Mr. Monk on the Couch

by Lee Goldberg

  “So where is it?” Monk asked.

  “Maybe he liked to read on the toilet,” Devlin said, “and the newspaper is in his bathroom.”

  “It’s not,” Monk said.

  “You haven’t checked,” she said.

  “No, I haven’t, but you can,” Monk said. “Go ahead, I’ll wait.”

  “Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right, it’s not in the house. Maybe it’s outside somewhere.”

  “It’s not,” Monk said. “It’s the only newspaper on the street that wasn’t delivered.”

  “You don’t know that,” Devlin said.

  “I do, but you can confirm it for yourself by going door to door,” Monk said. “Go ahead, I’ll wait.”

  Stottlemeyer shot me a smile behind Devlin’s back. He was enjoying this. I wasn’t, so I glowered at him instead, which only made him smile more, because he enjoyed that, too.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s say he never got his paper. So what? Maybe the killer took it so he’d have something to read in the can.”

  “The killer took the newspaper, but not for reading material. Dach liked to read his newspaper with his breakfast. So he set the table and then went outside to get the paper.”

  And with that, Monk headed out the door, playing the part of Garson Dach. We trailed after him.

  “But as soon as he stepped outside, he saw that his car had been vandalized, so he rushed outside and bent down to examine the damage to his tires and headlights,” Monk continued, squatting down in front of the car. “That’s when the paperboy drove by, tossing out Sunday papers willy-nilly. He didn’t see Dach. He tossed his paper just as Dach stood up and hit him in the head with it.”

  “The paper was huge this morning,” I said. “It would have been like getting hit with a slab of concrete.”

  Monk nodded. “Dach fell, smacking his head against the pavement, compounding the injury. The paperboy came over, checked Dach’s pulse, and realized he was dead. So he snatched the newspaper and drove off, quickly and haphazardly tossing out the rest of his papers as he fled so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself by not making his deliveries.”

  Once again, Monk had solved the case by spotting a detail I’d missed. Not something that was there, but something that wasn’t.

  “So it was just an accident,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Until he tried to cover it up,” Monk said. “Then it became a crime.”

  “Oh come on,” Devlin said. “It’s a guess, that’s all it is. An absurd guess based entirely on one missing newspaper.”

  “And a big mess,” Monk said. “The newspapers on the other half of the block are at least on the driveways. The paperboy didn’t go entirely willy-nilly until after he passed this house.”

  “It’s still just a guess. That doesn’t mean you’re right,” Devlin said, looking to Stottlemeyer for support, which I knew she wasn’t going to get.

  “Monk’s right,” he said.

  “We don’t know that,” she said.

  “I do and so will you once you bring in the paperboy. If you hurry, maybe he’ll still have the bloody newspaper on him when you catch him.”

  Devlin scowled but acknowledged the captain’s order with a nod and hurried off. Monk looked after her.

  “I miss Randy,” he said.

  “As I recall, it took a while for Randy to warm up to you, too,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “But she scares me,” he said.

  “I won’t let her shoot you,” the captain said.

  “I’d rather be shot than get gingivitis.”

  “I won’t let her kiss you, either, though I could kiss you myself for solving this case so fast. Thanks to you, I might be able to get back home before lunch.”

  “You still have to catch whoever vandalized Garson Dach’s car,” Monk said.

  “It can wait,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m sure Lieutenant Devlin will be glad to do it on Monday.”

  “Maybe I’ll get Lieutenant Devlin a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some dental floss and give her instructions on their proper use,” Monk said. “That should go a long way toward establishing a cordial working relationship between us.”

  “I wouldn’t give her floss,” Stottlemeyer said. “She might try to strangle you with it.”

  “That’s what you did,” Monk said.

  “That’s why I’m warning you,” Stottlemeyer said. “Just be patient with her. She’s a terrific cop, but all those years in vice working undercover haven’t given her a lot of people skills.”

  “Or patience,” I said.

  “Or the awareness of the importance of good dental health,” Monk said. “She could have a stroke.”

  “From swollen gums?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “Oral bacteria can seep into the bloodstream and inflame the blood vessels in the brain, causing a massive ischemic stroke.”

  “You’re kidding,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “It’s one of my greatest fears,” Monk said.

  “Meaning it’s in your top hundred,” I said.

  “Greatest fears are the top thousand. Mind-numbing, physically paralyzing fears are the top hundred.”

  “And what are the top ten?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “Instant-death fears,” Monk said.

  “Meaning?”

  “I’d prefer instant death to even the remote possibility of experiencing the possibility of experiencing them.”

  “So what will you charge the paperboy with?” I asked in a heavy-handed attempt to get Monk’s mind off his instant-death fears.

  Stottlemeyer shrugged and glanced at the corpse. “I’ll leave that to Dach’s friends in the DA’s office. I’m sure they’ll come up with something creative.”

  “Whatever the charge is, his days tossing newspapers are over,” Monk said. “It will be a lesson to paperboys everywhere. Dach’s death won’t be in vain.”

  “I’m sure that will be a comfort to him, wherever he is,” Stottlemeyer said. That’s when his cell phone rang. He waved us off as he answered it, and we started back toward the car.

  I turned to Monk and whispered, “So, where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

  “The blubber. My thighs? My waist? My chin? All of the above?”

  “Oh hell,” Stottlemeyer said behind us.

  Monk and I turned around. And from the crestfallen look on the captain’s face as he listened to his caller, I knew that he wouldn’t be getting home for lunch.

  And neither would we.

  The Excelsior Hotel rented rooms by the hour, the day, the week, and the month to the immigrants, drug dealers, prostitutes, and poor people of the Tenderloin, a crime-ridden neighborhood tucked between the Civic Center and Union Square.

  The Tenderloin was just as seedy as it had always been, despite the best efforts of developers to turn all the old buildings into upscale lofts, offices, and coffee bars. The Excelsior was on the front lines of the gentrification invasion. The hotel, a dive bar, a shoe repair shop, and a discount cigarette store were on one side of the street. On the other side was a wannabe Starbucks and a renovated old office building that had been turned into “luxury condominiums” but was 70 percent unoccupied, thanks to the financial downturn.

  We double-parked in front of the Excelsior behind Captain Stottlemeyer’s car and followed him inside.

  The lobby was faded and decaying, much like its tenants, who lazed around on the vinyl furniture, smoking cigarettes, napping, and watching Dr. Phil on the TV.

  The front desk was enclosed in a cage. The squirrelly manager, unshaven and in a sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his tattooed arms, sat behind the iron mesh, reading manga and drinking Red Bull.

  As downtrodden as the place was, it was definitely clean. It smelled like the walls and floors had been doused with buckets of chlorine, but I suppose it was better than the alternative.

  Monk took a deep breath. “Why can’t the whole world smell this fresh?”

  “It’s not fre
sh,” I said. “You’re breathing powerful chemicals.”

  “It’s better than breathing germs,” Monk said.

  “Chemicals can kill you even faster than germs.”

  “But you’ll die cleaner.”

  “You’re still dead.”

  “A clean death is much better than a dirty death,” Monk said, then turned to Stottlemeyer. “What kind do we have here?”

  “A natural death, or so the ME told me on the phone. We won’t know for sure, of course, until after the autopsy. But there’s nothing about the body that screams murder.”

  “So what are we doing here?” I asked.

  “It’s standard operating procedure in cases of unattended deaths to treat them like possible homicides, especially when they happen in a place like this,” the captain said. “And I figured as long as you were around when I got the call, you might as well come down and make sure we aren’t missing something.”

  “What do we know about the victim?” Monk asked.

  “His name is Jack Griffin, he checked in three weeks ago, and paid cash for a month’s rent,” Stottlemeyer said. “That’s all we’ve got. He’s in room 214.”

  “That’s a good room,” Monk said.

  “You haven’t seen it,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “It’s an even-numbered room on the second floor,” Monk said. “It has to be one of the best in the building.”

  “I don’t think that’s saying much,” I said.

  We followed Stottlemeyer up the narrow staircase to the second floor. The thin carpet in the hallway was so stained and trampled that it was impossible to tell what the original color once was. The walls were a sickly yellow.

  The door to room 214 was open. Two uniformed police officers and two morgue attendants with a collapsible gurney stood outside in the corridor, presumably waiting for us to be done with the body so they could get it out of there. The four men stepped aside so we could go in the room, Monk leading the way, doing his Monk tai chi.

  I decided to ignore him and concentrate on my own observation of the room. To our right was a narrow closet halfcovered with a tattered curtain. There was a denim jacket with a fake-fur collar hanging inside and a gym bag on the floor.

  To our left was a small bathroom, the toilet squeezed between the shower and the sink. A shaving kit and several pill bottles were on the counter. One was Advil, another appeared to contain vitamins, and another was labeled “Apricot Extract.”

  In front of us was a window that overlooked the street. The thin, moth-eaten curtain did little to keep out the light. I could see through it to the luxury condos across the way.

  To the left of the window was a single bed, the scratched headboard screwed to the wall under an adjustable, mounted reading lamp. The bedspread looked like it was made from the same material as the carpet and was just as stained and colorless.

  There was a stack of paperback Westerns, a canister of Pringles potato chips, two cans of mixed nuts, and a bunch of bruised bananas on the nightstand and two tall bottles of water and a pair of old, fat binoculars on the floor.

  At the foot of the bed, to our right, a small TV was bolted to the top of the four-drawer, wood-laminate dresser, which was nailed to the floor.

  There was also a writing desk with a lamp bolted to the desktop. The desk chair, a denim shirt draped over the back, was the only piece of furniture that wasn’t bolted in place.

  Finally, I focused my attention on the dead man, whom I’d forced myself to ignore while I looked over the room.

  He was on his back, wearing a white T-shirt, brown corduroy shirt, old jeans, and a pair of stained canvas tennis shoes. He was a Caucasian man, but his skin was dark and leathery and clung to his bones. His hair was sun-dried like straw. It was hard to believe he’d been dead only a day. He looked like an unwrapped mummy.

  His hands were rough and calloused, covered with tiny scratches and scars. In his right hand, he held a snapshot that was curled against his palm.

  As I leaned close to try to get a look at the picture, I picked up the scent of almonds and my pulse quickened.

  Cyanide smells like almonds.

  I glanced over at Monk, who stood on the other side of the bed, to see if he’d picked up the scent, too.

  He rolled his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side, and tugged on his sleeves. He’d straightened himself out and now he’d straighten out the world by telling us Griffin’s death was murder and maybe even who did it.

  “The medical examiner is correct,” Monk said. “Let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mr. Monk States the Obvious

  Monk headed for the door but I stayed where I was.

  “How do you know it wasn’t murder or suicide?” I called after him.

  He turned around and looked at me. “Because it’s obvious he died of natural causes.”

  “How is it obvious?”

  “That’s like asking how I know that he had cancer or that he’s spent years in Mexico crewing on yachts and sportfishing boats.”

  Stottlemeyer and I shared a look. At least I wasn’t the only one in the room who felt like an idiot. Beyond Griffin’s leathery skin, which clearly came from a life outdoors, I was at a loss to understand how Monk deduced the rest.

  “I don’t see that, either,” Stottlemeyer said. I think he spoke up mostly out of sympathy for me.

  “You should both see an ophthalmologist,” Monk said, and not in a mean-spirited way. He seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Just because we don’t see things the same way you do, Monk, doesn’t mean we can’t see at all,” the captain said.

  “Yes, it does,” Monk said, returning to the bed and looking down at the body. “Do you see him?”

  “Of course we do,” I said.

  “Then surely you’ve noticed the severe muscle and tissue wasting.”

  “It’s called death,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “It’s called cachexia, which is highly indicative of latestage cancer. My guess is skin cancer, given the scars on his neck where lesions have been removed.”

  I leaned down and looked at Griffin’s neck. I’d seen the scars on his hands, but I’d missed these. Once again, I was struck by the scent of almonds.

  “How do you know he crewed on boats?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “His hands and feet,” Monk said.

  “You can’t see his feet,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “I can see his shoes, which are spotted with various shades of teak stain and varnish acquired while refinishing and maintaining boats,” Monk said. “His hands are calloused on the palms and on his fingers from years of working with rope, which you can tell is of the nautical variety by the size of the rope burn on his right arm.”

  “How do you know he crewed on sportfishing boats, too?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  Monk pointed to Griffin’s hands. “Do you see all those little scars? Those are from getting snagged, cut, and scratched with hooks, knives, and fishing line, a common occurrence in that profession.”

  “Okay, maybe we missed all of that,” I said.

  “You did miss all of that,” he said.

  “But there’s something that you missed.”

  “I doubt it,” Monk said.

  “This man was poisoned with cyanide,” I said. “I can smell the scent of almonds on him.”

  Stottlemeyer raised his eyebrows. “You can?” He sniffed around the body. “I can’t.”

  “That’s because the ability to detect the scent is genetically determined,” Monk said. “And only fifty percent of the population has that ability. I, of course, do.”

  “So how come you didn’t say anything about the almond scent?” I asked.

  “I did,” he said.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I said he came from Mexico,” Monk said.

  “What does that have to do with him being poisoned with cyanide?”

  “Nothing,” Monk said.

  Stottlemeyer rubbed his brow. “If
this conversation goes on much longer, I may take the cyanide.”

  “The scent doesn’t come from poison,” Monk said. “It comes from the apricot-extract pills that Griffin was taking to battle his cancer.”

  “Wouldn’t apricots smell like apricots instead of almonds?” I asked.

  “The pills are actually an enzyme that’s derived from apricot pits and produces some cyanide as well. It’s a quack cancer treatment known as laetrile that is illegal in the United States but not in Mexico, which is how I knew that’s where he came from,” Monk said. “That and the dental amalgam used in his fillings, the stitching and material used to make his shoes, and the leather and craftsmanship of his belt, of course.”

  “Of course,” Stottlemeyer said wearily.

  “He still could have killed himself,” I said.

  “You are referring to those,” Monk said, casting a disgusted glance at the two cans on the nightstand. “Because you’d have to have a death wish, or no longer care about living, to eat mixed nuts.”

  “I am referring to the cyanide,” I said. “He could have overdosed on his meds.”

  “If he was going to commit suicide, why come here at all? And why wait three weeks to do it?” Monk said. “He must have come here for a reason.”

  “What was it?” I asked.

  Monk shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It did to him,” I said.

  “Not to me,” Monk said.

  “It might to someone who cared about him,” I said.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs,” Monk said. “I want to get the name of the cleanser they are using.”

  I stayed where I was and looked down again at poor Jack Griffin. “What happens now, Captain?”

  “We’ll run his name and prints through our databases and try to track down his next of kin here or in Mexico.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “We’ll take his prints, a sample of his DNA, and store his possessions for a time,” Stottlemeyer said. “But after six weeks, if his body isn’t identified or claimed, he’ll be cremated as a John Doe.”

  I gestured to the photo in Griffin’s hand. “May I?”