Mr. Monk on Patrol

by Lee Goldberg

  “Oh my,” she said. “This may be the worst first impression I’ve ever made.”

  She didn’t seem upset but I spoke up quickly, eager to reassure her that she wasn’t in any trouble.

  “My name is Natalie Teeger and this is Adrian Monk. We’ve just arrived from San Francisco. We’re consultants with the Summit Police Department and the sentiments that Mr. Monk has been expressing are his own. He is repulsed by even the idea of excrement.”

  “Of course he is,” she said. “Most people are. That’s why I opened Poop here two years ago, to enlighten, amuse, and educate people about the natural, and enduring, value of excrement in our lives.”

  “You’ve been here for two years?” Monk said. “And nobody has stopped you?”

  “Quite the contrary,” she said. “I was just elected president of the Summit Chamber of Commerce.”

  “I knew this city was corrupt,” he said. “But this is beyond comprehension. It ends now. You’re going down, Poo Lady.”

  “My name is Ellen Morse,” she said. “Won’t you please come in and let me show you around?”

  “No. Way. In. Hell,” Monk said. “In fact, I’m almost certain that is hell.”

  “I’d be glad to,” I said to Morse and took a step toward her.

  Monk grabbed my arm. “It’s suicide.”

  “You’re overreacting,” I said, and yanked my arm free.

  “Am I?” Monk was trembling with anger. “You’re about to enter a building full of poop. Wall-to-wall dung. It’s like walking into a nuclear reactor, only not as clean. I won’t let you do it.”

  “How do you intend to stop me?”

  He balled his hands into fists. “Brute force.”

  “I can take you, Mr. Monk.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I wouldn’t even have to throw a punch. I’d just have to sneeze. Or spit.”

  “I wish I had a Taser,” he said.

  “You’d Tase me?”

  “You’d thank me later,” he said. “Now you won’t live to.”

  “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I said. “Maybe I’ll buy you something.”

  Morse held the door open for me and I walked inside.

  10

  Mr. Monk Goes to Hell

  Poop had the ambience of an art gallery coupled with the hippie vibe of a Marin County health food store. It was an open space, with exposed beams and pipes, artwork on display here and there, hardwood floors, and several rows of shelves composed of boards propped on the feet of many old folding ladders. Speakers piped in the white noise of nature—burbling springs, birdcalls, and wind rustling the leaves of tall trees. The air was heavy with floral incense.

  “Everything sold here is derived from solid animal waste,” Morse said. “We have the items divided into four sections—art and jewelry, food and nutrition, health care products, and stationery.”

  I gave her a look. “Did you say food?”

  “I did,” she replied with a sly smile.

  “People eat poop?”

  “They do,” she said.

  “Sane people?” As soon as I said it, I realized I must have sounded like Monk.

  She laughed and led me to a shelf lined with bottles containing a golden red liquid. “Are you familiar with argan oil?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I had it once on a salad at Le Guerre, a fancy French-Moroccan restaurant in San Francisco.”

  “It’s crap,” she said.

  “I thought it was very tasty,” I said. “It’s strong, but it really brings out the flavor of meat and cheese.”

  “What I mean is, the oil is poop.”

  “You’re kidding me,” I said.

  “It comes from goats in southern Morocco, who climb into the argan trees, eat the fruit, and excrete the nuts, which are collected, roasted, and pressed to make the oil.”

  She handed me a bottle. It was priced at almost forty dollars. I examined the label.

  “They don’t say anything about it being goat crap on the bottle,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t eat it if they did,” she said. “Or put it on your hair or use it to moisturize your skin.”

  I cringed at the thought that I’d been putting poop in my hair or down my throat. She smiled at my discomfort.

  “I can see what you’re thinking. You’re picturing yourself sticking a spoon in a pile of steaming dung or slathering it in your hair with your bare hands,” she said. “It’s revolting and it makes you sick.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that,” I said, “considering that you sell the stuff.”

  “The excrement used in argan oil, or any of the food or health care products that I sell here, has been so refined that there are no toxic elements remaining. But the facts don’t matter. We are conditioned from a very early age to revile excrement, despite its many practical and even vital uses. It’s a totally Western bias,” she said. “In India, for instance, cow dung is revered. A new home is considered blessed, and the occupants destined to be prosperous, only after a cow has defecated in the living room. And once they move in, they smear dung on their front porches to welcome and honor their guests.”

  “As enlightened as you are about poop, you must still be at least a little revolted by it, too, or you wouldn’t burn incense to hide the smell.”

  “Do you like the incense?”

  “It’s better than sniffing L’Air du Crap,” I said.

  “It is crap,” she said. “The incense is imported from India. It’s floral-scented cow dung.”

  I began to regret leaving my gas mask behind. “Is that healthy?”

  “Indians think so,” she said. “They believe dung is antiseptic and pure because it comes from the sacred beast.”

  “But is it?”

  “They have practiced their beliefs for centuries without harm,” she said. “They wash their bodies with dung soap, brush their teeth with dung toothpaste, and they aren’t sick and dying, so you tell me.”

  India was definitely a country Monk should never visit under any circumstances. And even though I’m a lot more liberal minded than Monk, I decided that if I ever visited India, I’d take plenty of soap and toothpaste with me and a pair of old, comfortable shoes I wouldn’t mind parting with when I left the country.

  And if Indians were really immersing themselves in so much dung, it certainly explained why most of the customer support operators I talked to in Mumbai were always so surly. I would be surly, too, if I had to deal with that much crap, literally and figuratively, every day.

  I was still thinking about all the implications of such a poop-centric life when the front door of the store flew open and Monk burst in, wearing his gas mask and holding the other one in his hand.

  I guess he’d gathered up his courage and given himself a running start to ensure that he would actually make it through the door, even if he had second thoughts on the way. But his momentum carried him right up to a display of portraits painted on dried cow patties, where he came to a dead stop.

  He shrieked, staggered back, and bumped into a pedestal holding an enormous pile of fossilized dino dung.

  He yelped, spun around, and came face-to-face with a shelf of Panchagayva Herbal Soap, which the packaging stated in bold letters was MADE FROM PURE COW DUNG, URINE, GHEE, CURD, AND MILK.

  His eyes went wide with horror. I hurried over and put my arm around his shoulder, hugging him to my side and pulling him slowly back, away from the display.

  “I’m right here, Mr. Monk,” I said reassuringly in his ear.

  “I came to rescue you,” he said feebly, handing me the gas mask, his hand shaking. He sounded like Darth Vader having an anxiety attack.

  “It’s all right,” I said, taking the mask from him. “I’m okay.”

  “Good,” he said. “Now you can rescue me.”

  I was genuinely touched by his bravery. It was like Superman diving into a pool of kryptonite to save Lois Lane.

  “You’re safe,” I said.

  �
��She’s right,” Morse said. “You have nothing to fear from poop.”

  Monk turned to her, pinning her with a look of absolute hatred. “Excrement is among the most dangerous substances known to man, deadlier than radiation, and responsible for more deaths than guns, AIDS, cancer, car accidents, malaria, and smoking combined.”

  “Human waste, Mr. Monk,” she said. “But even that has positive uses. In London, they burn it to create electricity. In Calcutta, they use it for fish farms and fertilizing crops.”

  “Poo-poo causes millions of deaths every year,” Monk said, his face bright red with anger. “It’s a highly toxic breeding ground for cholera, typhoid, salmonella, E. coli, influenza, dysentery, candida, cryptosporidium—”

  “Again, you’re talking largely about human waste,” she said, interrupting him. “Cattle dung and bird guano are extraordinarily versatile and can be used for such things as fuel, fertilizer, batteries, insulation, moisturizer, paper, soap, roofing, food, gunpowder, and explosives. What other resource on earth is so useful, cheap, plentiful, safe, and renewable?”

  “Take a good look at her, Natalie,” he said. “She’s the devil.”

  I was about to speak when I was interrupted by another woman’s voice.

  “Put a cork in it, Adrian.”

  We turned to see Sharona coming into the store, her face tight with irritation.

  “What are you doing here?” Monk asked.

  “Randy called me,” she said. “He said it was an emergency.”

  “It certainly is,” Monk said. “But where’s the backup?”

  “I think I can handle you on my own,” Sharona said.

  “Forget about me,” Monk said. “What about the hazmat team, Homeland Security, the Environmental Protection Agency, and the strike force from the Centers for Disease Control?”

  Sharona ignored Monk and approached Morse. “I am so sorry about this, Ellen.”

  “You know this she-devil?” Monk said to Sharona.

  “It’s our fault,” she continued. “We invited Adrian here but we were so caught up in everything else that we totally forgot about your store. We should have told him to stay away. At the very least, we should have given you some warning.”

  “So that’s how she’s gotten away with her crimes,” Monk said. “You’ve been tipping her off before the authorities show up. Does Randy know that he’s sleeping with the enemy?”

  “It’s quite all right, Sharona,” Morse said. “No harm done.”

  “No harm?” Monk said, his voice cracking. “You’re selling people poo and telling them it’s soap!”

  The instant the words were out of his mouth, he seemed to remember where he was. He grabbed my arm and dragged me to the door. This time I let him.

  Once we got outside, he yanked off his gas mask and took in deep breaths of air, as if he’d just escaped from a burning building. I looked around. The crowd had dispersed and life seemed to be back to normal on the street.

  “I can’t believe what I’ve seen and heard,” Monk said. “It’s like I stepped into a parallel world. The poo-niverse.”

  “I know you don’t agree with Ellen Morse’s philosophy, but she seems like a good person.”

  Monk looked at me with concern. “The fumes and sleep deprivation have obviously gotten to you. Take deep breaths and let them out slowly.”

  Sharona emerged from Poop and marched over to Monk. “What were you thinking, standing on the street, screaming at people with a bullhorn? This could have turned into a major embarrassment for Randy.”

  “It already is,” Monk said. “That store is an outrage, an affront to human decency and public health. How could Randy have let that place stand?”

  “You may not like it, Adrian, but there is nothing illegal about what Ellen is selling.”

  “It’s toxic waste,” Monk said. “There are laws about that. But you’re protecting her. First, you drug me. Now you’re standing up for Satan. I don’t know you anymore.”

  “Oh, spare me the drama,” Sharona said. “You’re supposed to be solving crimes, not harassing shopkeepers.”

  “What she’s doing is a crime,” he said. “Against humanity.”

  I sighed. I really didn’t want to get in the middle of this but I had no choice.

  “I know you find Ellen Morse’s business highly objectionable, Mr. Monk, and that it goes against everything you believe in. But she has the same right to express her beliefs, in her case through art and commerce, as you have to express yours, which you do in the way you lead your life,” I said. “We are a country built on those fundamental freedoms and if you are truly dedicated to enforcing the law and protecting people, then you’ll defend her right to offend you.”

  Both Monk and Sharona stared at me.

  “Is this where we’re supposed to pledge allegiance to the flag?” Sharona asked. “Or start singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?”

  “I thought you’d appreciate my help,” I said. “Frankly, I thought my defense of Ellen Morse wasn’t only persuasive but deeply moving.”

  “That speech was way, way over the top,” Monk said. “Even for you.”

  “For me?”

  “It’s important to stay calm in a crisis and not become overwrought,” Monk said. “You have to maintain your perspective or you won’t be able to think clearly.”

  “And you are?” I asked.

  “I’m obviously the only one around here who is. You’ve been behaving irrationally since I had you pull over. But at least you have an excuse. You’re suffering from sleep deprivation and the shock of confronting unspeakable horrors.” Monk looked at Sharona. “But you don’t have an excuse. You’re a nurse. You took a Hippocratic Oath.”

  “I don’t recall poop being part of it,” Sharona said.

  “‘I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure,’” Monk said. “That’s just one key poop part.”

  “You’ve memorized the Hippocratic Oath?” I said.

  “I swore to it,” he said.

  “But you aren’t a doctor,” I said.

  “I kill germs,” Monk said. “The oath is my license to kill.”

  “The name is Monk,” I said. “Adrian Monk.”

  “Yes, that’s who I am. Are you delirious?”

  “No,” I said. “I was joking.”

  “My name is a joke?”

  “You disappoint me, Mr. Monk,” Sharona said, following my lead into the world of Bond. “You’re nothing but a stupid policeman.”

  “I won’t stand here and be insulted,” Monk said to Sharona and then turned back to me. “Do you think you’re clearheaded enough to drive?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But Sharona wasn’t insulting you. She was quoting Dr. No.”

  “If he’s the doctor who told her that poop is good for you, he should have his medical license revoked. Let’s go,” Monk said, turning his back on Sharona and heading for the car. “The sooner we solve the crimes around here, the sooner we can go home. We’re one big step closer already.”

  I gave her a wave good-bye and hurried after him.

  “How is that possible?” I said. “You haven’t opened any of the files or visited a single crime scene yet.”

  “Yes, but now I know who is responsible.”

  “You’re going to say Ellen Morse, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right—the dark sorceress of the poo-niverse,” Monk said. “And I am going to take her down.”

  11

  Mr. Monk and the Burglary

  The house that was most recently hit by the wave of residential burglaries was probably a hundred years old, two stories tall, and had a broad front porch adorned with a pair of very inviting, comfy wicker rocking chairs that faced the front lawn and the tree-lined street. I wanted to curl up in one of those chairs and take a nap while Monk did his investigating.

  My lack of sleep was eroding my energy and I could feel myself slowing down, like a windup doll that needed a few twists of its key.
/>   The houses were all big, homey in an old-fashioned, Norman Rockwell kind of way that made me feel safe and secure. It was almost like the neighborhood was cuddling me.

  Of course, it was an illusion. The burglary of this home, which had occurred only a few days ago, proved the street wasn’t as safe as it seemed.

  I had the case file open in front of me and I summarized the facts from the police report in a running commentary as I lagged lazily behind Monk, who walked around the perimeter of the house, framing what he saw with his hands, cocking his head from side to side.

  The burglary had happened at noon on Tuesday. The Roslands, a couple with two kids, lived in the house, but they weren’t home at the time of the burglary. The husband was working in Manhattan, the kids were at school, and the wife was having lunch in Summit with friends.

  The burglars got into the house by prying open a first-floor window, which was equipped with a broken alarm sensor. They stole two iPads, several watches, a laptop computer, and five thousand dollars in cash.

  “Randy should be fired for letting that woman stay in business,” Monk said.

  “Forget about her,” I said, fighting back a yawn. “Concentrate on solving these burglaries.”

  “This whole town could end up being evacuated and quarantined as unsafe for human life,” Monk said. “And Randy is worried about a few burglaries? Where’s his sense of priorities?”

  “Your priority, Mr. Monk, is helping Randy solve these crimes, which you are not going to be able to do if you can’t get your mind off of Ellen Morse.”

  “She did this,” Monk said, stopping in front of the window that had been pried open. The window frame had since been replaced and, I assumed, a new sensor had been installed. Of course, it was a little late now.

  “How can you say that?”

  “Where did Mrs. Rosland have lunch?”

  I checked the file. “The Buttercup Pantry.”

  “Which is right next door to Poop. That’s how Morse knew that Mrs. Rosland was out of the house and roughly when she’d return.”