieces doesn’t mean there’s a connection.”

“They’re both dead and they both lived within a few blocks of each other and the thrift store. That’s three more connections.”

“And maybe they both have a six-pack of Diet Coke in their refrigerators, or own clothing made by Ralph Lauren, or have Visio flat-screen TVs. And maybe so do a hundred other people within a square mile of here. That doesn’t mean they are connected to each other. It means they bought some of the same mass-produced, widely sold products. Let’s not jump to conclusions until we have facts.”

The captain spoke up. “My gut tells me Monk is right, but you make a valid point, Amy. So after you’ve processed this crime scene, go back to the office and prove Monk wrong. Look at the records we pulled from the thrift shop and see if Strauss’ or Costa’s name comes up.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Back to Costa’s to get that damn couch.”

Stottlemeyer headed back to his car. Monk and I went with him.

Devlin called out after us. “Maybe it’s made of gold and upholstered in dinosaur hide.”

Monk shook his head and whispered to me, “That’s just not possible. Dinosaurs have been extinct for millions of years. Nobody has found one of their hides and certainly wouldn’t upholster a piece of furniture with it if they did. It would be in a museum. She’s being silly.”

“Yes, she is,” I said. “But at least she’s not threatening to shoot you.”

“That’s true,” Monk said. “So this is progress.”

We got in the backseat of Stottlemeyer’s car and he immediately hit the siren and floored it, pinning us against our seats and burning rubber as he sped from the curb.

I think the captain got a rush out of it and so did I, and not just because I found the speed exhilarating. I wanted to get as far away from that gruesome scene as fast as I could.

But Monk was terrified. He sat with his feet pressed against the back of the seat in front of him, one hand gripping the armrest on the door, the other clutching the strap of his seat belt.

As Stottlemeyer drove, he called the forensics unit and sent them back to Costa’s house to confiscate the couch.

“Slow down,” Monk said. “There’s no hurry.”

“I already released Costa’s house to the crime scene cleaners,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ve got to get there before they touch that couch.”

Monk turned to me. “Call them. Quickly. Before we’re killed in a traffic accident.”

I took out my phone and called Jerry. He picked up almost immediately. “Hey, Jerry, it’s Natalie.”

“It’s great to hear your voice,” he said. “I was just thinking about you. The truth is, I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“That’s sweet,” I said, very much aware that both Stottlemeyer and Monk were eavesdropping. “I’m on my way over to Mark Costa’s house with Mr. Monk and Captain Stottlemeyer. We think the couch in Costa’s office may be evidence in his murder. You haven’t done anything with it yet, have you?”

“No, we haven’t,” he said. I could hear the disappointment in his voice that I wasn’t calling just to be sociable. “It hasn’t been touched.”

“Great, we’ll be right there,” I said, and then added, as quickly and quietly as I could, “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me, too,” he said, perking up.

I dropped my phone back in my purse. Monk smiled with approval and Stottlemeyer stole a curious glance at me in the rearview mirror.

I pretended not to notice their interest. “The couch is secure.”

“Good,” Stottlemeyer said. He slowed down as a courtesy to Monk but kept the siren on so we wouldn’t have to creep along in stop-and-go traffic.

Jerry was waiting for us on the curb outside of Costa’s place when we arrived. He was in his Tyvek suit, only without the hood, goggles, and mask.

He smiled at me as the three of us got out of the car.

“Hello, Natalie, Adrian.” Jerry turned to the captain and offered an ungloved hand. “I’m Jerry Yermo, Captain. I’ve been following your work for years.”

That seemed to be Jerry’s stock greeting to detectives, but it was also a statement of fact.

The captain shook hands with Jerry. “Leland Stottlemeyer. Monk speaks very highly of you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Jerry said. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s so special about that couch?”

“That’s what we’d like to know,” Stottlemeyer said. “The CSI guys will be down here in a few minutes to take it back to the lab, but I’d like to take another look at it beforehand.”

“Be my guest,” Jerry said. “Would you like a biohazard suit?”

“No, thanks,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I would,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes. “I’ll meet you inside.”

“I will, too,” I said.

“You both really should wear a suit,” Jerry said to us. “Not just now, but every time you enter a crime scene where bodily fluids have been spilled.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stottlemeyer said in a way that made it clear that what he was
really
saying was “No way in hell.”

I knew Jerry was probably right, but I’d survived walking into a hundred crime scenes already without being clad in a bulky and uncomfortable biohazard suit, so I was pretty sure I’d be okay now.

I gave Jerry a smile and walked behind the captain as he went up the steps to the front door.

“Why did you smile at him?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“I’m a polite person,” I said.

“You got something going with him?”

“We had dinner last night,” I said. “It’s not something yet.”

“But you’re hoping it will be,” Stottlemeyer said, pausing at the door.

“I’ll see how things go,” I said.

“You really want Monk and a crime scene cleaner in your life?” Stottlemeyer asked, heading inside. “You haven’t endured enough incessant nagging about dirt and germs for one lifetime already?”

“Jerry isn’t as bad about it as Mr. Monk.”

“That doesn’t make it any less irritating, especially if you’re getting it 24/7.”

“I already am.”

“But not in stereo,” he said.

We walked in and I waved at Corinne, who was in her suit and cheerfully picking up rotten food off the floor in the kitchen with her gloved hands. She waved enthusiastically back at me.

“What’s her problem?” Stottlemeyer whispered to me.

“She enjoys her work,” I said.

“That
is
a problem. She and Monk should date.”

“The idea has already been raised.”

“By Monk?”

“By me,” I said.

“If that happens, and you hit it off with Jerry, your life will be a sanitary, germless, spotless hell.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I said.

We went on upstairs to the bedroom, where Gene and William, fully clad in their biohazard suits and looking like astronauts, were wrapping the bloody mattress in plastic and sealing it with duct tape. They acknowledged us with a nod and kept working as we continued up to the top floor.

The only change since we’d left was the presence of fingerprint powder everywhere, left over from the forensics team.

The two of us stood in front of the trashed couch and silently regarded the loose stuffing, the exposed springs, and the torn upholstery. I crouched and examined the metal framing. Maybe there was gold underneath the layer of chrome, but I doubted it.

That’s when Monk joined us, wearing the full biohazard suit, respirator mask and all.

The captain glanced at him and shook his head, which was his only comment on the suit. He knew as well as I did that there was no point arguing with Monk about it.

“So your theory is that the killer broke into the thrift store to find out who bought Cheryl’s couch and tracked it here.”

“Yes,” Monk said, his voice filtered through his mask.

“Have you got any ideas what makes this couch so special?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Only that it was part of a matched set. Perhaps it was Cheryl breaking up the set that made the man snap and go on a killing spree.”

“I can’t see that,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Think about it. Maybe this isn’t the first set of something that she’s broken.”

“I still don’t see it.”

“What if she gave away half of her bedroom set? Or lost the salt shaker from a matching pair of salt-and-pepper shakers? Or willfully split up a pair of bookends? Surely you can see how, over time, someone close to her could have been driven insane by that kind of irrational behavior.”

“You’ve certainly made me frustrated enough to want to shoot someone, but that someone has always been you,” Stottlemeyer said. “So why did he kill the thrift store manager?”

“Because our mystery man didn’t want to get caught breaking and entering,” Monk said.

“But he was okay with murder?” I asked.

“He was insane and, as I said before, an experienced criminal,” Monk said. “That’s a lethal combination.”

“Okay,” Stottlemeyer said. “So why kill Costa?”

“Maybe when the killer came here to get the couch back, he discovered that Costa had permanently stained it,” Monk said. “And that drove him into a murderous rage.”

“Over a stain,” I said.

“I don’t condone his actions, Natalie, but I can certainly understand them.”

“I’m sure you can,” Stottlemeyer said. “But there’s a big hole in your theory, Monk. If you’re right, why was Strauss his
last
victim and not his
first
?”

Monk rolled his shoulders and shifted his weight as if he wasn’t just mulling the question, but also checking its balance as he carried the thought.

Jerry came in behind Monk. He was in his suit but hadn’t bothered to put his hood and mask on. I think that’s because I was there and it’s hard to flirt with a respirator on your face.

“So this is the couch you’re all so interested in. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“Neither do we,” I said.

“Why did he rip it up if it’s so special?” Jerry asked.

Monk cocked his head from side to side and regarded the couch anew. “Because it’s not.”

“Now you’re saying the couch
isn’t
the connection?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“It definitely is. But you were right that there was a flaw in my theory. The killer wasn’t after the couch itself,” Monk said. “He was after what was
in
it.”