Mr. Monk on the Couch (4 page)

He rolled his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side, and tugged on his sleeves. He’d straightened himself out and now he’d straighten out the world by telling us Griffin’s death was murder and maybe even who did it.

“The medical examiner is correct,” Monk said. “Let’s go home.”

CHAPTER FOUR

M
onk headed for the door but I stayed where I was.

“How do you know it wasn’t murder or suicide?” I called after him.

He turned around and looked at me. “Because it’s obvious he died of natural causes.”

“How is it obvious?”

“That’s like asking how I know that he had cancer or that he’s spent years in Mexico crewing on yachts and sportfishing boats.”

Stottlemeyer and I shared a look. At least I wasn’t the only one in the room who felt like an idiot. Beyond Griffin’s leathery skin, which clearly came from a life outdoors, I was at a loss to understand how Monk deduced the rest.

“I don’t see that, either,” Stottlemeyer said. I think he spoke up mostly out of sympathy for me.

“You should both see an ophthalmologist,” Monk said, and not in a mean-spirited way. He seemed genuinely concerned.

“Just because we don’t see things the same way you do, Monk, doesn’t mean we can’t see at all,” the captain said.

“Yes, it does,” Monk said, returning to the bed and looking down at the body. “Do you see him?”

“Of course we do,” I said.

“Then surely you’ve noticed the severe muscle and tissue wasting.”

“It’s called death,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s called cachexia, which is highly indicative of latestage cancer. My guess is skin cancer, given the scars on his neck where lesions have been removed.”

I leaned down and looked at Griffin’s neck. I’d seen the scars on his hands, but I’d missed these. Once again, I was struck by the scent of almonds.

“How do you know he crewed on boats?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“His hands and feet,” Monk said.

“You can’t see his feet,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I can see his shoes, which are spotted with various shades of teak stain and varnish acquired while refinishing and maintaining boats,” Monk said. “His hands are calloused on the palms and on his fingers from years of working with rope, which you can tell is of the nautical variety by the size of the rope burn on his right arm.”

“How do you know he crewed on sportfishing boats, too?” Stottlemeyer asked.

Monk pointed to Griffin’s hands. “Do you see all those little scars? Those are from getting snagged, cut, and scratched with hooks, knives, and fishing line, a common occurrence in that profession.”

“Okay, maybe we missed all of that,” I said.

“You
did
miss all of that,” he said.

“But there’s something that you missed.”

“I doubt it,” Monk said.

“This man was poisoned with cyanide,” I said. “I can smell the scent of almonds on him.”

Stottlemeyer raised his eyebrows. “You can?” He sniffed around the body. “I can’t.”

“That’s because the ability to detect the scent is genetically determined,” Monk said. “And only fifty percent of the population has that ability. I, of course, do.”

“So how come you didn’t say anything about the almond scent?” I asked.

“I did,” he said.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I said he came from Mexico,” Monk said.

“What does that have to do with him being poisoned with cyanide?”

“Nothing,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer rubbed his brow. “If this conversation goes on much longer, I may take the cyanide.”

“The scent doesn’t come from poison,” Monk said. “It comes from the apricot-extract pills that Griffin was taking to battle his cancer.”

“Wouldn’t apricots smell like apricots instead of almonds?” I asked.

“The pills are actually an enzyme that’s derived from apricot pits and produces some cyanide as well. It’s a quack cancer treatment known as laetrile that is illegal in the United States but not in Mexico, which is how I knew that’s where he came from,” Monk said. “That and the dental amalgam used in his fillings, the stitching and material used to make his shoes, and the leather and craftsmanship of his belt, of course.”

“Of course,” Stottlemeyer said wearily.

“He still could have killed himself,” I said.

“You are referring to those,” Monk said, casting a disgusted glance at the two cans on the nightstand. “Because you’d have to have a death wish, or no longer care about living, to eat mixed nuts.”

“I am referring to the cyanide,” I said. “He could have overdosed on his meds.”

“If he was going to commit suicide, why come here at all? And why wait three weeks to do it?” Monk said. “He must have come here for a reason.”

“What was it?” I asked.

Monk shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

“It did to him,” I said.

“Not to me,” Monk said.

“It might to someone who cared about him,” I said.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Monk said. “I want to get the name of the cleanser they are using.”

I stayed where I was and looked down again at poor Jack Griffin. “What happens now, Captain?”

“We’ll run his name and prints through our databases and try to track down his next of kin here or in Mexico.”

“And if you can’t?”

“We’ll take his prints, a sample of his DNA, and store his possessions for a time,” Stottlemeyer said. “But after six weeks, if his body isn’t identified or claimed, he’ll be cremated as a John Doe.”

I gestured to the photo in Griffin’s hand. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” he said.

I carefully extracted the photo from Griffin’s stiff fingers and uncurled the photograph.

It was a faded, yellowing snapshot of a nurse, perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties, and a young girl, perhaps four or five years old, astride a pink bicycle with training wheels, a white basket in front, and multicolored plastic tassels dangling from the ends of the handlebars.

The two of them were posed in front of a one-story tract home, seemingly freshly built on a corner lot, the dirt staked out for the sprinklers and landscaping to come, the plants in pots lined up on the front walk. There was a car parked in the driveway. I could see enough of it—the distinctive wood paneling on the side and the shape—to identify it as a Ford Country Squire station wagon, mainly because we had one when I was a kid, too.

I turned the photo over. There was no name or date on the back. I handed it to Stottlemeyer, who gave it a cursory glance.

“It’s sad,” I said.

“It’s inevitable,” he said.

“Spoken like a cynical cop.”

He shrugged. “I see a lot of death.”

“You see a lot of murder.”

“So do you,” he said.

“But we care about them,” I said. “We try to solve those deaths.”

“Because those are crimes,” he said. “We know what happened here. There’s nothing to solve.”

Maybe so, but that wasn’t how it felt to me.

I dropped Monk off at his apartment and went back home. But once I was inside, I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t get Jack Griffin and that photo in his hand out of my mind.

So I tried to busy myself by cleaning up the house, doing some laundry, pulling weeds, washing my car, organizing my sock drawer, and emptying the pantry of expired food, which led to me eating the box of Wheat Thins that I kept around for the rare occasions when Monk visited. The Wheat Thins weren’t expired—they were just there.

But none of that busywork and busy eating distracted me. I still kept thinking about Jack Griffin, apparently an expat American in Mexico who traveled to San Francisco to die alone in a dive motel. And I couldn’t help wondering why he did. His reasons weren’t any of my business, and it wouldn’t change anything if I knew them, but that’s the thing about mysteries, isn’t it? They just keep nagging at you.

Or maybe it wasn’t the mystery. Maybe the problem was that I had nothing else to think about. With Julie off at school and no man in my life, I didn’t have much to do outside of work.

I needed a hobby.

But I wasn’t going to begin looking for one that night. So I ordered a pizza from Domino’s and an on-demand movie to watch on TV.

The movie was one of those inane, big-budget comic-book adaptations where good-looking people in colorful costumes try to work out their superficial superangst by throwing cars at each other and making as much noise as possible.

All that mayhem didn’t get their superminds off their superproblems, and it didn’t work for me, either.

On Monday morning, I dragged Monk down to the police station on the pretext of getting the latest news on the paperboy case.

Monk didn’t ask me why I didn’t simply call the captain for an update instead. That’s probably because Monk appreciated any excuse to visit the police station and he didn’t want to question his good fortune.

This was the first time we’d been to headquarters since Lieutenant Devlin had replaced Randy Disher, and as we came in, it was strange for me to see her occupying the desk outside of Stottlemeyer’s office. I imagine people felt the same way the first time they saw me with Monk after I replaced Sharona Fleming as his assistant.

Monk gasped when he saw the desk, probably more because of the stacks of bulging files and junk-food containers that were piled on top of it than because of the person who was sitting behind it.

Devlin was facing her flat screen, pounding on the keys as if she were trying to beat a report out of the computer rather than write it.

He took a deep breath and approached her desk. “Good morning, Lieutenant Devlin.”

Her shoulders sagged with weariness and she slowly turned around in her seat to face us.

“What are you doing here, Monk?”

“We came to bring you this.” Monk reached into the pocket of his coat and handed her a gift-wrapped box tied with a perfectly symmetrical ribbon. “It’s a present to welcome you to the team.”

“We aren’t a team,” she said. “You can keep it.”

“It would mean a lot to me if you’d accept it,” Monk said. “It’s a two-part gift.”

“What’s a two-part gift?” she asked warily.

“The first part is you open the box,” Monk said. “The second part is I clean your desk.”

“You touch this desk,” she said, “and I will break your arms.”

Devlin unwrapped the box and opened it, revealing the toothbrush, toothpaste, and dental floss that were inside. She looked up at him, her expression stony.

“You got me a toothbrush?” she said.

“Not just any toothbrush,” he said proudly. “It’s the Gertler 4000 with the extrasoft polyurethane bristles and the blue rubber handle. It’s handmade, the very best there is.”

“Are you trying to tell me I have bad breath?”

“No,” Monk said. “I’m telling you that you have hideously swollen gums.”

“I have a two-part gift for you,” she said.

“You’re going to let me clean your desk and empty your trash?”

She stood up and shoved the box back into Monk’s pocket. “If you leave right now, I won’t knock you on your ass and stomp on your testicles.”

Monk shuddered and took a deep breath. “Okay, but after the beating could I clean your desk and empty your trash?”

“Mr. Monk!” I said. “Don’t you have any self-respect?”

“None at all,” he said. “I thought that was common knowledge.”

“She insulted you,” I said. “You should be outraged.”

“
He
should be?” Devlin said. “What about me? The guy walks in here, tells me my mouth is a sewer and that my workplace is a dump, and I’m supposed to just take it?”

“See?” Monk said to me. “We’re getting through to her.”

I don’t know what Devlin might have done if Stottlemeyer hadn’t stepped out of his office at that moment and defused the situation.

“Monk, what a nice surprise,” Stottlemeyer said. “Did Lieutenant Devlin brief you on the latest developments in the Dach case?”

“No,” I said. “She didn’t.”

Stottlemeyer turned to Devlin. “Go ahead, tell him. I’m sure you can’t wait.”