Mr. Monk on the Couch (8 page)

CHAPTER TEN

S
tottlemeyer and Devlin met us outside the door of the thrift store. Monk peered past them through the open doorway at the sales floor, which was scattered with secondhand furniture, racks of old clothes, and shelves overflowing with dishware, linens, hats, lamps, countertop appliances, outdated electronics, and a thousand other discarded items.

“What is this awful place?” Monk asked.

“The thrift shop for the Bay Cities food bank,” Devlin said. Monk stared back at her with a blank look on his face. “People donate their used clothing, appliances, dishes, and furniture, which the shop then sells to benefit the charity.”

“The charitable thing to do would be to burn it all,” Monk said. “What kind of person would eat off dishes and stick silverware in their mouths that other people have used?”

“Oh, just about anyone who has ever been in a restaurant or had a meal in someone’s home,” Stottlemeyer said. “In other words, everyone on earth but you.”

“In those cases, you know where the dishes have been and that they’ve likely been thoroughly cleaned a thousand times,” Monk said. “Who knows where these have been or what has been served on them? Maybe they were used to serve slop to pets or barnyard animals.”

“Have you seen a lot of farms here in San Francisco?” Devlin asked.

Monk ignored her question. “What about all this furniture? Who would sit or sleep on furniture other people have been using for God knows what kind of activities?”

“Anyone who has ever been in a restaurant, hotel, or in someone’s home,” Devlin said.

“Hotels and restaurants have maid services and are regularly visited by health inspectors. The same can’t be said for private homes, where most of this has come from,” Monk said. “But what I really can’t imagine is what sort of a person would wear clothes other people have worn.”

“A person who can’t afford new clothes,” I said. “Or who finds vintage clothing stylish.”

“It’s disgusting,” Monk said. “Shopping here is no different than rooting around in a trash Dumpster.”

Devlin tugged on her leather jacket. “I got this at a thrift store.”

“That’s different,” Monk said. “You were in vice working undercover as a crack whore.”

“I never went undercover as a crack whore,” Devlin said. “And I am not undercover now.”

Monk cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “Oh.”

“If you’re done buttering up the lieutenant, I’d really like to go inside and investigate this murder,” Stottlemeyer said. “What do you say, Monk?”

“I’ll need another minute or two,” Monk said. “I have to go back to the car and put on my biohazard suit.”

“It’s a thrift store,” Devlin said. “Not a toxic waste spill.”

“I don’t see the distinction,” he said.

Monk and I went back to my car, where I helped him suit up, using duct tape to tightly seal his coverall sleeves and pant legs to his gloves and boots. He put on his goggles and secured his respirator mask over his nose and mouth, and then we returned to the thrift store.

Devlin shook her head. “Don’t you think that’s overkill?”

“That place is a pit of pathogens,” Monk said, the mask giving his voice a Darth Vader–esque quality. “HIV, hepatitis, herpes, E. coli, and hantavirus—it could all be in there.”

He turned to look into the store, so he didn’t hear Devlin when she said, “It could all be out here, too. The streets aren’t any cleaner.”

Stottlemeyer nudged her hard with his elbow and whispered, “Shut up before you set us back years with him.”

“What did she say?” Monk asked, turning around again.

“That she’ll be very cautious inside the thrift shop and that she greatly appreciates your concern for our health,” Stottlemeyer said.

“And what did you say?”

“I thanked her for advising us to exercise extreme caution.”

“So why did you whisper?”

“Because I was ashamed to admit that you were right,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk nodded, barely hiding his satisfaction with the answer. “Let’s get to it.”

The four of us went inside the store, which had the musty, dusty smell of someone’s attic, tinged with the coppery scent of spilled blood.

Devlin led the way, weaving through the cluttered aisles toward the windowed office in the back, which looked out on the sales floor. The window was spattered on the inside with blood, which explained why the smell was in the air.

We stepped through the open doorway into the cramped office. It was lined with file cabinets and there was a gunmetal gray desk in the corner, facing the door.

A black man was slumped on the floor in the center of the office, his throat slit, his dead eyes staring up at us, a carving knife in the big puddle of blood that seeped out from under the body.

His cut throat explained the spatter. Arterial blood sprayed, and judging by the dispersal pattern, I could tell that the victim was standing when he was cut and then did a half turn as he fell. His blood sprayed around the room like his neck was a sprinkler. Considering how much blood was around, I began to wish I was wearing a biohazard suit, too.

“The victim is Casey Grover, thirty-three, the manager of the store,” Devlin said. “His throat was slit with that carving knife. We’re assuming the killer picked up the knife in the store.”

“Any signs of a break-in?” Monk asked as he began to drift around the room, bobbing and weaving like he was shadow boxing without throwing punches. That’s because it was hard for him to move freely in that bulky suit and his field of vision was limited by the hood and goggles.

“No, there wasn’t,” Devlin said. “Either the back door was left unlocked last night or the lock was picked.”

“What about the alarm system?” I asked. “Wasn’t it tripped anyway?”

“The existing alarm system is ancient and was left by the previous tenant,” Stottlemeyer said. “The thrift store has never used it.”

“They will now,” Monk said. “Who found the body?”

“The cashier found him when she arrived for work this morning,” Devlin said. “We’ve got her in the backseat of a squad car, and an officer is taking her statement, in case you want to arrest her for murder.”

“She didn’t do it,” Monk said.

“Do you know who did?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he replied.

“I’m shocked,” she said. “What’s taking you so long?”

“I’ll tell you what I do know about the killer,” Monk said. “He’s an experienced criminal.”

“How do you know that?”

“The killer deftly picked the lock without leaving any signs and was confident enough in his lethal skills to select a weapon once he got here, leaving that element to chance. An amateur wouldn’t do that.”

“Or it was a crime of opportunity,” Devlin said. “The manager or some other employee accidentally left the back door unlocked and some street person snuck in and camped out for the night. The manager walked in this morning, startled the guy, and got his throat cut.”

“Or he walked in on a burglary,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” Stottlemeyer said. “No money was taken. The safe is untouched and all the cash that’s supposed to be there is accounted for.”

“Maybe something was stolen from the sales floor,” I said.

“In a thrift store?” Devlin said. “It’s worthless handme-downs.”

“Even if something was taken,” Stottlemeyer said, “it won’t be easy for us to figure it out. They don’t keep a close eye on their inventory.”

“Maybe somebody came back to retrieve a donation,” I said. “That ugly painting that old Aunt Edna had in her attic for sixty years that nobody realized was a Rembrandt until she died and after her dumbass grandson gave away all her junk.”

“You’ve watched too many episodes of
Antiques Roadshow
,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Maybe the killer was a disgruntled employee,” Devlin said. “Or an angry ex-lover.”

“Whatever the killer was after was in here.” Monk gestured to a blood-spattered file cabinet, the top drawer of which was slightly ajar.

“How do you know?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“There’s blood spatter on the front of the cabinet but not on these exposed folders. The drawer was opened after the killing,” Monk said. “Here’s what happened. When Grover came into the office, the killer approached him from behind and held the knife to his throat. He asked Grover where to find the item he wanted, then slit his throat and went to the file cabinet.”

“The killer was a cold bastard,” Devlin said. “He could have knocked Grover out and gone about his business. He didn’t have to kill him.”

“As I said, he’s experienced and ruthless.” Monk carefully slid open the file drawer. “Killing means nothing to him.”

“What would a pro want in a thrift shop?” Devlin asked, rhetorically more than anything else. But I said the first thing that occurred to me.

“Maybe it was a contract hit,” I said. “Grover witnessed something or knew something that the mob couldn’t let him sing about to the DA.”

Stottlemeyer looked at me, an amused expression on his face. “The mob took out a contract on him so he wouldn’t sing.”

I winced with embarrassment. “Sorry. I’ve been watching too much old TV.”

“No, you spent too much time hanging around with Randy,” Stottlemeyer said.

“There’s blood on the top of these files in the back,” Monk said. “The killer must have flipped through them with his gloved, bloody fingertips.”

“Can you tell what’s in the files?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“It appears to be time sheets, donation logs, and accounting records.”

“Maybe the killer was trying to cover up evidence of embezzlement,” Devlin said.

“I don’t think this place generates enough cash to make it attractive for skimming,” the captain said. “But I’ll have our forensic accountants go through the books anyway.”

Monk gestured to the computer on Grover’s desk. “There’s also blood on the computer’s point-and-click device.”

“It’s called a mouse,” Devlin said.

“And there’s blood on the keyboard,” Monk continued, ignoring Devlin’s comment. “Not from the spatter, but from sticky fingers on the keys. The killer looked for something.”

“Or he decided to check his e-mail and update his Facebook status before he left,” Devlin said with a grin.

“I’ll ask the computer forensics group to check it out,” the captain said. “Maybe he left some digital footprints they can follow.”

Devlin turned to Monk. “Why won’t you call a mouse a mouse?”

“Because I refuse to use gutter colloquialisms to refer to common things.”

“
Mouse
isn’t a profanity,” Devlin said.

“But the creature is. They are no different than rats. And I will not dignify them by memorializing their existence with one of man’s technological achievements.”

“You’re leading a one-man crusade,” Devlin said.

“I’m used to it.” Monk clapped his gloved hands together, as if to shake dust from them. “We’re done here. Let’s clear the room so the ME can take the body and forensics can finish up their work.”

“Does this mean you haven’t figured out who killed Grover?” Devlin asked.

“It does,” Monk said.

“Hallelujah,” Devlin said. “I actually get to do my job.”

We all filed out of the room and back onto the street. As soon as we were outside, Monk took his mask and goggles off and lingered on the sidewalk.

Devlin and some officers went off to question nearby merchants and residents just in case anybody had seen suspicious activity the previous night or that morning.

Stottlemeyer spoke to the forensics team, gave instructions to some uniformed officers, and sent the morgue guys into the store for the body. Then he noticed that we hadn’t left.

“Something wrong?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Nope,” Monk said.

“Then why are you still here in that getup?”

“I’m staying to help the crime scene cleaners,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer looked incredulously at Monk. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Sometimes you just have to kick back, let loose, and relieve the stress of the day.”

“By cleaning up blood spatter and bodily waste?”

Monk nodded. “It’s my lucky day.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
he cleanup of crime scenes is the responsibility of the property owners, who, not surprisingly, often defer to their insurance companies to handle the matter. The police are not allowed to steer the owners or their agents to any particular crime scene cleaning service. But there was no law preventing Monk from recommending someone, and he did so as soon as the representative from the Bay Cities food bank showed up.

She was a very distressed woman and kept breaking into sobs. She told us that Grover was a former homeless man who’d turned his life around, rising from a food bank patron to become the manager of one of the three San Francisco–area thrift stores that supported it.

She took Monk’s advice and called Jerry Yermo’s company as soon as the police released the crime scene, which was about three hours after we’d arrived.

Thirty minutes after the last police officer left the scene, Jerry and his crew pulled up in two unmarked white vans. I supposed they were unmarked because nobody wants a vehicle labeled “Biohazard Cleanup” or “Crime and Trauma Scene Decontamination” parked outside of their home, business, park, or school—it would be like signs reading “Truckload of Toxic Human Waste Parked Here.” It’s bad PR all around, especially in a society that already goes out of its way to shield itself from death. Most people can go through life without ever seeing a corpse, much less the waste left by one.

Jerry and three other crime scene cleaners emerged from the vans in their white coveralls. They hadn’t yet donned their hoods, goggles, and respirator masks.

The woman from the food bank intercepted Jerry on the sidewalk, handed him the keys to the store, and practically ran away from the scene.

Monk stood with me outside the door to the shop and was bouncing in place like an excited child, waiting for Jerry to notice him.

Jerry pocketed the keys and pointed out Monk to his team. “You see that fashionably dressed gentleman? That is the legendary Adrian Monk, a consultant to the San Francisco police and probably the best detective in America.”

“And France and Germany,” Monk said. “Or so they say.”

“They do?” I said.

“So I am told,” he said.

“That attractive young woman is Natalie Teeger, the Watson to his Holmes,” Jerry said. “They will be working with us today.”

“I am so excited,” Monk said.

“Actually, I’m not going to be staying,” I said.

“You really should,” Monk said. “You could learn a few things that you desperately need to know.”

“We have an extra Tyvek suit with your name on it,” Jerry said.

“It’s tempting,” I said. “But I’ll pass.”

“But your name is on it,” Monk said. “How cool is that?”

“I’ll still pass,” I said.

“Let me introduce you to my crew before you go,” Jerry said and turned to a big, stocky man in his forties with a military buzz cut. I recognized the man’s build, if not his face, which had been hidden behind a respirator mask when I saw him at the Excelsior. “This is Gene Tiflin. You could call him our construction supervisor. He oversees the demo and handles most of our reconstruction.”

“I used to build tract homes, but the company I worked for didn’t survive the collapse of the housing market and now nobody is building anything,” Gene said. “So here I am.”

The petite woman standing next to Gene jumped up, raising her hand as if she were a contestant on a game show. “Can I be next?”

“Sure,” Jerry said.

“I’m Corinne Witt from Mendocino, California. I’m a medical student working part-time for Jerry to pay my bills and see the other side of my work.”

“The other side?” I asked.

“The death side,” she said.

“She’s the only one of us who doesn’t mind cleaning up after decomposing corpses,” Jerry said. “Like that guy in Golden Gate Park who died in his parked car with the windows rolled up.”

“It looked like he exploded,” Gene said.

“The temperature in a closed vehicle can rise fifty degrees Fahrenheit within an hour, even on a cool day,” she said. “But the day he died, and the two days that followed until he was discovered, were scorchers. It was fascinating to see how the intense heat and the confined space impacted his decomposition.”

“It was unbelievably disgusting,” said the final member of the team, a Chinese man who did a full-body cringe just thinking about it. “I couldn’t look at a pizza for a month without gagging.”

“That’s William Tong,” Jerry said. “A former elementary school teacher downsized out of the classroom by the California economy. He’s the newbie on my team.”

“I can’t help noticing everyone seems to be a part-timer or a former something else,” I said.

“There’s big turnover in this profession,” Jerry said. “Nobody wants to get into it, and those who are can’t wait to get out.”

“It’s a calling,” Monk said. “Like the priesthood. Not everyone is cut out for it.”

“Speaking of which,” Jerry said, “why don’t we get to work?”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the others?”

“What others?” Jerry asked.

“This is a thrift store,” Monk said. “You’re going to need more men.”

“I was told that the murder occurred in the back office,” Jerry said, “and that the spill was contained within that limited space.”

“Yes, but what about all of that?” Monk waved a hand toward the sales floor.

“What about it?” Gene asked.

“It has to go,” Monk said.

“Why?” Corinne asked.

“None of it has been cleaned and disinfected,” Monk said. “Every cushion, pillow, and mattress in that place is a sponge soaked with bodily fluids and disease.”

“No more so than the furniture in a typical home,” William said.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Monk said.

Jerry nodded. “I see what you’re getting at, Adrian, but I’m afraid the job you’re talking about is beyond the scope of our responsibilities. We’ll do whatever is necessary to remove any decontamination created by the murder, but we have to draw the line there, otherwise we could find ourselves demolishing the whole building. Where would it end?”

I was impressed. Jerry showed remarkable patience, understanding, and respect in the way he dealt with Monk.

“I understand,” Monk said grimly. “You’re a stronger man than me to be able to deal with that harsh reality and make those tough choices every day. Shall I show you the scene?”

“That would be an honor,” Jerry said, and I think he actually meant it.

I was beginning to really like the guy.

As Monk led Jerry and his team into the store, Corinne lagged behind, pausing for a moment to talk to me.

“How extreme is his obsessive-compulsive disorder?” she asked.

“Off the charts,” I said.

She smiled. “At least he hides it well.”

 

My little Victorian row house was less than ten minutes by car from the thrift store. So I told Monk to call me when he was done, and I went home.

By sticking around to clean things up with Jerry, Monk had basically given me the rest of the day off. I intended to make the most of it.

I brought a burrito home for lunch, washed it down with green tea, and sat down in front of my laptop computer and telephone to tackle the questions that I’d compiled after sorting through Jack Griffin’s belongings.

I began by checking my e-mail. Yuki had sent me the jpeg of Griffin’s snapshot, so I downloaded it and brought it up on-screen. I don’t know if Yuki did some enhancements to the photo, but the image seemed crisper and bolder, and I was able to zoom in and examine more details.

One thing I hadn’t picked up before was the name of the girl’s bicycle. But now, magnifying the image on my laptop screen, I could make out the words
Dandelion Racer
along the crossbar and even see the white dandelion decals on the fenders.

I searched the Internet for related information, found a Web site and blog devoted to vintage children’s bikes, including the Dandelion Racer, and learned it was one of many styles made by Wheeler Wheels in the 1980s.

I cropped the Griffin snapshot in Photoshop so it included just the bike and sent the jpeg to the blogger, along with a plea for any information she might have on the Dandelion Racer.

I also found the Wheeler Wheels Web site, filled out their contact form, and asked for any information they might have on the pink Dandelion Racer with a white basket and white dandelion stickers on the fender.

With that done, I moved on to researching the Jackson/ Elite Clipper Model 188 binoculars. I soon discovered that Jackson/Elite was bought out twenty years ago by a larger company, which was bought out by another company, which was bought out by yet another company, which then discontinued the Jackson/Elite brands. I e-mailed the company for information and also left messages on a half dozen binocular-aficionado discussion groups.

It was tedious, time-consuming work—the investigative drudgery that every detective has to slog through, except for Adrian Monk, who somehow managed to solve every case by relying on just his instinct, his powers of observation, and deductive reasoning. I was beginning to appreciate why Lieutenant Devlin resented that so much—and I’d been detecting in earnest for only a couple of hours.

I was about to call it a day and rejuvenate myself with some Oreo cookie ice cream, when an e-mail arrived from the vintage-bike blogger. She told me that the Dandelion Racer was an extremely popular brand and that the color schemes of the bikes were often adapted for the various department store chains that sold them.

So a Dandelion Racer offered by Montgomery Ward, Ardan, or Walmart might have had different colors, decals, tassels, and baskets than the model sold by Woolco, Target, or Sears, Roebuck. Unfortunately, she didn’t know anything about the specific Dandelion Racer in my photo or what, if any, department store chain it might have been designed for, but she agreed to ask around the vintage-bike community for me.

I thanked her for her help.

That’s when Monk called and asked me to pick him up. I was surprised that he’d called so soon, but then I glanced at the time on my computer and was stunned to discover that I’d been sitting there for six hours.

I knew that I’d been working for a while, but I wasn’t aware that I’d actually spent the whole day with my butt in a chair and my eyes on a computer screen.

But I felt all of those hours, and every decade of my life, when I finally got up, and I resented Monk some more for never feeling the lower back and shoulder pain of detecting, either.

Then again, he’d never been able to experience so much of the pleasure and enjoyment in life that I have because of his OCD, which, in a cruel joke of nature, was the root of his detecting genius.

When I looked at it that way, I decided I’d rather live with the drudgery and back pain of an ordinary detective. And once I came to that conclusion, my resentment toward Monk—at least that particular resentment—disappeared.