by Lee Goldberg
“But the DeSantinis got to them anyway,” Monk said and skipped the DVD forward, freezing the video on the happy couple cutting the wedding cake. “It’s traditional for newly-weds to save a piece of cake and put it in the freezer to eat on their first anniversary. So someone poisoned the piece of cake, knowing that wherever they were, and whoever they’d become, the couple would eat it in twelve months, which happened to be how long it took the Justice Department to prepare their case. The cake was a time bomb. The Claysons were dead before they left the wedding. They just didn’t know it.”
I looked back at the couple, and at the cake on the table. They were celebrating their anniversary last night. That was why the wedding video DVD was in the player and the TV was still on. They were probably watching it when they died.
Until death do us part. It was a tragic romance that was doomed from the start.
“It was the best man,” Walker said. “He was the one who saved the piece of cake and wrapped it for them. The DeSantinis must have gotten to him. But I was the stupid sonofabitch who kept the cake frozen and made sure it was in their freezer here when they arrived. So you were right, Monk. I was the one who killed them.”
“You were being thoughtful,” Stottlemeyer said. “You didn’t know the cake was poisoned.”
“I knew they shouldn’t take anything with them from their old lives, not even a piece of cake,” Walker said. “I’m turning in my badge and taking early retirement.”
“Over this?” Stottlemeyer said.
Walker gestured to Monk. “And him. I completely underestimated his abilities. That kind of mistake could get someone killed.”
I have to admit I took pleasure in Walker’s misery and pride in Monk’s success. Walker was a jerk and deserved to be knocked down a peg. And I was pleased, and relieved, that Monk’s incredible roll was continuing. I was losing count of how many murders he’d solved lately right at the scene.
“Can I go now, Captain?” Monk asked.
“Sure,” Stottlemeyer said.
Monk started to go, but Walker stepped in front of him, blocking his way, and held out his hand.
“I owe you one,” Walker said.
Monk shook his hand, then motioned to me for a disinfectant wipe. I gave him one. “As it happens, I could use the federal government’s help on a case.”
“What is it?” Walker said, watching Monk wipe his hands. It obviously offended him.
“I’m missing a sock,” Monk said.
Walker narrowed his eyes at Monk. “Are you messing with me?”
“I never make a mess,” Monk said.
“But he does a hell of a job cleaning them up,” Stottlemeyer said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mr. Monk Sees His Shrink
Even though Walker was indebted to Monk for solving the murder in less than thirty minutes (fast even by Monk’s standards), the marshal was unwilling to dedicate the full resources of the Justice Department to finding a lost sock.
“Our resources are stretched a little thin and we have to prioritize,” Walker said. “We’re fighting a war on terror at the moment.”
“You don’t think thousands of missing socks is terrifying?” Monk asked. “Our enemies could be using psychological warfare to undermine the stability of American society.”
“By making socks disappear,” Walker said.
“It’s insidious and ingenious,” Monk said.
Walker didn’t buy it. I couldn’t blame him. I had a hard time imagining Osama sitting in his cave thinking of ways to steal my socks.
But Walker’s refusal to help didn’t dim Monk’s spirits. He still enjoyed his post-crime-solving high. At least he’d set part of the world right. His sock drawer would come next.
When we got back to Monk’s place, the crime scene tape was gone and we found Disher sitting to the right of the one-legged man on the front steps of the building. They were both drinking from cans of Coke and smiling.
Monk whispered to me as we approached the building from my parked car. “Randy has shrewdly lulled the suspect into a false sense of security to lower his defenses. He’s going in for the kill.”
I’ll admit I was surprised to see them hanging out together. I’d assumed the one-legged guy would be offended by Disher’s questions and the thinly veiled—not to mention ridiculous—accusations they probably contained.
Monk covered up his right eye with his hand as we neared the steps and turned his head at a slight angle to regard the two men.
“Hey, Monk, back so soon?” Disher said.
“I solved the case,” Monk said.
“I solved mine, too,” Disher said and whipped out a plastic evidence bag from behind his back. Inside the bag was a white sock. “Look familiar?”
“It’s my sock.” Monk took the bag. “Thank you, Randy.”
“My pleasure. This is Nick,” Disher said, motioning to the new tenant. “And this is your neighbor Adrian Monk and his assistant, Natalie Teeger.”
Nick offered me his hand. I shook it.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said.
“Thanks,” Nick said. “It’s really peaceful and everybody here is so friendly.”
“Why isn’t he in handcuffs?” Monk said, ignoring Nick’s outstretched hand.
“Because he didn’t do anything,” Disher said. “The culprit is static electricity. Your sock got stuck inside the dryer. After you left, Mrs. Sandowsky in 2B did a load. The sock got mixed with her stuff. Is something wrong with your eye?”
“No,” Monk said.
“So what’s the problem?” Disher asked.
“The problem is that there is no problem,” Monk said. “I can see everything that’s in front of me and not in front of me. Would you mind sitting to his left?”
Monk gestured to Nick without looking at him. Disher moved to the other side of Nick. The legged side.
“You thought I stole your sock?” Nick said to Monk.
“No,” Monk said.
“Are you being honest with me?”
“No,” Monk said.
“Nick was just telling me about his adventure climbing alone on Mount Kilimanjaro,” Disher said with boyish eagerness. “He got his leg stuck between two boulders and had to cut it off with his pickax to save himself.”
“My God,” I said. I remembered reading an article about him in the San Francisco Chronicle a few months back. It was a horrifying and yet undeniably captivating tale.
“And you left it there?” Monk said.
“Yeah,” Nick said.
“You should go back and get it,” Monk said.
“It’s a little late for that.”
“You know what they say—it’s never too late to pick up your leg,” Monk said.
“Actually, it is,” Nick said.
“That’s not what they say,” Monk said. “And they wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Disher asked.
“They are the people you should listen to when they say something,” Monk said. “They know what they are talking about.”
“I ate it,” Nick said.
“You ate it?” Monk said, looking at Nick despite himself and then turning away, repulsed. “Your own leg?”
“Amazing,” Disher said. “I thought I was tough, but you’re like five times tougher.”
“I had no choice, Randy. I was alone in the snow for days. I had no idea how long it would take them to find me. It was a matter of survival,” Nick said. “Life or death.”
“You should have chosen death,” Monk said.
“What Mr. Monk means is that he admires your bravery and sympathizes with your sacrifice,” I said, hustling Monk past them. “You’ll have to stop by sometime for coffee.”
Monk gasped. “What if he wants something to eat?”
I hoped Nick hadn’t heard that. I hurried Monk into his apartment and closed the door behind us.
“How could you be so rude?” I said.
“I have to m
ove out,” Monk said. “Help me pack.”
“He’s a hero,” I said.
“He’s a cannibal and you invited him here for a snack,” Monk said. “What were you thinking?”
“He’s not going to do it again,” I said. “It was an extreme situation.”
“So is this,” Monk said. “I’m very tasty to cannibals.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s the one thing I’ve been absolutely certain of my entire life.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“Look at me. I’m clean, healthy, trim, and I stay away from all germs and chemicals. I’m lean, delicious, prime-cut, organic meat. That’s why I’ve never gone to Africa.”
“That’s why? I thought it was because you’re afraid of travel, foreign countries, zebras, airplanes, Tarzan, monkeys, khaki, giraffes, salted peanuts, lions, quicksand, thatched roofs, scorpions, jungles, loincloths, deserts, meerkats, spears, and—”
“—cannibals,” Monk interrupted. “Most of all, cannibals. If I stay here, I’ll be my neighbor’s next meal. I have to find a new apartment in a building that doesn’t allow children, pets, or cannibals.”
“Mr. Monk, Nick is a great man. Someone to be respected, not feared. Do you realize the unbelievable courage it took for him to cut off his own leg? Can you imagine the pain and suffering he endured? But he survived. He’s an example of the endurance of the human spirit in the face of unimaginable adversity,” I said. “You’d see things differently if you’d just put yourself in his shoes.”
“Shoe,” Monk said.
“You’re impossible,” I said.
“I’m whole,” Monk said. “At least until his stomach starts growling. Once you’ve tasted human flesh, that’s all you can eat.”
“How would you know?”
“It’s what they say,” Monk said.
“Them again?” I had to meet these people and give them muzzles. I looked at my watch. “You know what your problem is?”
“Yes. I have a cannibal living in my building.”
“You can’t accept anyone who isn’t just like you. You have no tolerance for diversity. It’s the differences between people that make us special.”
“Diversity is great,” Monk said. “As long as it’s clean, even, and symmetrical.”
I don’t know why I bothered to argue with him. He was never going to change, which reminded me of something. I glanced at my watch.
“You’re going to be late for your appointment with Dr. Kroger if we don’t get moving.”
Monk had never missed his thrice-weekly appointments with his shrink, nor had he ever been late to one. They were the highlights of his week. To be honest, I cherished them, too. It was the only time off that I got on weekdays.
“Let’s go out the back,” Monk said, making a beeline for his kitchen door, one hand over his right eye.
“But I’m parked in front,” I said.
“I don’t want to go past the cannibal,” Monk said. “What if I trip? I’d be injured prey, easy pickings.”
“Then you might want to watch where you’re going with both eyes.”
“If I do that, I might see something,” Monk said. “Or not see something, which would be much worse.”
Dr. Kroger’s office was on Jackson Street in Pacific Heights and within walking distance of Monk’s apartment building on Pine. It was a beautiful day for a walk, but we drove there as usual. By taking the car, we could get to a crime scene in a hurry if Monk got a call from the captain after an appointment. But that wasn’t the real reason we almost always took the car. We were both too lazy to make the hike up the steep hill and Monk didn’t want to arrive in Dr. Kroger’s office with a single bead of sweat on his skin.
We got there a few minutes early, which gave Monk the opportunity to organize the magazines in Dr. Kroger’s waitingroom by title, subject, and date. It was a ritual that I think helped him to relax and gather his thoughts for the session.
Dr. Kroger emerged from his office a few moments later and escorted out his previous patient, a meek woman I’d seen once a week for years. She never once met our eyes or acknowledged us. All I knew was that her name was Marcia, so I’d created a dozen imaginary scenarios about her to entertain myself. Since Dr. Kroger was the shrink of choice for the SFPD, my latest story was that she was a detective booted from the force for her raging nymphomania.
“Good afternoon, Natalie,” Dr. Kroger said, flashing a smile that showed all his perfectly straight, whitened teeth. If his teeth hadn’t been so straight, Monk never would have become his patient. Monk couldn’t look at someone with crooked teeth for five minutes, much less years on end. “How is your day today?”
“The usual,” I said.
“By that she means a living hell,” Monk said.
He was right.
“Are you speaking for her or for yourself?” Dr. Kroger asked.
“I’m speaking for all of humanity,” Monk said.
“That’s quite a burden you’re taking on, Adrian. Perhaps you’d find your day slightly less hellish if you concentrated more on your needs and less on those of humanity.”
Dr. Kroger had a very relaxing way of speaking, regardless of what he was saying. His voice gently stroked and comforted you. It was like listening to the tide, if the tide charged a couple hundred dollars an hour.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Monk said. “You don’t know what I’ve had to face today.”
“I’m eager to hear all about it,” Dr. Kroger said, motioning Monk into his office and dismissing me with a friendly nod. I was free to go for an hour of Monkless bliss.
On a cold or rainy day, I might have hung around in the waiting room and caught up on Cosmopolitan and Vanity Fair. Instead, I walked up the street to Alta Plaza, which has some of the best views in the city from its grassy hills and stone steps.
From the north end of the park, I could see clear across the bay to Marin County and from the south side, I could gaze upon the San Francisco skyline. The view wasn’t bad inside the park either. There were usually some tanned, muscular guys to see on the tennis courts. Sometimes they were even shirtless. Today was one of those days.
I bought an Eskimo Pie from a pushcart vendor, found a bench with views of the bay and the bods, and took it easy. There were worse ways to kill an hour.
My mind wandered. I thought about Nick cutting off his own leg to free himself from the rocks and then having to eat his limb to stay alive. I am pretty sure that if I’d been in his position, I would have died with my leg pinned in the rocks. I have a hard time just removing a splinter from my finger.
I figured that Nick was probably writing a book about his experiences, and there was probably a movie in it, too, so he was going to do all right financially. But how did it feel to have to carry that memory around with him? To be reminded of it every time he looked at himself in the mirror or simply tried to walk across the room? How did he deal with the insensitive remarks from people like Monk?