Mr. Monk on the Couch

by Lee Goldberg

  Jerry would have been free and clear. Even in the unlikely event that Hewson called the police and accused Jerry of initially intending to keep the diamonds, what evidence was there? It would have been a Peeping Tom’s word over that of a respected crime scene cleaner. Both Monk and I would have probably stood up for him, too.

  So what had made Jerry decide murder was the better approach? And how did he convince Gene Tiflin, William Tong, and Corinne Witt to go along with him?

  But the biggest question that nagged me was how I could have been so wrong about Jerry. He was a thief and a killer and I had no inkling of it at all. If Monk hadn’t uncovered the truth, I probably would have had another wonderful date with Jerry that night. And who knows where that might have led?

  How could I have not sensed, on some level, his profound moral and ethical weakness?

  My inability to see Jerry’s true character might not have bothered me so much if it had been the first time that I’d been attracted to a man who later turned out to be a murderer.

  But it wasn’t. If you’ve stopped keeping track, I’m not going to remind you how many there have been. It’s too embarrassing.

  I had to wonder, though, if there’s something about a murderer, particularly a confident one, that gives him a certain charisma or charm that I, in particular, am susceptible to.

  I mean, there’s a reason more women are attracted to Dracula than repelled by him.

  I made a resolution to myself. From now on, I’d assume that every man I was attracted to was a murderer until proven otherwise.

  Perhaps it wasn’t the most promising strategy for starting a relationship, but I might live longer.

  There had been four murders in almost as many days, and all in roughly the same neighborhood. I suppose it was foolish to think that nobody would notice a murder spree like that.

  Stottlemeyer had done his best to keep things quiet, but by Saturday morning, reporters were hounding the department’s public information officer for details. More than one reporter raised the question of whether there was a serial killer on the loose.

  That chilled the chief of police’s blood, so he immediately dispatched one of his deputy chiefs, Harlan Fellows, to Stottlemeyer’s office for a briefing. Stottlemeyer summoned us and Lieutenant Devlin for the meeting.

  When we arrived, Stottlemeyer was behind his desk, Devlin was leaning against the wall, and Fellows was sitting in one of the guest chairs.

  Monk and I had never met Fellows before. He was a thin man in a crisp white shirt, black tie, silver cuff links, and suspenders. His shoes were polished like glass, and the crease in his slacks was sharp enough to qualify as a deadly weapon.

  Fellows rose to greet us with his hand outstretched and a smile on his face.

  “I’m Deputy Chief Fellows,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Monk.”

  Monk turned his head away, repulsed, and would have reared back if Fellows didn’t already have his hand firmly in his grasp. That’s because Fellows’ smile revealed a row of crooked, overlapping front teeth that were all jammed together.

  “Likewise,” Monk said, still looking away.

  Fellows looked confused. “Is something wrong?”

  “The glare from the window behind you—it’s right in our eyes,” I said, wincing as if the sun were in my eyes as well, though we were both completely in shadow. “Could you please lower the shade, Captain?”

  “Of course,” Stottlemeyer said, rising from behind his desk.

  I offered my hand to Fellows. “I’m Natalie Teeger, sir, Mr. Monk’s assistant.”

  He shook it. “Thank you for coming.”

  Monk took a seat on the couch and I joined him, handing him a wipe.

  “I’m sure you appreciate the chief’s concern about this case and the potential for the media to blow things all out of proportion,” Fellows said. “We need to know exactly where things stand so we can determine the best strategy for handling press inquiries.”

  Monk wiped his hands, gave me the tissue, and then directed his gaze to his feet.

  “The good news is that we’ve solved the crimes and identified the perpetrators,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “That’s marvelous and, I must say, a tremendous relief,” Fellows said. “It would be enormously helpful if you have them in custody in time for the evening news.”

  “I wish we could,” Stottlemeyer said. “But we aren’t ready to make any arrests yet.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Evidence,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Let me get this straight. You know enough to be able to identify the killers and yet you are allowing them to remain free?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

  “How would you put it, Captain?”

  Stottlemeyer sighed. “I’d say that we’re screwed, sir.”

  “I don’t see how you can have enough evidence to know who the killers are but not enough to arrest the bastards,” Fellows said. “And I’ve been doing this a long time.”

  “Explain it to him, Lieutenant,” Stottlemeyer said.

  Devlin stepped forward, her hands behind her back. “It begins with a couch, sir,” she said.

  Fellows gave her a withering look.

  “A couch,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Mr. Monk and the Apocalypse

  Devlin walked Fellows through the case, step by step. She explained how Rico Ramirez hid his stolen diamonds in Cheryl Strauss’ couch, which she gave away to a thrift shop, which in turn sold it to Mark Costa.

  “When Rico got out of prison and discovered his couch was gone, he tracked it down, killing the thrift shop manager, Mark Costa, and finally Cheryl Strauss.”

  “How did you determine that the couch was the common denominator in these killings?” Fellows asked.

  Monk raised his hand but kept his head down. “It was obvious.”

  “How so?” Fellows asked.

  Monk lifted his head, looking only at Stottlemeyer as he spoke.

  “Cheryl Strauss had a matching living room set that was missing the couch,” Monk said. “The same couch that was in Mark Costa’s house. The couch was ripped apart.”

  “I asked the question, Mr. Monk,” Fellows said.

  “Yes, I know,” Monk said, looking at me.

  “Our electronic forensics team confirmed that sales records for that couch were accessed by the killer from the thrift shop computer,” Devlin said. “Once we discovered that Cheryl Strauss was romantically involved with Rico Ramirez, it all fell together.”

  “What physical evidence or eyewitnesses do you have linking Rico Ramirez to these three killings?” Fellows asked.

  “None at all,” Stottlemeyer said.

  Fellows turned around in his chair to face Stottlemeyer. “You can’t place him in Strauss’ apartment, the thrift shop, or Costa’s house?”

  “No, sir,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “No fingerprints, no hairs, no nothing?”

  “That is correct,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Then what the hell makes you think he’s the killer?”

  “Because he is,” Monk said, addressing Devlin.

  Fellows turned back to Monk. “And you know this based on what?”

  “What I feel. The pieces all fit where they are supposed to,” Monk said. “It’s orderly, like a row of normal teeth. It’s unquestionably, without a doubt, certifiably him.”

  “If you’re so certain,” Fellows said, “why can’t you even look me in the eye when you say it?”

  “Could you please close your mouth?” Monk asked.

  Fellows glared at Monk. “What did you just say to me?”

  I spoke up quickly. “Forgive Mr. Monk, he doesn’t handle confrontation well.”

  “You’ve never gone with your gut before, sir?” Stottlemeyer asked Fellows.

  “Of course I have, Captain,” Fellows said. “My own, not the feelings of individuals whose psychological stability re
mains highly in doubt.”

  Monk held his hand out in front of him, blocking out the lower half of Fellows’ face from his view, and looked Fellows in the eye.

  “Rico Ramirez is the guy,” Monk said. “I am never wrong about homicide.”

  “I agree with him,” Devlin said, then quickly added, “That it’s Ramirez, not that Monk is never wrong.”

  “I also believe it’s Ramirez,” Stottlemeyer said. “Monk is never wrong about this stuff. He’s the best. That’s why the chief has him under contract.”

  Fellows sighed and shifted his gaze to Devlin, much to Monk’s relief. Monk lowered his hand and looked at the floor again.

  “I just wish we had some evidence to sink our teeth into,” Fellows said.

  Monk groaned and rolled his shoulders. I patted his knee.

  “Do we even know if Rico Ramirez is still in the city?” Fellows asked.

  “He’s gone to ground,” Devlin said. “We’ve got all his known associates under watch, but he hasn’t showed. And from what I’m hearing from my sources, the diamonds haven’t shown up on the street, either.”

  “What about this other killing? The BART engineer?” Fellows asked. “What do you have on that?”

  “It’s related,” Stottlemeyer said. “The victim, Stuart Hewson, spied on people with his telescope. He was watching Costa’s house when a crew of crime scene cleaners, led by a guy named Jerry Yermo, uncovered the diamonds and kept them. Hewson tried to blackmail the cleaners and they killed him.”

  “How do you know that’s what went down?” Fellows asked.

  “Because it is,” Monk said, holding his hand in front of his face again.

  “Based on what?” Fellows said.

  “Hewson’s home was thoroughly cleaned and smelled strongly of crime scene cleaning chemicals,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “And Hewson was shot four times,” I said. “That’s one for each crime scene cleaner on Yermo’s crew. And Hewson had a telescope facing Costa’s house.”

  “That’s it?” Fellows said. “That’s all you have?”

  “We pulled the victim’s phone records,” Devlin said. “We know that he called the crime scene cleaners a few hours before he was killed.”

  “That’s hardly a smoking gun,” Fellows said. “What physical evidence or eyewitnesses do you have linking these crime scene cleaners to the BART engineer?”

  “We don’t have any,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “What evidence is there that the crime scene cleaners recovered the diamonds and Rico Ramirez didn’t?”

  “There is none,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “I had a date with Jerry Yermo last night,” I said. “And we were talking around the whole thing, but I knew that he did it and he knew that I knew that he did it, and it was just right out there. He’s the guy, no question about it.”

  Fellows stared at me. “Who are you again?”

  “Natalie Teeger, Mr. Monk’s assistant.”

  Fellows sighed and looked at Stottlemeyer. “This is a farce, Captain. Can’t you see that?”

  “What I see, sir, is that we have more work to do if we are going to make these cases stick.”

  Fellows shook his head and turned to us. “Could the captain and I have a moment in private, please?”

  Devlin, Monk, and I walked out of the captain’s office, the lieutenant closing the door behind us.

  “This isn’t good,” she said.

  “Thank you for standing up for Mr. Monk,” I said.

  “I wasn’t standing up for Monk,” she said. “I was defending our case.”

  “Still, we appreciate it.” I glanced at Monk. “Don’t we?”

  “Did you see that man’s teeth, Lieutenant?” Monk said. “That’s why you need to floss.”

  The door to Stottlemeyer’s office opened and Fellows emerged, acknowledged us with a nod, and continued on his way. The three of us filed back in and stood in front of the captain’s desk. He looked up at us.

  “Deputy Chief Fellows has ordered us to start the investigations into these four murders from scratch and to abandon all of our previous conclusions, which, as he put it, have no credibility whatsoever.”

  “He’s wrong,” Monk said. “Just look at his teeth.”

  “He went on to say that if we feel we are incapable of conducting a professional and competent investigation, he will find homicide investigators who can.”

  “We’re giving Ramirez and Yermo a free pass,” Devlin said. “You know that, Captain.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” Stottlemeyer said. “We have our orders. If you don’t think you can look at this case with fresh eyes, Lieutenant, I will be glad to hand it off to Jensen or Baker.”

  “Give it to them,” Devlin said. “Because I won’t pretend I don’t already know who the killers are.”

  “Leland,” Monk said. “You can’t do this.”

  “You’re done, Monk. It’s not your problem anymore.” Stottlemeyer handed me a file. “You can help Natalie with her case. Here’s the picture of Walter O’Quinn and the other information that you wanted. You’ve got plenty of time to work on it now.”

  Monk was depressed.

  He couldn’t even muster up the energy to clean. He just sat on his couch and stared at the wall.

  I sat down beside him. He didn’t bother to acknowledge my presence. I put my hand on his. At least he didn’t flinch.

  “Is there anything I can do, Mr. Monk?”

  He shook his head.

  “How about a nice glass of water? Or a wipe?”

  He shook his head again.

  “There’s no amount of water or disinfectant wipes that can solve this.”

  “The police will get the evidence,” I said. “No one is going to get away with murder.”

  “It’s bigger than that,” Monk said. “The balance of the universe has been disrupted.”

  “You mean your universe,” I said.

  “There’s only one.”

  That was pure Monk. The universe revolved around him and he was totally unabashed about saying so. But I wasn’t going to hit him while he was down. I decided to take a gentler approach.

  “Don’t you think you might be blowing things slightly out of proportion?”

  “Am I?” He turned to me. “Here’s how it’s supposed to work. I solve a murder, the police make an arrest, the killer is convicted, and order is restored. But that’s not happening now. I solved the crime, but police with crooked teeth are declining to make an arrest, and the killers are walking free. It’s anarchy.”

  “It’s an isolated incident, Mr. Monk. It will be fixed.”

  “Will it? Open your eyes, Natalie. My brother is shacking up with an ex-con biker chick. Crime scene cleaners are spilling blood instead of wiping it up. And now, the complete collapse of our justice system. I saw the signs five days ago and I was right. The apocalypse is nigh and the first horseman rode in on a Harley.”

  “Would you like me to call Dr. Bell?”

  “What can he do about this?”

  “Maybe he can help you feel better.”

  “Can he change anything that’s happened? Can he restore the order that’s been lost?”

  “No, but he might be able to help you put things into perspective.”

  “No matter what point of view you look at this with, the reasonable and inevitable conclusion is going to be the same,” Monk said. “It’s the end of civilization as we know it.”

  I sighed. There was no point in trying to argue with him now. He was too upset.

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to make you feel better?”

  “Maybe there’s one thing,” Monk said. “Do you still have those trash bags I left at your house?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Burn them,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Mr. Monk and the Plan

  It wasn’t until I got home that Saturday afternoon that I finally opened the file that Captain Stottlemeyer ha
d given me in his office.

  He’d printed out four photographs of Walter O’Quinn taken on the bed in the Excelsior. They would be much less awkward to show around than photographs of a corpse on a morgue slab.

  I set the photos aside and turned to the rest of the pages, which I hoped would reveal who Stacey O’Quinn and Rose were, and where I could find them.

  But the papers contained no information about the O’Quinns at all. What Stottlemeyer had given me were dossiers on Jerry Yermo, Gene Tiflin, William Tong, and Corinne Witt.

  What was Stottlemeyer trying to accomplish by slipping me the material? Was this his way of saying he wanted Monk and me to continue investigating an angle that he’d been ordered to drop?

  I stuck a pepperoni Hot Pocket in the microwave, added hot water to a cup of Folgers crystals, and sat down with my instant, late lunch to go through the material.

  What I soon discovered was that the four of them had a common motive for keeping the diamonds for themselves: They were all in deep financial trouble.

  Jerry had bought property and cars, creating a lifestyle that was well beyond his means. Death in San Francisco simply hadn’t kept up with his spending. But rather than downsize, he kept right on buying more and more, compulsively adding to his credit woes. It made no sense.

  Gene Tiflin was in debt even before the economy devastated the construction business in California. He had a wife and three teenage kids to support and was paying a steep mortgage on a house in the East Bay that was now worth two hundred thousand dollars less than he’d paid for it.

  William Tong had lost his teaching job two years ago. If that wasn’t bad enough, his wife had left him for a woman, emptied their savings account, and moved to Sweden. Bill collectors swarmed him and picked his wallet clean. He’d been forced at age thirty-five to move back in with his mother. He had a net worth of zero and his self-esteem was probably hovering at about the same level.

  Corinne Witt was living frugally in a studio apartment in a former motel that now rented its drive-up rooms to UCSF students by the month. But she was carrying enormous student debt from college and was in arrears on both her rent and her medical school tuition. She was facing imminent eviction or expulsion. Something had to give.