Monk gasped. “Okay, okay, there’s no need to do anything drastic. If this is what happens when you give up caffeine, don’t do it again. It makes you crazy and irrational.”
“Who killed the cabbie and shot Brandon Lorber’s corpse?” Stottlemeyer demanded.
Monk paused for dramatic effect. I think he savors these moments and wants them to last as long as possible.
“Mr. Snork,” he said.
18
Mr. Monk Connects the Dots
Remember how I said before that we were shocked when Monk declared that he’d solved the cabbie’s murder? Well, after Monk said it was Mr. Snork who did it, we were super-shocked. Our jaws were hanging open because we had lost the motor skills to keep them shut.
“Mr. Snork?” I repeated, just to be sure I’d heard him right the first time.
“You know, the guy with the elephant trunk and pointed ears,” Monk said.
“We know who Mr. Snork is,” Stottlemeyer said. “What we don’t know is what makes you think that the same person shot Brandon Lorber’s corpse, shot Conrad Stipe, and shot this cabbie.”
“I can tell you now that the bullets removed from Lorber don’t match the bullet removed from Stipe,” Disher said. I think he didn’t want to see his Special Desecration Unit disbanded before it had even closed its first case.
“I don’t need ballistic evidence,” Monk said. “I have something much more damning and convincing.”
“What?” Disher asked.
“Gum,” Monk said.
“Gum,” Stottlemeyer repeated.
We repeated what Monk said a lot. I think Stottlemeyer, like me, just wanted to assure himself he’d actually heard Monk say the unbelievable thing that we’d just heard him say.
Monk pointed to the backseat of the cab. “There’s a two-day-old wad of chewing gum under the seat.”
“Meaning what?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“Conrad Stipe was in this taxi.”
“Anybody could have stuck gum under the seat,” Disher said. “I’m sure there are gobs of wads under there.”
“There are,” Monk said, looking a little sickened. “But this one is in the same place that Stipe put his gum in the other cab. It’s also the same color and consistency as the other wad of gum and it’s approximately two days old.”
“How do you know it’s two days old?” Stottlemeyer said.
“I have great gum instincts,” Monk said.
“Gum instincts?” Disher repeated.
“I honed them during my years on the streets,” Monk explained.
“So while you were walking the beat as a uniformed cop, you were studying the gum on the sidewalks?” Disher asked.
“Long before that, my friend. I’ve been watching for gum on the sidewalks since birth. It’s a blight on society, ” Monk said. “If you run a DNA test on the gum under the seat of this cab you’ll see that I’m right that Stipe is the culprit. We should be scraping gum off all the sidewalks in San Francisco and having it tested, too.”
“Why would you want to do that?” I asked.
“To prosecute the offenders,” Monk said.
“People who spit out their gum on the streets?”
“It’s about time justice was served on those despicable monsters,” Monk said. “Finally we have the technology to do it.”
“Just because Stipe rode in that cab while he was in town doesn’t mean the same shooter killed him, killed the cabbie, and desecrated Brandon Lorber,” Stottlemeyer said.
“The candy wrapper does,” Monk said.
He took a pair of tweezers from his pocket, leaned inside the cab, and came out holding a tiny gold foil wrapper.
“I found this on the floor of that filthy cab. It’s from the coffee candy in the bowl on Lorber’s desk,” he said. “The shooter must have helped himself to a piece the same way you and Lieutenant Disher did.”
Monk motioned to me for a Baggie.
“That brand of coffee candy is sold all over the country, ” Disher said. “Tens of thousands of people buy it. How do you know that wrapper came from a piece of candy in Lorber’s bowl?”
I took a Baggie out of my purse and held it open so Monk could drop the wrapper inside. He paused before he dropped it in so he could squint at the writing on the wrapper.
“The lot number is the same,” Monk said. “So is the twisting flaw.”
Stottlemeyer sighed. “What flaw?”
“Ordinarily, the candies are individually wrapped with the foil machine-twisted in the same direction on both ends,” Monk said. “But the ends were folded in opposite directions on these candies, causing a tiny tear at the seam. You can also see it in the wrinkle pattern at the ends of the open wrapper.”
“You may see it,” Stottlemeyer said, “but no other human being can.”
“Even if the same man shot the cabbie and Brandon Lorber’s corpse,” Disher said, “you still haven’t connected it to Conrad Stipe.”
“Lorber’s shooter was in the cab,” Monk said. “Conrad Stipe was in the cab. Now Lorber, Stipe, and the cabbie have all been shot. That’s too big of a coincidence to be a coincidence.”
There was a long silence, which Stottlemeyer finally broke with a sigh of resignation.
“You’re right,” Stottlemeyer said. “So what’s the connection between Lorber, Stipe, and the cabbie?”
“Only one thing so far,” Monk said and pointed to the taxicab. “That rolling garbage can.”
The taxicab was towed back to the forensics lab so it could be taken apart for clues and, if Monk had his way, thoroughly cleaned and disinfected. We went back to the station with Stottlemeyer and Disher.
Monk had the evidence and the crime scene photos from Lorber’s office brought to one of the interrogation rooms. While he sorted through it, Disher made some calls to find out more about the cabbie and his activities over the last few days.
There wasn’t much evidence to look at, just the papersthat were on Lorber’s desk when he died and the bullets that were removed from his body. There was also the bloody chair that Lorber had been sitting in, but thankfully Monk hadn’t asked for that to be brought in.
Monk examined the items without removing them from their evidence Baggies.
I browsed through the crime scene photos and passed them along to Monk, who compared them to what was in the evidence bags. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be looking for, but I didn’t see any Beyond Earth books or toys on the shelves.
And that was when I remembered something.
“Mr. Monk, do you remember the lady with the Beyond Earth cereal?”
“She will haunt me forever,” he said.
“I don’t know if this means anything, but she was selling some Beyond Earth toys that Burgerville gave away in their kid’s meals thirty years ago. That’s a connection, I suppose.”
“It is,” Monk said. “But I don’t know if it means anything.”
“Have you found anything?”
“A paper clip irregularity,” Monk said.
“Is that serious?”
He laid out the Baggies on the table. “All the papers on Lorber’s desk were attached with color-coded paper clips. He had some kind of paper clip system for organizing his work. But the financial documents he was reading when he died were held together with a regular paper clip.”
“Maybe that was part of his system,” I said.
“There were no other documents on his desk bound with a colorless paper clip,” Monk said. “And if you look closely at the paper, you’ll see that it’s badly streaked. There are lines going across the page every eighth of an inch or so.”
“Maybe it’s a bad photocopy,” I said.
“That’s exactly what it is,” Monk said. “It’s a bad photocopy of a document that was shredded and then reconstructed from the strips. The streaks aren’t from the photocopying process. They are from the blades.”
“I wonder what was so important about this document that Lorber had it reconstructed
from shreds,” I said. “Maybe what we’re looking at is evidence of industrial espionage. Maybe this was something he had stolen from a rival’s trash.”
At the mere mention of the word “trash,” Monk instinctively recoiled.
“The forensic accountant should be able to tell us what the numbers mean,” Monk said. “But whatever it is, I don’t think Lorber was reading it when he died.”
“Then what was it doing on his desk?”
“Someone wanted us to believe that Lorber was reading it when he was killed. Whoever it was would have fooled us if only he hadn’t used the wrong paper clip.”
Color-coded paper clips. Dried gobs of chewing gum. Coffee candy wrappers. Beyond Earth uniforms. They weren’t the sexiest clues in the history of criminal detection, but they added up to something.
But what?
All we knew was that three men were dead.
Brandon Lorber was the CEO of a chain of burger restaurants and was shot three times after he’d already died of a heart attack. The shooter had a piece of coffee candy and, at some point, got into a taxi driven by Phil Bisson.
Conrad Stipe was the creator of Beyond Earth, which was being remade into a new TV series. He chewed gum and stuck some under the seat of the taxi that took him to a Beyond Earth convention, where an assassin dressed as Mr. Snork shot him to death. Sometime in the last two days Stipe also rode in Phil Bisson’s taxi.
Phil Bisson was a cabbie who drove both Conrad Stipe and his killer in his taxi. Were Stipe and the killer in the cab together? Was that why the cabbie was murdered, because he could testify that the two men had met and he could identify the killer?
I shared my thinking with Monk.
“It’s a good theory,” Monk said.
“So in other words,” I said, “it’s a bad theory.”
“If I thought it was a bad theory, that’s what I would have said. Unlike Captain Stottlemeyer, who is in the throes of caffeine withdrawal, I don’t say the opposite of what I mean. The only question I have about your theory is where does Brandon Lorber fit in?”
“Maybe he doesn’t,” I said. “Maybe you’re wrong about the wrapper.”
Monk shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Surely you’ve been wrong once or twice,” I said.
“Not on something as significant as how a candy wrapper is twisted,” Monk said.
That ridiculous comment gave me an opportunity to confront Monk with his own hypocrisy in a way he might actually understand.
“How is the way that a candy wrapper is twisted more significant than whether someone is wearing a first-season Confederation uniform with second-season Snork ears?”
“There’s a big difference,” he said.
“Which is?”
“A candy wrapper is real and Beyond Earth is fiction, ” Monk said.
“The uniforms are real,” I said. “The killer was wearing one. It was as real to him as the candy he put in his mouth. You can’t dismiss what’s significant to Ambrose just because it’s not important to you.”
“Or to any sane, well-adjusted human being,” he said.
“But you believe that people care how the ends of a coffee candy wrapper are twisted.”
“They do if they are sane, well-adjusted human beings and not druggie freaks.”
I would have pursued it further, perhaps to the death, but Monk got up and headed for the door.
“Let’s go talk to the forensic accountant,” he said. “And find out what the shooter wanted so badly for us to know.”
19
Mr. Monk and a Thousand Suspects
The Forensic Accounting Unit of the San Francisco Police Department was in the basement, but what it lacked in windows and views it more than compensated for with high-tech toys. The dark offices were bathed in a blue glow from the dozen ultra-thin flat-screen monitors that seemed to cover every surface except the ceiling and the floor.
Two men and one woman sat at their desks, working at their keyboards, the soft, springy clicking of the keys like a chorus of electronic cicadas. There was no clutter whatsoever on the desks—no coffee cups, no paperweights, no loose papers, and no family photos or personal items.
The temperature down there, emotionally and physically, was very chilly, but I could tell that Monk liked it. There was no cleaner space in the entire police department.
All three of the accountants were young, attractive, and dressed in stylish, perfectly fitted black clothes that made them almost entirely disappear into the shadows around them. They were like ninjas but with personal stylists and health club memberships.
The woman rose from behind her two flat-screen monitors and glided towards us. She was probably around my age and had short blond hair and very pale skin. I guess she didn’t see much sunlight. But what struck me most about her was the big gun in the holster on her belt.
It was comforting to know that she was armed in case a spreadsheet resisted arrest. She probably carried around those razor-sharp silver ninja stars in a pouch somewhere in case things really got tough.
She introduced herself to us as Lieutenant Sylvia Chase, the commander of the Forensic Accounting Unit. I guess she already knew Monk by reputation within the department, because she didn’t bother offering him her hand. Or maybe she was just as cold as the room.
“Welcome to the cutting edge of law enforcement,” she said with a nod.
“I had no idea this department even existed,” Monk said, glancing appreciatively around the room.
“We solve financial crimes the same way they are committed,” she said. “Quietly and in the shadows.”
I think the ninja accountant was taking that last part too literally. If her skin hadn’t been so pale, I wouldn’t have been able to see her at all.
“I like your office,” Monk said. “It’s very clean and inviting.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I believe in an orderly environment. ”
“Me too,” Monk said. “Can I work here?”
“I’m aware of your skills as a homicide investigator, ” she said, “but do you have any advanced accounting experience?”
“No,” Monk said. “But I like even numbers and I am very clean.”
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough,” she said.
I couldn’t see Monk’s face too clearly, but I was pretty sure he looked like he was about to cry.
“What makes this unit ‘the cutting edge’?” I asked.
“Murder is a Stone Age crime, Ms. Teeger. It hasn’t really changed over the centuries,” Chase said. “But finance is the future of crime. You can steal millions of dollars and destroy the lives of tens of thousands of people with just a few keystrokes on a computer in the privacy of your own home. You can topple a corporation, perhaps even a government, with your PDA.”
Mr. Monk in Outer Space Page 17