Mr. Monk on Patrol (11 page)

He shrieked, staggered back, and bumped into a pedestal holding an enormous pile of fossilized dino dung.

He yelped, spun around, and came face-to-face with a shelf of Panchagayva Herbal Soap, which the packaging stated in bold letters was
MADE FROM PURE COW DUNG, URINE, GHEE, CURD, AND MILK
.

His eyes went wide with horror. I hurried over and put my arm around his shoulder, hugging him to my side and pulling him slowly back, away from the display.

“I’m right here, Mr. Monk,” I said reassuringly in his ear.

“I came to rescue you,” he said feebly, handing me the gas mask, his hand shaking. He sounded like Darth Vader having an anxiety attack.

“It’s all right,” I said, taking the mask from him. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” he said. “Now you can rescue me.”

I was genuinely touched by his bravery. It was like Superman diving into a pool of kryptonite to save Lois Lane.

“You’re safe,” I said.

“She’s right,” Morse said. “You have nothing to fear from poop.”

Monk turned to her, pinning her with a look of absolute
hatred. “Excrement is among the most dangerous substances known to man, deadlier than radiation, and responsible for more deaths than guns, AIDS, cancer, car accidents, malaria, and smoking combined.”

“
Human
waste, Mr. Monk,” she said. “But even that has positive uses. In London, they burn it to create electricity. In Calcutta, they use it for fish farms and fertilizing crops.”

“Poo-poo causes millions of deaths every year,” Monk said, his face bright red with anger. “It’s a highly toxic breeding ground for cholera, typhoid, salmonella, E. coli, influenza, dysentery, candida, cryptosporidium—”

“Again, you’re talking largely about human waste,” she said, interrupting him. “Cattle dung and bird guano are extraordinarily versatile and can be used for such things as fuel, fertilizer, batteries, insulation, moisturizer, paper, soap, roofing, food, gunpowder, and explosives. What other resource on earth is so useful, cheap, plentiful, safe, and renewable?”

“Take a good look at her, Natalie,” he said. “She’s the devil.”

I was about to speak when I was interrupted by another woman’s voice.

“Put a cork in it, Adrian.”

We turned to see Sharona coming into the store, her face tight with irritation.

“What are you doing here?” Monk asked.

“Randy called me,” she said. “He said it was an emergency.”

“It certainly is,” Monk said. “But where’s the backup?”

“I think I can handle you on my own,” Sharona said.

“Forget about me,” Monk said. “What about the hazmat team, Homeland Security, the Environmental Protection Agency, and the strike force from the Centers for Disease Control?”

Sharona ignored Monk and approached Morse. “I am so sorry about this, Ellen.”

“You know this she-devil?” Monk said to Sharona.

“It’s our fault,” she continued. “We invited Adrian here but we were so caught up in everything else that we totally forgot about your store. We should have told him to stay away. At the very least, we should have given you some warning.”

“So that’s how she’s gotten away with her crimes,” Monk said. “You’ve been tipping her off before the authorities show up. Does Randy know that he’s sleeping with the enemy?”

“It’s quite all right, Sharona,” Morse said. “No harm done.”

“No harm?” Monk said, his voice cracking. “You’re selling people poo and telling them it’s soap!”

The instant the words were out of his mouth, he seemed to remember where he was. He grabbed my arm and dragged me to the door. This time I let him.

Once we got outside, he yanked off his gas mask and took in deep breaths of air, as if he’d just escaped from a burning building. I looked around. The crowd had dispersed and life seemed to be back to normal on the street.

“I can’t believe what I’ve seen and heard,” Monk said. “It’s like I stepped into a parallel world. The poo-niverse.”

“I know you don’t agree with Ellen Morse’s philosophy, but she seems like a good person.”

Monk looked at me with concern. “The fumes and sleep deprivation have obviously gotten to you. Take deep breaths and let them out slowly.”

Sharona emerged from Poop and marched over to Monk. “What were you thinking, standing on the
street, screaming at people with a bullhorn? This could have turned into a major embarrassment for Randy.”

“It already is,” Monk said. “That store is an outrage, an affront to human decency and public health. How could Randy have let that place stand?”

“You may not like it, Adrian, but there is nothing illegal about what Ellen is selling.”

“It’s toxic waste,” Monk said. “There
are
laws about that. But you’re protecting her. First, you drug me. Now you’re standing up for Satan. I don’t know you anymore.”

“Oh, spare me the drama,” Sharona said. “You’re supposed to be solving crimes, not harassing shopkeepers.”

“What she’s doing
is
a crime,” he said. “Against humanity.”

I sighed. I really didn’t want to get in the middle of this but I had no choice.

“I know you find Ellen Morse’s business highly objectionable, Mr. Monk, and that it goes against everything you believe in. But she has the same right to express her beliefs, in her case through art and commerce, as you have to express yours, which you do in the way you lead your life,” I said. “We are a country built on those fundamental freedoms and if you are truly dedicated to enforcing the law and protecting people, then you’ll defend her right to offend you.”

Both Monk and Sharona stared at me.

“Is this where we’re supposed to pledge allegiance to the flag?” Sharona asked. “Or start singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?”

“I thought you’d appreciate my help,” I said. “Frankly, I thought my defense of Ellen Morse wasn’t only persuasive but deeply moving.”

“That speech was way, way over the top,” Monk said. “Even for you.”

“For
me
?”

“It’s important to stay calm in a crisis and not become overwrought,” Monk said. “You have to maintain your perspective or you won’t be able to think clearly.”

“And you are?” I asked.

“I’m obviously the only one around here who is. You’ve been behaving irrationally since I had you pull over. But at least you have an excuse. You’re suffering from sleep deprivation and the shock of confronting unspeakable horrors.” Monk looked at Sharona. “But you don’t have an excuse. You’re a nurse. You took a Hippocratic Oath.”

“I don’t recall poop being part of it,” Sharona said.

“‘I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure,’” Monk said. “That’s just one key poop part.”

“You’ve memorized the Hippocratic Oath?” I said.

“I swore to it,” he said.

“But you aren’t a doctor,” I said.

“I kill germs,” Monk said. “The oath is my license to kill.”

“The name is Monk,” I said. “Adrian Monk.”

“Yes, that’s who I am. Are you delirious?”

“No,” I said. “I was joking.”

“My name is a joke?”

“You disappoint me, Mr. Monk,” Sharona said, following my lead into the world of Bond. “You’re nothing but a stupid policeman.”

“I won’t stand here and be insulted,” Monk said to Sharona and then turned back to me. “Do you think you’re clearheaded enough to drive?”

“Yes,” I said. “But Sharona wasn’t insulting you. She was quoting
Dr. No
.”

“If he’s the doctor who told her that poop is good for you, he should have his medical license revoked. Let’s go,” Monk said, turning his back on Sharona and heading for the car. “The sooner we solve the crimes around here, the sooner we can go home. We’re one big step closer already.”

I gave her a wave good-bye and hurried after him.

“How is that possible?” I said. “You haven’t opened any of the files or visited a single crime scene yet.”

“Yes, but now I know who is responsible.”

“You’re going to say Ellen Morse, aren’t you?”

“That’s right—the dark sorceress of the poo-niverse,” Monk said. “And I am going to take her down.”

The house that was most recently hit by the wave of residential burglaries was probably a hundred years old, two stories tall, and had a broad front porch adorned with a pair of very inviting, comfy wicker rocking chairs that faced the front lawn and the tree-lined street. I wanted to curl up in one of those chairs and take a nap while Monk did his investigating.

My lack of sleep was eroding my energy and I could feel myself slowing down, like a windup doll that needed a few twists of its key.

The houses were all big, homey in an old-fashioned, Norman Rockwell kind of way that made me feel safe and secure. It was almost like the neighborhood was cuddling me.

Of course, it was an illusion. The burglary of this home, which had occurred only a few days ago, proved the street wasn’t as safe as it seemed.

I had the case file open in front of me and I summarized the facts from the police report in a running commentary as I lagged lazily behind Monk, who walked
around the perimeter of the house, framing what he saw with his hands, cocking his head from side to side.

The burglary had happened at noon on Tuesday. The Roslands, a couple with two kids, lived in the house, but they weren’t home at the time of the burglary. The husband was working in Manhattan, the kids were at school, and the wife was having lunch in Summit with friends.

The burglars got into the house by prying open a first-floor window, which was equipped with a broken alarm sensor. They stole two iPads, several watches, a laptop computer, and five thousand dollars in cash.

“Randy should be fired for letting that woman stay in business,” Monk said.

“Forget about her,” I said, fighting back a yawn. “Concentrate on solving these burglaries.”

“This whole town could end up being evacuated and quarantined as unsafe for human life,” Monk said. “And Randy is worried about a few burglaries? Where’s his sense of priorities?”

“Your priority, Mr. Monk, is helping Randy solve these crimes, which you are not going to be able to do if you can’t get your mind off of Ellen Morse.”

“She did this,” Monk said, stopping in front of the window that had been pried open. The window frame had since been replaced and, I assumed, a new sensor had been installed. Of course, it was a little late now.

“How can you say that?”

“Where did Mrs. Rosland have lunch?”

I checked the file. “The Buttercup Pantry.”

“Which is right next door to Poop. That’s how Morse knew that Mrs. Rosland was out of the house and roughly when she’d return.”

“How did Morse know the sensor in the window frame was broken?”

“Maybe she didn’t and just chose the window because it was easier to open than one of the doors.”

“Then she was taking a big risk. She was assuming that if a siren went off, the police wouldn’t get here in time and that it wouldn’t draw the attention of the neighbors.”

Monk looked over his shoulder at one of the neighboring houses. An old man was watching us from a second-floor window. He was wearing a bathrobe over a cardigan sweater and had a face like a raisin.

“How come he didn’t see anything?” Monk asked. “Is he blind?”

That was a good question. I scanned the police report for details from their canvass of the neighborhood.

“It says here that Mr. Baker was in the hospital that day. He’d been taken away by an ambulance the previous evening with chest pains. Turned out it was indigestion but they kept him overnight for observation anyway.” I closed the file. “So if Ellen Morse is the burglar, how did she know that he’d be gone, too?”

“Maybe she gave him a bottle of that Moroccan poo-oil that night,” Monk said, cringing just from the thought of it.

“Let’s ask him,” I said, eager to rule Morse out as a suspect so Monk could focus and solve the crime so I could finally get some sleep.

But as I turned to go next door, I heard an alarm go off in the distance, perhaps a block or two away, judging by how loud it was.

I looked at Monk, who cocked his head like a dog. His ears even seemed to perk up.

“It’s a home alarm,” he said. “Another burglary.”

“Or it’s someone setting off their own alarm by accident, or it’s the wind shaking a window, or it’s someone who forgot their code,” I said. “Those alarms go off
in my neighborhood all the time. It’s like car alarms. Who pays attention to them anymore?”

“Let’s call the dispatcher and see,” he said.

We hurried to our patrol car. I got inside, picked up the radio handset, and checked in.

I won’t lie to you, I got a real thrill out of identifying myself as “One-Adam-Four” and asking if there was a 211 in progress in the vicinity of our 10-20.

“Ten-four, One-Adam-Four,” the dispatcher said. “We have an alarm call indicating a possible two-one-one in progress at 218 Primrose Lane.”

I typed the address into our GPS. The house was only a few blocks away. Monk snatched the mike from me and called in.

“Ten-four, Dispatch. Unit One-Adam-Four responding, Code Two.”

He replaced the handset and looked at me. “What are you waiting for? Hit it.”