Chapter Three: Hard to Handle
Captain Stottlemeyer and Sharona stared at Monk, waiting for his reaction.
"What are you talking about?" the subject of their scrutiny asked with suspicion and amazement in his voice.
Stottlemeyer paused to take a deep breath. "There was a car bombing this morning, Monk. Killed one person, probably the owner of the car, who just happens to be a journalist for the Chronicle," he sneered this last part, showing how he felt about the coincidence. "It was set off by the ignition—hooked up to the starter motor."
"Just like Trudy," Sharona murmured.
"From what we know so far, the target, the M.O., it all seems to match Trudy's case."
Monk stared at the captain in shock.
Stottlemeyer hesitated, then continued. "We're thinking they're connected. Maybe they both wrote something about someone, or knew something about someone." Stottlemeyer was gazing at the lamp on his desk. After an uncomfortable pause, he added, "I've pulled Trudy's file. And I want you on this case."
Monk didn't say anything.
"Adrian?" Sharona touched his shoulder worriedly.
Monk didn't blink. He didn't breathe.
Stottlemeyer raised his head to look in the detective's eyes. "Monk, I only want you on this if you can handle it, okay? If you can't, I'm gonna have to cut you out. Do you understand?"
Monk flinched and jerked his head as if shaking out cobwebs. "I want this one, Captain." He said this with such intensity and determination, it almost frightened Sharona.
A hint of a smile crossed Stottlemeyer's face. "I thought so."
Monk quirked one of his uncomfortable "trying to act normal" smiles. "Okay, so fill me in one the…" he hesitated, then changed his wording, "on the crime."
Sharona rubbed Monk's lower back comfortingly, trying to catch Stottlemeyer's eye. She couldn't help but feel protective of her charge.
"Actually, we don't have a full report in yet. I haven't even been on the scene," Stottlemeyer admitted, eyeing Monk with as much concern as Sharona showed.
"Why not?" Monk asked, surprised.
Stottlemeyer was evasive. "Well, I wanted to meet you here first—on neutral territory."
"You didn't think I could handle it," Monk concluded.
Sharona interrupted, trying to draw Monk's attention away from this fact. "So, who's out on the scene, then?"
"Lieutenant Disher is currently heading the investigation." Stottlemeyer hardened his face in preparation for the backlash he expected from Sharona at mention of Disher's name.
She was livid. "You gave this to Disher?" she shouted. Monk cringed at her volume. "Do you realize how important this case is?" she subtly gestured toward Monk with her eyebrows. "And you give it to Disher to screw up?"
Stottlemeyer held firm. "Randy's a good, solid street cop, Sharona."
Sharona released an exasperated sigh. "I don't believe this," she informed the ceiling.
Monk's eyes flickered back and forth between the two as if he were watching a tennis match.
Stottlemeyer pressed further. "The world does not revolve around Adrian Monk."
Sharona bit back a snappy comeback. Instead, she turned to Monk. "Adrian," she began, trying to sound sweet despite the edge in her tone. "Why don't you go wait in the lobby?"
Monk looked at Sharona in surprise. "W-why?" he asked innocently.
"Adrian," she warned. "I'll be out in a minute." She sounded like a mother speaking to a stubborn child.
Monk glanced up at Stottlemeyer, back to Sharona, then obeyed. They watched him leave the room, shoulders slumped.
The second the door closed behind Monk, Sharona whirled back to face Stottlemeyer. "I can't believe this! He should be out there, solving this crime, not that immature . . . ne'er-do-well!"
Stottlemeyer jabbed a finger in her face. "Don't tell me Disher's not mature enough to be a detective—especially after you send Monk out of here like a kid so he won't hear his parents arguing!"
"I am not his mother!" Sharona snapped.
"Yeah, well, you certainly act like it sometimes!"
Sharona brushed off the comment. "That's besides the point. Bottom line: Disher is a poor replacement."
Stottlemeyer narrowed his eyes. "Randy would have made it to lieutenant even if Monk wasn't suspended," he said firmly. "Don't even try to place the blame on Randy for this."
Sharona was still angry, her voice oozing sarcasm now. "I'm sure he would've. His father would've just paid you off or something, but then he didn't have to, did he?"
A vein on Stottlemeyer's forehead throbbed with his barely contained anger. "I hardly knew his father! Randy's promotion had absolutely nothing to do with his father!"
Sharona turned away, mumbling to herself, "That's not what I heard."
Stottlemeyer was fuming. Sharona was the only person who could get away with talking to him that way without dire consequences. She never backed down in an argument, even when the toughest cop would withdraw. The captain couldn't understand it; she simply did not fear him.
He, on the other hand, could not admit that he never feared her.
And then, as abruptly as she'd brought up the subject, Sharona dropped it. Casually, as if she didn't realize how infuriated she had made Stottlemeyer, Sharona asked, "So, where's the bomb scene?"
He glared at her for several moments, weighing whether to let the argument go. The he sighed, glancing at the door through which Monk had left. "It's in a parking garage," he relented, "over on the corner of Sutter and Strauss, near the vic's office, apparently."
Sharona lifted a hand to the doorknob. She hesitated. "You know what this is going to do to him," she said to the knob.
The captain sighed. "But what if he finally solves it? After all this time, don't you want to give him a chance at that?"
Sharona didn't say anything for a moment. "Do you remember the first thing he said to me when he met me?" she asked over her shoulder.
"Yeah, he shook your hand and said, 'It's a pleasure,'" Stottlemeyer snapped sarcastically.
Neither spoke for a moment. Then he murmured, "I remember."
Sharona bit her lip and turned around again. "Look," she began, avoiding Stottlemeyer's eyes. "I know we've had our problems in the past. But now, I think we really have to be there for Adrian. It's going to be hard on all of us."
"I know," Stottlemeyer said quietly.
They stood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
Suddenly, Sharona groaned, flipping her hair away from her face with one hand. "Oh, God! This is such a horrible time for this to happen!"
"You're telling me," Stottlemeyer grumbled, then looked up at the especially distraught nurse. "Why?"
Sharona hesitated. "Don't tell Adrian," she warned.
Stottlemeyer shrugged. "Okay."
"I mean it! If you so much as suggest to him—or anyone—that anything's wrong, I'll kill you!"
"Well, that's not legal," Stottlemeyer drawled. Noting Sharona's serious glare, he held up his hands. "Okay, okay, I won't tell a soul."
"This morning, I went to the doctor," she began.
The captain kept his face straight. "Don't tell me you're pregnant," he said, deadpan.
Sharona gaped at him, aghast.
"All right, sorry! Go on," he apologized, biting his lip to keep from smiling.
Sharona ran a hand through her hair nervously. "I have a heart problem. My doctor told me I'm under too much stress, and he said I should quit my job, or else I might have a heart attack." The words came out in a rush, with the relief of revealing a troubling secret.
Stottlemeyer stared. "Oh," he said quietly. He understood the implications. "Well, what are you going to do?"
"I don't know!" she cried.
"And you didn't tell Monk?"
Sharona's hands flailed around her face. "No! I was going to, but then I came home, and he had this party and . . . what could I do?" Her shoulders slumped and she stared at the floor. When she spoke again, her voice was weak. "Now that this has come up, there's no way I can tell him. He'd already think I was abandoning him—I can't do that to him under these circumstances."
Stottlemeyer watched her with pity in his eyes. "Listen, I can take him off your hands sometime if you need me to. Give you a break, at least."
Sharona looked up gratefully. "Thanks."
Neither of them spoke.
Then, Sharona sniffled and wiped her eyes. "I'd better get out there or Adrian will wonder what's going on."
"Okay," Stottlemeyer said. As she reached for the door, he hesitated, then blurted, "Sharona—you really mean a lot to him."
Sharona stopped, her hand hovering above the knob. She didn't look at the captain.
"More than you realize," he finished.
Sharona finally glanced back at him, then slipped out the door.
* * *
She found Monk standing awkwardly by the front desk, watching for her to emerge from Stottlemeyer's office. The detectives and uniformed officers were steering clear of him, swerving widely around him to avoid contact. They must have heard about the car bomb.
Monk looked like a lost little boy, Sharona thought, somehow isolated in the crowded room. As she approached, he asked in a whining tone, "Where have you been?"
Sharona didn't answer. She kept walking out the door, certain that Monk would follow her.
He did. "You were talking about me in there, weren't you?" he said with certainty, falling in beside her.
Sharona glanced at him. "Why would you think that?" she said ironically.
"You think I can't handle this, don't you? Well . . . I can," Monk stated evenly. Sharona didn't say anything at first, so Monk added, "You don't believe me. I can handle this. I'm not the same man I was five years ago." He had a desperate tone, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as Sharona.
They stopped outside the car. Sharona reached into her handbag for her keys. She paused and looked at him. "I know you're not. You don't have to prove anything to me, Adrian."
Monk paused. "Do you think I can handle it?" He was gazing at her across the roof of the car with the question burning in his eyes. It was obvious her belief in him was crucial.
Sharona took a deep breath. "I think you're much stronger now," she said honestly, and ducked into the car.
The wave of relief that washed over his face as he eased into his seat indicated more than any words he could have said. It scared her sometimes how a grown man could rely on her so deeply for support. At the same time, she resented the power he held over her, the burden his emotional death-grip placed on her shoulders. She could never leave him voluntarily without risking a major setback in his therapy. And she knew that would be her fault, of course, even if it wasn't. Her life was his life now, like it or not.
He was stronger, yes, but was he strong enough? Sharona wondered.
She turned the key and started the car as Monk buckled himself in.
Adrian Monk, when he was comfortable, which wasn't often, could be a very talkative man. People rarely believed Sharona when she told them this, because Monk was most comfortable alone with Sharona. Usually, on the way to a crime scene, or just after they'd left one, she couldn't shut him up as he discussed the first tidbits of information he had in excruciating detail. He almost looked happy then. It was obvious to Sharona in those times that Monk was born for detective work.
Today, however, he stared out the window silently, not even daring to look at Sharona.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye occasionally. No backseat driving, no complaints. If this happened any other time, she'd be ecstatic. He looked calm on the surface, but it was nothing like the repose he experienced when he successfully solved a case. Just below that relaxed exterior, some troubling emotions were brewing.
Sharona wasn't sure she wanted to dig them up. So she said nothing.
His wife died violently. He hasn't been able to get over it yet. Stottlemeyer's voice flashed through her head, a memory from five years ago.
Her first impression of Adrian Monk came from the label he'd been given: Adrian Monk, Obsessive-Compulsive. She'd read about the disorder, encountered patients in nursing school. It wasn't really a specialty of hers, but she was frantic for work, and she qualified. Caretaking—she was good with people.
"I'll warn you, he's a lot more than you could possibly expect," Stottlemeyer told her outside Monk's door. "He hasn't left his house in over a year."
For over a year? "Not at all?" she asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion.
"He came home from the funeral, and that was it. Couldn't handle it." Stottlemeyer looked haggard as he knocked on the door. "I'm not expecting anything out of this. We've already tried about six different nurses. They couldn't deal with him."
"Maybe they just weren't as stubborn as I am," Sharona replied lightly. Or desperate, she added silently. She couldn't afford not to accept the kind of money the San Francisco Police Department was offering for this position.
And then the door opened.
Adrian Monk already was more than she expected.
He was dressed as if he were about to step out to work: brown suit, plaid shirt, buttoned up all the way. He'd been interrupted just before he put the tie on. But he apparently wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.
The look in his eyes told Sharona all she needed to know. They were dull, dark, vacant pits of despair, as if they'd never known happiness and never would. He looks so lost, Sharona thought. His eyes were blank as he stared at Stottlemeyer.
"How ya doin', Monk?" the captain asked with the forced casualness one uses in uncomfortable situations.
Monk glanced at Sharona briefly with trepidation, then back to Stottlemeyer.
Sharona was confused. Stottlemeyer had said the two were friends. But the captain acted like Monk was practically a stranger. He'd greeted Sharona more warmly.
"I've never been better," Monk answered. "I'm having the time of my life." He said this so matter-of-fact Sharona couldn't tell if he meant it as a joke.
Stottlemeyer chuckled shakily anyway. "That's great. Monk, I brought you another nurse. See if you can keep this one a little longer, huh?"
Monk just stared at the captain.
Sharona jumped in with sappy cheerfulness. "Hi, Mr. Monk! Uh, my name is Sharona Fleming. I'm going to be your caretaker." She started to extend a hand to shake, but pulled back when she noticed the way he brought his hands closer to his body, as if protecting himself. His hands looked red and raw, like he'd been scrubbing them clean far too often.
Germ phobia, she thought, reminding herself of a common trait in OCD patients.
"You don't really want to be here, do you?" Monk said, addressing her for the first time. "No one spends time with me voluntarily. Except Trudy." He paused, as if the mention of his wife's name required a moment of silence. "But you have a kid to support by yourself, and you really need the money."
Sharona felt her mouth drop open.
Stottlemeyer glanced at her nervously and said, "Listen, Monk, how 'bout we come inside and work things out here?"
Monk looked back at Stottlemeyer and closed the door.
Sharona stared at the door in disbelief, unable to respond to any of the recent surprises.
"Told you he'd be a bit much," Stottlemeyer commented dryly. "He'll be back in a minute."
"How did he—?" Sharona stammered.
"I should've warned you. He notices everything. Even the stuff that isn't there."
"I am a licensed nurse," she insisted anxiously.
Monk opened the door again, this time wearing a surgical-style face mask. He tilted his head in a "come on in" gesture that seemed far too casual for the circumstances.
Sharona entered first, trying to take in everything without being obvious. The odor hit her before anything else—the house smelled so strongly of disinfectant, she wondered how Monk could stand it.
Then Sharona gasped.
The walls were covered with pictures, all black-and-white, some framed and tastefully displayed, others simply tacked up. The framed pictures all showed the face of a woman she could assume was his late wife. But the others…
From what she could tell, the other pictures showed the same mangle, twisted remains of a car, from every possible angle.
His wife died in a car bombing, Sharona realized suddenly.
"That's my wife, Trudy," Monk said, with the most emotion in his tone she'd heard yet from him. "She died a little over a year ago." Monk looked at Stottlemeyer quickly, as if checking his reaction, then added, "I'm still…working on her case."
She realized she was staring, and tore her eye away from the photographs.
Oh, my God, Sharona thought. I'm worried more about the money than the patient, and here's a man who really needs help. And he knew it, too.
"They keep sending people to take Trudy's place, but no one ever will."
Sharona swallowed and blinked furiously. He sounded so pathetic, so filled with sadness. And yet, Sharona almost caught the feeling that he wanted someone there. He's lonely. She didn't know how, but she knew this as well as if he'd said it aloud.
"I know that," she said gently. "I'm just here to help you out for a while, okay?"
Monk nodded. "I'll give you about six hours."
Stottlemeyer stifled a snicker.
"Well, you're the eternal optimist, aren't you?" Sharona retorted, a twinge of annoyance showing, despite previously promising herself she'd be professional.
Monk blinked. "I'm not an optimist," he stated.
Sharona glanced at Stottlemeyer as if to ask, Is he for real?
Stottlemeyer raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
Monk grabbed an aerosol can and started spritzing the air near the captain and Sharona's heads.
"What are you doing? Knock it off!" Sharona snapped, coughing.
Monk stopped and stared at Sharona. The room was completely silent.
Sharona stared back, irritated, but also certain she'd just blown her chances for the job.
Just before Sharona turned around to walk out the door, Monk put the aerosol can down and brushed his hands on his pants.
They all stood still and looked at each other.
Suddenly, Stottlemeyer looked at his watch and said, "Whoa! It's been five minutes, pal. You want us to get outta here now?"
Monk hesitated, his eyes on Sharona. His shoulder twitched as he said, "You can stay for a little bit longer."
Now Stottlemeyer's mouth dropped open.
Sharona looked back and forth at the two. "What is it?"
Stottlemeyer smiled. "I think we found a match, Ms. Fleming."
* * *
Sharona snapped back into the present as she realized she'd been driving to the crime scene without consciously thinking about it. It was obvious they'd reached their destination due to the flashing police lights. The entrance to the parking garage was cordoned off by yellow warning tape. Uniformed officers, bomb squad, detectives, and federal agents swarmed the scene. Even from the car, she could see Disher's head bobbing frantically from officer to officer, trying to hold some kind of control over the investigation.
It looked more than Sharona could handle. She couldn't imagine how Monk was feeling. He certainly wasn't giving any clues. She didn't think he'd spoken since they entered the car.
Sharona turned the car off and looked over at Monk. He was slowly rocking in his seat, struggling to control his emotions. Sharona had to look away for a moment.
Then she swallowed, the gulp somehow so audible among all the muffled police noises, and said quietly, "We're here."
But it was still too loud for the silence Monk needed.