no.”
“He called me twice last night before I disconnected my phones,” I said. “Why didn’t he call you?”
“He knows I would have shot him to put him out of his misery,” Stottlemeyer said. “And mine.”
“It was a serious question,” I said.
“He used to call me all the time, day and night, to complain about dust bunnies and potholes and God knows what else. My wife was furious. She wanted me to get a restraining order against him. So I finally had to tell Monk that he was ruining my marriage and that if he called me at home again, I’d fire him. I guess it hasn’t sunk in yet that I’m divorced. Please don’t remind him.”
“You’ll have to give me something in return,” I said.
“How about a murder?” he said.
“You’re going to kill Monk for me?”
“I am standing beside a dead guy and I have no idea who killed him,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m thinking that a murder case might be exactly what Monk needs right now.”
I never thought that I’d ever welcome the news that a person had been murdered, but I’m ashamed to say that, in this situation, I did.
CHAPTER SIX
Mr. Monk Loses Count
Ever since I started working for Monk, a lot of my morn-ings have begun with a corpse. I used to find that strange and unsettling. Now it’s typical. I don’t want to say I have become blasé about it, but it just goes to prove that over time you can get used to just about anything.
Nine out of the ten cases Monk takes on begin in the morning. The sun rises and somebody stumbles on a corpse left behind the night before. I really have no statistics to back this up, but it seems to me that most murders happen at night.
I can see why. If I was going to commit a crime, I’d do it in the dark so nobody could see me doing my nasty deed. There is also something about doing wrong in the bright light of day that makes it feel even more wrong. When you’re giving in to your dark side, you instinctively want to do it in the dark.
It just feels right—not that I’ve given in to my dark side all that often. But when I have, with the possible exception of indulging in something decadently fattening, it has been at night.
This may seem like pointless musing to you, but I do a lot of pointless musing while looking down at a dead body. It helps distract me from things like Clarke Trotter’s caved-in skull.
Captain Stottlemeyer, Lieutenant Disher, and Monk don’t have that luxury. They have to pay attention to all the details of the crime, no matter how gory or sad. And Monk picks up even more details than anybody else.
Well, usually he does. The investigation into Clarke Trotter’s murder was starting out a little differently.
We were in Trotter’s one-bedroom apartment in North Beach, which is nowhere near a beach, but don’t get me started on that. Even without a stretch of sand, the rent on seven hundred square feet in this neighborhood will set you back twice as much as my mortgage payment.
The apartment was furnished in what I like to call Contemporary Single Guy. All the furniture was big, black, and upholstered in leather (men love their animal hides). The living room was dominated by an altar to the god of electronics—a massive flat-screen television surrounded by stacks of devices. I could pick out a Play/Station, an Xbox, a DVD player, a TiVo, a Wii, a satellite receiver, a cable box, and an amplifier. There was a lot more stuff, too. I just didn’t know what it all was.
The coffee table was covered with more electronics—a laptop, an iPod, an iPhone, a BlackBerry, a dozen remotes— and a smattering of men’s “lifestyle” magazines, like FHM, Stuff, and Maxim, and empty cans of Red Bull. It was a mess.
The owner of this mess, the aforementioned and very dead Clarke Trotter, was in his bathrobe and lying sideways on the couch. He was a bit pudgy, although I wouldn’t call him fat. But it was clear the only exercise he got was on his Wii. There was
“He called me twice last night before I disconnected my phones,” I said. “Why didn’t he call you?”
“He knows I would have shot him to put him out of his misery,” Stottlemeyer said. “And mine.”
“It was a serious question,” I said.
“He used to call me all the time, day and night, to complain about dust bunnies and potholes and God knows what else. My wife was furious. She wanted me to get a restraining order against him. So I finally had to tell Monk that he was ruining my marriage and that if he called me at home again, I’d fire him. I guess it hasn’t sunk in yet that I’m divorced. Please don’t remind him.”
“You’ll have to give me something in return,” I said.
“How about a murder?” he said.
“You’re going to kill Monk for me?”
“I am standing beside a dead guy and I have no idea who killed him,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m thinking that a murder case might be exactly what Monk needs right now.”
I never thought that I’d ever welcome the news that a person had been murdered, but I’m ashamed to say that, in this situation, I did.
CHAPTER SIX
Mr. Monk Loses Count
Ever since I started working for Monk, a lot of my morn-ings have begun with a corpse. I used to find that strange and unsettling. Now it’s typical. I don’t want to say I have become blasé about it, but it just goes to prove that over time you can get used to just about anything.
Nine out of the ten cases Monk takes on begin in the morning. The sun rises and somebody stumbles on a corpse left behind the night before. I really have no statistics to back this up, but it seems to me that most murders happen at night.
I can see why. If I was going to commit a crime, I’d do it in the dark so nobody could see me doing my nasty deed. There is also something about doing wrong in the bright light of day that makes it feel even more wrong. When you’re giving in to your dark side, you instinctively want to do it in the dark.
It just feels right—not that I’ve given in to my dark side all that often. But when I have, with the possible exception of indulging in something decadently fattening, it has been at night.
This may seem like pointless musing to you, but I do a lot of pointless musing while looking down at a dead body. It helps distract me from things like Clarke Trotter’s caved-in skull.
Captain Stottlemeyer, Lieutenant Disher, and Monk don’t have that luxury. They have to pay attention to all the details of the crime, no matter how gory or sad. And Monk picks up even more details than anybody else.
Well, usually he does. The investigation into Clarke Trotter’s murder was starting out a little differently.
We were in Trotter’s one-bedroom apartment in North Beach, which is nowhere near a beach, but don’t get me started on that. Even without a stretch of sand, the rent on seven hundred square feet in this neighborhood will set you back twice as much as my mortgage payment.
The apartment was furnished in what I like to call Contemporary Single Guy. All the furniture was big, black, and upholstered in leather (men love their animal hides). The living room was dominated by an altar to the god of electronics—a massive flat-screen television surrounded by stacks of devices. I could pick out a Play/Station, an Xbox, a DVD player, a TiVo, a Wii, a satellite receiver, a cable box, and an amplifier. There was a lot more stuff, too. I just didn’t know what it all was.
The coffee table was covered with more electronics—a laptop, an iPod, an iPhone, a BlackBerry, a dozen remotes— and a smattering of men’s “lifestyle” magazines, like FHM, Stuff, and Maxim, and empty cans of Red Bull. It was a mess.
The owner of this mess, the aforementioned and very dead Clarke Trotter, was in his bathrobe and lying sideways on the couch. He was a bit pudgy, although I wouldn’t call him fat. But it was clear the only exercise he got was on his Wii. There was
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