Mr. Monk Goes to Germany (5 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Mr. Monk Loses Count

Ever since I started working for Monk, a lot of my morn-ings have begun with a corpse. I used to find that strange and unsettling. Now it’s typical. I don’t want to say I have become blasé about it, but it just goes to prove that over time you can get used to just about anything.

Nine out of the ten cases Monk takes on begin in the morning. The sun rises and somebody stumbles on a corpse left behind the night before. I really have no statistics to back this up, but it seems to me that most murders happen at night.

I can see why. If I was going to commit a crime, I’d do it in the dark so nobody could see me doing my nasty deed. There is also something about doing wrong in the bright light of day that makes it feel even
more
wrong. When you’re giving in to your dark side, you instinctively want to do it in the dark.

It just feels right—not that I’ve given in to my dark side all that often. But when I have, with the possible exception of indulging in something decadently fattening, it has been at night.

This may seem like pointless musing to you, but I do a lot of pointless musing while looking down at a dead body. It helps distract me from things like Clarke Trotter’s caved-in skull.

Captain Stottlemeyer, Lieutenant Disher, and Monk don’t have that luxury. They have to pay attention to all the details of the crime, no matter how gory or sad. And Monk picks up even more details than anybody else.

Well, usually he does. The investigation into Clarke Trotter’s murder was starting out a little differently.

We were in Trotter’s one-bedroom apartment in North Beach, which is nowhere near a beach, but don’t get me started on that. Even without a stretch of sand, the rent on seven hundred square feet in this neighborhood will set you back twice as much as my mortgage payment.

The apartment was furnished in what I like to call Contemporary Single Guy. All the furniture was big, black, and upholstered in leather (men love their animal hides). The living room was dominated by an altar to the god of electronics—a massive flat-screen television surrounded by stacks of devices. I could pick out a Play/Station, an Xbox, a DVD player, a TiVo, a Wii, a satellite receiver, a cable box, and an amplifier. There was a lot more stuff, too. I just didn’t know what it all was.

The coffee table was covered with more electronics—a laptop, an iPod, an iPhone, a BlackBerry, a dozen remotes— and a smattering of men’s “lifestyle” magazines, like
FHM, Stuff,
and
Maxim,
and empty cans of Red Bull. It was a mess.

The owner of this mess, the aforementioned and very dead Clarke Trotter, was in his bathrobe and lying sideways on the couch. He was a bit pudgy, although I wouldn’t call him fat. But it was clear the only exercise he got was on his Wii. There was congealed grease in his hair and splattered over the couch, carpet, and coffee table.

Stottlemeyer, Disher, and I stood behind the couch. A bunch of forensics guys were dusting and photographing and putting things in Baggies. The CSI crew reminded me of Willy Wonka’s Oompa-Loompas, only not as adorable or musical.

Monk stood absolutely still in the doorway to the apartment, his hands gripping the wall on either side of him as if the room was listing under his feet.

Stottlemeyer glanced at Monk, then back to us. “What’s traumatized him this morning?”

“I think it’s the spot on your tie,” Disher said.

“Thanks for pointing that out to him. I’ve only worn this once and now he’s going to make me incinerate it.”

“He’s obviously noticed,” Disher said. “Look at him.”

“I don’t think it’s my tie,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’ve only got seven holes in your belt.”

“I do?” Disher said, looking down at himself.

“Everybody knows you need six or eight. You’ve upset the time-space continuum. You’re going to have to go punch another hole in it.” Stottlemeyer glanced back at Monk. “Isn’t that right?”

“I’ve lost count of my blinking,” Monk said.

“You count your blinks?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“I always do it in the back of my mind. It’s how I maintain my sanity.”

“Is that how you do it?” Stottlemeyer said. “If I had to count my daily blinking, it would drive me insane.”

“I don’t know how many times I’ve blinked so far today,” Monk said, his voice tinged with hysteria. “I’ve lost count.”

“So start again,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I’ve kept track of my blinks since the day I learned how to count.”

I bet if I asked, he could have given me the exact date of that fateful day.

Monk made that strange tearless weeping sound. “My mom kept track for me before that.”

“She did?” I asked.

It was a rhetorical question, of course. I’ve long since stopped being shocked by the things Monk’s mother did to completely screw him up for life. It was no wonder that his father went out for Chinese food one night and never came back. Or that Monk’s only brother, Ambrose, never leaves the house.

“Didn’t you count Julie’s blinks for her?” Monk asked.

“Nope,” I said.

“Then how did she know how much you loved her?”

“I told her,” I said. “Every day. I still do. I also give her lots of hugs and kisses.”

Monk shook his head. “There’s no substitute for the comfort and certainty of a mother’s accurate blink count.”

“What difference does it make how many times you’ve blinked?” Disher asked.

“It’s your foundation. It’s who you are,” Monk said. “Now I have no center. Who am I? What am I? Where do I go from here?”

Stottlemeyer marched impatiently up to Monk.

“You are Adrian Monk, a detective, and you’re walking into this apartment and solving a murder.”

He grabbed Monk by the lapels and dragged him into the room.

“But my count—” Monk began.

“Consider yourself reborn,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re at blink number one. Most of the people I know would kill for a fresh start.”

“Maybe that’s what happened here,” Disher said.

I looked at the dead guy on the couch. “He was killed so someone else could start their life anew?”

Disher shrugged. “It’s one possibility.”

Stottlemeyer turned to Monk. “What do you think?”

Monk stood by the couch. He seemed lost. He blinked.

“Two,” he said.

Stottlemeyer massaged his temples. “Randy, tell Monk what we know. Maybe that will get things rolling.”

Disher referred to his notebook. “Clarke Trotter is a thirty-seven-year-old lawyer, recently single. Works as general counsel for San Francisco Memorial Hospital. He left his wife two months ago for another woman. He moved in here; his wife stayed in their house in San Rafael with their five-year-old son. She’s seven months pregnant.”

I looked at Trotter. What a lovely guy, leaving a pregnant woman and sticking her with caring for their kid. If he was still alive, I’d be tempted to murder him. Following that train of thought led me to an obvious suspect.

His wife, of course.

But it couldn’t have been easy for her. It’s nearly impossible to find a babysitter to watch the kids while you go to the movies, much less kill your scoundrel of a husband.

I noticed Stottlemeyer looking at me. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking it, too.” He looked at Monk. “How about you?”

Monk was just standing there in some kind of stupor, blinking and counting.

“Twelve,” Monk said.

“Where did you get all of this dirt on Trotter?” I asked.

“From his cleaning lady,” Disher said. “They always know everything. She was also the one who found his body.”

I’d hate being a maid or custodian—and not just because of the cleaning, low pay, and lack of respect. They always seem to be the first ones to find dead bodies, whether it’s in homes, hotel rooms, or offices.

“The medical examiner thinks Trotter was walloped with a blunt object, like a frying pan,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’re basing that on the shape of the head wound and the splatter pattern of cooking grease around the body. There must have still been some grease left over in the pan from whatever Trotter made himself for dinner.”

“The killer cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom to cover his tracks,” Disher said. “He even put the frying pan, sponge, and scrub brush in the dishwasher.”

The kitchen opened onto the living room and was spotlessly clean. The counters gleamed; everything was neatly arranged. Even the dishrags were neatly folded and hung. It looked more like an operating room than a place where food was prepared.

I nudged Monk, figuring the sight of such cleanliness might lighten him up. “Look, a clean kitchen. It’s sparkling.”

Monk looked at it and simply nodded.

“Whatever evidence was on the frying pan and cleaning utensils has been washed away,” Disher said. “But we have the crime lab checking the drains and pipes just in case.”

Stottlemeyer shook his head. “We won’t find anything. This is the work of a pro.”

“Or an avid viewer of
CSI,
” I said.

“I hate that show,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’d like to punch the guy who had the brilliant idea of doing a show that teaches crooks how to avoid being caught.”

“It’s actually three shows,” Disher said. “There’s also the one in Miami and the one in New York. I think they should do one in San Francisco.”

“Why don’t you suggest it to them?” Stottlemeyer said.

“I have,” Disher said. “I jotted down a few ideas for the characters. But they are taking their sweet time getting back to me.”

“Let me guess. It’s loosely based on your life,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s mostly focused on my exciting adventures,” Disher said.

“What exciting adventures?”

“You know,” Disher said. “Like this.”

“You find this exciting?”

“It could be,” Disher said. “Imagine if three ninja warriors cartwheeled through the window right now.”

Stottlemeyer turned to Monk. “What do you think? Are we looking for ninjas?”

Monk shrugged.

“Surely you’ve got some observations,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk shook his head. “I don’t even know who I am. How can I know who the murderer is?”

“Look around,” I said. “Do your thing.”

“I did,” he said.

“You haven’t done this,” I said, and proceeded to do my imitation of his Zen-detective thing.

I walked around the room like a chicken directing a movie. I cocked my head from side to side and held my hands in front of me as if I was framing a shot.

“That’s not quite right,” Disher said. He walked through the apartment, rolling his shoulders and squinting. “This is what he does.”

We both turned to face Monk.

“I don’t do that,” he said.

“So show us what you do,” I said.

“This is it,” Monk said.

“You aren’t doing anything,” Stottlemeyer said. “Haven’t you noticed anything since you got here?”

“I’ve blinked thirty-eight times since I walked in the room,” Monk said.

“About the murder,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk glanced at the body, then at the apartment. “Like what?”

“Like to get in the building, you have to have a key or get buzzed in. Like there are no signs of a struggle,” Stottlemeyer said. “Like the killer must have been someone that Trotter knew or was expecting or didn’t consider a threat, like a pizza delivery guy.”

“Sounds like you have it covered,” Monk said.

“I don’t have anything, Monk. I was hoping you might give me something more to go on. You’ve solved dozens of more complicated and bizarre murders than this in less time than it has taken you to blink forty times.”

“Forty-two,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer sighed. “This is going well.”

“Can I go home now?” Monk asked him.

“No, you can’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re going with me to question our likeliest suspect.”

“If you have a suspect already,” he asked, “what do you need me for?”

“I need you to be you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I am.” Monk groaned. “God help me.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mr. Monk and the Likely Suspect

We found Emily Trotter, Clarke’s estranged wife, having lunch at her mother Betty’s house in Sausalito, a self-consciously and premeditatedly picturesque village across the bay from San Francisco.

The house was a contemporary Victorian-style home pinned uncomfortably between two identical condominium complexes with wood-shingle siding and cottage-style decks. The manicured front lawn was such an intense green, and the flowers were in such glorious bloom, that I had to touch the plants to convince myself that they were real.

Emily was profoundly pregnant, her bulging belly looking as if it might burst open at any moment, which might be why the sofas in her mother’s immaculate house were clad in thick plastic slipcovers. The widow had dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, and her hair looked like dry tumbleweed.

I remembered when I looked like that.

She may have been the likeliest suspect, but I had a hard time imagining her getting up off the sofa, much less schlepping into the city, clobbering her husband with a frying pan, and doing the dishes afterwards.

Monk and I sat on a matching sofa across from Emily. He ran his hand appreciatively over the plastic as if it was fine suede. Stottlemeyer and Disher stood while Betty went back and forth from the kitchen, serving us cookies and tea.

Everything about Betty seemed to be starched, from the beehive hairdo on her head to the apron around her waist. Monk watched her carry the tray from her sterile kitchen with something akin to awe.

“You think that I killed him?” Emily asked Stottlemeyer with exaggerated incredulity.

“He left you for another woman and you’re the beneficiary of his life insurance policy.” Stottlemeyer shrugged. “We’d be fools not to consider the possibility.”

“And my daughter would have to be a fool to have done it,” Betty said. “I didn’t raise a fool, except when it comes to love.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Emily said. “That’s exactly what I need right now, another I-told-you-so.”

Betty set a plate of perfectly square cookies in front of us and handed us each a neatly folded cloth napkin with edges so sharp they could have drawn blood. Monk picked up the napkin almost reverentially and set it carefully on his lap without unfolding it.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. There was something about Betty and this place that was giving me the willies.

“I didn’t say ‘I told you so,’ ” Betty said. “But, for the record, I was against the two of you getting married.”

“There is no record,” Emily said.

Disher held up his pencil and notebook. “Technically, there is.”

“You’re right, I had plenty of reasons to murder my husband, ” Emily said. “But as much as I hated him for what he did to me, to our family, he was still my daughter’s father. I couldn’t have done that to her. I don’t know how I am going to tell her the news. It will break her heart.”

“Better her heart breaks once rather than repeatedly,” Betty said. “He would have disappointed her throughout her life.”

“Darla was his princess,” Emily said. “He never would have hurt her.”

“You think walking out on her pregnant mother and shacking up with another man’s wife doesn’t hurt her?” Betty said.

“Your cookies are very square,” Monk commented.

“Perfectly square,” Betty said. “Aren’t you going to have one?”

“I just like looking at them,” Monk said.

I shivered again.

“His lover was married, too?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Claire and her husband, Eddie, were our best friends,” Emily said. “We used to play bridge together every Wednesday. ”

“I don’t know what she saw in Clarke,” Betty said.

“I do,” Emily said, as a tear rolled down her cheek. “He was a teddy bear. There was no safer place to be than in his arms.”

After everything he’d done to her, there was still some love left for him in her heart. Or maybe it was just hormones. When I was pregnant, my mood swings gave my husband whiplash.

“Oh, spare me.” Betty quickly handed Emily a tissue from the box on the coffee table and used another to wipe away an errant tear that had dropped onto the plastic slipcover.

She folded the tissue and stuffed it in a pocket of her apron. “He was a child who never grew up.”

I saw Monk watching Betty. He seemed at peace for the first time since yesterday. I felt another chill and couldn’t figure out why.

“You have a beautiful home,” Monk said to Betty.

“Thank you,” Betty said.

“It’s so comforting,” Monk said.

Comforting?

“Where were you last night?” Disher asked Emily.

“I’m seven months pregnant and I have a five-year-old daughter, Lieutenant. Where do you think I was?” she said. “I was at home.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“My daughter, I suppose.”

“What time did she go to bed?” Disher asked.

“You think I slipped out after she was asleep?”

“It could happen,” Disher said.

“Look at me. I can barely walk,” Emily said. “And I wouldn’t leave my daughter alone, not even to go murder my husband. What kind of mother do you think I am?”

It was a convincing alibi as far as I was concerned, but I guess it helps to be a mother to really understand that.

“I admire how your napkins are folded,” Monk said to Betty. “Did you iron them?”

“Of course,” Betty said. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“In a perfect world,” Monk said. “If only we could live in one.”

“I do,” she said and gestured to the home around her.

I shivered again and that’s when it hit me. If Mrs. Monk were alive today, she’d probably look just like Betty. And her house would look just like this one, covered in plastic and about as homey as a morgue.

“You could have hired someone to kill him for you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“That would require money,” Emily said. “And Clarke keeps me on a very tight budget.”

“Not anymore,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Where would my daughter find a killer? In the Yellow Pages?” Betty shook her head. “You should be ashamed of yourselves for even asking her these questions.”

“I am,” Monk said. “Deeply.”

“You haven’t asked any yet,” I said pointedly.

“The person you should be talking to is Eddie Tricott,” Emily said. “Claire’s husband. He was furious about the affair and he’s wealthy. Who knows what he might have done.”

“Has it occurred to you that the murder might have nothing to do with my daughter or Clarke’s sleazy affair?” Betty asked.

“No,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Clarke was general counsel for San Francisco Memorial,” she said. “He made a lot of enemies over the years winning malpractice suits brought against the hospital by patients. Maybe one of them had enough and sought revenge. It happens on
Boston Legal
all the time.”

“If you’ve seen it on TV, then it must be possible,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ll have to look into that.”

“Do you have any other questions?” Emily said, struggling to her feet. Disher gallantly gave her a hand. “I have to go pick up my daughter at nursery school and tell her that her father is dead.”

“I think we’re done for now,” Stottlemeyer said. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Trotter. We’re sorry for your loss.”

“It’s my daughter’s loss,” Emily said. “I already lost him.”

I got up and started to follow Stottlemeyer and Disher to the door. But Monk didn’t move. I looked back at him, sitting on the sofa with the folded napkin on his lap.

“It’s time to go, Mr. Monk.”

“You go,” he said. “I’m staying.”

“We’re done asking questions,” I said. “We’re leaving.”

“I’m not,” he said.

“You have to,” I said.

“I’d rather not,” Monk said.

Emily looked at Stottlemeyer. “Is he crazy?”

“He might be solving a murder,” Stottlemeyer said. “Is that it, Monk? Are you on to something?”

“Her cookies are square,” Monk said. “Her napkins are folded and ironed. There’s no dust anywhere. All the furniture is covered in plastic. It’s paradise.”

My idea of a paradise doesn’t include plastic slipcovers, but maybe I don’t have much of an imagination.

“Thank you,” Betty said. “That’s what every home should be.”

“I can’t go,” Monk said.

“You can’t stay, Mr. Monk,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t live here,” I said.

“I’d like to.” Monk looked imploringly at Betty. “Can I?”

“You want to live with me?” Betty said in disbelief.

“I accept.” Monk leaned back on the sofa, making himself comfortable. His body squeaked against the stiff plastic.

“That wasn’t an invitation,” I said.

“Of course it was,” Monk said to me before turning back to Betty. “You don’t have any cannibals living nearby, do you?”

“Cannibals?” Emily said. “Is he insane?”

Stottlemeyer marched up to Monk, grabbed him by the arms, and yanked him off the couch.

“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” Stottlemeyer said. “He’s having some personal problems.”

Stottlemeyer led Monk out the door. Disher followed, and I was right behind them, when Betty spoke up.

“Wait,” she said.

Betty took four cookies off the plate, set them on a napkin, and handed them to me. “Take these with you. Maybe they will make your friend feel better.”

“Thank you,” I said and walked out.

Stottlemeyer, Monk, and Disher were waiting for me in front of the car.

“That was pathetic,” Stottlemeyer said to Monk, who began to weep tearlessly, which only seemed to irritate the captain even more. “You can’t go on this way.”

“I know,” Monk whined. “Let me go back.”

“You take a step towards that house and I will shoot you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I could be so happy there,” Monk said.

“You’re fired,” Stottlemeyer said.

“What?” Monk said.

“You heard me. You’re humiliating yourself and the department. You’re a mess.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You hate messes. So clean this one up,” Stottlemeyer told him. “That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

I had to admire the logic of Stottlemeyer’s approach. I’m pretty convinced that no one understood Monk, or handled him better, than the captain did. He just lacked the patience for it.

“I need help,” Monk said.

“Then get it,” Stottlemeyer said. “Do whatever you have to do, but do it now, before it’s too late.”

“What about this case?” Monk said.

“We’ll just have to muddle on without you,” Stottlemeyer said. “You weren’t exactly a big help today anyway, were you?”

The captain and Disher got into their car and drove off. I regarded Monk.

“He’s right,” Monk said, watching them go.

“So what are you going to do?”

“The only thing I can do,” Monk said and rolled his shoulders. “Pack your bags, Natalie.”

“Where are we going?”

“I have an appointment tomorrow at four p.m. with Dr. Kroger,” he said, “and I am going to keep it.”