Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu (18 page)

“I could probably have written a kick-ass landmark thesis on that guy,” Jasper lamented.

“What happened to your notion of an almost Jungian shared unconscious among paranoid schizophrenics?” I asked.

“What do you think is going to have more impact? A study of paranoid schizophrenics,” Jasper said, “or the forensic psychiatric analysis of a psychopathic killer with a foot fetish who kills women and collects left-foot running shoes? Which would
you
rather read?”

Jasper had a point.

Monk spent the next few hours in his office writing down his remarks for the press conference on index cards. He practiced in front of me, reading directly from his cards.

After introducing himself, he thanked each of his detectives by name for their dedication and hard work. He wrapped up by urging the city to mend its relations with the police force, giving the officers the respect, benefits, and compensation they deserved for their tireless service to the community.

“That’s a terrific speech, Mr. Monk,” I said. “But aren’t you going to thank Bertrum Gruber for coming forward with the vital lead?”

“No.”

“I don’t like him either, but you can’t deny that without him, there wouldn’t have been an arrest today.”

“He cheated,” Monk said.

“Isn’t Charlie Herrin the Strangler?”

“He is,” Monk said.

“And wasn’t it the license plate number that Gruber gave you that pointed to Herrin out of all the possible suspects?”

“It was,” Monk said.

“Do you think Gruber had something to do with the murders?”

“No,” Monk said.

“So where’s the cheating?”

I really hated defending Gruber, but I had to give the guy credit for going to the police with what he saw.

“Gruber is lying,” Monk said.

“You’re not talking about those strawberries again, are you?”

“Gruber is in his thirties. He said he remembered the last part of the license plate, M-five-six-seven, because it matched his mother’s birthday, May fifth, 1967. That would mean she was ten years old when she gave birth to him.”

Okay, Monk had a point. For whatever reason, Gruber wasn’t being entirely honest about how he got his facts. Even so, there was no denying the end result of his actions.

“What difference does it make how Gruber got the license plate numbers? Herrin is the killer, and he’s off the street,” I said. “And all those pairs of running shoes are being reunited. The balance of the universe has been restored.”

“Except for one thing,” Monk said. “He cheated.”

“So what’s that knock out-of-whack?”

“Me,” Monk said.

 

The press conference was held that night in the opulent City Hall rotunda on the broad landing of the grand marble staircase, which was surrounded by ornate columns of Colorado limestone topped by sculptures of acanthus leaves and decorative scrolls.

The rotunda was dramatically lit to highlight the elegant balconies, add dramatic impact to the Greek mythological figures carved on the walls, and make the elaborate designs on the pink Tennessee-marble floors gleam.

Mayor Barry Smitrovich stood behind the podium, flanked by Bertrum Gruber on one side and Monk on the other. Gruber wore a brand-new, off-the-rack suit and tugged nervously on his goatee. Monk sorted through the notes on his index cards.

I stood behind Monk along with a couple of the mayor’s aides, who held a giant reproduction of the $250,000 check made out to Bertrum Gruber, the creep.

There were only a half dozen reporters, two still photographers, and four cameramen in attendance. But it wasn’t the number of people who showed up that mattered anymore; it was the number who were tuning in to the live broadcasts, podcasts, and webcasts that counted. If only one person had shown up with a video camera, a laptop, and a broadband connection, he could still potentially reach millions of viewers around the world.

Mayor Smitrovich stepped up to the podium and smiled into the audience, playing to the unseen multitudes instead of the handful who were actually there.

“I’m pleased to announce that an arrest has been made in the Golden Gate Strangler killings, and that the women of this great city can once again feel safe on our streets,” Smitrovich said. “The capture of this individual is the direct result of law enforcement officers and the community working together toward a common goal.”

“What can you tell us about the suspect?” one of the reporters yelled out.

“His name is Charlie Herrin, and that’s all I’m prepared to say about him at this time,” Smitrovich said. “But what I can tell you is that he would still be at large if it weren’t for a witness coming to the police and sharing crucial information. And for that act of bravery, it’s my great pleasure to present the two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar reward to Bertrum Gruber.”

The mayor motioned Gruber forward, and the two aides presented him with the prop check.

“It is my honor to give you this check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars as a reward for your vigilance, courage, and selflessness.” Smitrovich shook Gruber’s hand.

If the mayor went on much longer, I was going to need a barf bag.

“I was just doing my duty as a citizen and a San Franciscan,” Gruber said. “I would have done it for nothing.”

“So you’ll be donating this money back to the city?” the mayor joked.

“I don’t think so, Barry,” Gruber said.

That got a big laugh from the crowd, loud enough that no one but those standing right next to Smitrovich heard him say to Gruber, without a trace of humor, “It’s Mr. Mayor to you.”

They posed together for another moment, hands clasped in a long handshake in front of the cardboard check, and then the mayor went up to the podium again.

Gruber winked at me. I looked away. Did he really think I was going to fall at his feet simply because he was $250,000 richer?

“While it was Mr. Gruber’s tip that ultimately led to the arrest, the information he provided would have been useless if not for the facts previously gathered by Captain Adrian Monk,” the mayor said. “I personally appointed him only forty-eight hours ago to head an investigation that had stalled in the hands of those detectives who’ve walked off the job and are demanding more benefits. To those detectives, currently engaged in an illegal walkout, I say: For shame. To Captain Monk I say: Thank you, not only for capturing this heinous felon but, in so doing, proving that the SFPD can be a leaner, more efficient department.”

The mayor and his staff applauded, but Monk barely looked up from his index cards. I whispered into his ear.

“You have to say something in defense of Captain Sottlemeyer. You can’t let the mayor use you like this, Mr. Monk.”

“Don’t worry,” Monk said. “I’m on it.”

The mayor waved Monk up to the podium and they shook hands.

“Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” Monk said, then signaled to me for a wipe. I gave him one, stood there while he cleaned his hands, then took the used wipe from him and stepped back.

“Do you have a few words you’d like to say?” the mayor asked.

“Yes, I do,” Monk said.

The mayor moved aside, and Monk took his place.

Monk cleared his throat, set his index cards on the podium, and carefully adjusted the microphone.

And adjusted it some more. And more after that.

Seconds ticked by like hours.

Monk adjusted the microphone up.

The cameramen set down the cameras and waited.

Monk adjusted the microphone a bit to the left.

The mayor tapped his foot impatiently.

Monk adjusted the microphone ever so slightly to the right.

Bertrum Gruber leered at me.

Monk adjusted the microphone down.

My gaze drifted to the east wall and a detailed carving of a naked Father Time, an hourglass in his hand. He was flanked by the naked Past and the naked Future. I wondered why none of them could find a few minutes to put on some clothes.

Finally Monk got the microphone in perfect position and tapped it. The sound drew everyone’s attention back to him.

The cameramen picked up their cameras again.

The mayor sighed with relief.

“I’m Adrian Monk,” Monk began, laying his hands on either side of the podium.

It wobbled.

“I’m Adrian Monk,” he repeated, and gently rocked the podium to see which end was uneven.

It was the right front corner.

“Everyone remain calm,” Monk said. “I have everything under control.”

He slowly folded his top index card, and the passage of time as we knew it came to a grinding halt.

I looked back up at Father Time, half expecting him to use this opportunity, his first in an eternity, to run out to Nordstrom for some underwear.

Once the card was perfectly folded, Monk bent down, tipped the podium, and placed the index card under the front right corner. He stood up and rocked the podium to make sure it was even.

It was.

He straightened up and leaned into the microphone again. “I’m Adrian Monk, and I—”

Monk stopped and looked at the second index card. He seemed lost. I knew what had happened: He’d folded up the first index card before he’d finished reading what was on it. He’d lost his place.

The mayor had broken into a sweat. I had no idea there were so many veins in a person’s forehead until I saw them all bulging on Smitrovich.

Gruber had shifted his lascivious gaze from me to one of the female reporters, who, in a fit of devastating boredom, seemed to be enjoying the attention.

Monk put the second card back on the stack, evened the stack out, then bent down in front of the podium, pulled out the folded card, and slowly unfolded it, reading aloud what was on it:

“. . . and I would like to take a moment to thank the detectives who. . .”

He folded the card again, leaned down, and put it back under the front corner. While he was doing that, the mayor cracked. I think he might even have let out a desperate little squeal.

Smitrovich rushed up to the podium and snatched the microphone.

“Thank you, Captain,” the mayor said. “We don’t want to hold you up any longer from the fine work you’re doing.”

Monk stepped back into place beside me.

The mayor talked for a few more minutes, but I was still coming out of my Monk-induced coma and missed most of it. When the mayor finished, he and Gruber were besieged by reporters, allowing Monk and me to slip out unnoticed.

We were outside, walking against a bone-chilling wind to the parking area for official vehicles, when Monk spoke up.

“I think I made my point,” Monk said to me.

“All you said was your name.”

“The whole time the mayor was talking, the podium was uneven,” Monk said. “He looked like a buffoon. But I stepped up and confidently fixed the podium. I think that sent a powerful message to the populace.”

“I’m sure it did, Mr. Monk.”

We approached the guard shack outside the parking lot. The police officer inside the shack had the press conference playing on his little TV, and he glared at us both as we passed.

“How is the mayor ever going to live down the embarrassment?” Monk said.

“It may cost him reelection,” I said.

“He won’t get my vote,” Monk said. “If he can’t balance a podium, how can he expect to lead a city?”

Before we even reached my car, I could see that something was very wrong. My car was slouching in its parking space on three slashed tires.

Monk was mortified. I was furious.

“How could this happen in a parking lot that’s under twenty-four-hour police protection?” he said.

“I guess there were some people who didn’t receive your powerful message.”

I glanced at the cop at the parking lot entrance. He sneered at me and ducked back into his shack.

Monk crouched beside the car and examined the one tire that remained unscathed.

“Do you have a pocket-knife?” Monk asked.

“No.”

“Maybe you could ask the police officer if he has one,” Monk said.

“Of course he does,” I said. “He’s probably the one who did this.”

“Could you ask if we could borrow it?”

“Mr. Monk, I am not going to ask the man who slashed my tires if I could borrow the knife he used to do it,” I said. “Why do you want a knife?”

“They missed a tire,” Monk said.

“You’d slash a perfectly good tire just so it matches?”

“A car has four tires,” he said. “They only slashed three.”

“I don’t care,” I said.

“Be a sport,” Monk pleaded.

“No,” I said firmly.

Monk rolled his shoulders. “Look at this tire. The treads are almost smooth. If you get three new tires, they won’t match this one.”

“I’ll live,” I said.

“Maybe not,” Monk said. “With treads this thin, the tire could blow at any moment. Think of your safety. Think of Julie’s. You really need four new tires with the same amount of tread.”

He had me there. I threw my keys at Monk.

He dodged them. “You could poke out someone’s eye that way.”

“Really?” I said, scrounging in my purse for my cell phone.

He picked up my keys and used one of them to depress the pin in the tire’s valve stem and release the air.

I called AAA and asked for a tow truck. Monk sighed contentedly as he deflated my tire and the car slumped evenly to the ground.

“You’ll thank me later,” he said.

“I’ll
bill
you later,” I said.

The tow truck took my car to a full-service gas station, where I had four overpriced tires installed. I made Monk pay for it. He didn’t argue too much with me, because I convinced him that he wasn’t buying the tires; he was paying for the rare privilege of helping the technician balance them and place the proper counterweights on the rims.