Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu

by Lee Goldberg

  “They will,” Monk said. “I haven’t accomplished anything.”

  “It’s only your first day,” I said. “You’ve managed to keep the homicide department running efficiently with a skeleton crew of ex-detectives in the midst of a crippling labor shortage. That’s a major achievement.”

  “But I haven’t made any progress on the Golden Gate Strangler case.”

  “How could you? You were occupied with three other murders today.”

  “And I still have no idea who stabbed the astrologer, or who ran over the architect, or who pushed the waitress in front of a bus.”

  “You’ve only been on those cases for a couple of hours.”

  “I’m such a loser.”

  “You’ve barely had a chance to visit the crime scenes, much less do any investigating,” I said. “Did you really expect to solve them on the spot?”

  “I’ve done it before.”

  “Those were flukes,” I said.

  “Sixty-eight percent of the time isn’t a fluke,” Monk said. “It’s the norm.”

  “You’ve kept track?”

  That was a dumb question. He counted the lamp-posts on the street, the ceiling tiles in the police station, the raisins in his Raisin Bran, and probably even the granules of salt in his saltshaker. Of course he counted the cases he’d solved and how long it took him to do it.

  “This is really going to hurt my stats,” Monk said.

  “Forget those numbers; look at the big picture,” I said. “You’ve solved every murder you’ve ever investigated.”

  “All except one,” he said sadly. He was talking about Trudy, of course. His wife. The most important case of all to him.

  “You’ll solve that one, too,” I said. “No matter how long it takes.”

  “What if I’ve lost my mojo?”

  “You haven’t.”

  “Maybe I should resign and save the mayor the embarrassment of my dismal failure.”

  “That’s your strategy for success? Quit the moment the job gets difficult?”

  “It could work,” Monk said.

  “Is that how you got this far, by quitting? No. You did it by relentlessly pushing ahead, battling your anxieties, phobias, and fears until you got what you wanted: your badge. And now that you’ve got it, you’re going to just give up? I’m surprised at you, Mr. Monk.”

  “You don’t understand, Natalie. I’ve got nothing on these three murders today. All the facts and questions are jumbled together in my head. It’s like it’s all one case. I can’t think.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “I’m stumped, and these aren’t even clever murders,” Monk said. “They’re mundane. Simple. They don’t compare to the impossible murders I’ve solved.”

  “Because these are the kinds of murders that Stottlemeyer and Disher handle every day and that you never hear about. They don’t call you in for this stuff. The problem is that you’re not a consultant anymore. You’ve got to deal with every homicide that comes along. And what I’ve learned so far is that most of them aren’t committed by rational people who intricately plot every move. They’re done on the spur of the moment by irrational people in desperate situations.”

  “So they should be easier to solve,” Monk said.

  “Maybe it’s the mundane, half-assed nature of these killings that’s messing you up,” I said. “I think there’s no real plotting involved, so you can’t get a sense of the thinking and thinkers behind the murders.”

  “You think?” Monk said.

  “Besides, you don’t have the luxury of devoting your mind to just one case. You had three murders thrown at you today on top of the Golden Gate Strangler killings. Of course you’re finding it hard to concentrate.”

  Monk shook his head. “I don’t know how the captain does it.”

  “You could ask him,” I said.

  “He won’t help me,” Monk said.

  I shrugged. “Then I guess you’ll just have to do what he does when things get tough.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Rely on you.”

  Monk looked at me. “You’re suggesting that I rely on myself?”

  I nodded.

  He groaned. “I’m doomed.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I said.

  At least he wasn’t talking about quitting anymore. I take my little victories where I can find them.

  Picking Julie up at her friend Katie’s house in a police car was a big hit. Julie made me give her and Katie and Katie’s mom a ride around the block with the siren on.

  Monk was really nice about it. He endured the squeals of glee from the kids in silence, a handkerchief over his nose and mouth to protect himself from their germs.

  I think he was too preoccupied with his own troubles to really make much of a fuss. Besides, there was a big Plexiglas screen between him and the kids in the backseat, so there was little chance of their touching him. He thinks all kids, including my own daughter, are basically no different from the rats who spread the Black Death throughout Europe.

  We dropped Katie and her mother back at their place and headed home. Julie bounced excitedly in her seat, thrilled to ride in the back alone.

  “Let’s pretend I’m a bad guy, a really scary one,” she said, holding her hands behind her as if they were handcuffed. “You caught me robbing a bank.”

  “You wouldn’t be in a police car if you robbed a bank,” Monk said.

  “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Monk,” I said. “It’s pretend.”

  “Bank robbery is a federal crime,” he said. “So we’d also have to pretend that this is an FBI vehicle.”

  “Okay, fine. We’re two FBI agents,” I said, then glanced in the rearview mirror at Julie. “Transporting a very dangerous bank robber.”

  “I also kill people,” Julie growled. “And eat them.”

  “You’re a monster,” I said, doing my best to sound like a hardened cop, which basically meant lowering my voice and squinting my eyes. “In all my years of law enforcement, I’ve never met a more terrifying criminal.”

  “Actually, I don’t think we’d be in a car at all,” Monk said. “We’d be in a van. An FBI van.”

  “But we’re in a real police car. That’s the fun part,” Julie said. “Why would I want to pretend to be in a boring van?”

  “Because you want to pretend accurately,” Monk said. “Let’s look at the facts. You’re a bank robber—that’s a federal offense. And you’ve killed and eaten people. That makes you an extremely violent psychopath. You’d definitely be handcuffed and chained in the back of a van. You might even have a muzzle on.”

  I glared at Monk. “You’re missing the whole point of make-believe.”

  “I don’t think so,” Monk said.

  “When you’re pretending,” I said, “you can be anyone, anywhere, doing anything you want. There are no rules.”

  Monk shook his head. “I believe if you check, you’ll see there are some restrictions.”

  “Check what?” I said. “Check where?”

  But by then it was too late anyway. We’d arrived in front of our place, a cute little Victorian row house in need of a little TLC, which wouldn’t come until I got a big R-A-I-S-E.

  Julie groaned. “Gee, that was fun.”

  She opened the door and marched out in a huff. I glanced at Monk.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said.

  “No problem,” Monk said, completely missing my sarcasm.

  Whatever points I’d gained by taking Julie’s friend for a ride in the cop car were lost when Monk ruined the make-believe part on the way home. But I had an idea how to make up for it.

  I began by asking Monk to make his famous pancakes for dinner. What makes them famous, at least in the Teeger household, is that his pancakes are perfectly round. Julie watches him, fascinated by his ability to measure the right amount of batter and to pour it into the pan in just the right way to make his circles. The best part for her comes later, when, at his urging, she u
ses her disinfected geometry compass to confirm the size and absolute roundness of each pancake to the exact degree before they are served.

  This was Monk’s idea of casual dining. It worked for me, because while they were occupied doing that, I could have a glass of wine, sit in the living room, and unwind.

  So that was what we did. Monk made his pancakes, Julie measured them, and I relaxed. Everyone was happy. Monk seemed to forget all about his troubles. I even saw him smile a few times.

  As much as Monk likes to complain about children being dangerous and infectious, he enjoys being with them. That’s because he shares their wonderment at the world, which I find amazing, considering he’s seen so much violence and tragedy in his life.

  After dinner, I rewarded Monk for cooking by letting him clean the dishes, and I decided to reward Julie for her great report card by giving her the presents I bought for her yesterday.

  “But I don’t get my report card until next week,” Julie said.

  “I have it on good authority that it’s going to be terrific,” I said as I brought the shopping bags to the table. “Besides, Mr. Monk helped me pick this stuff out for you, so he should get to enjoy seeing you open your gifts, too.”

  “Mr. Monk helped you shop?” she said warily.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I already have enough first-aid supplies and disinfectant to open my own hospital,” she said. “I really don’t need any more.”

  “You know what they say,” Monk said. “You can never have too much disinfectant.”

  “Who says that?” Julie said.

  “The people without enough disinfectant,” Monk said. “Shortly before their miserable, drooling deaths.”

  “We got you clothes and stuff,” I said. “What kind of reward would disinfectant be for a great report card?”

  “A powerful incentive to excel,” Monk said.

  Julie sighed with relief. “You had me worried there for a minute.”

  She reached into the shopping bags and oohed and aahed over the Juicy jacket, the Paul Frank shirts, and the Von Dutch pants, as I knew she would. But when she got to the Nike running shoes, her enthusiasm dimmed.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “These would have been great shoes for my last report card.”

  “What’s wrong with them for this report card?”

  “They’re the old style,” Julie said. “Nike discontinued this line of shoes months ago.”

  I don’t know where my twelve-year-old daughter gets all her inside dope on happenings in the fashion industry, or where she learns phrases like “discontinued this line.” While I was amused by her knowledge and vocabulary, I was a little pissed at her attitude.

  “That’s why they were on sale and why we could afford them,” I said.

  “And next week they’ll be selling them out of trucks at freeway off-ramps.”

  “Then maybe I should return these and wait to buy them from the truck at an even cheaper price.”

  “You’re missing the point, Mom,” Julie said. “If I wear these shoes I’ll be out of style.”

  “God forbid,” I said.

  “And everyone will know we’re poor,” she said.

  “What they’ll know is that you’re a savvy shopper. Instead of paying two hundred dollars for the shoes, you got them brand-new for thirty-nine dollars. They should be ashamed of paying so much for the exact same shoes that you were able to get for a lot less simply by being patient and shrewd.”

  “You have no idea what life is really like,” Julie said, stomping her foot in fury.

  She’d been stomping her foot when she was angry since she was three years old. I thought it was adorable, and couldn’t help smiling whenever she did it, which only infuriated her more.

  She stomped her other foot. “Mom! Stop it!”

  I turned to Monk for some support on this, knowing how tight he was with his money (my pay-check was certainly proof of that). But Monk had a strange, bemused expression on his face. His mind was somewhere else.

  “Mr. Monk?” I said.

  He snapped out of it, smiled, and looked at Julie. “How would you like another ride in the police car?”

  “Are we going out to get me a different pair of shoes?” Julie said hopefully.

  “We’re taking you down to police headquarters for interrogation.”

  “For real?” Julie said.

  “For real,” Monk said.

  “We are?” I asked.

  “We are,” Monk replied.

  “Cool!” Julie said, tossing the Nikes and putting on her new Juicy jacket. Her shoe shame was momentarily forgotten, eclipsed by the irresistible excitement of being a crook.

  9

  Mr. Monk Improves His Stats

  Julie had only been to police headquarters once before, and on that day there had been some sort of big sweep of the Tenderloin by the vice squad. The building had been filled with hookers, drunks, drug addicts, gang members, and murderers. The place smelled like a cross between a men’s locker room and the bar where I worked before Monk hired me. And some of the language she heard would have embarrassed Tony Soprano.

  She loved it. For her it was like visiting a new attraction at Disneyland, only the performers weren’t Mickey Mouse and Buzz Lightyear; they were Georgette the tranny and Julio the pimp. It was scary for her, but in a thrilling, riding-on-a-roller-coaster way: frightening but safe.

  It wasn’t the kind of environment I wanted to expose my daughter to, but there had been no school that day, I had to work, and I was stuck without someone to take care of her. Besides, there wasn’t anyone or anything in that building that wasn’t out there, in plain view, every day of the week on the streets of San Francisco, from Union Square to Fisherman’s Wharf, from Chinatown to Golden Gate Park. It’s that kind of city.

  She was going to see it all anyway. And I believe a parent’s job is to prepare her children for independence, for survival in the real world; and sheltering them from the uglier aspects doesn’t necessarily do them any good. At least at police headquarters, the bad guys were handcuffed and there were plenty of cops around to protect us. There was no real danger. Afterward she grilled me with a lot of tough questions about sex, drugs, and crime, which, for me, made the experience worthwhile. We tackled some big, awkward, important issues that day.

  That said, I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of taking her back there on a Saturday night, and I hoped Monk had a good reason for the field trip. I didn’t have the energy for another one of those major, land-mine-laden discussions with Julie.

  The place wasn’t the madhouse I expected it to be. There wasn’t a perp, skell, or scumbag in sight. With the Blue Flu going on, I guess it was more important for officers to be on the street than at their desks filling out arrest reports.

  I was relieved, but Julie was clearly disappointed that she wasn’t going to get another peek at the seamier side of life.

  We were met by Officer Curtis as we came into the homicide department.

  “Your Jeep is parked in the back,” she said, handing me the keys. “Officer Krupp and the patrol division would appreciate the return of their black-and-white.”

  “What about my ticket?” I said.

  “It’s gone away,” she said.

  I handed Officer Curtis the keys to the patrol car and introduced her to Julie.

  “Mom,” Julie protested.

  “Oh, excuse me,” I said. “This may look like my daughter, Julie, but she’s actually a psychopath who eats children. Captain Monk and I have brought her in for a brutal interrogation.”

  “Then she should be handcuffed.” Officer Curtis took out a plastic band from her pocket, looped it around my daughter’s wrists, and cinched it closed.

  Julie growled. Curtis made a show of putting her hand on her holster.

  “Don’t make me take you down,” Curtis said.

  “Try it, cop,” Julie said. “And I’ll use your bones for soup.”

  “Come with me
, insane psycho cannibal killer,” Monk said, leading her into the squad room, where Frank Porter was putting photos of the Strangler’s victims (luckily not the crime scene pictures of their corpses) on a bulletin board covered with the information gathered about their lives. Monk went over to study it.

  Sparrow was at a computer, checking her e-mail and eating potato chips.

  “I’m surprised you’re both still here,” I said.

  “So am I,” Sparrow groaned and glanced at her grandfather. “He won’t leave. I think he’s afraid that if he does, they won’t let him back in tomorrow.”

  I could understand that. He’d thought he’d lost his badge forever, and now that he had it back again he didn’t want to lose it. And yet, he probably knew this reinstatement wasn’t going to last and wanted to enjoy every moment of the experience while he could.

  “Your piercings are so cool,” Julie said, staring at Sparrow’s ears. “Did they hurt?”

  “It was excruciating,” I said. “She was writhing in agony for weeks.”

  “They didn’t hurt as much as piercing my—” Sparrow began, but I interrupted her.

  “She doesn’t want to hear about piercing your whatever.”

  “Yes, I do,” Julie protested. “Maybe I want to pierce my whatever.”

  “Believe me, you don’t,” I said.

  “Where’s my whatever?” Julie said.

  “Julie?” Monk approached. “Could I ask you some questions?”

  He brought Julie up to the bulletin board and showed her the pictures of the shoes recovered from the right foot of each victim.

  “What can you tell me about these shoes?” Monk said.

  “One is a Nike, one is an Adidas, and that’s a Puma,” she said. “They’re all running shoes with air soles.”

  “Anything else?”

  She shrugged. “They’re old.”

  “They look new to me,” Monk said.

  “They’re new but they’re old. They are all styles that aren’t being made anymore,” Julie said. “Whoever wore these shoes were major geeks.”

  Monk smiled. “You have the makings of a great detective.”

  “I do?” she said.

  Monk nodded. “You’ve just figured out what the three Golden Gate Strangler victims had in common.”