Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu (26 page)

“The cop who pulled me over,” Herrin said. “It was the second time I thought I was going to get caught, but I was on a winning streak.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was driving home on Saturday. It was all foggy; I should have been paying attention to my driving, but I was totally distracted by the shoe. I had to keep touching it, looking at it, smelling it,” Herrin said, doing all of that now to what had once been my shoe. “Who could blame me? I’m only human.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said, disgusted.

“I looked away from the road for one second and accidentally blew through a red light,” Herrin said. “I got clipped by this Hispanic guy going through the intersection. It was only a busted taillight, but that could’ve been the end, right there, if he called the cops. But he was an illegal alien. Barely spoke English. He didn’t want trouble any more than I did. We both walked away from it like it never happened.”

“So where does Officer Milner fit into this?” Monk said.

“Sunday I’m driving to work and he pulls me over. I had that incredible shoe in my lap. I tossed it in the backseat, but I knew I’d been caught. I knew that was the end. He walked up to the car, leaned into the window, and asked if I knew how fast I was driving. I didn’t. He told me I was speeding, going thirty-five in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone, and that he was going to give me a ticket,” Herrin said. “He took my license, went back to his car, and sat there for the longest time staring at me.”

I could imagine what was going through Milner’s mind as he sat in his car, pondering what fate had mischeviously dropped in his lap.

The instant he saw that left shoe in the backseat of the car, he knew he’d pulled over the Golden Gate Strangler in a random traffic stop.

What were the odds of
that
?

But more important, what the hell was he going to do about it?

Milner knew his duty was to arrest the murderer. It would be a career-making, headline-grabbing arrest that would make him a national hero.

For the rest of his life, Officer Milner would be known as the brave young cop who singlehandedly caught the Golden Gate Strangler.

So what was stopping him?

The $250,000 reward. By all rights it should be his, too, along with the glory.

But it wouldn’t be.

All he’d get from the mayor was a firm handshake and a photo op. The check would stay in the mayor’s pocket.

The mayor was willing to give the check to any schlub off the street but not to a cop, not to someone who risked his life every day and worked overtime just to scrape up enough to pay for groceries.

How unfair was that?

I could certainly sympathize with Milner’s moral quandary.

He was torn between going for the glory and going for the cash. Both options had a powerful allure.

So while Charlie Herrin sweated it out, Officer Milner sat there in his police car, silently struggling with a choice that, either way, would irrevocably change his life.

Ultimately, greed won out over duty.

Or, to put it more charitably, Officer Milner couldn’t resist the immediate opportunity to provide a better life for his family over the less tangible, potential long-term rewards of making the arrest.

“I was sure he was just waiting for backup to arrive,” Herrin said. “But no, he got out of the car, handed me my license, and let me off with a warning. Can you believe that? What a break. He didn’t see the shoe. He didn’t know who I was.”

“Actually,” Monk said, “he did.”

“Then why didn’t he arrest me?”

“There are two hundred and fifty thousand reasons why he didn’t,” Monk said.

The guards didn’t let Herrin leave the room with my shoes, but there was no way I was taking them back. I wasn’t going to touch them, either. I told the guards to toss them in the trash. I walked out of the jail and all the way to my car in my stocking feet.

Monk and I both thoroughly disinfected our hands in the car with his wipes, but it would take a lot more than that to make either one of us feel clean again.

We stopped on the way back to headquarters at a Shoes for Less store, where I bought a pair of twenty-dollar running shoes just to have something to wear for the rest of the day, though considering how poorly they were made, I had my doubts they’d last that long.

From there, we went straight to Stottlemeyer’s office and filled him and Disher in on what we’d learned from Charlie Herrin.

Stottlemeyer listened without interruption until Monk was finished, then asked Disher to bring in Officer Milner’s personal effects.

Disher stepped out of Stottlemeyer’s office to get them from the evidence room.

“You want to know what I don’t get?” Stottlemeyer said.

“What?” Monk said.

“Everything,” Stottlemeyer said. “How is it that I can look at the same evidence you do and see nothing at all, and you see who the killer is and what he had for breakfast?”

“It’s a gift and a curse,” Monk said.

“Thanks,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I was talking about me,” Monk said. “I see too much. You can walk outside and just appreciate the day. I see everything that doesn’t fit and I can’t let it go.”

“It makes you a hell of a detective, Monk.”

“But I miss a lot of nice days.”

Disher returned with a box filled with plastic bags containing all the items Officer Milner had on his person at the time of his death.

Stottlemeyer searched around in the box and removed a bag containing Officer Milner’s ticket book. He opened the bag up and started flipping through the citations. It didn’t take him long to find the one he wanted.

“Here it is,” Stottlemeyer said. “He never finished writing up the citation, and didn’t submit it when he got back from patrol. But all the information is here. The date and time of the traffic stop. The make, model, plates, and description of the car, even Herrin’s name and address.”

Stottlemeyer handed the ticket book to Monk, who glanced at the citation.

“But we still don’t have anything tying Gruber to Officer Milner’s murder,” Disher said. “All this proves is that Officer Milner met the Foot Fiend.”

“Who is the Foot Fiend?” Stottlemeyer said.

“Charles Herrin,” Disher said.

“He’s the Golden Gate Strangler,” Stottlemeyer said. “Not the Foot Fiend.”

“He is to me, sir. And I’m pretty sure that’s how he’s going to be remembered in the annals of crime.”

“What ‘annals of crime’?” Stottlemeyer said.

“The ones that everyone reads,” Disher said.

“Name one,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Um,” Disher said.
“The Annal of Crime.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s on all the newsstands. You just have to look really, really hard to find it, like behind
Dog Fancy
or
Rubber Stamp Journal
.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” Stottlemeyer turned his attention back to Monk. “Randy is right about one thing: You haven’t made that final connection. You can’t prove Milner fed Gruber the information on Herrin, and without that, you’ve got no motive for murder.”

“On the contrary, Captain.” Monk held up the ticket book. “The evidence is right here.”

I called Bertrum Gruber and told him that Monk had a few more questions he needed to ask in order to wrap up the investigation. He balked, until I reminded him that one of the requirements of the reward was that he cooperate fully with the police, and if he didn’t, he risked immediate revocation of all the funds he’d received. It was a lie, but Gruber invited us to meet him at the marina, where he was looking over a sport yacht he was interested in buying. Stottlemeyer, Monk, and I went to see him.

I don’t get to the marina very often, which is a shame, because it’s one of the most picturesque spots in the city. Birthday-cake houses with their brightly colored stucco frosting line the wide boulevard that faces the Marina Green, a grassy park that curves around the boat slips, a forest of bobbing, white masts cast against the dramatic backdrop of the Golden Gate Bridge. Kite fliers, joggers, bike riders, and sunbathers fill the park year-round, regardless of the weather, giving it a festive feel that not even the prospect of seeing Bertrum Gruber could ruin for me.

Stottlemeyer, Monk, and I walked down the gangplank from the park to the dock. Monk clutched the wooden handrail as if caught in a violent gale. But the gangplank wasn’t moving at all.
He
was, bobbing in rhythm with the masts.

“Relax, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “We aren’t even on a boat.”

“I’m getting seasick just looking at them,” Monk whined.

“So don’t look at them,” I said.

We walked down the dock until we spotted Gruber standing underneath the spoiler of a thirty-five-foot white sport yacht. The boat had an aggressive, arched-forward design that made it look like it was speeding even while it was moored in its slip.

Gruber wore a white yacht cap with gold leaf on the black bill, a blue-and-white-striped crew shirt, a red ascot, a windbreaker, white pants, and brown leather Top-Siders with tassles over his bare feet. He looked ridiculous, as if he were dressing up for a costume party.

“Ahoy, mateys. Isn’t this baby gorgeous?” Gruber said. “You should see inside. Flat-screen satellite TV, granite countertops, handcrafted cabinets, and ultraleather upholstery. It’s sweet. Come aboard.”

“We’d really rather not.” Monk looked queasy at the thought of it. “This is Captain Stottlemeyer. He’s taking part in the investigation now.”

Gruber climbed down off the boat and joined us on the dock. “That makes all three of us guys captains.”

“It does?” Stottlemeyer said.

“I’m Captain Gruber, and this is my vessel.” He stroked the smooth hull while looking at me. “It’s my lady. I’m calling her the
Lust Boat
.”

“What’s a dinghy like this cost?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Please.” Monk groaned. “Could we speed this up?”

“Just south of two hundred Gs,” Gruber said.

“That’s a big chunk of your reward,” I said.

“I’m only giving them a down payment,” Gruber said. “But they know I’m good for the rest. I’ve just optioned my inspirational life story to NBC-UNIVERSAL.”

“Good for you,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk swayed and swallowed hard. “We need to double-check a few points in your statement. Can you go over it again as fast as you can?”

“I went to the garden to tend my strawberries. I saw the guy coming out of the park with a shoe in his hand. He got into a Ford Taurus with a busted taillight and a dented bumper. Part of his license plate was M-five-six-seven.”

“There’s just one problem with that,” Monk said, pausing to clutch his stomach and take a deep breath. “Charlie Herrin didn’t break his taillight and dent his bumper until
after
he left the park.”

“No way.” Gruber shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and shook his head. “I know what I saw.”

“You didn’t see anything,” Stottlemeyer said. “You were just repeating the details Officer Milner gave you when you agreed to his scheme for a cut of the reward. Only you decided to kill him and take it all, didn’t you, Bert?”

“Could we continue this conversation up on the street?” Monk said. “Where the waves are less rough?”

The dock was as firm as the sidewalk. The only thing moving was Monk.

“As we speak, we’re searching your apartment and taking your clothes back to the lab to test for gunpowder residue,” Stottlemeyer said. “While we’re ransacking the place we might even find the murder weapon.”

“You won’t,” Gruber said.

It happened so fast I didn’t see where the gun came from. One second Gruber was standing there; the next he’d grabbed Monk and put a gun to his head. He must have had the gun in his jacket pocket the whole time. Maybe he planned to ditch it at sea.

Stottlemeyer got his gun out almost as fast, leveling it at Gruber. I was no longer part of the play. I’d become a member of the audience. All I could do was watch.

It was a surreal. It was probably even more so for Monk.

“Oh, God,” Monk said. “Not again.”

“Back off or he dies,” Gruber said to Stottlemeyer.

“I don’t feel so good,” Monk said.

“This isn’t a very bright move, Bert,” Stottlemeyer said.

“The two of us are getting on this boat and going,” Gruber said. “Anybody follows me and he’s shark bait.”

“Everybody stand still,” Monk said, looking nauseous. “You’re shaking the dock.”

“You want Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “You can have him.”

I looked at Stottlemeyer. “You’re not serious.”

“What can I do?” Stottlemeyer put his gun back in his shoulder holster. “He’s got us beat. Besides, I think being stuck on a boat with Monk may be worse punishment than death row anyway.”

Gruber backed toward the boat, pulling Monk along with him. “We’re getting on the yacht.”

“I can’t,” Monk groaned.

“Do you want to die?” Gruber said.

“Yes,” Monk said. “Put me out of my misery. Please.”

Stottlemeyer slowly bent down and tied his shoe. I couldn’t believe how casually he was taking all this.

“Shut up and move,” Gruber said.

“Don’t say move,” Monk said. “I can’t even think about motion right now.”

Gruber dragged Monk with him. “You’re getting on the damn boat.”

“Someone please shoot me,” Monk said.

“Shut up,” Gruber said.

Suddenly Monk heaved forward and threw up on the dock. Surprised and revolted, Gruber let go of Monk for an instant. Stottlemeyer whipped out a tiny gun from a hidden ankle holster and shot Gruber in the shoulder.

The impact slammed Gruber against the boat and knocked the gun from his grasp. He slid to the dock, whimpering in pain, clutching his shoulder.