by Lee Goldberg
“There were lots of factors, Paul. Violent crime and homicide rates in the city were way up and at the same time we were understaffed and underfunded. The department cut four million dollars from the overtime budget, resulting in a hundred and ninety-five thousand fewer overtime hours, and forty-eight officers either quit or took early retirement. You can’t solve crimes without time and manpower. The city eventually restored our overtime budget and the homicide rate fell, but history is repeating itself now. Murders are up twenty percent from last year and our budget is being slashed.”
Monk took the pitcher and carefully poured enough water into Stottlemeyer’s glass to bring the water level even with his own glass.
“You can’t recall the stats but you’ve got all the excuses down cold,” Braddock said.
“I easily forget statistics but I never forget when my detectives are treated badly.”
“Do you know what the SFPD’s homicide closure rate was when Mr. Monk was still on the force?” Braddock asked.
“No, but I bet you do,” Stottlemeyer said.
“It was seventy-seven percent,” Braddock said. “And Mr. Monk himself had a hundred and twenty percent closure rate.”
“A hundred and twenty percent?” a female detective said from the audience. “How is that even possible?”
“I solved my own cases and ones that weren’t assigned to me,” Monk said.
“Like you do now,” Braddock said.
“I like to keep busy,” Monk said.
“How interesting,” Braddock said. “What is your personal case-closure rate, Captain?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s less than his and I am not ashamed to admit that,” Stottlemeyer said. “Monk is the best detective I have ever known, perhaps the best ever. He could outperform anybody in this room. We’re lucky to have him.”
“That’s an understatement,” Braddock said. “Right now, your closure rate is the envy of every department in the country. But without Adrian Monk, what would it be?”
Monk leaned close to the captain. “Would this be a bad time to ask for a raise?”
He didn’t mean it as a joke, because he doesn’t have a sense of humor, but that was how the audience took it anyway. They broke into uproarious laughter that drowned out the exchange between Monk and Stottlemeyer that followed. But I heard it.
“I don’t get it,” Monk said. “What’s the joke?”
“Me,” Stottlemeyer said. He picked up Monk’s glass and drank all of his water.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mr. Monk Has Good Friends
There was no way Monk could drink out of his glass again and Stottlemeyer knew it. The only recourse Monk had was to keep both glasses filled at the same level no matter which glass the captain drank from.
That plan might have worked if Stottlemeyer hadn’t taken the pitcher of water and emptied it into one of the potted plants behind them.
Now all Monk could do was pray that the captain wouldn’t dare knock the entire universe out of balance by taking a sip of water from either glass.
But the fear that Stottlemeyer might do it anyway virtually paralyzed Monk, who couldn’t take his eyes off the glasses, as if he were willing the water to harden into solid ice.
Luckily, someone in the audience stood up and asked Monk and Stottlemeyer to talk about some of their most unusual and puzzling cases, so the interview ended on a more or less positive note before Braddock could get another dig in.
“All in all, I think that went well,” Monk said as we left the hotel and stepped onto Powell Street.
Stottlemeyer nodded. “Compared to being burned at the stake, tarred and feathered, or stoned to death, I suppose it did.”
“You seemed a bit edgy,” Monk said.
“Did I?”
“Things got a little dicey with the water but I had your back,” Monk said. “You could have been humiliated in front of all your colleagues.”
“I’m glad that didn’t happen,” Stottlemeyer said. “Thanks for sparing me any embarrassment.”
Monk was oblivious to the captain’s sarcasm, so it was probably unavoidable that whatever he said next would only make things worse.
“Think nothing of it,” Monk said. “That’s what friends are for.”
Stottlemeyer turned to me. “I appreciate you asking that question about our most interesting cases.”
“It was either that or throw something at your moderator,” I said. “What was Braddock’s problem?”
“He was only asking what most of the cops in the room were already thinking.”
“It was personal, Captain,” I said.
“I didn’t take it that way,” Stottlemeyer said.
He was lying, of course. But there was nothing to be gained by challenging him on it and I didn’t have the time. We were running later than I’d anticipated and I’d already have to break a few traffic laws if Monk was going to make it on time to his appointment with his shrink. So we went our separate ways.
Ever since Dr. Kroger passed away, Monk had been seeing Dr. Neven Bell. They weren’t quite as close as Monk and Dr. Kroger had been but I saw that as a good thing. It seemed to me that the less dependent Monk was on his shrink, the closer he was to being a rational, independent person.
While Monk unloaded his troubles on Dr. Bell, I took a walk up the street, which was so steep that steps were cut into the sidewalk. I liked the walk; it got my blood pumping and I was rewarded with a nice view of the city when I got to the top.
Monk hated the street, and all the others like it in San Francisco, because the Victorian houses were staggered against the incline. But at least he no longer insisted on being blindfolded to avoid the sight. I guess that was progress.
I thought about the flaying that Stottlemeyer endured at the conference and felt bad that we hadn’t done a better job of defending him (though I knew Monk would have argued that he’d done his share by maintaining the water level of the glasses).
Braddock didn’t say anything that was untrue but he could have made the same points without turning it into an attack on Stottlemeyer’s character and competence.
Monk wouldn’t have been working for the SFPD at all if not for Stottlemeyer. The captain didn’t bring Monk in to boost his case-closure rate, or to make himself look good. He did it because he was the one person in San Francisco who cared about Monk, regardless of his psychological problems.
Stottlemeyer hired him as a consultant to save Monk from a life of isolation and misery. It was a wonderful act of friendship and kindness, and probably cost the captain whatever political capital he’d saved up during his career. So it infuriated me to see what he did for Monk used as a weapon against him.
I couldn’t undo the damage that was done to Stottlemeyer at the conference but at least I could offer him some friendly consolation. So on the way back to Dr. Bell’s office, I called the captain and invited him for coffee after we both got off work.
Neither one of us had a significant other waiting at home, so I knew he didn’t have any real excuses to decline my invitation. Call me immodest, but I was pretty sure that spending time with me had to be better than going home to an empty apartment and leftovers in the fridge.
Besides, after what he’d endured today, he probably needed someone to talk to, whether he admitted it or not.
Stottlemeyer met me at a Starbucks near my house in Noe Valley, a quirky neighborhood that had upscaled around me since I bought my fixer-upper that I never got around to fixing up. I kept waiting for the Neighborhood Watch Committee to march on my house with torches to drive me away because I don’t have breast implants, a German car, or an iPhone. What saved me was that I was a thin, natural blonde with a perky smile, but I knew that wouldn’t hold them off for much longer.
The captain and I forked over an inordinate sum of money to the barista for two cups of coffee and settled into two lumpy, mismatched, wing-backed chairs.
He’d taken off his tie and opened the top two buttons of his
shirt, exposing the collar of his V-neck undershirt. He looked terrible.
“So what’s the occasion?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“I thought you might want to talk after what happened today,” I said.
“There isn’t really anything to talk about.”
“We could talk about the lie you told me,” I said.
“Which one?” he said with a smile. “I lose track.”
“When you said that you didn’t take Braddock’s questions personally,” I said. “He was out to get you. What happened between you two?”
“We have a different approach to policing. I follow the law and he’ll do whatever he has to do to make a case, even if it means trampling over people’s rights. Or over the people themselves,” Stottlemeyer said. “I gave him a choice: He could quit the SFPD or I would go to Internal Affairs with what I knew about him and he could take his chances with them. So he left for a job in Banning. That was eight years ago.”
“So this was his opportunity to finally get even with you,” I said.
“Then he blew his shot. All he said was that Monk is a better detective than I am. That’s not exactly a revelation.”
“But it must hurt anyway,” I said.
“I’m proud of Monk’s success,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Even if it overshadows your own?”
“I’m the captain of the division, Natalie. It’s my job to bring out the best in the people who work for me and that includes Monk. I get the blame when they screw up and the chief gets the credit when they succeed. That’s the nature of the job. The important thing is that the bad guys are getting caught.”
“You do bring out the best in Mr. Monk. It’s because of you that he’s able to solve crimes at all,” I said. “But I wonder if you really give yourself the credit you deserve.”
“Sure I do,” Stottlemeyer said. “Every time Monk outsmarts some clever killer with an airtight alibi I congratulate myself for not listening to the bureaucrats and shrinks who wanted to write him off.”
“Yeah, but I’ve seen your face when Mr. Monk solves a case on the spot,” I said. “I’ve also heard you beat yourself up for not seeing the clues yourself. You did it again yesterday over the Professor Cowan case.”
“I wish I were as sharp-eyed as he is. I’m not. So I’m glad Monk is there to catch the crooks who might’ve walked because I’m not the detective that he is,” Stottlemeyer said. “But the truth is, I wouldn’t want to be. The price is too high.”
“You mean his obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
“I mean all the things that Monk is missing out on,” Stottlemeyer said. “Simple pleasures like licking an ice-cream cone, swimming in a lake, going to a ball game, laughing at a good joke, petting a dog, smoking a cigar, playing with your kids, camping in the woods, driving a car, or having coffee with a friend. I have a life. What does Monk have?”
“You and me and his brother, Ambrose,” I said.
“It’s sad,” Stottlemeyer said.
“But his inability to enjoy the things you mentioned, and to establish relationships, that’s all a symptom of his disorder.”
“And it’s the disorder that makes him a great detective,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s all he’s got in his life besides his constant cleaning and organizing. I have a family. I know I am good at what I do but my self-esteem isn’t wrapped up in how many cases I solve. I measure myself by the kind of men my sons are growing up to be, by the strength of my friendships, and by the respect of my peers.”
“They weren’t showing you much respect today,” I said.
Stottlemeyer shrugged. “They may have been onto something. Maybe I’ve become overdependent on Monk. Maybe I’ve gotten lazy knowing he’s there to back me if I screw up. Maybe so have my men. I don’t know.”
We sipped our coffees for a moment in silence. Stottlemeyer regarded me with a curious look on his face. I met his gaze.
“What?” I asked.
“Is everything okay with you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because of this sudden concern over whether my self-esteem is taking a beating.”
“I only asked because of the grilling you took today,” I said.
“We’ve known each other a long time, Natalie. I didn’t tell you anything about myself tonight that you didn’t already know. So I’ve got to wonder if this has less to do with me and more to do with something you’re trying to work out about yourself.”
“Are you a detective or a shrink?”
“In my job, you have to be a little bit of both,” Stottlemeyer said. “And I spent a lot of time in marriage counseling.”
I set down my coffee cup and looked him in the eye.
“Who am I, Captain?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“When you look at me, who do you see?”
“A confident, independent woman who knows how to take care of herself and others.”
“Gee, if I could sing, I’d be Mary Poppins.”
“So who do you want to be?” he asked.
I sighed, suddenly feeling very tired, despite the high-priced caffeine surging through my veins. “Someone who knows the answer to that question.”
Stottlemeyer nodded.
“I’ve got an old friend I haven’t seen in a while. His name is Bill Peschel. I’m going to visit him tomorrow,” he said. “If you really want to help me out, you’ll come along.”
I couldn’t see what visiting his friend had to do with my concern over how Stottlemeyer felt about being negatively compared to Monk in front of his peers. But I couldn’t turn him down.
“I’d have to bring Mr. Monk,” I said.
“The more the merrier,” he said.
***
When I got home, Julie was sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table, going over a social sciences textbook with a yellow highlighter and eating Wheat Thins out of the box.
I bought the Wheat Thins for Monk so he’d have something to nosh on when he visited. He likes them because the crackers are perfectly square.
“Those are for Mr. Monk,” I said. “And he’ll never eat them if he knows your hand was inside the box.”
“Don’t tell him,” she said.
“He’ll know,” I said.
“How?”
“He’s a brilliant detective. And he’s probably counted the crackers that were left in the box. And he’s probably measured the opening he cut into the bag. And he can probably correlate that opening with the width of your hand and deduce that you were the one who breached it.”
“He’s a nut job,” Julie said.
“I thought you liked Mr. Monk and admired his abilities,” I said, and reached into the box for a few crackers. The damage was already done.
“I do,” she said. “But c’mon, Mom, he’s seriously messed up.”
“Aren’t we all,” I said.
“I’m not,” she said.
“Give it time,” I said.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Face it, honey, no one gets out of childhood unscathed, though you have a better shot than most, since you are being raised by the most loving, understanding, and, dare I say it, coolest mother on earth.”
“If that were true, you’d let me get a tattoo.”
“There is no artist good enough to use you as his canvas.” I didn’t want her walking around with a tramp stamp on her lower back.
“You have a tattoo,” she said.
“And I regret it,” I said. “I’m just glad it’s where no one can see it.”
“Not lately,” Julie said. “Speaking of which, how was your date with Stottlemeyer?”
I couldn’t believe how sassy and presumptuous Julie was getting with me. Then again, she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a woman. And she wasn’t stupid, either. Julie knew I wasn’t celibate.
Refusing to let her get a tattoo was my last, desperate stand for parental control. In a few months, she’d be an adult as far as the State of
California was concerned and wouldn’t need my permission for anything. She could tattoo her entire body, color her hair purple, drop out of school, join the French Foreign Legion, or run off and marry a guy she’d known for only an hour.
Her imminent freedom to make all kinds of mistakes was something I tried not to think about or I might start hyperventilating. It was better to concentrate on the subject at hand, which was my completely innocent and chaste encounter with Captain Stottlemeyer.
“It wasn’t a date,” I said. “It was two friends having a cup of coffee and it was very nice, thank you. He’s really a sweet, sensitive man under that gruff-cop exterior.”
“He’s too old for you, Mom.”
“I’m not interested in him romantically. He’s someone I can talk to.”
“That’s what your female friends are for,” she said. “Your posse.”
“I don’t have a posse,” I said. “Besides, he knows better than anybody else the unique problems I have to deal with. We share a common bond.”
“You’re both over thirty and single?”
“We both care deeply about Adrian Monk,” I said.
“You’re like two divorced parents who share custody of him,” she said.
“We’re the closest thing Mr. Monk has to a family,” I said.
“What about his brother?”
“He never leaves the house,” I said. “We’re the ones who see him every day. And with that caring and commitment comes a certain amount of responsibility and aggravation.”
“Because he’s a nut job,” Julie said.
“Because he’s special,” I said. “Like you.”
I gave her a kiss on the head and mussed her hair up.
“I’m nothing like Mr. Monk,” she said.
“You don’t think you give me aggravation?”
“Not half as much as you give me,” she said.
“That’s a mother’s job,” I said.
“Then you’re very good at it,” she said, gifting me with a big smile.
It was nice to know I was good at something.