Mr. Monk Is a Mess

by Lee Goldberg

“How do you know I drink beer?”

  “There’s your distinctive beer belly, for one thing,” Monk said. “And you’re wearing a Budweiser T-shirt. The logo is visible through the holes in your beer-stained overalls. You should burn them, by the way.”

  “Burn what?”

  “Your overalls, your T-shirt, everything you’re wearing,” Monk said. “They are beyond salvation. But you aren’t, nor is this establishment. You can still make Motor Moe proud.”

  “That’s a relief,” the mechanic said.

  “I’m glad I stopped by,” Monk said.

  “Oh yeah,” the mechanic said. “Me, too.”

  Buoyed by the positive change he’d made in the community, and in this man’s life, Monk continued on his journey with renewed vigor.

  But by the time he reached police headquarters and scaled the two flights of steps up to homicide, he was exhausted, parched, and desperate for water.

  Stottlemeyer came out of his office just as Monk staggered in.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Water,” Monk gasped. “Water.”

  The captain led him over to the kitchenette, got out a bottle of Fiji water, and handed it to him.

  “Glass,” Monk gasped. “Glass.”

  Stottlemeyer took a glass out of the dish drainer and offered it to him. But Monk wouldn’t take it.

  “Wash,” Monk gasped. “Wash.”

  The captain groaned, squirted soap in the glass, and quickly rinsed it before handing it to Monk.

  “Dry,” Monk said. “Dry.”

  “If I do dry it,” Stottlemeyer said, “it’s going to be with my shirttail.”

  Monk took the glass, poured his water into it, and guzzled it down before collapsing in the nearest chair.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened or not?” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Natalie has abandoned me,” Monk said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She drove off and left me outside of the Federal Building. I had to get here on my own, on foot, through treacherous terrain under a scorching sun.”

  “What did you say or do to her that ticked her off?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Monk said. “I was my usual self.”

  “That’s actually more than enough. Sorry to hear about it. See you around.”

  Stottlemeyer started to go, but Monk grabbed his arm. “Wait. I need a ride home.”

  “I’ve got no one to spare,” he said. “The bad guys have been busy. We’re stretched real thin today.”

  “Okay, then you can drive me.”

  “That’s a real honor, Monk. But believe it or not, I have more pressing responsibilities than being your personal driver. I’m on my way to a possible crime scene. Some guy in the Sunset District either burned to death or drowned or both.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “His barbecue blew up and his burned corpse was found floating in his hot tub. Devlin is already there working the case.”

  “You can drop me off on the way.”

  “Your place isn’t on the way,” the captain said. “It’s in the opposite direction.”

  “Fine. I’ll solve the case for you and then you can drive me home.”

  The captain thought about it for a moment. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  But first, before they could go anywhere, Monk had to call the Department of Health about the dog poop.

  * * *

  Stottlemeyer drove and Monk sat beside him.

  Monk couldn’t seem to get comfortable in his seat. He kept shifting his position, sliding to and fro, sitting up and scooting down.

  The captain jammed on his brakes, the sudden stop tightening Monk’s seat belt and pinning him to his seat.

  “If you don’t stop squirming,” Stottlemeyer said, “I am going to throw you out of the car right now.”

  Monk looked at him. “You, too? My God, I’m being abandoned by everyone.”

  “Did it ever occur to you, Monk, that maybe you’re the problem?”

  “The seat is lumpy.”

  “I am not talking about the damn seat. I’m referring to your argument with Natalie.”

  “Whatever is wrong is entirely her fault.”

  “Because you’re perfect in every way.”

  “Because, unlike Natalie, I behave in a consistent, predictable manner. I have routines that I follow and I conduct myself according to rules of behavior that I have defined, codified, and shared with those with whom I interact on a regular basis.”

  “We call them friends, Monk. Surely they have a name for them on your planet, too.”

  “When you familiarize yourself with another person’s consistent routines, behaviors, and personal rules of conduct, and they learn and acknowledge yours, you establish an understanding, shared expectations, and clearly defined roles. That is how you maintain a balanced life and build lasting relationships.”

  “Really? My approach has always been to try to be an honest, dependable guy, to treat people the way that I’d like to be treated, and to accept others for who they are and not who I want them to be. I figure if I can manage that, then I won’t be disappointed in myself or others as much.”

  Monk shook his head in disbelief. “No wonder you are on your second marriage.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your way of living is irrational and inconsistent. You’re constantly altering your behavior and redefining expectations to adapt to whoever or whatever is around you.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “That’s insanity,” Monk said. “How can you have any kind of stability in your life if you and everyone around you are always changing your attitudes and behavior? It’s anarchy.”

  “I’m always going to be who I am, that’s a given, and I’ve got some principles that I won’t compromise, but otherwise I try not to be rigid in my thinking.”

  “Aha! Now we’re getting to the root of your problem.”

  “I don’t have a problem,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “You need to be rigid. A building without a solid foundation will collapse. Your foundation is composed of the rules and routines. Your foundation is consistency.”

  “People aren’t buildings, Monk.”

  “They’d be better off if they were,” he said. “Solid, dependable, unchanging. Look at Natalie. All of a sudden she’s an entirely different person.”

  “It’s not sudden. If you’d paid even the slightest bit of attention to her, you’d have noticed that it has been happening for a long time now.”

  Monk shook his head. “She’s totally changed. I don’t recognize her anymore.”

  “Everybody changes, Monk.”

  “I don’t.”

  They came to a stoplight, which gave the captain a chance to look Monk in the eye.

  “Ten years ago, you were nearly put in a mental institution. You were afraid to step out of your house and when you finally did, you needed a nurse at your side,” Stottlemeyer said. “Now look at yourself and tell me again that you haven’t changed.”

  The light turned green and Stottlemeyer shifted his attention back to the street as he drove on.

  “That’s different,” Monk said. “My wife was murdered and it took me some time to . . . to stabilize myself.”

  “Natalie’s husband was killed. Maybe it’s taken her some time to stabilize herself, too.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “It sure as hell is,” Stottlemeyer said. “She met you. No one could come out of that experience unscathed. And she stuck with you for years.”

  “I need her,” Monk said.

  “Yeah, but maybe she doesn’t need you anymore.”

  “Then what will I do?”

  “You’ll change,” Stottlemeyer said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mr. Monk and the BBQ

  The Sunset District is a sloping plain west of Mount Sutro and south of Golden Gate Park that stretch
es clear down to the Pacific. Calling the place Sunset had to be someone’s idea of a joke, since most of the time the whole area is blanketed with fog thick enough to make Jack the Ripper feel right at home.

  Monk liked the Sunset District, and not just because the weather matched his generally gray and mopey personality.

  For starters, most of the Sunset is laid out in a grid pattern and is covered with cookie-cutter, two-story, two-bedroom tract houses built by the hundreds on tiny lots from the 1920s to the 1940s.

  Monk liked grids and uniformity.

  On top of that, all of the north-to-south avenues were numbered and all of the west-to-east streets were given names, a pattern that Monk appreciated because it was a pattern.

  The only things Monk liked as much as patterns were grids and uniformity.

  The dead man’s house was on a street of nearly identical homes, packed so tightly together that they were practically wall to wall, with tiny patches of grass out front that were barely larger than a welcome mat.

  The house that Stottlemeyer and Monk were heading to was easy to spot, thanks to the police cars, the morgue wagon, and the fire truck parked out front.

  Otherwise, it looked like all the rest of the homes on the block, except the one that was right next door. That house, while architecturally similar to the others, covered two lots.

  Monk glowered at the double-sized abode as he emerged from Stottlemeyer’s car.

  “What’s wrong?” Stottlemeyer asked. “You’re looking at that house like it just spit on you.”

  “It breaks the pattern,” Monk said. “That should never have been allowed.”

  “These are tiny lots, Monk, and families grow. Maybe they liked the neighborhood and didn’t want to move.”

  Monk shook his head. “They should have respected the pattern.”

  “Some things are more important than sticking to a pattern.”

  “Like what?”

  Stottlemeyer gestured to the other house, the one surrounded by yellow crime scene tape.

  “Like closing this case and getting you home. If you want that to happen, you’re going to have to break your pattern of standing outside and obsessing over something that has nothing to do with why we’re here.”

  Monk couldn’t argue with that logic. They went into the house and were met at the door by Lieutenant Devlin, who grimaced when she saw that Stottlemeyer had arrived with Monk in tow.

  “You didn’t say you were bringing Monk with you,” she said.

  “I didn’t know,” Stottlemeyer said. “What have you got?”

  “A closed case. All that’s left is writing up the report. So you can wait outside, Monk.”

  But Monk was already peeking into the living room, which was being used as an office. It was dominated by a desk that was covered with spreadsheets, calculators, and boxes of Kleenex.

  The walls were adorned with dozens of photos of a rotund, gregarious fellow at various barbecue cookouts, picnics, and festivals. He was almost always in an apron and chef’s hat, standing beside a grill or a platter of barbecued meat, a big smile on his rosy-cheeked face. There were also some trophies and ribbons from barbecue competitions prominently displayed on the shelves.

  But it wasn’t the photos or trophies that drew Monk’s immediate attention—it was the pile of wadded-up tissues spilling out of the trash can.

  “What does the CDC say?” Monk asked.

  “CDC?” Devlin said.

  “Centers for Disease Control.” Monk put a handkerchief over his nose and mouth and tipped his head toward the desk. “That desk is soaked in virulent plague.”

  Devlin sighed. “Terry Goodman, the dead guy who lived here, had terrible seasonal allergies. It’s nothing contagious. But they killed him.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Monk said.

  “It will,” Devlin said.

  “But I thought Goodman either burned to death or drowned.”

  “He did,” she said.

  Monk grimaced and rolled his shoulders, and that made Stottlemeyer smile. I would have smiled, too, if I’d been there, and for the same reason.

  “Now you finally know how it feels, Monk,” the captain said.

  “How what feels?” he asked.

  “Being told that something that doesn’t make sense does make sense and is the solution to the mystery that you haven’t been bright enough to solve.”

  “I wasn’t implying that, sir,” Devlin said.

  “Go ahead, indulge yourself. Get all the drama and self-satisfaction out of this that you can,” Stottlemeyer said. “I mean it. Because if you’ve really solved this one, you deserve to have some fun.”

  “Okay.” She led them down the hall into the kitchen as she spoke. “Goodman was single, lived alone, and worked out of his house as an accountant. He’d been suffering from sinus problems for weeks and none of the medicines that he’d been taking managed to clear his congestion.”

  “How do you know that?” Stottlemeyer asked.

  “His pharmacist is his next-door neighbor.”

  “Which one?” Monk asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Which house does he live in? The big house or the little one?”

  She gestured to her right, to the big house that was visible outside the window that was above the kitchen sink.

  “I’d like to talk to that man,” Monk said.

  “There’s no reason to,” she said. “I already have.”

  “Did he tell you why he broke the pattern?”

  “What pattern?” she asked.

  Monk stepped up to the sink and pointed out the window. “The house is huge. Way too big for the neighborhood.”

  “Focus, Monk,” the captain said. “We’ve got a violent unattended death here.”

  Monk noticed the row of prescription bottles lined up on the windowsill. He picked one up and read it. “Bartlett Drugs. Is Bartlett the neighbor?”

  “Yes, Andy Bartlett. Why?” Devlin asked.

  “Never mind,” Stottlemeyer said. “Do you want to get home, Monk, or don’t you?”

  Monk put the bottle down. Stottlemeyer turned back to Devlin.

  “Please continue.”

  “Goodman is a barbecue nut. He doesn’t eat anything that hasn’t been on a grill,” she said. “So at lunchtime, he went outside to make himself a slab of baby-backs that he’d been marinating in a dry rub.”

  She gestured to a platter of uncooked ribs on the counter. Stottlemeyer leaned down and sniffed them.

  “They smell terrific,” he said. “Do you think they’ve gone bad?”

  “You want to take raw meat from a crime scene?” Monk said.

  “It just seems like such a waste,” Stottlemeyer said. “Did you see the guy’s office? He’s won awards for this. They’re probably incredible.”

  “I also saw the thousands of tissues soaked in his mucus. Do you really think it was possible that he could lean over this meat without dripping bodily fluids on it?”

  Stottlemeyer grimaced and took a step back. “You were saying, Lieutenant?”

  “Goodman took the meat out of the refrigerator so that it could warm up to room temperature, then went outside to light his grill,” she said and headed for the sliding glass door that opened to the backyard.

  The windowpanes in the French doors had been blown out, spraying the kitchen table with shattered glass. Outside, the patio was covered with the rubble that remained from the counter that had contained the built-in barbecue, which now resembled an enormous crumpled beer can.

  “Goodman opened the grill, pressed the igniter button, and the entire grill exploded, setting him aflame,” Devlin said as she stepped carefully around the bits of metal, chunks of cinder block, and shards of ceramic tile on her way to the hot tub a few feet away. “He either threw himself into the Jacuzzi to put out the fire or he was blown into it. The ME hasn’t determined yet whether it was the blast that killed him or if he drowned—not that it matters.”

  T
he body was gone, but the water was still discolored from the charred clothing and flesh.

  Stottlemeyer frowned. “So it was a gas leak.”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “And the poor guy didn’t smell the gas because of his stuffy nose.”

  “A freak accident,” she said.

  “So his allergies did kill him. That was some mighty clever detective work, Lieutenant. Don’t you think so, Monk?” The captain turned, but Monk was gone. He looked around and saw that Monk had gone back into the kitchen. “What is he up to in there?”

  Devlin followed Stottlemeyer’s gaze. “Being an ass. He couldn’t stand that I solved a case without him, so he walked away.”

  She went into the house and Stottlemeyer trailed after her. They found Monk standing at the sink, picking up and examining each of the pill bottles that were lined up on the windowsill.

  “What’s wrong, Monk?” Devlin asked. “Feeling threatened?”

  “I have ever since I walked into this house.”

  “Really?” she said, sharing a look with Stottlemeyer. “I have to say, I’m surprised you’re man enough to admit it.”

  “That house next door is way too close,” Monk said. “I don’t know how Goodman could stand being crowded like that in his own home.”

  “Oh, come on,” Devlin said. “We both know what this is about. And it’s not that house.”

  “Forget it, Amy,” Stottlemeyer said and turned to Monk. “Okay, let’s go. We’re done here. I’ll take you home now.”

  “Isn’t that Natalie’s job?” Devlin asked.

  “She’s gone,” Monk said, holding one of the pill bottles up to the light. “She abandoned me.”

  “You mean by becoming a cop in Summit and proving she can do more than hand you wipes,” Devlin said.

  “By driving off and leaving me bereft and alone in the middle of a strange city.”

  “You’ve lived in San Francisco most of your adult life,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Everywhere I look, things are changing, patterns are being broken, the underpinnings of civilization are dissolving. How can I stop it?”

  “You can’t,” Devlin said.

  Monk nodded, twisted open the bottle of pills, and abruptly emptied them all into his mouth.