by Lee Goldberg
“I’ve got the tech geeks in the lab trying to match the tread marks from the intersection with marks on the floor of her garage,” Wyatt said. “I’m also checking her whereabouts at the time of the murder. She says she was at her boyfriend’s place, and he backs her up on it, but I’m sure he’d lie for a percentage of Yamada’s life insurance money. I’ll break him, if I have to do it with my bare hands.”
“We need to get you something for your pencils.” Monk turned to Officer Curtis, who was standing off to one side, awaiting orders. “It’s imperative you get him a pencil holder, one that matches the others.”
She nodded and made a note of it on her pad. “Pencil cup. Imperative. Got it.”
“Excuse me,” someone said.
We all turned to see a gangly man in his thirties standing in the doorway, after being escorted in by a police officer. The stranger was thin, with a long neck, long arms, and a narrow face. He jittered like he had a live current running through his bony body, and pulled nervously on a tuft of hair on his chin.
“Who’s in charge around here?”
Monk stepped forward. “I think that’s me.”
“Get ready to cut me a very big check,” the man said. “I can give you the Golden Gate Strangler.”
14
Mr. Monk Leads the Charge
Monk hustled the man into an interrogation room. I went with them, even though I wasn’t a cop and hadn’t been invited. I’m pretty sure that Dr. Watson would have gone with Holmes in the same situation.
“I’m Captain Adrian Monk. Who are you?”
“Bertrum Gruber.”
“You can start by unbuttoning your shirt, Mr. Gruber,” Monk said.
“I didn’t come here for a physical.”
“You skipped a buttonhole,” Monk said. “Your entire shirt is misaligned.”
“So what?”
“You’re in a police station. It’s our job to enforce law and order,” Monk said. “You, sir, are out of order.”
“Mr. Monk,” I said, “this man says he has information that could lead to the arrest of the Golden Gate Strangler.”
“That’s what I’ve got,” Gruber said.
“I’m supposed to trust a man who is drunk and disorderly?” Monk said.
“I’m not drunk,” Gruber said.
“Then why are you so disorderly?”
Gruber grudgingly unbuttoned his shirt. Monk turned his back to the man and motioned to me do the same.
“I’m not bashful,” Gruber said.
“You should be,” Monk said.
“What do you know about the Strangler?” I said with my back to Gruber.
“There’s this community garden next to McKinley Park. I went out there early Saturday morning to water my strawberries. I was crouching down, you know, to water them, when I saw this guy come out of the dog park, but he didn’t have no dog. He didn’t see me. The weird thing is, he was clutching this running shoe to his chest like it was made of gold or something.”
A shoe.
My heart skipped a beat. If Monk knew my heart did that, he would have demanded that it beat one more time to make up for it.
Monk turned around and so did I.
“Your shirt is still misbuttoned,” Monk said.
Gruber looked down at himself. “No, it’s not.”
It was. Monk glanced imploringly at me.
“You don’t seriously want me to button his shirt for him,” I said.
“Show some compassion for your fellow man,” Monk said.
“Yeah,” Gruber said. “Show me.”
I knew Monk wasn’t going to be able to concentrate with the misbuttoned shirt. I had to take one for the team. I sighed and unbuttoned Gruber’s shirt, exposing his scrawny, sunken chest. He grinned at me.
“Nice, huh?” Gruber said. “I work out.”
“I’d better get a big raise,” I said to Monk, but his back was already turned.
“Tell us more about this man you saw,” Monk said.
“He was a fat white guy in his mid-thirties or early forties. He was medium height with greasy brown hair and big, round cheeks, like he had a couple of tennis balls in his mouth.”
I buttoned the shirt up as fast as I could. “I’m done.”
“If you find yourself dreaming about this moment, give me a call,” Gruber said. “We can go sailing on my yacht.”
“You’ve got a yacht?” I asked.
“I will soon.” He winked. “It’s on the top of my list of things to buy with my two hundred and fifty Gs.”
“You haven’t given us anything we can use,” Monk said.
“I’m not done yet,” Gruber said. “The guy wipes his shoe against the edge of the curb to get some dog crap off of it, then gets into his car, an oxidized blue 1999 Ford Taurus with a broken left rear taillight and a dent on the bumper. You want the plates?”
“You remember his license plate number?” Monk said incredulously.
“Just the last letter and the numbers ’cause they match my mom’s birthday,” Gruber said. “M-five-six-seven. Like May fifth, 1967.”
“Stay here,” Monk said to him. “The room has a nice mirror. You might want to practice buttoning your shirt while we’re gone.”
As soon as we were out of the room, Monk went straight to Officer Curtis, who, like everyone else, was waiting in the squad room to hear whatever news he had.
“I need you to run a plate right away,” Monk said. “The last part is M-five-six-seven.”
“With just a partial plate,” she said, “you’re going to get hundreds of hits.”
“I only want those that are registered to a Ford Taurus,” Monk said.
Officer Curtis sat down at a computer and typed in the information.
“What do you think of his story?” I said.
“He knew about the left shoe. That information wasn’t released to the public. He also said the man was coming out of the dog park. The specific location where the body was found wasn’t released, either.”
“So this is a good lead.”
“I don’t trust him,” Monk said.
“You’re just saying that because his shirt was misbuttoned.”
“You won’t find a better indicator of a man’s character,” Monk said. “So I wasn’t surprised when he lied.”
“What did he lie about?”
“What he was doing in the park that morning,” Monk said.
“How do you know?” There I was, asking that question again. I should print the question on a T-shirt, along with a few others I frequently repeated, and wear it at work every day like a uniform.
“He said he was checking on his strawberries.”
“There’s an open garden there,” I said. “People can grow whatever they want.”
“But it’s too soon to plant strawberries. The optimum time is between November first and tenth to catch the winter chill; otherwise you’ll get very few, if any, berries.”
“It could be that he’s just a lousy farmer,” I said. “I wouldn’t know when the right time to plant strawberries is, either.”
Officer Curtis spoke up. “I’ve got one hit for a 1999 Ford Taurus off that partial plate, sir. It’s here in San Francisco and is registered to Charlie Herrin.”
“I know that name,” Porter said.
“You do?” Monk said.
“I think it’s mine,” Porter said.
“It’s not yours,” Sparrow said. “Your name is George Clooney.”
“Then there’s another reason I know that name.” Porter sorted through the loose papers on his desk. “Ah. Here it is. Charlie Herrin. He sells overstock shoes at a flea market in the Mission District.”
My heart skipped another beat. If this continued, I’d have to schedule an appointment with a cardiologist.
Charlie Herrin had to be the killer. Otherwise all these facts coming together the way they did would have qualified as one of the biggest coincidences in the history of coincidences.
The only
downside was that Bertrum Gruber was going to get $250,000 for his tip. I admit it: I was envious and resentful. Monk solved eighteen or twenty murders a year and got a paltry consulting fee, from which I drew my pathetic salary. But some jerk came in with a license plate number and got a quarter of a million dollars. It would take Monk years of servitude to the city to make that much.
Wyatt rose from his seat and leaned over Officer Curtis’s shoulder. “You got a residential address on Herrin?”
Officer Curtis nodded. “It’s coming out of the printer now.”
Wyatt marched over to the printer and snatched the sheet out. “He lives in a dive in the Mission District. We’ve got to take it down with a full tactical assault ASAP.”
“Couldn’t we just knock on his door and see if he’s home?” Monk said. “That’s how I usually do it.”
“We’re talking about a psycho. If a couple uniforms interviewed him about the dead women today, he knows it’s only a matter of time before we’re on his ass,” Wyatt said. “He’s either getting ready to bolt or preparing to hunker down and fight it out.”
“He’s right,” Jasper said. “Psychologically speaking, of course.”
“I’m sure the police showing up at his place of business made him very angry,” Arnie said. “But having them show up at his home, violating his personal space, will make him livid.”
Monk motioned me over to a corner and whispered, “What do I do?”
“I hate to say it, but Wyatt is probably right,” I said. “If anybody here should lead a tactical assault, it’s him. Just make sure you’re wearing Kevlar from head to toe.”
“Do I really have to be there?” Monk whined.
“You’re the captain,” I said.
The tactical assault team met in the parking lot of a Safeway supermarket around the corner from the building where Charlie Herrin lived.
Monk stood in his Kevlar vest while the thirty other officers double-checked their weapons and communications gear. He looked uncomfortable in his vest and awkward in his surroundings, as if he were the only straight man in a gay bar (like that would ever happen to him). He couldn’t stop fiddling with his headset and adjusting the microphone in front of his mouth, which probably took his mind off of how out of place he felt.
Wyatt, however, was entirely in his element. His Kevlar vest fit him so well, I wondered if he’d had his tailored. He spread a blueprint of Herrin’s building out on the hood of a car and confidently gave orders to the officers while Monk stood to one side, still adjusting his headset until it was balanced just right.
When Wyatt finished his briefing, everybody synchronized their watches and moved into position. He glanced disapprovingly at Monk.
“Are you carrying a weapon?” Wyatt asked.
Monk reached into his pocket and pulled out half a dozen packets of disinfectant wipes.
“They kill germs on contact,” Monk said.
Wyatt grimaced with disgust. “Remain behind me and take cover when the shooting starts.”
Monk nodded. “And when should I begin cowering?”
“You never cower,” Wyatt said.
“I’m pretty sure that I do,” Monk said. “I thought it might help if I warmed up by cowering now so I’m fully cowered when it counts.”
Wyatt just shook his head and walked away. Arnie intercepted him.
“Remember those breathing exercises I taught you,” Arnie said. “Try to stay calm and focused.”
“I’m always calm and focused when I have a gun in my hand,” Wyatt said.
“Don’t let your anger drive you,” Arnie said. “Drive your anger. Steer it to the garage and park it.”
Wyatt gave him a steely look. Arnie wilted and shuffled away.
Since Arnie and I were civilians, they wouldn’t us go along on the raid. I was thankful for that. Instead we got to watch the entire operation unfold from the comfort of the mobile command center, a retrofitted Winnebego with TV monitors that played live feeds from the microcameras mounted in the SWAT guys’ helmets.
Before I tell you what happened, keep in mind that I wasn’t actually there. This account comes from what I saw on those “cop cams” in the command center and what I learned later from Monk, so if I sound omniscient here, you’ll know why.
The cops swarmed the building from several different entrances. They moved with choreographed precision, with the exception of Monk, who was like a dancer in a chorus who couldn’t stay in step. Wyatt kept yanking him back into formation.
The cops cleared out the first-floor tenants before going upstairs to Herrin’s apartment. The corridor was narrow and badly lit, with stained carpet and peeling paint.
Wyatt and the officers hugged the walls. Monk did his best not to brush against the walls or step on the stains on the floor, which made him look as if he were playing hopscotch down the corridor.
The officers flanked Herrin’s door, their weapons trained dead center. Wyatt stepped up, raised his foot, and with one mighty kick smashed the door open.
He dived low into the room, rolled, and came up in a firing stance, the officers rushing in behind him, their guns aimed at a giant poster of a smiling Jessica Simpson in short-shorts and a halter top. At her feet, on a tiny table, was a pile of left-foot running shoes.
The officers swarmed into the empty apartment, throwing open doors to make sure nobody was hiding in the bathroom or bedroom. When Wyatt yanked open the closet door, a ladder fell out and he nearly shot it.
Monk came in behind the officers and quickly went to the shoes.
“Get these back to headquarters right away,” he said to the nearest officer.
Several cops dutifully followed Monk’s command and bagged the shoes.
“Stand down,” Wyatt said to his men, and holstered his weapon. “It looks like we’re too late.”
Monk began to wander around the tiny living room, examining the thrift-shop furniture, shoe catalogs, and podiatry journals. He stopped beside the coffee table and crouched to examine a fine white powder on the surface.
He frowned, looked up at the ceiling, and saw a crack opening up like a zipper. And just when he began to register what the crack and the powder meant, the ceiling split open, raining plaster, wood, insulation, and one very fat man right on top of Monk.
I screamed, startling everyone in the mobile command center, which wasn’t wise. When cops are startled, their immediate reflex is to draw their weapons. Within an instant, I had three guns aimed at me. I immediately forgot about Monk and began worrying about my own safety.
“Sorry,” I mumbled sheepishly.
The flustered cops holstered their weapons, and we all turned our attention back to the screens.
“Relax,” Arnie said to me. “This is what Wyatt does best.”
Charlie Herrin had scrambled to his feet, lifting Monk up in front of him. He had one arm across Monk’s chest and held a gun to Monk’s head with his other hand.
Every officer in the tiny apartment spun around and aimed their weapons at Herrin and Monk.
“Drop your guns or I’ll blow his head off,” Herrin rasped, coughing on the plaster dust, which covered him and Monk.
“You heard the man; lower your weapons,” Wyatt stepped out in front of the others and pointed his massive gun directly at Monk’s stomach. “With the price of bullets, we need to economize.”
The cops followed Wyatt’s command.
Monk tried to wipe the dust off himself, but stopped when Herrin jammed the gun in his ear.
“Stop squirming,” Herrin said to Monk, then shifted his attention to Wyatt. “Put your gun down, too.”
Wyatt shook his head. “Here’s what’s going to happen, punk. I’m gonna shoot your hostage.”
Monk’s eyes widened. “Okay, that’s one idea. Let’s set that one aside for a moment and see if the three of us can put our heads together and come up with something else.”
“The bullet will go clean through him,” Wyatt said to Herrin, “and lodge deep in that
oversize belly of yours.”
“I’ll shoot,” Herrin said. “I’ll splatter his brains all over the room.”
“You’ll spasm, piss yourself, and lose control of your bowels,” Wyatt said. “But you won’t shoot.”
“Hey, I have an idea. How about everybody puts down their guns and we settle this with an arm-wrestling competition?” Monk said. “It’ll be fun and won’t leave a mess.”
“You’ll both live and I’ll only be out one bullet,” Wyatt continued, ignoring Monk’s suggestion. “As opposed to shooting off your kneecaps and putting a bullet in your skull when you let go of your hostage. That’s three bullets, which is pricey for a guy on my salary.”
“He’s wearing Kevlar,” Herrin said, squeezing Monk tight against him. “I’m protected.”
“My gun is loaded with cop-killer bullets,” Wyatt said. “They’re armor-piercing.”
“Those are illegal.”
“You gonna arrest me, punk?” Wyatt said.
“These bullets can cut through that Kevlar like it was toilet tissue. While you’re squirming in agony in a puddle of your own excrement, I’ll convince you to confess.”
“I’d really like this to be an excrement-free hostage situation,” Monk said. “What if we let Charlie go, count to ten, and then chase after him? I think that would work for everyone.”
“So what do you say, punk?” Wyatt cocked the trigger of his gun. “Ready to have some fun?”
“This is great progress,” Arnie said to me, nodding with approval.
“It is?” I said incredulously. “Wyatt is talking about resolving the situation by shooting Mr. Monk in the stomach!”
“Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Somehow I don’t see it that way.”
“The old Wyatt would have shot him already and not wasted his time talking about it first.” Arnie smiled, pleased. “This is a meaningful step forward for him.”
I had no doubt at all that Wyatt would really shoot. I’m sure that Monk had no doubt, either. And, apparently, neither did Charlie Herrin. The killer dropped his gun, stepped back from Monk, and raised his hands.
Two of the SWAT guys immediately tackled him, pinned him to the ground, and cuffed him. While that was going on, Wyatt holstered his gun and approached Monk, who was frantically slapping his clothes, stomping his feet, and shaking himself to get the dust off.