Lee Goldberg - Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

“Two witnesses saw a slender person wearing dark glasses and an oversize hoodie come out of those trees and empty his gun into the judge at point-blank range,” Disher said, referring to his notebook. “The shooter then ran back into the trees.”

“There’s a road that runs along the other side of the grove and out of the park,” Stottlemeyer said. “He could have had a car parked there or someone waiting in one for him.”

Stottlemeyer and Disher had their backs to us as we approached, so they didn’t see Monk until he started circling the body, his hands out in front of him, framing his view.

“Why didn’t the shooter throw his gun in the lake?” Monk asked.

“Because there were witnesses and he wanted to dispose of the weapon where no one would find it,” Disher said.

“What are you talking to him for?” Stottlemeyer scolded Disher. “He’s not supposed to be here.”

“But isn’t there a bigger risk of being caught with the murder weapon on him?” Monk asked as if the captain hadn’t spoken at all.

“We’ll ask him when we catch him,” Stottlemeyer said. “Get out of here, Monk.”

“The judge has been shot in the shoulder, chest, thigh, neck, and arm,” Monk said, crouching beside the body. “It’s as if the shooter was firing wildly or was not very familiar with a gun.”

“Or he was just angry and in a hurry,” Disher said. “Judge Stanton tries a lot of criminal cases and he’s made plenty of enemies. Maybe one of them just got released from prison.”

“I told you to stop talking to him,” Stottlemeyer said, then turned to Monk again. “You can either leave or I can have you dragged out of here by two officers. It’s your decision.”

Monk looked from the body to the grove of trees and then back again.

“It’s a public park,” he said. “You can’t throw me out.”

“You are welcome to visit the park, but you are to remain outside the police line, just like everybody else,” Stottlemeyer said. “Now go. I don’t want to see you at another crime scene unless I call you, but I wouldn’t sit by the phone waiting if I were you. This budget crisis is going to last a while.”

“He doesn’t need to wait,” I said. “Once word gets out that he’s a free agent, police departments all over the country will be clamoring for his services.”

“I hope so,” Stottlemeyer said. “I really do.”

“Let’s go, Mr. Monk.” I tugged him gently by the sleeve and led him to the police line.

I lifted up the tape to let him through. Monk looked back at the body, then at the grove of trees again and pointed to a spot.

“He must have come from right about there to intersect with the judge here,” Monk said.

“It’s not your case, Mr. Monk. You aren’t being paid. There’s no reason for you to get involved.”

“The captain needs me,” Monk said.

“He doesn’t want you,” I said.

“He can’t afford me,” Monk said. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s not just about the money.”

Monk moved across the field towards the grove. The lupine flowers were in bloom, ringing the base of the tall pines with vibrant color.

Some of the flowers had been flattened where someone crushed them underfoot. This was where the killer was hiding before the shooting.

Monk peered into the trees and examined the ground. “There are bicycle tracks from the street into this grove and back out again.”

He circled the area, careful not to disturb the secondary crime scene. I followed him. He cocked his head from side to side, crouched and stood and crouched again, doubled back the way he came, and then retraced the way he had gone forward. It was enough to give me motion sickness.

“The killer wasn’t a man,” he said. “It was a woman.”

“How can you tell from looking at the ground?” I said. “Don’t tell me you recognize the footprint left by her shoes.”

He shook his head. “All I can tell is that they were running shoes. I can’t determine whether they belonged to a man or a woman just from looking at the tread. But I’m sure the forensics unit can by comparing the pattern to those in their footwear database.”

“So how do you know the shooter was a she?”

“Her bike fell down,” Monk said, and pointed to some impressions in the dirt. “There’s a fleck of pink paint on the rock over there. It’s considered a feminine color. A man wouldn’t want to be seen on a bike of that color.”

“We’re in San Francisco, Mr. Monk. This may come as a shock to you, but there are a lot of men here with feminine tendencies who aren’t shy about showing it.”

Monk shivered from head to toe. I don’t think he’s ho mophobic, per se. He’s just phobic in general. His sense of order demands that if something is designed for a woman, or directly associated with femininity, then only a woman should use it.

He would be just as unsettled by a woman wearing a man’s tie or using his aftershave instead of perfume.

Come to think of it, a woman doused with aftershave would unsettle me, too.

“There’s more,” Monk said. There always is with him. “The bike left an impression in the dirt. You can see the shape of the seat and where it was relative to the handlebars. Women are anatomically different from men.”

“Are they really? I thought you didn’t notice.”

“I try not to,” Monk said. “But those differences are reflected in how they design women’s bicycles. Women have wider hips than men, so their bike seats are different. They also have shorter torsos and longer legs than men, and that’s reflected in the distance between the seat and the handlebars. It’s also why the top tube of the frame is at an angle.”

“I always thought it was to accommodate women who wore dresses and skirts when they rode bikes,” I said.

“That too,” Monk said. “Can you take a picture of that?”

I had a built-in camera in my cell phone. I took some shots of the ground for him.

“How do you know it wasn’t a man riding a woman’s bike?”

“The killer wouldn’t risk drawing that much attention to himself.”

“Let me remind you again that we are in San Francisco,” I said. “A man riding a woman’s bike wouldn’t be that unusual, even if he was wearing a dress.”

Monk shivered again. “I should tell the captain what I know.”

“He’ll figure it out himself from the shoe impressions and an analysis of the paint chip,” I said. I looked back and saw the captain and the officers heading our way.

“Do you think so?”

“I’m positive,” I said, though I wasn’t. But what the captain did or didn’t discover about this killing really wasn’t our problem. We weren’t being paid to worry about it.

“I’m not so sure,” Monk said.

Clearly, drastic action was necessary.

“You have some nature on your shoes,” I said. “I think it’s pine sap.”

Monk let out a little yelp and hurried towards the road. I took my time. I wondered whether we’d have to burn his shoes when we got back to his apartment or if it would be enough to just dump them in his Diaper Genie.

Perhaps we’d have to do both.

I won’t hold you in suspense any longer. We did both. After that, he spent the rest of the day in his apartment, frantically looking for excuses to put something, anything, into his Diaper Genie and seal it for eternity.

He created messes just so he could clean them up and dump the remains in the Genie. He “accidentally” dropped a bag of coffee, a box of cereal, and two cups on the floor.

I went outside to empty the Diaper Genie and when I came back I found Monk talking furtively on the phone in the kitchen.

“My name is Anonymous, and I have no relation whatsoever to Adrian Monk,” he said in a deep voice. “Here’s my tip. The person who shot Judge Stanton in Golden Gate Park was a woman. You can tell from the impression made by her bicycle in the-”