Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu (24 page)

“Not exactly,” Chow said, and turned to Monk. “Didn’t Madam Frost tell you the first time you met her that she knew all the key figures behind the Summer of Love?”

“She said she dropped acid with Timothy Leary and hung out with Janis Joplin,” I said.

“Cool,” Jasper said.

“It’s obvious what really happened here,” Chow said. “Madam Frost was an MK-Ultra operative in the 1960s. She supplied LSD to the youth culture, turning them into lab rats for MK-Ultra’s mind-control experiments. It’s no coincidence that Allegra Doucet moved across the street from her. Allegra knew who and what Madam Frost was. And when Allegra uncovered too much about the alien conspiracy, the Omega Agency ordered Madam Frost to eliminate her and the crossbred humans.”

“So you think everybody on the list of people born in San Francisco on February twentieth, 1962, is an alien test-tube baby?” Sparrow said.

“Some are,” Chow said. “Some aren’t. We’ll see who is still alive a year from now.”

“What about us?” Porter asked. “Don’t we have to be silenced, too?”

Chow shook her head. “Not anymore. Monk has inadvertently helped them pull off the perfect cover-up. Everyone believes Madam Frost’s story because it ‘makes sense.’ No one will look any deeper. It’s another win for the space alien shadow government.”

“Whew,” Wyatt said. “It’s sure nice to know I won’t have to keep looking over my shoulder for ET.”

Monk asked them to write up their reports on the homicide cases and went to see Captain Stottlemeyer. He poked his head into the office.

“How is it going, Captain?” Monk asked.

“Not so good, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “I hear you closed four homicides last night.”

“It was a lucky break,” Monk said. “What have you learned about Officer Milner?”

“Squat,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk squatted. Stottlemeyer rose from behind his desk and looked down at him.

“What the hell are you doing, Monk?”

“Squatting,” Monk said.

“It’s an expression,” Stottlemeyer said. “It means zilch, zero,
nada
.”

“I’m pretty sure it means sitting on your heels,” Monk said. “Like so.”

Disher came in, carrying a file. “What are you doing?”

“The captain wants us to squat,” Monk said.

Disher squatted beside him. “Why? Did he lose one of his contacts?”

“Get up,” Stottlemeyer said. “Both of you.”

They did.

“You have dust bunnies under your desk,” Monk said. “Were you aware of that?”

“No, I was not,” Stottlemeyer said, sitting down in his desk chair.

“If you squat right here”—Monk squatted again—“you can see them.”

“Then don’t squat,” Stottlemeyer said.

“But I’ll still know they’re there,” Monk said. “And so will you.”

“I can live with it,” Stottlemeyer said, glancing into the squad room. “Get up, Monk.”

“I’m going to go get a broom and a dustpan,” Monk said, starting to go. “You’ll thank me later.”

“No,” Stottlemeyer said firmly, stopping Monk. “You can’t go get a broom and sweep my office.”

“Why not?” Monk asked.

“Because you’re a captain now, and it will send the wrong message to the rank and file.” Stottlemeyer motioned to the detectives outside, who were making a show of not paying attention to what was happening in the office but who clearly were.

“That dust bunnies are bad?” Monk said.

“That you are subservient to me,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ve got the same rank.”

“The men would lose all respect for your authority,” Disher said.

“Exactly,” Stottlemeyer said. “Randy, go get me a broom and a dustpan.”

“But, sir,” Disher said, “it will send the wrong message to the men.”

“What’s that?” Stottlemeyer asked.

Disher lowered his voice. “That I am subservient to you.”

“You are, Lieutenant,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Can’t the dust bunnies wait?” Disher said, almost pleading.

“They are called bunnies for a reason,” Monk said gravely. “They multiply. Soon you will have hordes of dust bunnies swarming the building. And then things get ugly. Very, very ugly. It’s not something you want to see. Trust me on this.”

Stottlemeyer sighed. “Monk can’t think with dust bunnies under my desk, Randy. And I need him to think right now.”

“Yes, sir.” Disher dropped his file on Stottlemeyer’s desk and marched out in a huff.

“What do you need me to think about?” Monk said.

I saw Disher approach another detective and give him some orders—like getting him a broom and a dustpan.

“The Officer Milner shooting. I went to see his wife,” Stottlemeyer said. “They live in a tiny little apartment in San Mateo. She drives an eight-year-old Nissan. If they’ve got money, they’re hiding it well. My kid has more change in his piggy bank than they’ve got in their checking account. She has no idea what Milner was up to besides working as hard as he could to support his family.”

I saw the detective Disher talked to march up to an officer and give her some orders. I had a pretty good idea what he was telling her to do.

“Did he have any enemies?” Monk bent down, keeping an eye on the bunnies in case they made a break for it. “Maybe someone he arrested seeking revenge?”

“He was a rookie.” Stottlemeyer picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to Monk. “Here’s his arrest sheet. And that’s all it is, one sheet. Look for yourself. It’s nothing but routine traffic violations, some drunk-and-disorderlies, a few nickel-and-dime drug busts. We’re talking overnighters in a holding cell, tops. Nothing that anybody would kill over.”

I saw the officer return with a broom and dustpan and bring them to the detective, who brought them to Disher, and Disher brought them into the office. I was so busy watching the little power play unfold that I almost missed Monk subtly straightening his back. It was a tell. Monk was onto something.

Stottlemeyer noticed it, too. “What?”

“It says here that eight months ago Officer Milner arrested Bertrum Gruber making a drug buy at that park on Potrero Hill.”

“So what?” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk looked up from the paper and saw Disher. “They’re right there, near the foot of the desk.”

Disher, irritated, shoved the broom under the desk.

“Be careful,” Monk said. “One wrong move and they’ll scatter, and it’s game over, pal.”

“Monk,” Stottlemeyer said, trying hard to keep the anger from his voice. “Could we please concentrate on what’s important?”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Monk snatched the broom and dustpan from Disher. “Stand back. This is a very delicate procedure. I need room to maneuver.”

Monk crouched, eased the broom under the desk, and swept the dust bunnies into the dustpan as if he were dealing with nitroglycerin. Sweat broke out on his brow. He chewed on his lower lip. The whole thing must have taken five minutes.

Stottlemeyer leaned back in his chair and massaged his temples.

Once Monk had the dust bunnies in the dustpan, he lifted it up slowly, keeping it even, careful not to tip it. He made his way gingerly to the trash can, eased the dustpan over it, and tipped it until the dust bunnies dropped inside. Mission accomplished.

His whole body sagged, and he slumped into one of the guest chairs, exhausted.

“That was close,” he said.

Stottlemeyer sighed. “Do you think we can get back to the Officer Milner homicide now?”

“Water,” Monk said to me.

I reached into my big purse for a bottle of Sierra Springs. It’s the same purse I used when Julie was a baby and I had to lug around diapers, milk, and wipes. Now I carry wipes, rubber gloves, Ziploc bags, and bottles of Sierra Springs, the only water he’ll drink.

I gave Monk the bottle, and he opened it up and took a long swig.

“Who cares if Officer Milner arrested Bertrum Gruber eight months ago?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Gruber is the witness who came forward and identified the Golden Gate Strangler,” Monk said.

“Aka the Foot Fiend,” Disher said.

“Thanks,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Gruber said he was going to the community garden to check on his strawberries the morning of the murder,” Monk said. “He claimed he saw Charlie Herrin coming out of the park with the victim’s shoe in his hands. Gruber even got a partial plate from Herrin’s car.”

“It was another lucky break for you,” Stottlemeyer said. “God knows you certainly get more than your share.”

“Gruber was lying,” Monk said. “He wasn’t growing strawberries. It was the wrong time of year for planting them.”

The strawberries again. He just couldn’t let that go.

“So he lied. Gruber was probably in the park looking to score some drugs,” Stottlemeyer said. “You can’t really expect him to admit that to the police, can you? What matters is that his information was good. He did the right thing and helped you catch a serial killer.”

“He cheated,” Monk said.

“What?” Stottlemeyer said.

“He cheated,” Monk said emphatically.

Stottlemeyer gave me a look. I shrugged. I didn’t know what Monk meant, either.

“Fine. He cheated,” Stottlemeyer said. “What does that have to do with Officer Milner’s murder?”

“Everything,” Monk said. “Because Bertrum Gruber is the guy who killed him.”

Monk’s declaration stunned all of us.

Stottlemeyer rubbed his mustache and glanced at Disher, who glanced at me, and I glanced right back at Stottlemeyer. I’m not sure what that round-robin of glances accomplished, or the message it conveyed, but we did it one more time for good measure.

“What could possibly make you think that Bertrum Gruber shot Officer Milner?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“It’s obvious,” Monk replied.

“Only to you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s right here on the arrest sheet.” Monk got up from his seat and handed Milner’s arrest record to Stottlemeyer, who briefly scanned it.

“I still don’t see it.” Stottlemeyer handed the paper to Disher, who scrutinized it.

“Me, neither,” Disher said, handing the sheet to me, as if I’d know what I was looking at. I gave it a quick once-over, but it was all meaningless to me.

“Officer Milner arrested Bertrum Gruber eight months ago for buying drugs in the same park where Charlie Herrin murdered a woman last week,” Monk said.

“Yes, you said that,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s on his arrest sheet,” Monk said.

“I know,” Stottlemeyer said. “I can read.”

“So there you go,” Monk said.

“There I go?”

“You aren’t bothered by the coincidence?”

“
What
coincidence?” Stottlemeyer said.

“That all three of them were in the park at one time or another?”

“Potrero Hill was Officer Milner’s beat,” Stottlemeyer said. “Bertrum Gruber lives in Potrero Hill. Charlie Herrin dumped a body in a park in a neighborhood where Officer Milner works and Gruber shops for drugs. I don’t see a coincidence here. I see a logical explanation for how their lives intersected. What I don’t see is a motive for Bertrum Gruber to murder Officer Milner.”

“Me, neither,” Disher said. “I’m with the captain on this. Captain Stottlemeyer that is, not you.”

I was in agreement with Stottlemeyer and Disher, but I also knew that Monk was never wrong about this stuff. In my opinion, they should have just gone out and arrested Bertrum Gruber and worried about how Monk figured it out later. Trying to follow Monk’s thinking was giving me a monumental headache. I believe if your brain isn’t wired like Monk’s—and whose is?—trying to think like him makes all your neurons fire in the wrong direction. It can be hazardous to your mental health.

“Milner was one of the officers who secured the crime scene after the body was found in the park,” Monk said. “Two days later Bertrum Gruber came forward, lied about seeing Charlie Herrin in the park the morning of the murder, and won a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the capture of the Golden Gate Strangler.”

“You don’t think Charlie Herrin strangled those women?” Stottlemeyer said.

“Oh, he definitely did it,” Monk said. “He’s the guy.”

“I’m so confused,” Disher said, taking a seat.

“Then what did Gruber lie about?” Stottlemeyer said.

“About being in the park that morning,” Monk said. “He wasn’t there. He didn’t see anything. He cheated.”

My head was splitting. “Then how did Gruber get all the information about Charlie Herrin?”

“Officer Milner told him,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer, Disher, and I did another round-robin of glances. It didn’t help my headache. I started rummaging around in my big purse for some Advil or a mallet.

“How did Officer Milner know?” Disher said.

“He knew about the shoe because he was at the crime scene,” Monk said. “I don’t know how he found out the rest.”

“Assuming you’re right—and that’s an assumption of biblical proportions,” Stottlemeyer said, “why wouldn’t Milner arrest the Strangler himself? It would have been a career-making arrest; he would have gotten all the glory.”

“But not a penny of the two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar reward,” Monk said. “As a city employee, he was ineligible to collect it. You said it yourself, Captain: Money was tight for him. The reward would have done his family more good than making the arrest.”

“So he recruited Gruber to be his front man, fed him the information, and they split up the money,” Stottlemeyer said. “Only Gruber got greedy and decided to keep it all for himself.”

“That’s my thinking,” Monk said. “Which is also the way it happened.”

“How do you know?” Disher said.

“The magazines and brochures in Milner’s police car,” Monk said. “He was looking at cars, homes, and vacations he couldn’t possibly afford.”