Mr. Monk on the Couch

by Lee Goldberg

“It’s what I’m not seeing that matters,” he said.

  “Yes, exactly,” Devlin said. “Try to focus on what really means something.”

  Monk nodded and said, “The matching couch that’s missing from the set.”

  “No, Monk, the life that was taken here. That’s what matters. What difference does a couch make compared to that?”

  “Because it’s the couch that she donated to Casey Grover’s thrift shop and that Mark Costa bought for his home office,” Monk said. “And it’s the couch that got them all killed.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mr. Monk Has a Theory

  Well, that certainly put things in a new perspective, at least for Captain Stottlemeyer and me. We’d learned a long time ago that whenever Monk made a totally ridiculous assertion, like saying that three people were murdered over a thrift store couch, we had to take it seriously.

  Devlin hadn’t learned that yet. All she heard was the absurdity of Monk’s statement, and she couldn’t get past it. I could sympathize with Devlin’s difficulties, since I still had to make a conscious effort to look for the sense in Monk’s theories.

  So while the captain and I mulled what Monk said, she fought him.

  “You don’t know the couch has anything to do with these killings,” Devlin said.

  “Yes, I do,” Monk said.

  “That same living room set could be in a thousand homes,” Devlin said. “Just because she and Costa both own a few pieces doesn’t mean there’s a connection.”

  “They’re both dead and they both lived within a few blocks of each other and the thrift store. That’s three more connections.”

  “And maybe they both have a six-pack of Diet Coke in their refrigerators, or own clothing made by Ralph Lauren, or have Visio flat-screen TVs. And maybe so do a hundred other people within a square mile of here. That doesn’t mean they are connected to each other. It means they bought some of the same mass-produced, widely sold products. Let’s not jump to conclusions until we have facts.”

  The captain spoke up. “My gut tells me Monk is right, but you make a valid point, Amy. So after you’ve processed this crime scene, go back to the office and prove Monk wrong. Look at the records we pulled from the thrift shop and see if Strauss’ or Costa’s name comes up.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Back to Costa’s to get that damn couch.”

  Stottlemeyer headed back to his car. Monk and I went with him.

  Devlin called out after us. “Maybe it’s made of gold and upholstered in dinosaur hide.”

  Monk shook his head and whispered to me, “That’s just not possible. Dinosaurs have been extinct for millions of years. Nobody has found one of their hides and certainly wouldn’t upholster a piece of furniture with it if they did. It would be in a museum. She’s being silly.”

  “Yes, she is,” I said. “But at least she’s not threatening to shoot you.”

  “That’s true,” Monk said. “So this is progress.”

  We got in the backseat of Stottlemeyer’s car and he immediately hit the siren and floored it, pinning us against our seats and burning rubber as he sped from the curb.

  I think the captain got a rush out of it and so did I, and not just because I found the speed exhilarating. I wanted to get as far away from that gruesome scene as fast as I could.

  But Monk was terrified. He sat with his feet pressed against the back of the seat in front of him, one hand gripping the armrest on the door, the other clutching the strap of his seat belt.

  As Stottlemeyer drove, he called the forensics unit and sent them back to Costa’s house to confiscate the couch.

  “Slow down,” Monk said. “There’s no hurry.”

  “I already released Costa’s house to the crime scene cleaners,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ve got to get there before they touch that couch.”

  Monk turned to me. “Call them. Quickly. Before we’re killed in a traffic accident.”

  I took out my phone and called Jerry. He picked up almost immediately. “Hey, Jerry, it’s Natalie.”

  “It’s great to hear your voice,” he said. “I was just thinking about you. The truth is, I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said, very much aware that both Stottlemeyer and Monk were eavesdropping. “I’m on my way over to Mark Costa’s house with Mr. Monk and Captain Stottlemeyer. We think the couch in Costa’s office may be evidence in his murder. You haven’t done anything with it yet, have you?”

  “No, we haven’t,” he said. I could hear the disappointment in his voice that I wasn’t calling just to be sociable. “It hasn’t been touched.”

  “Great, we’ll be right there,” I said, and then added, as quickly and quietly as I could, “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me, too,” he said, perking up.

  I dropped my phone back in my purse. Monk smiled with approval and Stottlemeyer stole a curious glance at me in the rearview mirror.

  I pretended not to notice their interest. “The couch is secure.”

  “Good,” Stottlemeyer said. He slowed down as a courtesy to Monk but kept the siren on so we wouldn’t have to creep along in stop-and-go traffic.

  Jerry was waiting for us on the curb outside of Costa’s place when we arrived. He was in his Tyvek suit, only without the hood, goggles, and mask.

  He smiled at me as the three of us got out of the car.

  “Hello, Natalie, Adrian.” Jerry turned to the captain and offered an ungloved hand. “I’m Jerry Yermo, Captain. I’ve been following your work for years.”

  That seemed to be Jerry’s stock greeting to detectives, but it was also a statement of fact.

  The captain shook hands with Jerry. “Leland Stottlemeyer. Monk speaks very highly of you.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Jerry said. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s so special about that couch?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” Stottlemeyer said. “The CSI guys will be down here in a few minutes to take it back to the lab, but I’d like to take another look at it beforehand.”

  “Be my guest,” Jerry said. “Would you like a biohazard suit?”

  “No, thanks,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “I would,” Monk said.

  Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes. “I’ll meet you inside.”

  “I will, too,” I said.

  “You both really should wear a suit,” Jerry said to us. “Not just now, but every time you enter a crime scene where bodily fluids have been spilled.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Stottlemeyer said in a way that made it clear that what he was really saying was “No way in hell.”

  I knew Jerry was probably right, but I’d survived walking into a hundred crime scenes already without being clad in a bulky and uncomfortable biohazard suit, so I was pretty sure I’d be okay now.

  I gave Jerry a smile and walked behind the captain as he went up the steps to the front door.

  “Why did you smile at him?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “I’m a polite person,” I said.

  “You got something going with him?”

  “We had dinner last night,” I said. “It’s not something yet.”

  “But you’re hoping it will be,” Stottlemeyer said, pausing at the door.

  “I’ll see how things go,” I said.

  “You really want Monk and a crime scene cleaner in your life?” Stottlemeyer asked, heading inside. “You haven’t endured enough incessant nagging about dirt and germs for one lifetime already?”

  “Jerry isn’t as bad about it as Mr. Monk.”

  “That doesn’t make it any less irritating, especially if you’re getting it 24/7.”

  “I already am.”

  “But not in stereo,” he said.

  We walked in and I waved at Corinne, who was in her suit and cheerfully picking up rotten food off the floor in the kitchen with her gloved hands. She waved enthusiastically back at me.

  “What’s her p
roblem?” Stottlemeyer whispered to me.

  “She enjoys her work,” I said.

  “That is a problem. She and Monk should date.”

  “The idea has already been raised.”

  “By Monk?”

  “By me,” I said.

  “If that happens, and you hit it off with Jerry, your life will be a sanitary, germless, spotless hell.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I said.

  We went on upstairs to the bedroom, where Gene and William, fully clad in their biohazard suits and looking like astronauts, were wrapping the bloody mattress in plastic and sealing it with duct tape. They acknowledged us with a nod and kept working as we continued up to the top floor.

  The only change since we’d left was the presence of fingerprint powder everywhere, left over from the forensics team.

  The two of us stood in front of the trashed couch and silently regarded the loose stuffing, the exposed springs, and the torn upholstery. I crouched and examined the metal framing. Maybe there was gold underneath the layer of chrome, but I doubted it.

  That’s when Monk joined us, wearing the full biohazard suit, respirator mask and all.

  The captain glanced at him and shook his head, which was his only comment on the suit. He knew as well as I did that there was no point arguing with Monk about it.

  “So your theory is that the killer broke into the thrift store to find out who bought Cheryl’s couch and tracked it here.”

  “Yes,” Monk said, his voice filtered through his mask.

  “Have you got any ideas what makes this couch so special?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “Only that it was part of a matched set. Perhaps it was Cheryl breaking up the set that made the man snap and go on a killing spree.”

  “I can’t see that,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Think about it. Maybe this isn’t the first set of something that she’s broken.”

  “I still don’t see it.”

  “What if she gave away half of her bedroom set? Or lost the salt shaker from a matching pair of salt-and-pepper shakers? Or willfully split up a pair of bookends? Surely you can see how, over time, someone close to her could have been driven insane by that kind of irrational behavior.”

  “You’ve certainly made me frustrated enough to want to shoot someone, but that someone has always been you,” Stottlemeyer said. “So why did he kill the thrift store manager?”

  “Because our mystery man didn’t want to get caught breaking and entering,” Monk said.

  “But he was okay with murder?” I asked.

  “He was insane and, as I said before, an experienced criminal,” Monk said. “That’s a lethal combination.”

  “Okay,” Stottlemeyer said. “So why kill Costa?”

  “Maybe when the killer came here to get the couch back, he discovered that Costa had permanently stained it,” Monk said. “And that drove him into a murderous rage.”

  “Over a stain,” I said.

  “I don’t condone his actions, Natalie, but I can certainly understand them.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Stottlemeyer said. “But there’s a big hole in your theory, Monk. If you’re right, why was Strauss his last victim and not his first?”

  Monk rolled his shoulders and shifted his weight as if he wasn’t just mulling the question, but also checking its balance as he carried the thought.

  Jerry came in behind Monk. He was in his suit but hadn’t bothered to put his hood and mask on. I think that’s because I was there and it’s hard to flirt with a respirator on your face.

  “So this is the couch you’re all so interested in. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “Neither do we,” I said.

  “Why did he rip it up if it’s so special?” Jerry asked.

  Monk cocked his head from side to side and regarded the couch anew. “Because it’s not.”

  “Now you’re saying the couch isn’t the connection?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “It definitely is. But you were right that there was a flaw in my theory. The killer wasn’t after the couch itself,” Monk said. “He was after what was in it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mr. Monk Closes the Case

  “Like what?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Drugs? Jewelry? Cash? Microchips? Bonds?”

  “I have no idea,” Monk said. “But I believe there was something very valuable hidden in the couch and he wanted it back. He went to Cheryl’s to get it but discovered that she’d donated the couch to the thrift shop without knowing it contained his valuable item.”

  “So he broke into the store to find out who bought the couch and tracked it here,” Stottlemeyer said.

  Monk nodded. “I think the first thing he did was kill Costa when he came in and then went to the couch to retrieve his object. But it was gone. When he didn’t find it in the couch, or elsewhere in the house, he assumed that Cheryl had it all along. So he went back and tortured her into telling him where it was and then killed her.”

  “It’s still speculation,” Stottlemeyer said, “but it makes a lot more sense than the stain theory.”

  “I think they are on equal footing,” Monk said.

  “Maybe the lab guys will find some trace of the valuable object in the couch or its stuffing,” Stottlemeyer said. “Meanwhile, we’ll dig into Cheryl’s life and see if we can find out the identity of this mystery person who was close enough to her to use her couch as a safe.”

  “I’ve heard of stuffing money in your mattress,” Jerry said, “but never in your couch.”

  “Maybe she had a water bed,” I said.

  Jerry laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Stottlemeyer sighed. “Okay, I think we’re done here.”

  “I’d like to stay and help them clean up for a while,” Monk said.

  “We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, Monk.”

  “Can’t I stay for even a little while?”

  Jerry sighed. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Adrian, but actually it’s probably better if you go. It looks like we’re going to have to pull up the hardwood floor in the bedroom, and that’s more of a demolition and construction job than a cleanup anyway. No offense intended, but it’s a tight space here as it is, and the fewer people around the better.”

  “I understand,” Monk said, slouching with disappointment. “Could I at least stay and help Corinne clean up the kitchen while the captain drives Natalie back to the station to get her car?”

  Jerry nodded. “Of course.”

  Monk practically ran down the stairs before Jerry could change his mind.

  “I’ve never met anyone who liked cleaning so much,” Jerry said.

  “Consider yourself lucky,” Stottlemeyer said and walked out, leaving Jerry and me alone for a moment.

  “You look great,” he said.

  “So do you,” I said. “You wear that biohazard suit like it’s a tuxedo.”

  “That’s good to know, because this is what I was planning on wearing Friday night.”

  “Oddly enough, so was I,” I said.

  “You’d look good in a burlap sack,” he said.

  “That was my second choice.” I gave him a smile and headed for the stairs before he could start another round of flirtation. I can only take that kind of banter in small doses, mainly because I’m not creative enough to keep up my end.

  I went outside and got into the car with Stottlemeyer, and we went back to the station.

  I picked up Monk forty-five minutes later outside of Costa’s place and dropped him off at his apartment. By then it was early evening, so I called it a day and Monk didn’t argue with me about it.

  I went home and immediately fired up my laptop and began e-mailing the picture of the nurse and the little girl to the contacts that I’d made at the Bay Area hospitals. With luck, someone would recognize her and I’d have my first real break in my investigation.

  I blasted a Lean Cuisine in the microwave and picked at it while watching one mindles
s situation comedy after another, mindless being the key word.

  I’d put myself in a primetime TV trance, turning off my mind for a few hours so my brain could work in the background, rendering the horrific images I’d seen that day, stripping them of their emotional impact, and filing them for detached analysis.

  After two hours of snappy insults, wacky neighbors, bright lights, and computer-generated laughter, I shuffled off to bed and immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Getting up in the morning took a conscious effort. I felt like my entire body was encased in concrete. I took a hot shower that bordered on scalding, drank a gallon of coffee sweetened with a pound of sugar, and avoided the newspaper. I wasn’t ready to read about the homicide scene that I’d experienced firsthand, or any number of atrocities worldwide that I was lucky enough to have missed.

  Instead I went to my laptop to see if anybody had replied to my e-mail blast. I had one response from Dr. Everett Long, a pediatrician at Alta Bates Hospital in Berkeley, who said that he recognized the nurse and was willing to meet me to discuss it.

  I was excited by the news but it pissed me off a little, too. Why couldn’t he just tell me who she was? Why did he have to hold back the information until we met? What was there to discuss that he couldn’t simply tell me in an e-mail?

  I sent him a quick reply, letting him know that I would be in touch soon to set up a time to meet. I was hoping there would be no immediate developments in the couch case, that Monk wouldn’t need me, and that I could see Dr. Long that morning, but those hopes were quashed when my cell phone rang.

  It was Captain Stottlemeyer, who wanted to see us right away in his office. At least I wouldn’t be starting the day off with another corpse.

  I picked up Monk and we headed downtown. On the way, I asked him how he’d spent his night. He told me that he’d had a very relaxing evening emptying his kitchen cabinets and cleaning them. I’m sure that he had been just as zoned out cleaning as I’d been while watching those lousy sitcoms, and probably for the same reason. At least he had something to show for it.

  We found Stottlemeyer and Devlin in the captain’s office. He was leaning back in his desk chair and she was sitting on his beaten-up vinyl couch. They were both wearing the same clothes we’d seen them in yesterday and looked like they hadn’t slept at all.