Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

CHAPTER TWO

When Monk doesn’t have a case to investigate, he likes to clean his apartment and straighten up his belongings. The problem is that there is no cleaner, straighter place on earth than the twelve hundred square feet of San Francisco that he occupies. You’re more likely to find microscopic signs of life on the surface of Mars than on his countertops. And you could use his apartment to calibrate every level-measuring device on earth.

So when he runs out of things to disinfect or balance at home, which happens within minutes, he’ll start pleading with me to let him clean my house instead.

I know what you’re thinking: You’re wondering why I bother fighting with him about it. You would immediately say yes if your boss volunteered to thoroughly clean your house and pay you to sit around while he scrubbed.

But we’re not talking about just anybody. We’re talking about Adrian Monk. When he cleans your place, he practically strips it down to the studs and then puts everything back according to his arcane rules of order.

That may not sound so bad to you unless you’ve actually experienced it.

For example, after he empties and polishes my refrigerator, he puts all the leftovers, meat, fruit, and vegetables into individual plastic containers and Ziploc bags, labels them, and arranges them on the shelves by food group, size, and expiration date. (Call me crazy, but I don’t see the point of putting an apple in a transparent bag and sticking a label on it that says, Apple.)

There is no food, not even a slice of chocolate cake, that looks appetizing once it’s been air-locked in a Tupperware container and labeled. It becomes a scientific sample, and who wants to eat that?

He also rearranges all my furniture, all the decorations on my walls, and all the books and knickknacks on my shelves so that everything is centered, balanced, and symmetrical, regardless of what my personal tastes might be.

I think some casual disarray demonstrates character and makes a place feel lived-in.

But if Monk comes across something that doesn’t fit in as he thinks it should, he throws it out, regardless of its monetary or sentimental value to me.

When he’s done, it’s still our stuff but the house doesn’t feel like we live there anymore. It looks like a model home for a family of androids.

That’s not even the worst of it.

As part of his cleaning, he goes through all my clothes, jewelry, medications, and toiletry items in detail, making me account for everything and justify its reason for being in my life, much less in my room, closet, or drawer.

I’m a pretty liberal and open person, and I spend most of my time with Monk, so it’s not like there’s much about me or my past that he doesn’t know anyway. But everybody likes to keep a part of themselves to themselves, no matter how small or insignificant that part might be. That’s impossible if you let Monk into your house, much less let him root around in your drawers.

My daughter, Julie, is at an age when she’s especially protective of her privacy and refuses to allow me into her room unless she’s in it, and even then I practically need to submit a request in writing along with a photo ID. She’d never forgive me if I let Monk into her room, though it’s not likely to happen. She has a hamster, and even though it’s in a cage, Monk is not about to enter her room unless he’s wearing a haz-mat suit with its own air supply.

Despite all the problems and aggravations that come with letting Monk clean my house, sometimes I give in to his nagging anyway. It happens when I’ve been really busy or really lazy or both, the dirty dishes and laundry have piled up, and there’s enough dust on the shelves that housecleaning would qualify as an archaeological dig.

The day after our visit to the university was one of those times.

The key to surviving a Monk housecleaning is not letting him do everything all at once. I strictly limit him to certain tasks or areas of the house, like cleaning the kitchen or doing the laundry. But even so, I still have to spend an agonizing amount of time and energy justifying things, like why I didn’t incinerate a stained blouse instead of keeping it in my closet, where it could contaminate my other clothes.

“It’s an old stain,” I said. “It’s not transferable.”

I was sitting at the kitchen table, doing some important reading in the Enquirer. I was catching up on which stars were “flabulous” without makeup and photographic trickery to hide their belly fat and cellulite.

“Once a piece of clothing is stained, it attracts other stains,” Monk said. “And insects. If you wear this, you’re just asking to be infested with lice.”

Monk was in the adjacent laundry room, wearing an apron and dishwashing gloves as he folded my clothes. He wore the gloves in case he accidentally came into contact with bras or panties. It took me months to convince him he didn’t need to wear protective goggles as well.

He pinched my blouse between his thumb and index finger and held it at arm’s length, his head turned away from the garment as if it had been soaked in urine and infected with smallpox.

“It’s one of my favorite blouses,” I said. “I’ve had it for years. I wear it when I’m hanging around the house or doing messy projects because I don’t have to worry about ruining it.”

“With that insane attitude, why even bother washing it at all? Why don’t you just roll around in dirt and excrement all day and hang it up again when you’re done?”

“Maybe I will,” I said, just to needle him a bit.

A moment later, I smelled smoke.

“What are you doing?” I whirled around to see him holding a lit match to the shirttail of my blouse, setting it aflame.

“Staging an intervention,” Monk said, dangling my burning shirt over the laundry room sink. “You’ll thank me later.”

“You can’t come into my house and burn my clothes,” I told him. “How would you like it if I did that to you?”

“I begged you to burn a pair of my pants last week and you refused.” He dropped the burning blouse into the sink before the flames could singe his fingers.

“I’m not going to incinerate a perfectly good pair of slacks because you found a cat hair on them,” I said.

“That hair could have been home to a thousand fleas,” Monk said.

“It wasn’t.”

“What if they are Africanized killer fleas? They could swarm my bed tonight and kill me in my sleep.”

“There is no such thing as Africanized killer fleas,” I said.

“There are Africanized killer bees,” he said. “Who knows how many other insects have been Africanized? When you take me home tonight, we have to stop on the way and get some mosquito netting to put around my bed.”

“Maybe you should get steel mesh instead.”

“Good thinking,” he said.

“What if poultry and livestock have been Africanized, too? How will you protect yourself from the hordes of Africanized killer chickens and Africanized killer cows?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Monk said.

“You’re the one who brought up Africanized killer fleas,” I said.

“Only to make an important point,” he said.

“That it’s okay for you to burn my stained clothes.”

Monk sighed with relief. “I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason.”

The phone rang and I reached for it desperately, like a drowning woman grabbing a life preserver.

“Hello, this is Natalie,” I said.

“It’s me,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’ve got Monk’s check if you want to come down and get it. Otherwise, I can stick it in the mail to him.”

“Don’t move,” I said. “We’ll be right there.”

“There’s no hurry,” he said.

I turned my back to Monk, cupped a hand over my mouth and the receiver, and whispered, “If we leave right this second, I think I can stop Mr. Monk from incinerating all of my clothes.”

“You’re not letting him do your laundry, are you?”

“It’s your fault for not keeping him busy,” I said.

“That’s a big mistake. Let him wash your car or cut your grass instead,” Stottlemeyer said. “Otherwise, he could burn your house down.”

Lieutenant Disher was standing at the Mr. Coffee machine, staring forlornly into his open wallet as we walked into the Homicide Department squad room. He brightened when he saw us.

“Hey, can either of you break a twenty?” he asked.

“What for?” I replied.

“I need some change to buy a cup of coffee.”

“It’s free, Randy.”

“Not anymore,” he said.

I glanced past him at the coffee machine on the table. There was a collection box now amidst the dozens of stained and chipped mugs that belonged to the detectives. A sign on the box said, COFFEE: $1.50.

“The department is imposing budget cuts across the board,” Disher said. “It’s getting brutal. They’re even rationing our pens and pencils.”

“There’s a coffeehouse across the street,” Monk said.

“Have you seen what they charge? It’s cheaper to buy a tank of gas than a cup of their coffee,” Disher said. “That’s why I need some change.”

“I’m sorry; I can’t break a twenty,” Monk said. “Not in good conscience.”

I didn’t get it, so I gave him a look.

“Randy gives you a twenty and you give him the same amount back in smaller bills,” I said. “What’s immoral or unethical about that?”

“Because I would have to give him a ten, eight singles, and eight quarters, just to keep the things even. I don’t carry any five-dollar bills, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

Monk once wrote a petition demanding that the U.S. Mint remove the five-dollar bill from circulation and replace it with a four- or six-dollar bill. He’d stood for a week outside of a Wells Fargo bank soliciting signatures and got only one: mine. And that was given under extreme duress, so it doesn’t count.

“Then Randy will use six of the quarters, or one of the dollar bills and two quarters, for the cup of coffee,” Monk said. “That will leave him with eighteen fifty, an uneven amount composed of an uneven mix of bills and coins. It’s anarchy.”

We both stared at him. After a long moment, I turned to Disher.

“I can give you a dollar fifty, Randy.”

Disher shook his head. “No, thanks. I think I need something stronger now than a cup of coffee.”

“You can’t,” Monk said. “You’re on duty.”

“Then maybe I’ll just shoot myself,” Disher said, as he shoved his wallet in his pocket, and walked back to his desk outside of Stottlemeyer’s office.

Monk looked after him with befuddlement. “What’s his problem?”

There was no point in trying to explain it to him, so I simply headed for Stottlemeyer’s glass-walled office, which gave the captain a commanding view of the squad room and no privacy whatsoever unless he closed the blinds.

Stottlemeyer was at his desk, doing some paperwork as we came in.

“That was quick,” Stottlemeyer said, looking up at us. “How many traffic laws did you break getting down here?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me,” I said.

“Eight,” Monk said.

I turned to him. “Eight?”

“Actually, it was seven, but since that’s an uneven number, I included the red light you drove through yesterday on the way to the university.”

I leaned out the door of Stottlemeyer’s office and called out to Disher, “After you shoot yourself, do you mind if I borrow your gun?”

“Be my guest,” he said.

“Thanks.” I turned back to Stottlemeyer. “Are you going to ticket me now?”

“Did you run over anybody?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Then it’s not my department.” Stottlemeyer reached for an envelope on his desk and handed it to Monk. “Here’s your paycheck, along with my personal apology for the delay.”

“You’ve included a written apology?” Monk asked.

“No, I didn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m offering it to you now, in person.”

“I’d prefer it in writing,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer glanced at me. “Could I have that gun when you’re done with it?”

“You have your own,” I said. “Speaking of guns, what’s happening with that professor who shot a student?”

“We arrested him for murder this afternoon,” Stottlemeyer said. “Ford Oldman, the student that he killed, was working on his dissertation and stumbled across some obscure paper that a legal scholar wrote in the early nineteen hundreds. The student noticed some similarities between passages in the paper and a chapter in one of Cowan’s books, so he sent the professor a friendly e-mail asking him about it. There was no implied threat. All the kid was looking for was some additional insight.”

“Instead he got a bullet,” I said, pleased with myself for sounding so hard-boiled. Cops respected that. “Cowan didn’t want to be outed as a plagiarist.”

“It would have been especially embarrassing because Cowan wrote an opinion piece last year for the San Francisco Chronicle chastising politicians, students, and authors for passing off other people’s work as their own.” Stottlemeyer referred to a clipping on his desk. “Cowan called it ‘an unacceptable erosion of academic standards that’s led to the rampant intellectual dishonesty of public discourse.’ ”

“Hoist with his own petard,” I said.

“Shhhhhh.” Monk waved his hands frantically in front of my face. “How can you talk like that in front of an officer of the law! You should be ashamed of yourself. I hope you don’t use that kind of profanity around your daughter.”

“Petard isn’t a profanity,” I said.

He shushed me again with more waving.

“We don’t use the ‘p’ word in civilized conversation,” Monk said. “In fact, we don’t use it all. It’s been banned.”

“A petard is an explosive charge,” I said. “It’s not part of a man’s anatomy.”

That led to more red-faced shushing and hand waving from Monk.

“This is what happens when you wear dirty clothes,” he said. “Pretty soon, you start talking dirty, too. Before you know it, you’re smoking hashish, drinking hooch, and selling your body to sailors.”

“I always wondered how women ended up that way,” Stottlemeyer said. “Now I know.”

“What about the threatening e-mails Cowan claimed that he got?” I asked.

“Cowan probably sent them to himself from the public terminals at the university’s Internet café. We found witnesses who say he was in there all the time.” Stottlemeyer turned to Monk. “The truth is, Cowan probably would have gotten away with the perfect murder if it weren’t for you.”

“You would have caught him,” Monk said.

“I don’t think so,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’re understaffed and underfunded, so when an open-and-shut case comes along, we don’t try to pry it open again; we just move along.”

“I haven’t seen you do that,” Monk said.

“You’re not here in the trenches every day, Monk. There’s a lot you don’t see.”

“I see more than most people do,” Monk said.

“That’s true and it’s that skill that brings up something else I need to talk to you about,” Stottlemeyer said. “The department would like a favor from you.”

“You’re not asking me to deliver a baby, are you?”

“No,” he said.

“Or shave the hair on somebody’s back?”

“No,” he said.

“Or milk a cow?”

“I have a suggestion, Monk. Instead of going through the endless list of things you don’t want to do, how about letting me tell you what the favor is?”

“It doesn’t involve chewing gum or spitting tobacco, does it?”

“The Conference of Metropolitan Homicide Detectives is being held in San Francisco this year and they want to interview you and me onstage tomorrow morning about our working relationship.”

“Why?” Monk asked.

“Because we end up solving a lot of murders together,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Would I have to be in front of an audience?”

Stottlemeyer nodded. “Just a couple hundred cops from around the country. But you won’t be alone. I’ll be up there with you.”

Monk squirmed. “I’m not comfortable with public speaking.”

“And I’m not comfortable rubbing other cops’ noses in our high case-closure rate,” Stottlemeyer said. “But this request comes directly from the chief. I think he wants to gloat.”

I spoke up. “Look at the bright side, Mr. Monk.”

“There’s never a bright side,” he said.

“This means the police chief knows about your achievements and respects your abilities. He’s proud of the work you are doing and wants to show you off,” I said. “Speaking at this conference could be a big step towards getting reinstated to the force.”

Monk looked at me and then at Stottlemeyer. “Do you think so?”

Stottlemeyer shrugged. “It never hurts to kiss up to the boss.”

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Monk said. “As long as there isn’t any actual kissing involved.”

“There won’t be,” Stottlemeyer said. “And if any women go into labor, I’ll deliver the baby.”