Mr. Monk Gets Even (25 page)

Buried in the back pages, at the bottom of an inside column, was a small story on the continuing search for Dale Biederback. It included an artist’s rendering barely larger than a postage stamp of what the fugitive might look like now.

I would have studied the photo closely, and committed it to memory, but I forgot to bring my electron microscope with me. I’d ask Devlin for a copy of the sketch the next time I saw her.

My cell phone rang and, lo and behold, it was Devlin.

“I was just thinking about you,” I said. “Could you get me a copy of the police sketch of the new, thin Dale?”

“Sure, I’ll e-mail it to you,” she said. “In the meantime, I could use Monk’s help on a case.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “You’re actually inviting him to a crime scene?”

“We’ve got a floater down at Marina Green,” she said. “He’s naked and has no ID. We might be able to figure out who he is from dental records, and maybe fingerprints if we can recover any. But the body is in very bad shape, so, if it’s possible at all, it will take time. I’m not even sure it’s a murder. I’m overwhelmed right now trying to run homicide. I’m hoping Monk can pull a lead out of nowhere and get us something to go on.”

“I’m sure he will be glad to try.”

He was more than glad. He was ecstatic and, I think, truly thankful to have a new mystery to occupy his mind and distract him from what he perceived as his recent, and humiliating, failures.

I picked him up in front of his house and we drove down to Marina Green, an eight-block-long flat expanse of grass right on the bay, offering spectacular views of the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz and built atop the ruins of disaster.

The area was a marsh until the 1906 earthquake, when the rubble of old San Francisco was dumped there, creating a very unstable landfill that, despite the threat of another temblor, became the site of the 1915 World’s Fair.

After the fair, the structures were removed and the area became a park, where people picnic, fly kites, play games, jog, toss Frisbees for their dogs, take pictures of the Golden Gate, and find dead bodies.

Actually, that’s not entirely accurate or fair. The body was found floating between slips of the St. Francis Yacht Club, adjacent to the park.

By the time we got there, the body had been pulled out of the water and brought inside a white tent erected by the medical examiner and forensic team on the western edge of the Marina Green parking lot.

We met Devlin outside the tent.

“Thanks for coming down,” she said.

“I appreciate being asked,” Monk said.

“You may not after you see what we’ve got here,” she said. “I hate floaters, and this is a bad one. He’s been in the salt water for a couple of days, so he’s very ripe, and it looks like he’s been hit by a couple of boat propellers and nibbled on by fish and crabs. He’s just eviscerated. His eyeballs are gone and he’s missing teeth. Getting fingerprints from him is going to be a real challenge. I’m really not sure there’s anything you can do for us, but I figured it was worth a try.”

I was tempted to ask if I could sit this one out, but I didn’t want to look like a sissy.

“Any signs of foul play?” I asked.

Devlin shrugged. “With all the damage to the body, it’s hard to say at this point. At first glance, and that’s about all you’ll want to take, there are no apparent bullet holes or stab wounds. Could be a suicide, or maybe a sailing accident, or maybe a murder. We don’t know.”

Monk nodded, lifted the tent flap, and stepped inside. I took a deep breath to steel myself and followed him in. Devlin remained outside.

Here’s one of the fascinating contradictions about Monk. He won’t look at a naked woman sitting across from him, and he’s repulsed by someone with crooked teeth, but he has no problem whatsoever scrutinizing a putrid, hacked-up, water-swollen, fish-chewed naked body pulled out of the ocean.

I grew up in Monterey, around the ocean, the beach, and the fishing industry. I’ve come across dead seals and dolphins on the beach. I’ve smelled a lot of rot.

But I’ve smelled nothing that compares to a human body that’s been decomposing in the sea. The odor was overpowering. Even holding my breath, the odor seemed to seep into my skin. Every instinct I had made me want to leave that tent and retch.

And I haven’t even told you what the corpse looked like. I won’t go into too much detail, except to say the body was extremely bloated and disgusting. It was laid out on a blue plastic sheet and all kinds of fluid was seeping out of it.

I couldn’t look at it, but Monk squatted down right next to the body, peering at it closely and examining it from head to toe, his hands out in front of him, framing his perspective.

“He didn’t take very good care of his teeth,” Monk said.

He wasn’t holding his breath or averting his gaze but was taking it all in, without flinching, without the slightest hint of revulsion.

In fact, he even poked at one of the wounds with his gloved fingers. That was too much for me.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Monk, I can’t take it. I have to step outside,” I said and didn’t wait for his answer.

I got the hell out of the tent and walked over to the park before risking a breath. But there still must have been molecules of rot from the tent in my nose, because the stench was lingering and I nearly retched.

I took a few quick, deep breaths to try to clear my nose. Devlin came up beside me and handed me a Kleenex and a tiny bottle of Scope.

“Blowing my nose and swishing around some Scope in my mouth usually does the trick for me,” she said.

I followed her advice. I blew my nose. Then I took a mouthful of Scope, swirled it around, and spit it out on the street.

My mouth tasted minty fresh and all I smelled was the fresh air.

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem,” she said. “What does Monk know?”

“All he’s told me is that the guy had bad teeth,” I said. “How are things going with Jenna Dobbs?”

“She hasn’t said a word since lawyering up. She’s got one of the best law firms in San Francisco on her case, though it’s not going to do her any good,” Devlin said. “The judge is going to deny bail. Maybe after she’s marinated a while in a cell she’ll be more willing to make a deal and tell us what her husband might have admitted to her.”

“Maybe he didn’t admit anything,” I said.

“You’d be surprised what stabbing a guy will do to loosen his tongue.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “But I’m worried about why you do.”

She was about to reply when something behind me caught her eye.

“Is he smiling?”

I turned around and saw Monk standing outside the tent. He appeared relaxed and entirely at peace.

And he was smiling, no doubt about it.

“He’s solved it,” I said.

“Solved what?” she said.

“Whatever happened to the guy,” I said.

“He seems happier than that to me.”

“To me, too,” I said.

We went over to Monk, who seemed positively giddy—not exactly the reaction you’d expect from any normal person who’d just been scrutinizing a decomposing body.

“Do you know who the dead man is?” Devlin said.

“Yes and no,” Monk said.

“Was he murdered?”

“Yes,” Monk said.

“Do you know who did it?”

It seemed like an absurd question to ask based on how little Monk had to go on.

“I do,” Monk said.

Even I was stunned by that. At least it explained why he was so upbeat. He’d got his mojo back.

“How can you possibly know that?” Devlin asked.

Monk turned to her and his smile got even bigger. “I also know that Dale Biederback didn’t escape the way we thought he did, and I can tell you where he is right now.”

I gestured to the tent. “Is that him in there?”

“Call Julie and Captain Stottlemeyer, ask them to meet us at the hospital,” Monk said, clearly ignoring my question. “They deserve to know what actually happened when Dale got away from us.”

“Can’t that wait until we’ve apprehended him?” Devlin asked.

“There’s no hurry,” Monk said. “He isn’t going anywhere.”

• • •

That last comment only reinforced my suspicion that the corpse in the tent was Dale. But Monk wouldn’t say anything more.

That was frustrating, of course, but I was used to it. He always kept the solution to himself until he could present what he knew and how he’d figured it out in his own way, in his own time, and on his own terms. It was always best for him if he could do it at the scene of the crime, which in this case was the hospital.

He cherished that final moment, when he explained how everything fit together, because that was when he felt certain that the world was in perfect balance, that he’d restored order out of chaos.

I wouldn’t begrudge him that pleasure. The truth was, the frustration I felt was familiar, exciting, and something I actually welcomed. It was like waiting to go on a new thrill ride at your favorite amusement park. Yes, you wish the line would move faster, but the expectation of the excitement in store for you only makes the ride better once you’re on it.

It had been way, way too long since I’d felt this wonderful frustration. I didn’t appreciate it before, not until it wasn’t part of my life anymore.

Monk was silent as I drove him to the hospital, but he had a look of pure contentment on his face.

We parked at the hospital and went up to the second-floor lobby to wait for Devlin, Stottlemeyer, and Julie to arrive.

“Can you give me a hint?” I asked Monk.

“About what?”

“How Dale got away or where he is now, and how seeing that floater solved it all for you.”

“Okay,” Monk said.

That took me completely off guard, because I honestly didn’t expect him to give in. He’d always refused to offer me anything ahead of time.

Monk really had changed.

“You will?” I said.

“Dr. Wiss, the plastic surgeon who operated on Dale, won a trip to Hawaii and left the morning after the operation.”

“Okay, and . . .” I rolled my hand, like I was turning a wheel.

“And what?” he asked.

“What’s the hint?

“That’s your hint,” Monk said.

“That’s not a hint,” I said. “That’s just restating a fact.”

“A fact that’s a hint.”

“How is that a hint? We know Dr. Wiss was in Hawaii. He left before Dale escaped and has been there ever since.”

“That’s true,” Monk said.

“And we know it’s Dr. Wiss, not someone else pretending to be him, because Devlin saw his picture and positively identified him.”

“I agree. That is absolutely, irrefutably, Dr. Wiss in Hawaii and not an imposter.”

“Then how is that a hint?”

“It’s not just a hint,” Monk said. “It’s the solution.”

“How can that possibly be the solution?” I said. “The solution to what?”

“Everything,” he said and smiled.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mr. Monk and the Musical Chairs

M
onk remained silent until Devlin, Stottlemeyer, and Julie arrived at the hospital. When they came out of the elevator, it was clear how each of them felt. Devlin was impatient, Julie was excited, and the captain was delighted.

“I knew you’d do it, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Me, too,” Julie said.

“I’m glad you two did,” Monk said, “because I certainly didn’t.”

“He hasn’t done anything yet,” Devlin said and looked at him expectantly.

We all did.

But he didn’t say or do anything. A long, awkward silence followed. Awkward for us, maybe, but not for Monk. He seemed completely at ease.

“Well, are you going to tell us what’s going on or not?” Devlin snapped, tapping her foot with anxiety.

Monk held up his hand in a halting gesture and glanced at the clock on the wall.

“It will only be a few more minutes,” Monk said.

“What is he waiting for?” Devlin asked me.

I shrugged. Stottlemeyer sighed and took a seat on one of the chairs in the waiting area. Julie and I sat down on either side of him. Devlin remained standing beside Monk.

“Do you have to be so damn dramatic?” Devlin said. “Why can’t you just get to it?”

But Monk didn’t answer. He just watched the clock.

“This is going to be good,” Stottlemeyer whispered to us.

“How do you know?” I whispered back.

“Look at him,” Stottlemeyer said. “He’s like a conductor in front of an orchestra, getting ready to play.”

“I have a present for you, Leland.” Julie took a sealed envelope out of her purse and tucked it into the captain’s sling.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Take a look after Mr. Monk has finished,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll put it to good use.”

At that moment, a doctor emerged from the elevator and seemed startled to see all of us there.

“Detectives,” he said. “May I help you with something?”

Julie leaned across Stottlemeyer to whisper to me. “That’s Dr. Auerbach, the plastic surgeon who works with Dr. Wiss.”

I nodded, wondering where this was all going.

“No, we’re just revisiting the events surrounding Dale Biederback’s escape,” Monk said. “You’re right on time for your rounds. How are Jason McCabe and Frank Cannon doing?”