Mr. Monk on Patrol

by Lee Goldberg

  Monk was still in his uniform and wearing his badge like an excited child trying out his superhero costume before Halloween. But he also looked very comfortable in it, as if it were his usual attire. I wondered how I’d look in my uniform, which was wrapped in plastic and draped over a chair in the den. Would I look gawky and uncomfortable or would I look confident and relaxed?

  While I read the material in the binders, I kept stealing glances at the badge on the table.

  My badge.

  And resisting the urge to hold it, or, an even geekier move, pin it on my shirt.

  Even though my appointment to the Summit police force was temporary, it was a tangible affirmation of my skills and it seemed like a natural next step in a personal evolution that had begun two years back, when I realized that not only did I enjoy detective work, but I might actually be good at it.

  Despite all of my protestations to the contrary, I was thrilled at the chance to experience being a uniformed cop. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt such giddy anxiety about something. I couldn’t wait until morning and yet, at the same time, I was terrified.

  But it was a healthy, invigorating terror. It was the fear of facing a challenge and not knowing how or if I would overcome it, but that if I did, I would become a new person.

  I wasn’t kidding myself, though. There were real risks involved in this—for me and, to be honest, for the people of Summit as well.

  They give cops guns because the job requires them to put themselves in mortal danger to enforce the law, protect the public, and prevent crime.

  So if I messed up, I could get myself or some innocent bystander killed.

  And even if I did everything right, I could find myself in a situation where I might be required to kill someone in self-defense or to save the lives of others.

  Disher had to know all of that when he gave me the badge. That meant he had more confidence in me than I had ever realized, perhaps even more than I had in myself.

  I was thinking about all these things when I became aware that Monk was looking at me. I met his gaze. He smiled.

  “Don’t worry, Natalie. You’re going to be an excellent police officer.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you had the best training officer imaginable,” he said.

  “Captain Stottlemeyer?”

  “No.”

  “Randy?”

  “No.”

  “Lieutenant Devlin?”

  “No.”

  “Steve McGarrett?”

  “No,” he said, glowering now. “I was referring to me.”

  I knew who he was referring to all along, of course. But I couldn’t resist teasing him for being so smug.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Monk. That never occurred to me. I don’t think of you as a cop.”

  “I may have given up my badge, but I’ve never stopped behaving like a police officer. You probably aren’t even aware how much you’ve absorbed simply from observing me and being in my presence for so long, not to mention all the time you’ve spent with the other people you referred to, though I can’t vouch for that Steve guy, whoever he is.”

  “You’re not worried about me watching your back out there on the street?”

  “Of course not,” Monk said. “You’ve already been doing it for years.”

  “But this is different,” I said. “I’m going to be armed.”

  “So am I,” Monk said.

  That hadn’t occurred to me. I’d been so caught up thinking about how all this affected me that I’d forgotten that Monk had been given a badge and a gun, too.

  At first the thought of an armed Adrian Monk was pretty scary. But then I remembered that he was a trained police officer after all and that I’d seen him use a gun before. And he’d never hesitated to use deadly force when the situation demanded it. In fact, only a few months earlier, he’d saved his brother, Ambrose, from certain death by shooting a killer.

  I knew Monk wouldn’t think twice about using a gun to protect me or someone else.

  The question was, would I be able to?

  I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at myself in my police uniform. I wasn’t wearing the holster yet, but just the badge and the blues were impressive. I practiced my look of casual confidence.

  “Good morning, sir. Let me see your license and registration.”

  I took a step back and tried my hardest, coldest cop stare.

  “Assume the position, scumbag,” I said. “Make a move and I’ll blow your tiny little goldfish brain into the next zip code.”

  I didn’t sound half as tough or confident as Evie did when she pressed her gun into Lindero’s back. I’d have to work on being more menacing, though it helps if you are actually holding a loaded gun. I knew that from experience.

  There was a knock on the door. I opened it to see Sharona standing there, a smile on her face.

  “You need the bathroom?” I asked.

  “Nope,” she said. “Adrian is anxious to get to work. He says we’re running ten seconds behind schedule already.”

  “Yikes,” I said.

  “May I give you a little advice?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I’d skip the goldfish bit,” she said. “Too wordy. Just tell him you’ll blow his brains out.”

  I felt myself blushing. “You must think I’m ridiculous.”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t have let Randy give you the badge,” she said. “You’re going to do just fine.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  “It’s Adrian I’m worried about,” she said.

  “I’ve got his back,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. “That’s the other reason you had to take this job. I’m afraid that having a badge might go to Adrian’s head.”

  “Gee, you think?” I said. “I’ll make sure he enforces Summit’s laws and not his own.”

  “Good luck with that,” she said.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “This is not what I expected when I got on that plane three days ago.”

  “But you expected murder and arson?”

  I nodded. “Not specifically, but yeah, I figured I’d run into some violence and a few corpses. You can’t go anywhere with Mr. Monk without people getting killed all around you. I’ve accepted it as a fact of life.”

  “More like a fact of death,” she said.

  “Point taken,” I said.

  “This is ordinarily a very peaceful town,” Sharona said. “You two shouldn’t have too much excitement. My guess is that Adrian has already solved the biggest crimes we’re likely to see around here for a long time to come.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said. I took another deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.

  Monk was waiting at the front door in his uniform, shifting his weight impatiently. “We’re almost two minutes behind schedule.”

  “I’ll get you there on time,” Sharona said, grabbing her car keys so she could drive us to work. “Though I might have to break the speed limit to do it.”

  “Not with two police officers in the car, you won’t,” Monk said.

  “You’d ticket me?” Sharona said.

  “With pleasure,” Monk said.

  And I knew he meant it.

  18

  Mr. Monk in Blue

  My leather duty belt was loaded with stuff—handcuffs, pepper spray, a portable radio, latex gloves, a flashlight, a Taser, an expandable baton, a leather notebook, spare ammo magazines, a side-handle baton, and a .40-caliber Glock. It seemed like the only things I didn’t have on my belt that I might need were a whip, a flamethrower, a harpoon gun, a crowbar, and maybe a few power tools.

  Stottlemeyer once told me that more cops ended up on disability because of the strain put on their backs by their belts than from all other injuries sustained in the line of duty combined.

  I thought he was joking but now I knew that he was serious. I’d had the belt on for only thirty s
econds and already my back ached.

  But as I stood in front of the mirror in the locker room, my hands above my hips, I had to suppress a grin.

  I looked formidable.

  Then again, anybody wearing that uniform, badge, and duty belt would look tough.

  Even Adrian Monk.

  I found him on the other side of the locker room, standing in front of another mirror, striking the same pose that I had. Only the tough-guy effect was undercut by the pocket-size can of Lysol that he’d wedged into his belt in place of the flashlight and the disinfectant-wipe packets bulging out of his breast pocket.

  “Ready to roll?” I asked him.

  “Yes, but just so there’s no confusion out there on the mean streets, let me remind you that I’m the senior officer here.”

  “Gotcha. But just so we’re clear, let me remind you that you aren’t my boss now. Randy Disher is. So until this job is over, we’re partners, not employer and employee.”

  Monk cocked his head. “So that means I don’t have to pay you while you’re on the Summit Police Department payroll.”

  “I suppose it does,” I said.

  That made him smile. “Then I’m absolutely fine with it.”

  We’d see if he still felt that way once we were out on the street and I wasn’t assisting him anymore.

  We strode from the locker room into the hallway, where Evie was waiting for us, shaking her head with disapproval.

  “Here’s the address of the home that Lindero and Woodlake say they were burglarizing at the time Pamela Goldman was killed.” She handed me a slip of paper.

  “Thanks, we’ll check it out,” I said. “You don’t approve of our being cops, do you?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said. “But it’s better than having two civilians driving around in a police car. At least now you will be doing something useful, assuming you don’t shoot someone by accident.”

  “We’ll try to keep the shooting to a minimum,” I said and we walked out.

  It was a completely different feeling driving out of the station parking lot in the patrol car that morning, now that I was in uniform and carrying all that stuff.

  This time it was infinitely cooler and the Police Woman theme was blaring so loud in my head that it was as if the orchestra were in the backseat. It felt like I was in the opening credits of my own series.

  As we cruised down Springfield Avenue, I kept my eyes peeled for criminals, people in distress, crimes in progress, and suspicious activity of any kind.

  “Pull over,” Monk said.

  He was staring at the Poop storefront.

  “What for?”

  “To enforce the law,” he said.

  “Do you see a crime being committed or someone in trouble?”

  “I see an affront to human decency.”

  I nodded and kept driving.

  He turned to me. “I told you to stop.”

  “And I ignored you,” I said.

  “You haven’t been on the job for five minutes and already you’re committing insubordination.”

  “I don’t work for you,” I said. “Remember?”

  “I am your senior officer.”

  “But not my boss. Chief Disher specifically ordered me to keep you from harassing Ellen Morse,” I said. “And that’s what I’m doing. So unless you see someone robbing her store or vandalizing it, we’re moving on.”

  Monk looked away from me, folded his arms across his chest, and sulked until we got to 4374 Brewster Street, the home of one Blake Prosser, according to the note Evie gave us.

  Prosser’s place was a low-slung and sprawling house that had been restored to all of its original 1960s space-age glory. The sharp corners and aerodynamic roofline reminded me of The Jetsons, a cartoon I watched when I was a kid. But instead of a personal flying saucer in the driveway, Prosser had a new Jaguar that was every bit as sleek as his house.

  I parked beside the Jag and we got out, which isn’t so easy when you’re carrying a sporting goods store and an armory around your waist.

  I knocked on the front door. After a moment, Prosser opened it. He was in his thirties, his black hair wet and slicked back, and from the way he was dressed, it looked like he’d made a wrong turn on his way to Miami. He wore an off-white silk shirt with a light floral pattern, opened wide to show off his undershirt and a gold chain around his neck, as well as white slacks and white loafers without socks.

  “How can I help you, Officers?” he asked, flashing a set of teeth the same shade of white as his pants.

  “You could put on socks,” Monk said.

  “Has there been a complaint about my feet?”

  “There is now,” Monk said.

  “We’re investigating a burglary, Mr. Prosser,” I said.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Here,” I said. “May we come in?”

  “Of course,” he said and stepped aside, looking confused. We walked past him into the wide, marbled-floored entry hall. I couldn’t help noticing that by the door he had a Louis Vuitton briefcase that was probably worth more than my car.

  His home had a very open floor plan. The entry hall led into a vast family room dominated by a massive flat-screen TV beside a high-end stereo system, gaming consoles, and an impressive computer setup. The adjacent kitchen was filled with countertop appliances, from an espresso machine to a smoothie maker.

  “I love gadgets,” he said, following my gaze. “Fortunately, I’m in the electronics business, so I can get my hands on just about any gizmo that comes along.”

  “Are you missing anything?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not,” he said.

  “You’re missing a pair of socks,” Monk said.

  “I can assure you that they weren’t stolen,” Prosser said, adjusting the Rolex on his wrist so I’d notice it. The man was flirting with me with his accessories. “It was a choice.”

  “A bad one,” Monk said. “Unless you’re a fan of foot fungus.”

  “So you’re certain that your home wasn’t broken into,” I said.

  “Absolutely certain,” he said. “Everything is accounted for. Why do you ask?”

  “You have a broken window,” Monk said, pointing to the dining room, where a side window had a pane covered with cardboard and duct tape.

  “Oh, that. A bird flew into it,” Prosser said. “It happens all the time in this neighborhood, as you probably know. They get drunk on the berries from the trees on the street. Maybe you should cite them for flying drunk.”

  Prosser was joking but Monk had no sense of humor. And I could see from the way Monk’s hand was suspended over his ticket book, he was actually tempted by Prosser’s suggestion.

  “Is that why you’re here?” Prosser asked. “Because you saw a broken window?”

  “Actually,” I said, “we got a report that this house was burglarized yesterday.”

  “You did? From whom?”

  “Two burglars,” Monk said.

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense. Why would they confess to a crime that they didn’t commit?”

  “To avoid going to prison for a crime that they did,” Monk said.

  “I’ve got a lot of high-end electronics in here,” Prosser said, gesturing to the TV. “Like that sixty-five-inch, 3-D Triax flat-screen.” The way he said it, and the way he looked at me while he said it, he might as well have been describing a particular part of his body. But I didn’t measure a man’s virility by the size of his screen. “Don’t you think I would have called the police myself if someone had broken in and stolen anything?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “We’re just being diligent.”

  “Which is why we urge you, in the strongest possible terms, and in the name of God, to wear socks,” Monk said.

  “I’ll take that under advisement.” Prosser smiled and opened the front door for us. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot of work to do. But if you’re looking for a deal on an iPad or a PlayStation, stop on by. Consider me your friend i
n the electronics biz.”

  “Thank you for your time,” I said.

  We walked past him out to our patrol car just in time to see a bird fly into the windshield, stagger back in a daze, then lift off again in a zigzagging path down the street.

  Monk shook his head in disgust. “Stores selling excrement. Cops breaking into homes. People wearing shoes without socks. Birds flying around drunk. The downfall of Western civilization is beginning right here in Summit. I hope we’re not too late to stop it.”

  “You and I are going to save Western civilization from ruination,” I said. “Do you really think that’s possible?”

  “I’m confident that we can do it,” Monk said.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little ambitious?”

  “We’ll do it one sock at a time, if necessary.”

  “You may want to call for backup,” Monk said as we drove up to a house not far from Prosser’s place. We were responding to a domestic disturbance call. The front lawn and shrubs were covered with men’s shirts, slacks, underwear, ties, and socks.

  A disheveled guy in a wrinkled business suit stood on the front walk, holding his briefcase and looking up in exasperation at the second-floor windows of the house.

  Several of his neighbors were out on their front lawns, watching the drama unfold, coffee cups in their hands. I guess it beat watching Good Morning America.

  “What do we need backup for?” I said to Monk. “This doesn’t strike me as a dangerous situation.”

  “Look at the size of that mess. Everything has to be gathered up, cleaned, and folded. That’s more than a two-man job.”

  “It’s not our problem,” I said.

  “It’s disorderly conduct,” he said.

  “It’s disorder,” I said. “Not conduct.”

  “Throwing it out the window was the conduct.”

  “Throwing clothes out the window isn’t a criminal offense,” I said.

  “It has to be,” he said.

  “It isn’t,” I said.

  “My God, is there no law at all in this town?”

  “There’s a law against disturbing the peace,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.”