half dozen cops were assigned to the suspect’s friends and background, in case he had somehow made it out.
Meanwhile, Stottlemeyer, Monk, and I made our way to San Francisco General, where Sarabeth Willow had been stabilized and was strong enough to talk, at least for a few minutes at a time. She was in one of the few private rooms in the ICU, more for her security than the severity of her injuries. She’d been shot twice, a grazing wound to the left shoulder, and a more serious shot in the abdomen.
“Are they really dead?” Sarabeth asked. “All of them?”
“Everyone,” Monk answered. “Except you. You were lucky.”
Lucky seemed an inadequate word to describe her situation. Or maybe it was just the wrong word. The office assistant looked to be the kind who always wore a smile, remembered your anniversary, and brought in cupcakes with candles for your birthday. She would probably never be the same.
“Do you have any idea why Mr. Noone did this?” said the captain. “Was there trouble at work? Did he seem unstable?” He had turned on a digital recorder. I was taking notes. Monk, being Monk, didn’t need either.
Sarabeth was middle-aged, a little taller than average, one of the efficient, nurturing breed who used to be labeled secretaries but kept half the offices in America up and running. She was probably more attractive than I gave her credit for.You can’t be looking your best when you’ve been through hell and just been pumped up with three pints of blood. I did notice she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“Wyatt’s been our financial officer for about a year.” Her voice was raspy and swallowing seemed difficult. “Before that we did without one, until the bookkeeping got too much. He seemed good. Everyone liked him, although he kept to himself. Not much of a sharer, if you know . . .”
“What happened this morning?” Stottlemeyer asked.
She swallowed again. A second later, Monk was there, holding a cup of water to her lips, adjusting the bendy straw at a ninety-degree angle. I’ve rarely seen him do anything like this. He’s not what you would call a caregiver.
“Thanks,” she said, trying to smile. “This morning Wyatt was late. Maybe eleven? I was at my desk and the sun was coming through the front windows, so I could barely see.”
“He was backlit,” Monk suggested.
“That’s right. Not that I was paying close attention. I thought he was carrying an umbrella, which is silly. It’s been so dry.”
“He was carrying the shotgun,” Monk said.
“I know that now.” Sarabeth took another sip. “He went right in the back, to Mel’s office. Didn’t say a word. Next thing I know there was a gunshot. Very loud. I didn’t know what was going on.”
Sarabeth paused again and took her time. After the first shot, she said, Mel had come running out of his office, holding his bloody shoulder and screaming. If Mel had tried to escape through the front, things might have been different. Sarabeth might not have survived. But Mel ran toward theback, perhaps thinking about the fire escape and the stairs. Two more shots followed, one right after the other.
Sarabeth and the other woman in the office both placed 911 calls from their cell phones. But Katrina’s call was cut short by a gunshot into her head, all of it recorded by the city’s emergency-response system.
When Caleb, the last victim, came running into the reception area, Sarabeth was under her desk. She peeked around the corner to see the young, heavyset man wasting precious seconds pushing the elevator button. Then he headed for the stairwell, just a few yards in front of Wyatt who was striding after him, pulling hot shells from the shotgun and reloading. Caleb’s body was later found on the first level, a gaping, bloody hole in his back, just yards from the loading dock exit.
All this time, Sarabeth’s phone was open to 911 and the dispatcher stayed with her as she took the rear stairs. The sound of rushing
Meanwhile, Stottlemeyer, Monk, and I made our way to San Francisco General, where Sarabeth Willow had been stabilized and was strong enough to talk, at least for a few minutes at a time. She was in one of the few private rooms in the ICU, more for her security than the severity of her injuries. She’d been shot twice, a grazing wound to the left shoulder, and a more serious shot in the abdomen.
“Are they really dead?” Sarabeth asked. “All of them?”
“Everyone,” Monk answered. “Except you. You were lucky.”
Lucky seemed an inadequate word to describe her situation. Or maybe it was just the wrong word. The office assistant looked to be the kind who always wore a smile, remembered your anniversary, and brought in cupcakes with candles for your birthday. She would probably never be the same.
“Do you have any idea why Mr. Noone did this?” said the captain. “Was there trouble at work? Did he seem unstable?” He had turned on a digital recorder. I was taking notes. Monk, being Monk, didn’t need either.
Sarabeth was middle-aged, a little taller than average, one of the efficient, nurturing breed who used to be labeled secretaries but kept half the offices in America up and running. She was probably more attractive than I gave her credit for.You can’t be looking your best when you’ve been through hell and just been pumped up with three pints of blood. I did notice she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“Wyatt’s been our financial officer for about a year.” Her voice was raspy and swallowing seemed difficult. “Before that we did without one, until the bookkeeping got too much. He seemed good. Everyone liked him, although he kept to himself. Not much of a sharer, if you know . . .”
“What happened this morning?” Stottlemeyer asked.
She swallowed again. A second later, Monk was there, holding a cup of water to her lips, adjusting the bendy straw at a ninety-degree angle. I’ve rarely seen him do anything like this. He’s not what you would call a caregiver.
“Thanks,” she said, trying to smile. “This morning Wyatt was late. Maybe eleven? I was at my desk and the sun was coming through the front windows, so I could barely see.”
“He was backlit,” Monk suggested.
“That’s right. Not that I was paying close attention. I thought he was carrying an umbrella, which is silly. It’s been so dry.”
“He was carrying the shotgun,” Monk said.
“I know that now.” Sarabeth took another sip. “He went right in the back, to Mel’s office. Didn’t say a word. Next thing I know there was a gunshot. Very loud. I didn’t know what was going on.”
Sarabeth paused again and took her time. After the first shot, she said, Mel had come running out of his office, holding his bloody shoulder and screaming. If Mel had tried to escape through the front, things might have been different. Sarabeth might not have survived. But Mel ran toward theback, perhaps thinking about the fire escape and the stairs. Two more shots followed, one right after the other.
Sarabeth and the other woman in the office both placed 911 calls from their cell phones. But Katrina’s call was cut short by a gunshot into her head, all of it recorded by the city’s emergency-response system.
When Caleb, the last victim, came running into the reception area, Sarabeth was under her desk. She peeked around the corner to see the young, heavyset man wasting precious seconds pushing the elevator button. Then he headed for the stairwell, just a few yards in front of Wyatt who was striding after him, pulling hot shells from the shotgun and reloading. Caleb’s body was later found on the first level, a gaping, bloody hole in his back, just yards from the loading dock exit.
All this time, Sarabeth’s phone was open to 911 and the dispatcher stayed with her as she took the rear stairs. The sound of rushing
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