Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu

by Lee Goldberg

  Terri gave me a questioning look. I didn’t know how to convey the answer with an expression, not that I even had an answer to give her.

  “Mr. Eggers was struck with a blunt object, like a pipe or crowbar. Whatever it was, we haven’t recovered it,” Terri said. “There’s a bruise on the victim’s back, presumably from where he was pinned down by the killer’s knee, and there are plenty more of those grocery bags in the trash.”

  “What a horrible way to die,” I said.

  “It could have been worse,” Terri said. “He could have been conscious when it happened. He basically died in his sleep, and it was all over in less than five minutes. Mr. Eggers never knew what hit him.”

  “Or who hit him,” Monk said. “It was all done behind his back.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Terri said. “This guy was strong. I wouldn’t want to take him on in a fair fight, and I’ve got a black belt.”

  “What is this car worth?” Monk said.

  I shrugged. “I’d guess close to a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I wonder why the killer didn’t take it,” Monk said. “It would have been easy. The keys are right there on the ground.”

  “Maybe the car has LoJack and the killer was afraid the police would activate it and pinpoint his location,” I said.

  “The killer didn’t take Eggers’s wallet, either,” Terri said. “There’s two hundred dollars in cash and several credit cards in it.”

  Monk frowned, rolled his shoulders, and fiddled idly with the top button of his collar, as if his clothes were itchy or didn’t fit right. But it wasn’t his clothes that were irritating him; it was the facts of the case.

  “How long has he been dead?” Monk asked.

  “I’m guessing about an hour. His body was still warm when we got here. His lover came back from a run in the Presidio, found the body, and called it in. That’s him, with the baseball cap.” She motioned to a man in front of the crowd that had gathered on the other side of the yellow caution tape. The man was dressed in a bright blue running suit, and there were tears running down his rough, unshaven cheeks. “His name is Hank Criswell.”

  “Thank you, Terri,” Monk said.

  “It’s what they pay me for, sir,” she said with a smile. A flirty smile. I almost did a double take. Monk missed the implications of her smile, of course. He is an incredibly observant man except when it comes to the subtleties of human behavior.

  If I thought Monk was open to the idea of dating, I would have pointed out to him what he’d missed. But he was still in love with his late wife and, as far as I could tell, wasn’t the least bit interested in pursuing a romance. I wondered what it was about Monk that attracted her to him.

  He walked up to the police line and casually flipped open his badge for Hank Criswell to see. Monk enjoyed it so much, he flipped his badge case twice more to the uniformed cop.

  “I’m Adrian Monk. I’m investigating the homicide of Mr. Eggers. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “There’s nothing to investigate. Go arrest Merle Smetter,” Criswell said, wiping the tears off his cheeks with the palms of his hands. “He killed Scott.”

  “How do you know?” Monk said.

  I would have asked who Merle Smetter was first, but I wasn’t the detective.

  “Smetter put a redwood deck and a hot tub on his roof without getting any of the necessary permits. He parties up there all the time. The noise from that is bad enough, but the pool equipment is right outside our bedroom window, whining and gurgling day and night,” Criswell said. “So we filed a complaint against him with the city, and they’re making him tear everything out.”

  “It seems like a minor dispute between neighbors,” Monk said. “Not something that would lead to murder.”

  “People kill each other for pocket change. It’s costing Smetter a hundred and sixty thousand dollars to remove everything and restore the roof to its original condition, and he blames us for it,” Criswell said. “It could cost him more if we win the lawsuit.”

  “You’re suing him?” I said. “What for?”

  “We’re artists, graphic designers. The noise is causing us to lose sleep, which affects our creativity and our business. So we’re demanding one-point-five million for lost income and intentional infliction of emotional distress,” Criswell said. “But that amount is going to go way, way up now. I am suffering extreme emotional distress.”

  More tears spilled from Criswell’s bloodshot eyes, and he was racked with fresh sobs.

  “Where can I find Mr. Smetter?” Monk asked.

  Criswell sniffled and pointed an accusing finger at a man who would stand out in any crowd.

  Smetter looked like a cross between a munchkin and a ferret. He was a bald, beer-bellied man with tufts of body hair poking out from underneath his collar, and a waxed mustache that curled at the ends.

  He was also barely five feet tall.

  The only way Merle Smetter could have attacked Scott Eggers from behind was if he launched himself at him from a pogo stick.

  Monk and I shared a look. He didn’t seem convinced, either.

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Criswell,” Monk said. “I’d like to have an officer take your statement, if you’re feeling up to it.”

  “You’re not arresting Smetter?”

  “Not just yet,” Monk said.

  We walked over to one of the officers. As we got closer, I recognized him as Officer Milner, the guy who loaned Monk the binoculars at McKinley Park. He smiled warmly when he saw us.

  “I didn’t know your beat extended across the entire city,” I said.

  “With this flu bug going around, the department is spread pretty thin,” Officer Milner said. “So I’m going wherever they need me.”

  “Officer, could you get statements from Hank Criswell, Merle Smetter, and any other neighbors with homes that overlook this alley?” Monk asked.

  “Sure thing,” Officer Milner said enthusiastically.

  “You don’t mind helping Mr. Monk out?”

  “It’s my job, isn’t it?”

  “I was thinking with the flu and all, you might have a problem with our being here.”

  Officer Milner shrugged. “We’ve all got to make a living. Look at me—I’m taking all the overtime I can get.”

  “Then perhaps you could also round up some other officers and look for anyone who could verify that Hank Criswell was actually jogging in the park at the time of the murder,” Monk said.

  “Will do, Captain,” Officer Milner said. “How’s the Strangler case coming? Has the mayor’s reward brought in a lot of leads?”

  “Nobody has come forward yet,” Monk said.

  “Someone will,” Officer Milner said. “There are people who’d finger their own kid for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Millner took out his notebook and walked over to Criswell. I watched him go. He was a good-looking guy.

  “You think Criswell killed his lover and then pretended to discover the body?” I asked Monk.

  Monk shook his head. “I’m just being thorough. Criswell wouldn’t have attacked Eggers in broad daylight in the alley behind their home. There’s too much of a chance he’d be seen and recognized.”

  “So what’s your theory?”

  “I don’t have one,” Monk said. “Nothing about this homicide is right.”

  “There’s a right way to kill someone?”

  “If this was a robbery, why go to the trouble of suffocating him when he was already unconscious and defenseless? And why wasn’t anything taken?” Monk said. “If this was a premeditated murder, why attack him in broad daylight? If the killer intended to suffocate him from the outset, why not bring a bag rather than digging through the trash for one?”

  Monk shuddered at the thought of it.

  “It looks as if the killer improvised the whole thing in a hurry,” Monk said. “No attempt was made to make this seem like anything except what it is.”

  “Which is what?”


  “A homicide that isn’t right,” Monk said.

  13

  Mr. Monk Goes to Headquarters

  Monk stood in the doorway to the homicide squad room in stunned silence. I was pretty astonished myself.

  Porter, Chow, and Wyatt, their assistants, and Officer Curtis were at their desks, either talking on the phone, using their computers, or sorting through papers, and were only gradually becoming aware of our arrival. But seeing them all hard at work wasn’t what was so amazing.

  It was the squad room itself. In our absence it had been transformed into a showroom for the principles of balance and order.

  All the desks were lined up in rows and spaced apart so evenly, it looked as though someone had actually measured the distance between them to the centimeter.

  The telephones, lamps, legal pads, computer monitors, keyboards, pencil holders, and other desktop items were each in the same spot on every desk, as if they’d been permanently glued in place.

  Every pencil cup contained exactly four pencils of equal length, four pens (two black and two blue), two pairs of scissors, and two rulers.

  Every poster, photograph, map, and bulletin board on the walls was centered, straightened, spaced evenly apart, and arranged by size, shape, and color. Even the papers, photos, and notes on the individual bulletin boards were aligned by size, shape, and color.

  The place had been thoroughly Monked.

  The only corner of the squad room that remained untouched was Captain Stottlemeyer’s office, which, by comparison, looked as if it had been ransacked.

  By the time Monk had taken it all in, everyone in the office had set their work aside and turned to face him. He was so moved by what he’d seen that he could barely summon the breath to speak.

  To be honest, I had tears in my eyes. I was happy for Monk and genuinely touched by what these strangers had done to show their appreciation and respect for him.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I won’t let you down.”

  He wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the words. He simply smiled, nodded a few times, and retreated to the interrogation room that he was using as his office.

  Wyatt grimaced. “What the hell was he talking about?”

  “He’s obviously nuttier than a can of cashews,” Chow replied.

  “He sure is,” Porter agreed. “Whoever he is.”

  I was confused. I went over to the coffeemaker, where Jasper, Sparrow, and Arnie had congregated. I guess that made that corner of the room the assistants’ lounge.

  I met Jasper’s gaze and gestured to the detectives. “How did they ever manage to pitch in and do all of this?”

  “They didn’t,” Jasper said. “Sparrow and I did it.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It’s obvious that Monk suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

  “You mean he’s a freak,” Sparrow said.

  “He’s already under an unusual amount of stress,” Jasper continued, ignoring Sparrow’s remark. “A disorderly environment would be crippling for him. The more comfortable he is in his surroundings, the more likely it is that he’ll perform at the peak of his abilities.”

  All true. But that begged a cynical question.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” I said. “But what difference does it make to you if Mr. Monk succeeds or not?”

  “I care about people. Otherwise I wouldn’t be in the mental health field. But I suppose you could also say it’s selfish interest in my patient,” Jasper said. “I’ve never seen Cindy so happy or her paranoia so subdued.”

  “That’s subdued?” I said, glancing at her.

  Chow was heading toward a file cabinet, dodging and weaving and using a circuitous route so she wouldn’t be seen by the computer monitors that she passed along the way.

  “She left the house without a radio taped to her head,” Jasper said. “That’s a big step.”

  “Most people have got those cellular phone thingies stuck to their ears,” Sparrow said. “I don’t see a big difference between them and her.”

  Jasper smiled appreciatively. “That’s true, Sparrow. I wish more people had your enlightened, relative view toward mental health.”

  I looked at Sparrow. “I’m surprised you helped Jasper with his little scheme.”

  “Jasper’s got a nice butt,” she said matter-of-factly. Jasper blushed. “I’ll do a lot for someone with a nice butt. Besides, Grandpa really needed this. It reminds him who he is again so I don’t have to all the time. It may be his last chance to be himself, and know it, before he goes completely mad-cow.”

  “Monk is the only thing holding this group together,” Jasper said. “None of them will say it, but they’re pinning their hopes for redemption on him.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Wyatt yelled to no one in particular. “Who glued my pencil cup to my desk?”

  Jasper shrank back behind me and Sparrow. There’s bravery for you: hide behind the girls.

  Wyatt leaned back in his chair, brought up his boot, and kicked the plastic pencil cup until he shattered it, leaving only the base stuck to the desktop. Satisfied, he returned to his work.

  “That’s progress,” Arnie said to us. “The old Mad Jack would have shot it.”

  “Is there anything that man won’t shoot?” I asked.

  “His mother,” Arnie said. “Well, not lately, anyway.”

  Monk returned to the squad room. He seemed relaxed for the first time since he got his badge back. He went up to Porter’s desk. “Where are we with the questioning of fly-by-night dealers of discontinued and overstock running shoes?”

  Porter glanced at his notes. “I’ve got reports back from seventeen interviews conducted by officers in the field. No merchants have recognized any of the women in the photos yet, but I’ve logged the names, addresses, and other vital stats of each person the officers talked to in case we have to go back to them later.”

  Monk nodded. “Keep up the good work.”

  “I’m not leaving my desk until we crack this case wide-open,” Porter declared.

  “He’s not kidding,” Sparrow said to me. “I hope you’ve got showers in this building.”

  Monk moved down to Cindy Chow’s desk. “Any luck finding Diane Truby’s stalker?”

  “He’s in the wind, but he’s got relatives in Sacramento, so I’ve alerted the cops up there and the Chippies along the way to be on the lookout.”

  “Chippies?”

  “The CHP,” Chow said. “The California Highway Patrol. Where have you been?”

  “Away,” Monk said.

  “State or private institution?”

  “My apartment,” Monk said. “It’s reasonably private.”

  “Uh-huh,” Chow said, nodding as if there were some double meaning to what Monk was saying and she understood it. But there wasn’t any other meaning. At least, I think there wasn’t.

  “I’ve made some important discoveries about Allegra Doucet,” Chow said, pausing for a moment to add significance to what she was about to say. “Shortly before she moved from LA to San Francisco, she spent a few months with ‘friends’ in Albuquerque.”

  Monk shrugged. “Does that mean something?”

  Chow looked flabbergasted. “It’s huge. The headquarters of the Omega Agency, the secret order of humans and extraterrestrials who pull the strings of every world government, is located underneath Kirtland Air Force base in Albuquerque. That’s where the ETs, mostly grays and greens, live and conduct their mind-control experiments, including Project Subzero, which is basically an illegal, unauthorized offshoot of Operation Grillflame.”

  “That last part is real,” Jasper whispered to me while Chow kept rambling on.

  “The gray and green space aliens?” I replied.

  “Operation Grillflame,” Jasper said. “The CIA spent twenty million on a secret program to use psychics to read the minds of enemy agents, change the orbit of spy satellites, an
d detect plutonium in North Korea. It was an outgrowth of MK-Ultra, the CIA’s mind-control division, that was funded in 1953 with six percent of the agency’s operating budget until it was finally shut down in 1972.”

  I stared at him.

  “Honest,” he said. “They’re the ones who put LSD on the streets and accidentally created the 1960s.”

  I stared at him.

  “It’s true,” he said. “You can check it out yourself.”

  Jasper scared me. He was a mental health professional. If some of Chow’s paranoia could rub off on him, what did that say about what was going to happen to me after hanging around with Monk? How long would it be before I was measuring the ice cubes in my freezer to make sure they were perfectly square?

  Talking to Jasper, and getting lost for a minute in my private little nightmare, I missed a lot of what Chow had to say, but I can probably summarize the gist of it simply enough: Extraterrestrials are scrambling our brains, probing our bodily orifices, and controlling the world with the help of nefarious government agencies.

  “What about Max Collins?” Monk asked. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “That’s where it gets really interesting,” Chow said. “He made his fortune developing advanced software for radar systems,” she said. “One of his biggest customers is the United States government. Connect the dots.”

  “What dots?” Monk said.

  “Albuquerque. Radar software. Kirtland Air Force base. Astrology. Extraterrestrials. Project Subzero. Roswell. Murder. Do I need to draw you a picture?”

  “Would you, please? I think that would be very helpful.” Monk moved on down to Wyatt’s desk and froze when he saw the missing pencil cup. “Your pencil holder is missing.”

  “I busted three chop shops, but there’s no signs of Yamada’s wife’s car,” Wyatt said. “It’s probably been stripped into parts by now that are already on their way to Mexico, China, and South America. This time next week, her front seats will be in a taxi in Manila.”

  “All the other desks have pencil holders,” Monk said. “Yours doesn’t.”