Mr. Monk Meets the Sentinel
by Gemini
Crossover between The Sentinel and Monk (a terrific new detective show on USA Network)
Disclaimers: "The Sentinel" belongs to Petfly, Paramount, SciFi, Bilson & DeMeo. I don't own Jim and Blair & the rest of the gang. "Monk" is owned by USA Network and Andy Breckman et al. I don't own Monk, Sharona, or Stottlemeyer, either. This is all done for the sheer enjoyment of it. No money is being made. Believe me! :-)
Previously posted on the Sentinel Angst list.
Many thanks to Brate for betaing the story. She always picks up those weird little things I never notice. Thanks, Brate! Oh, and any remaining errors are mine. You see, I tend to be a bit compulsive, and have to make sure things are just so. <bg>
Synopsis of "Monk" (<http://www.usanetwork.com/series/monk/>): Adrian Monk was once a rising star with the San Francisco Police Department, legendary for using unconventional means to solve the department's most baffling cases. But after the tragic (and still unsolved) murder of his wife, the devastated Monk became obsessive-compulsive. His psychological disorder has caused him to develop an abnormal fear of virtually everything: germs, heights, crowds... even milk. His condition eventually cost him his job, and continues to pose unique challenges in his daily life. Monk's personal nurse, Sharona Fleming is there to help Monk make it through the day, offering her assistance when even the simplest of tasks - like organizing his sock drawer - become an angst-ridden ordeal for Monk.
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~~~Prologue~~~
*** Visiting Room, Level IV section of the California State Prison-Sacramento, Represa, California, Monday, 10:47 am
Former San Francisco Police Commissioner Harry Ashcombe sat down in the plastic chair and looked at the man on the other side of the mesh-embedded glass. After a moment, he picked up the telephone receiver and held it to his ear.
"Good morning, Mr. Ashcombe," said the man.
"Smith," said Ashcombe curtly.
"I hear you have a job for me."
"Yes. A man named Monk. Adrian Monk." Ashcombe felt his left eye twitch when he said Monk's name. That had been happening a lot lately. That's okay. It won't be much longer now. Smith, or whatever his name is, is the best.
"The detective?" Smith's eyes narrowed. "I don't do cops." His voice was flat.
"He's not a cop any more. He's off the force. He's a freakin' whacko." The eye was twitching even faster now.
Smith stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Done. Your people will arrange payment?"
Ashcombe felt the tension in his gut relax a bit. "Yes. Half now, the rest when it's done."
Smith nodded again and hung up the phone without another word. He stood up, turned around, and walked out of the visiting area without a backward look.
Ashcombe hung the receiver back in its cradle and watched the hit man leave. His eye continued to twitch as he said under his breath, "Finally, Monk, I'll get you back for doing this to me."
The guard came and took his arm to lead him back to the office where he helped the secretaries file invoices. At least it's better than having to work in the dry cleaning or furniture upholstering shops, he thought bitterly as they walked down the dreary hall. Damn you, anyway, Adrian Monk. But you'll get yours. He chuckled to himself. His eye twitched again.
*** San Francisco International Airport, Terminal 1, Gate 20; Arrival of Alaska Airlines # 202 from Cascade, Washington, Friday, 9:58 am
"Keep it dialed down, Jim," Blair Sandburg, anthropology grad student and ride-along police observer said worriedly to his partner, Detective Jim Ellison, as they made their way down the airport concourse. "We'll reset everything as soon as we can find a quiet place."
Jim winced and nodded, holding one hand to his forehead.
Blair kept one hand on Jim's arm, leading him through the dense crowds toward the luggage pickup area. Damn, the last thing Jim needs right now is all these people. The noise, smells, visual stimuli, it's got to be driving him crazy. "Take it easy, man. I'm right here. Keep it down. It's okay." He continued murmuring reassuring words to his sentinel, knowing that his voice was soothing. Sentinels might be able to hear, see, smell, taste, and feel things better than other people--which gave Jim a distinct advantage in his position as a police detective hunting down criminals--but they also could be overwhelmed more easily. That's why Blair was so important to Jim; as his guide, Blair helped Jim cope with stimulus overload and pulled him back from "zone-outs" if he got stuck in an overloaded sense.
They took up a position as far away from the others waiting for luggage as possible. Blair stood near Jim and helped him turn down the sensitivity of his vision, hearing, and sense of smell. They used the analogy of dials such as those found on stereos, with a "10" being the loudest or brightest or highest setting, and "1" being the lowest setting. Blair would help Jim "dial down" each sense until it was at a level Jim could cope with, often a setting of 4 or 5. As they worked through each sense, Jim relaxed more. Finally, Jim took a deep breath and opened his eyes.
"Better?" Blair asked, looking up at his friend.
Light blue eyes looked back at him, slight crinkles around them showing the affection Jim felt for his guide. "Yeah, thanks, Chief. Things really spun out of control back there." A particularly obnoxious perfume had sent Jim's sense of smell spiraling out of control--the dial moving from a 4 to a 9 or 10--and before he or Blair could stop it, his vision and hearing had followed. The intense sensory input had been more than Jim could deal with, especially in an environment like the airport, which was incredibly rich in stimuli.
"Yeah, I know." Blair looked over at the luggage belt, which was spewing forth bags. "Well, we'd better get our bags and get going. We only have a few days here and I want to enjoy them!"
Jim followed the shorter man over to the crowded belt. Within minutes they had retrieved their bags and headed to Level 1. They went to the Center Island near the yellow columns, where the taxis were queued up.
When it was their turn, the cabbie helped them load their bags. They slid into the car and the driver asked where they were going.
"Hilton on O'Farrell Street," Blair said, settling back in his seat to enjoy the ride.
***San Francisco Central Police Station, 766 Vallejo Street, Forensics Services Division, Friday, 11:10 am
"Criminal Scene Investigations, Carolyn Plummer." Carolyn glanced at the clock as she answered the phone.
"Hi, Carolyn, it's Jim."
"Jim! You made it." She could feel herself smile as she heard the voice of her ex-husband.
"Yup. We're both here, safe and sound."
"Good. I'll be ready to leave in about 20 minutes. Where are you staying?"
"Hilton on O'Farrell."
"Do you have a car?"
"No. We caught a cab here," Jim said.
"That's okay, I'll pick you up, say, in half an hour?"
"Sounds great. We'll wait for you out front. See you then."
Carolyn hung up the phone. She could feel the smile still on her face. How could it be that she and Jim got along better now that they were divorced than they ever had when they were married? Some things in life just weren't fair. She turned to her monitor to finish her report.
*** Golden Gate Promenade, Golden Gate Park, Friday, 11:45 am
"I don't think we need to do this today, Sharona," Adrian Monk said to his nurse, assistant, and friend, turning and heading back toward the car. He was oblivious to the acres of dark green grass and the riot of colors from the beds of flowers planted in the vast gardens of the park.
"Oh, yes, you do, Adrian," she said, grabbing him and turning him back around. She gave him a gentle push. "Your doctor said this is a good exercise for you. Now come on."
With a sigh of surrender, Monk started walking along. He reached out to touch the first post, starting to say, "One."
Sharona snatched his arm and held it down to his side. "Nope, no touching the posts, today."
Anxiety swelled up in Adrian until he felt like he couldn't breathe. "I don't know if I can do this, Sharona." Monk had stopped and was looking at her with a near-panicked expression on his face.
"You remember what the doctor said, Adrian? You can count, but no touching the posts today. We're gonna just go a little ways, right? And you should do your deep, relaxing breathing to help you. Okay? So let's do that. Close your eyes, breathe in." She ducked her head and glared up at him. "Adrian..." she said in a warning voice.
Trying hard to take in enough oxygen, Monk said, "Sharona, I feel like an idiot, okay?" He looked at the people strolling by. "It's bad enough I have to deal with this stuff, but to stand here in the middle of the park doing this deep breathing..."
The blonde woman put her hands on her hips and tilted her head as she grinned at her boss. "Come on, Adrian, this is San Francisco, remember? Everyone's crazy here!"
Monk's eyes flicked back and forth nervously, and a slight smile teased his wide mouth. It was true, no one was taking the slightest interest in them. "Well, okay. But I'm not going to close my eyes."
Sharona rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Fine. Now, breathe in, slowly, hold it. Good. Breathe out. Again." She led him through the exercise a few times until he was calmer. "Now, Adrian, we're going to walk down this sidewalk, one hundred yards, and no touching the posts. You can count out loud--we'll worry about counting another time--but no touching."
Adrian could feel himself breathing fast again. His wife had been murdered with a car bomb several years before and he had developed severe OCD and related anxiety disorders. One of the manifestations of his illness required him to touch and count poles or posts as he passed them. Today, at the request of his psychiatrist, he and Sharona were working on this compulsion. They were starting out small: a one- hundred-yard section of sidewalk, and they were only eliminating the touching part. Deep breathing would help with the anxiety. Yeah, help, but certainly not come anywhere near eliminating it, Adrian thought sadly.
"Okay, Adrian, let's slow down the breathing again. Breathe in, slowly..." Sharona had picked up on his increased anxiety at just the thought of walking past the posts without touching them. But she was good at her job, and she was a good friend.
Finally he was ready and they started down the thousand-mile-long stretch of sidewalk.
"One," Monk said in a trembling voice as they approached the first post. His eyes lingered longingly on it as they passed it. He could feel his heart rate increase and his breathing grow ragged as the desire--the need--to touch that post grew and took on form within him. And the next post was approaching.
*** Golden Gate Promenade, Golden Gate Park, Friday, 12:20 pm
Jim, Blair, and Carolyn sat on the low wall, eating their box lunches. The sun glinted off the San Francisco Bay, and the salty smell of the sea hung in the air. Seagulls screamed in the distance. Jim savored the pleasant sensory input as he enjoyed the lunch with two good friends.
"This is nice," Blair said. He gazed at the nearby palm trees.
"Yeah, it is. I should really do this more often," laughed Carolyn. "But you know how it is; people never enjoy their own city."
"It's true," Jim agreed. "So how are things going for you here, Carolyn?"
"Good. I miss everyone in Cascade, but it's been a positive challenge here, and I've made new friends. I have greater responsibilities, and there's a good chance that I could move up to Director of Forensics Services Division in a few years. And who knows, maybe even Deputy Chief of the Investigations Bureau after that?" She smiled.
"That's great."
"Yeah, that's wonderful, Carolyn," Blair agreed. "I'm glad you're happy here. San Francisco's a great city, too."
"I like it here. Doesn't rain as much as Washington, either," she said with a twinkle in her eye. Apparently she knew how much Blair disliked being cold and wet.
"I hear you." Blair grinned back at her.
Jim chuckled. Having finished his lunch, he tucked the waste paper into the thin cardboard box and closed the lid. He set the box down on the wall next to him, rested his hands on either side of him and leaned back slightly, relaxing. Jim scanned the sidewalk that ran parallel with the water, crossing in front of them. He noticed a man and woman making their way along the sidewalk toward them in a very strange manner. Tilting his head, he said softly, "I wonder what's the matter with him?"
Carolyn and Blair turned and looked in the direction of Jim's gaze.
The man was in his mid-30's and had dark, curly hair and brown eyes. There was a look of fear, almost to the point of panic, in his eyes, though Jim could see nothing around them that should be causing such fear. The man was walking and stumbling along the sidewalk toward them, clutching onto the woman for dear life. The woman was holding him with one hand and patting him reassuringly with the other.
Jim reached out with his hearing and heard what the man was saying.
"Seventy-six... <gasp> Sharona, please, I can't do any more of this, please!"
"You're doing great, Adrian! Now come on, breathe. In, slowly. Come on, boss, you can do it. Breathe in."
They stopped, Adrian clinging to her and panting for breath. He seemed to focus on her finally, and started breathing in synch with her soft directions.
Jim felt a corner of his mouth tug up. I can relate to that, he thought, remembering far too many times when Blair had helped him regain control of his senses with similar breathing exercises.
A hand landed gently on Jim's arm. "Any problem, Jim?" he asked softly.
Jim glanced at Blair, then at Carolyn, who was looking at him quizzically. "I'm not sure what's going on, but it doesn't seem to be anything illegal." He shrugged.
They watched discretely as the pair began slowly moving again. Jim heard the man counting as they walked along the sidewalk. He noticed the numbers were called out at the same time the pair moved past the posts that were spaced along the path. He also noticed that the man's gaze fixated on each post, his arm reached out as if to touch it, and then the woman's hand would reach out and pull the arm back to the man's body; the man's anxiety was obviously increasing as they passed more and more posts without his being allowed to touch them.
"OCD," whispered Blair. "Looks like they're trying to extinguish some compulsive behavior."
Jim turned and looked at his roommate with amusement. "Anything you don't know, Darwin?"
"Nope," Blair said with a cheeky grin.
"What's going on?" Carolyn asked.
"Looks to me like he has OCD--Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder," Blair said, turning to her and speaking quietly. "It's an anxiety disorder. It can be a real bummer to deal with. The person has obsessive thoughts--can't get things out of their mind, kind of like getting a song stuck in your head, only a thousand times worse--and/or they feel compelled to do certain things."
Jim suppressed a smile. Sandburg was in full lecture mode. Well, Carolyn, that's what you get for asking Sandburg a question.
"Compulsions vary from person to person," the grad student continued. "Some people have to count things, like stairs or steps, or recheck multiple times to be sure the coffee pot is off or the doors are locked. Sometimes people have to do rituals, like washing their hands ten times or walking up and down stairs three times before they can go on to their destination. Some people can't stand to touch anything that might be dirty. Like I said, it can really interfere with living."
"So what are they doing?" Carolyn glanced at the two people making slow and awkward progress toward them.
"Well, I'm guessing they're trying to reduce one of his rituals. It looks like he has a compulsion to touch poles as he walks by them. You see how he keeps trying to reach out to them and she grabs his arm back?"
Carolyn nodded.
"And they stop once in a while; I'm guessing they're doing a relaxation exercise, maybe deep breathing or visualization--something to help him deal with the anxiety."
"And this will help him? He looks miserable," Carolyn said, her forehead furrowed in sympathy.
"He's in hell right now," Blair agreed. "But eventually, hopefully, he can overcome the compulsions."
Jim could hear the empathy in his friend's voice.
They fell silent as the pair drew nearer. Apparently they had finished their exercise. They had stopped about fifteen feet away from Jim, Blair, and Carolyn, and were talking quietly. The man was not trembling nearly as much as he had been, Jim noticed from the corner of his eye. He turned away to give them their privacy.
Blair stood up and gathered their trash, then jogged over to the trashcans, depositing the paper in the rubbish bin and their empty cans in the recycle bin. Jim stood and stretched, enjoying the feel of his muscles moving as he flexed and relaxed them.
Following his lead, Carolyn stretched in the sunshine like a cat, her hands held over her head and her back arched. She closed her eyes, then put her hands back on the wall on either side of her. "Mm, the sun feels so good. I need to spend more time outdoors."
"I'll second the sun feeling good," Blair said. He returned and plopped down next to Carolyn again. "It rains too much up in Cascade."
"Ah, you're just a wimp," Jim said with a grin. "Nothin' wrong with a little rain."
"A little rain, no. The Pacific Northwest just has no concept of what a little rain is. It pours and drizzles and drips and gushes and--"
"Hold it!" Jim held out one hand to silence Blair, his body stiffening and his head tilting to one side.
Jim heard Blair slide off the wall and move next him, then felt Blair's hand come to rest on his arm to help ground him as Jim focused his senses on the sound that had caught his attention. As always happened, Jim's hearing sharpened even more when his guide made physical contact with him, and Jim was able to zero in on the sound of a rifle being prepared for firing. Jim whipped his head around, trying to "piggyback" his vision onto his hearing, so he could see where the shooter was, hoping to be able to warn the potential victim. His extraordinary vision focused in on a rifle barrel poking out of a building almost half a mile away; it was pointed... almost directly at him! No... it was pointed at the man and woman now standing five yards away from him.
"Get down! Look out!" Jim shouted toward the couple as he ran toward them. "Shooter!" He dived at them, arms outspread, forcing them to fall onto the asphalt walk. A split second later, the splat of a bullet sounded, just past where they had been standing. For a long moment, everyone froze, then Jim was dragging them behind some large cement planters.
Three more bullets slammed into the sidewalk and nearby ground, but none hit anyone. Jim looked over at Blair and Carolyn, who had taken cover behind another of the large planters. Other pedestrians out for a stroll were also hiding, eyes wide. Some were screaming or shouting in fear.
Sirens indicated the approach and arrival of squad cars. Within minutes, the area was secured and Jim and the others were able to come out of their defensive positions without fear of being shot at again. Jim checked the window where the shooter had been, but there was no sign of the rifle; the window was now closed.
"Adrian, Sharona, are you both all right?" Jim asked as he helped them to their feet.
Sharona was shaken up, her eyes wide and face pale, but otherwise okay. Adrian, though apparently uninjured, was a basket case. He was trying frantically to stay away from everyone--the uniforms who were there were all trying to get close to help, to make sure they weren't hurt, to see if they needed an ambulance, to get statements--and at the same time Adrian was trying to brush off all the dirt and small stones and whatever else had gotten on him when he had been pushed to the ground.
Jim realized what was going on and started moving the people away. Blair had apparently realized the situation, as well, for he was suddenly next to Jim. The two of them quietly explained to the several uniforms in the immediate area that the man needed a few minutes to compose himself, and would they please back off and give him some space and some privacy. The officers were less than happy with the idea at first, but Jim was able to use his... persuasive personality... to convince them.
Sharona stared at the circle of uniformed men and women who surrounded them, facing outward, for a long moment, then turned to her boss and handed him a cloth. "Here, Adrian, let's get your hands washed, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, that would be good." His voice was shaky. He gave short, embarrassed looks over his shoulders at the many people who were gathered around.
Jim caught, from the corner of his eye, a small look of gratitude, when Adrian realized that the police had formed a loose circle around him and Sharona, facing outward, to allow them a few minutes of relative privacy. A small sigh indicated a bit of relaxation. Several minutes of frantic brushing against cloth and scrubbing of skin, and Adrian apparently felt in control enough to be able to face the people he had to talk to.
"Excuse me?" Sharona asked Jim, somewhat timidly. "We're ready now."
"Okay." Jim smiled at her. "Officer?"
The officer in charge of the scene moved over to them, glancing at Jim with what might have been a touch of trepidation as he passed him. Gee, thought Jim innocently. I wonder if I intimidated him or something. Well, whatever it takes.
A tall man walked over. "I'm Captain Stottlemeyer. And you are?"
Jim introduced himself and Blair.
"I hear you saved Monk's life." He looked over at the man who was nervously wiping his hands on a cloth as he spoke to the officer who was taking his statement.
"Well, maybe. I did make sure they were out of the line of fire." Jim kept his expression neutral.
The captain gave him a measured look. "Hm. Well, thank you, Detective Ellison. Monk's a special man." He cleared his throat. "You'll be in town for a few days, in case there are more questions?"
"Yes, until Tuesday. But Captain?"
Stottlemeyer looked at him questioningly.
"I know where the shooter was."
*** Golden Gate Promenade, Golden Gate Park, Friday, 2:25 pm
Jim and Blair sat on the low wall, looking out over the water and enjoying the warmth of the sun. The murmur of voices had diminished over the last hour as the crowd had left and the police had finished taking statements and working the crime scene. Carolyn had left a half hour earlier, after her forensics people had finished collecting the bullets that had smashed into the dirt and asphalt. She had to return to her office to finish the afternoon's duties before she could meet them for dinner.
A pair of footfalls approached and Jim turned to see Adrian and Sharona nearing them. He swung his feet around so he was facing them; Blair did the same.
"We were never formally introduced," Adrian said. "I'm Adrian Monk, and this is Sharona Fleming." He gestured toward the blonde. Sharona reached forward to shake their hands, a smile on her face. Adrian didn't move to shake hands, which didn't surprise Jim.
Blair and Jim stood and shook Sharona's hand and nodded at Adrian with a smile.
"I'm Detective Jim Ellison and this is Blair Sandburg."
"Detective? With the San Francisco Police?" Adrian asked, frowning slightly.
"No, Cascade, Washington."
"Ah. I didn't think I recognized you." The frown eased.
"You're with the SFPD?" Jim asked, a look of slight surprise on his face.
"Used to be," Monk said. He shifted uncomfortably, as if not wanting to pursue the topic any further.
"Yeah, well, we wanted to thank you for, you know, saving our lives," Sharona said, jumping into the sudden silence. She waved back at the area where they had been standing when Jim had knocked them down.
"Yes, I was wondering, Detective--"
"Call me Jim."
Monk nodded. "--Jim, how did you know someone was going to shoot at us?"
Jim tried not to squirm. This is always the hard part. "I, uh, saw the sun reflecting off the scope," he said, glancing at the building where he had seen the rifle.
Monk raised an eyebrow. He turned and looked at the multitude of tall buildings behind them, then turned back and looked at Jim. "You did, huh?"
"Yeah. Hey, look, we need to get going." Jim turned to join Stottlemeyer, who was going to take them to the shooter's location. He was followed closely by Blair.
"So you saw where the shooter was?" Monk asked.
"Yeah."
"And you knew he was going to shoot at us."
"Yeah." Jim stopped, his back turned toward Monk, his posture rigid and unwelcoming.
"Not at you, not at your friends, but at Sharona and me."
Jim turned slowly and faced his tormentor. "Look. I saw the rifle, I saved your life. Can't you just let it go?"
Monk stared at him for a long moment. "For now."
Jim said, sarcastically, "Thank you, Mr. Monk." He walked toward the waiting police captain.
*** Claire Lilienthal K-8 Alternative Schools, Winfield Scott Campus, 3630 Divisadero Street, San Francisco, Friday, 3:17 pm
Jim climbed the stairs, walked down the hall, and knocked on the door that led to the office of Terry Richardson, the principal of the Claire Lilienthal School. Captain Stottlemeyer was right behind him.
"Come in," responded a cheerful-sounding woman's voice.
Jim turned the knob and entered carefully. Stottlemeyer hadn't wanted Jim to come, but Jim had refused to reveal the shooter's location unless he was allowed to go along. He might not be a member of the San Francisco police, but he was a fully trained and fully competent detective, after all. Stottlemeyer had reluctantly agreed.
Blair followed Stottlemeyer. Jim had wanted to keep his partner safe and sound back at their hotel but, as always, Sandburg wouldn't listen. He insisted on backing up his sentinel. "The purpose of the sentinel's partner, Jim, is to watch his back. I can't do that from the hotel. I'm coming." And that had been that. Damn stubborn kid. So here Sandburg was, entering a potentially dangerous situation. Jim surreptitiously checked to be certain that his Sig Sauer lay in its holster against his lower back; it did.
They found themselves in a small reception area. A petite, black-haired woman with sparkling dark brown eyes smiled at them. "May I help you, gentlemen?" she asked.
"I'm Detective Jim Ellison," he began.
Stottlemeyer, obviously annoyed at Jim's trampling around in his territory, stepped up, bringing out his shield. "Ma'am, I am Captain Stottlemeyer, of the San Francisco Police Department." He shot a dirty look at Jim. "We are investigating a shooting."
The woman's eyes grew large. "A shooting? Who got shot?"
"No one, ma'am," Jim reassured her, stepping forward and taking control of the situation again. He noticed the nameplate on her desk read Ms. Garcia. "They missed. Anyway, I would like to examine that room," he pointed to the door behind her, "if you wouldn't mind." He flashed her his nicest smile.
She glanced back at the door, then at the three men. Her eyes grew even larger, which Jim hadn't thought possible. "Principal Richardson's office? You can't be serious?! She wouldn't be involved in a... a shooting!"
"No, ma'am, I didn't say she was. We just need to check something out in the room, and then we'll leave." Jim smiled at her. "It's okay, really."
She relaxed a little, then nodded. "Well, okay. I guess it's all right. You won't touch anything, though, will you?"
"No, ma'am, we just want to look around."
She opened her middle desk drawer, took out a key, then stood and led them to the door. Unlocking it, she let them in the room. She and Blair stood and watched as Jim and Stottlemeyer wandered in and looked around.
Jim did a quick visual scan of the room. No spent cartridges. Pretty basic to pick those up, he thought. He sniffed the air. He noticed the scent of Old Spice in the air. Well, Ms. Richardson probably doesn't use Old Spice, and certainly I didn't notice any on Ms. Garcia, he thought.
"Had any male visitors today, Ms. Garcia?" Jim asked.
Stottlemeyer gave him a strange look.
"No. In fact, I've been the only one here all day. Principal Richardson is out of town at a conference. And no one else has been here."
"Did you take a lunch hour?" Jim asked as he peered at the objects on the desk.
"Well, yes, of course. I was gone from about 12:15 until 1:10. But the rest of the time I was here."
The time frame fit. The shooting had taken place about 12:40. Jim nodded and walked toward the window. He gazed out, easily pinpointing the spot where he and the others had been when the shots were fired. There were no visual obstructions; he had no doubt that this was the location from which the shots had been fired. Glancing down at the windowsill, he noted the crank handle that allowed the window to be easily opened and closed.
Bringing his focus back into the room, he scanned the windowsill itself, the wall under the window, and the carpet under the window. His enhanced vision caught sight of a short, blond hair. He asked Stottlemeyer for a latex glove and plastic evidence bag. The San Francisco captain raised an eyebrow, but silently handed him the requested items. Jim slipped on the glove. Then he carefully picked up the hair and slipped it into the bag.
"What color is Ms. Richardson's hair?" Jim asked.
"Color? She has red hair," Ms. Garcia said. "It's the prettiest shade of red. Why?"
"Just asking." Jim gave her a reassuring smile. He handed the evidence bag to Captain Stottlemeyer, who looked at the hair, then at Jim.
Jim squatted down, glancing under the desk and credenza, and around the two filing cabinets. Just as he was getting ready to stand up, a flash of copper caught his eye. "Is there something -- a pointer, umbrella, yardstick -- something like that, that I can use?" he asked.
Stottlemeyer and Blair looked around, searching for something. Ms. Garcia said, "Sure, just a sec." She was back a few moments later carrying an umbrella. "Here. Will this work?" She handed it to Jim.
"Thanks," he said, smiling at her. He bent down and used the tip of the umbrella to coax something out from between one file cabinet and the wall. When it rolled out, he carefully scooped it into another plastic bag. It was a spent cartridge from a rifle.
Stottlemeyer looked at him, mouth hanging open. "My God. You're just like Monk," he said.
*** Sharona's car, 3600 block of Divisadero Street, San Francisco, Friday, 3:45 pm
"What do you suppose they're doing here?" Sharona asked.
"I think he knows where the shots came from." Monk was staring at the building the three men had entered.
The blonde turned and looked at her boss, disbelief on her face. "Come on, Adrian. I know you can do the almost impossible, but that would be the beyond possible."
"No, I really think he knows."
Sharona stared at the building for a minute, and then she turned back to Monk and her eyes widened. "You think he was involved in the shooting?"
He shook his head. "No. I think he saw the shooter."
"From a half mile away?" She sounded incredulous.
"Yeah."
Monk looked at his assistant and friend. "I suspect he has incredibly sensitive eyesight. And hearing. Who knows, maybe he even heard the shooter pull the trigger."
"From half a mile away." Her voice was totally disbelieving by this point. "Right. Hey, Adrian, maybe you've had too much sun. I think we should take you home and get you some rest."
"No, Sharona, I'm fine. Oh, here they come."
She looked at the three men traipsing out of the building. They were heading towards Stottlemeyer's car. Stottlemeyer glanced up and saw them.
Monk swore he could almost hear the man sigh. Maybe this sensitive hearing is contagious, he thought amusedly.
The captain walked across the street and leaned on the car, looking past Sharona at Monk, through the driver's side window. "What are you doing here, Monk?" He sounded like an ever-suffering parent having to deal with a wayward child.
"Just thought I'd see what was going on." Monk looked at the captain innocently.
Jim and Blair, who had followed Stottlemeyer, were listening in unabashedly.
"Not a lot's going on," said the captain.
"Did you find the shooter's lair?"
The captain's eyes narrowed. "How did you know that's what we were doing?"
Monk nodded toward Jim. "He said he saw where the shooter was. You came here right after taking care of the scene. You all looked worried when you got here, and now you all look like the cat that swallowed the canary." He smiled. "I'd guess you found something. Something pretty good."
Stottlemeyer shook his head. "I hate it when you do that, Monk."
Adrian just shrugged.
Jim chuckled.
"Come on, Ellison, Sandburg, I'll give you a lift," Stottlemeyer said, standing up. "Which hotel are you staying at?"
"Uh, Captain?" Monk said, leaning slightly toward the open window. "We can give them a ride." He looked at Sharona. "You don't mind, do you?"
She rolled her eyes. "Sure, Adrian. No problem."
Stottlemeyer glanced at Jim and Blair. "You two mind? I'd like to get back to HQ, get forensics working on the evidence we found."
"You sure you don't mind?" Blair asked Sharona.
"No, hop in." She smiled at the curly haired young man. "The more, the merrier."
"Okay, thanks," said the captain. He checked for traffic, then crossed to his car and left.
Jim and Blair slid into Sharona's car, Jim behind Sharona and Blair behind Adrian. As hard as he tried, Adrian could not stop himself from twisting around partway so he could make sure he wasn't touching or being touched by either of their guests. He smiled uncomfortably at them. "Sorry," he said.
"Hey, no problem, man," Blair said.
"Where you staying?" Sharona asked.
"The Hilton on O'Farrell," Jim replied.
"Okey-dokey," she said, pulling up to the next corner and turning right.
They rode in silence for a few blocks. Monk tried not to wince too much as cars came too near them or Sharona cut turns too close. Finally, trying to keep his mind off the ride, he said, "So, Jim, how long have you had extraordinarily sensitive sight and hearing?"
Both men inhaled sharply, turned to look at him, and narrowed their eyes. Wow, it's almost as if they rehearsed that, Adrian thought.
"What are you talking about?" Jim said a half-second later.
"Your vision is obviously highly acute--you saw where the shooter was from over a half-mile away. I could barely make out the building, and I have normal vision. And you knew Sharona's and my name before you were introduced to us. You heard us talking when we were walking toward you, from a great distance away."
"I must have heard you giving your names to the police," Jim said dismissively.
"No, you called us by name before we even got off the ground, before a word had been spoken. The only way you would have known our names would have been by overhearing us talking, in normal voices, twenty or more yards away. I'd call that rather extraordinary, wouldn't you?"
Jim and Blair exchanged a look.
"What was it you used to do with the SFPD, Mr. Monk?" Blair asked.
"Please, call me Adrian. I was a detective."
"Ah," Jim said.
A half-smile tugged at Monk's wide mouth. "What does that mean, 'ah'?"
"Nothing."
"So. I am right, am I not?" Monk pushed. A car swept by them honking its horn. He closed his eyes and shuddered. After a moment he forced his eyes open again. Jim was watching him
"Why do you want to know?" Jim asked cautiously.
Monk figured the Cascade detective's caution had nothing to do with his reaction to the car, and everything to do with the topic of their conversation. "Because I'm always curious, and I'm trying to figure out how you knew someone was trying to shoot me from a half-mile away. It's a little scary when someone's trying to murder you, ya know."
"Indeed," Jim agreed.
They rode in silence for a few more minutes.
"So are your other senses enhanced, too?" Monk asked as casually as he could, given the fact that they were threading their way through heavy Friday afternoon traffic.
Blair looked at Jim, but kept his mouth shut. Jim glared at Monk. "Look, I'd rather not talk about this, okay? You have your secrets, and I have mine. Let's leave it that way."
"Okay." Monk glanced at Sharona, who was biting her lip. He figured she was trying hard not to tell him to shut up. Fine, I'll shut up, he thought.
Silence again descended upon the foursome until Sharona pulled to a stop in front of the Hilton.
Blair opened his door and slid out of the car. "Thanks for the ride, Sharona," he said. "See ya later, Adrian."
Monk waved as the young man moved away from the car so Jim could move out though his door and not have to get out on the traffic side.
Jim had moved behind Monk when a black Cherokee stopped next to them. Adrian saw the Cherokee's window rolling down and the pistol's barrel aiming at him at the same time he felt a strong hand shove him hard toward the floor of the car. A hot, sharp pain tore across the back of his right shoulder, along the top. He heard another weapon, a 9 millimeter, it sounded like, firing from very close by, and then the crash of metal as one vehicle hit another. It was silent for a moment, and then there was chaos as people were screaming and shouting all around them.
"FREEZE! POLICE!" Was that Jim's voice?
"Adrian? Are you okay? Adrian?" Sharona's fingers felt at his throat for a pulse. He heard a sigh when she found it. "Oh, thank God. Adrian, it's me, Sharona."
He blinked his eyes open and looked at her.
She smiled at him. "Oh, Adrian, I'm so glad you're okay."
There was more noise and shouting. A siren wailed to a stop nearby.
Adrian took stock and realized he was half-sitting, half-lying on the front seat, with his legs on the floor. He was facing toward Sharona and the dashboard. He realized that Jim must have pushed him down as the shooter fired.
Then Jim's voice came from the open passenger door.
When did that get opened? Adrian wondered fuzzily.
"Monk, are you all right?"
Adrian looked over his shoulder at Jim. The motion hurt, causing pain to shoot along his entire right shoulder and neck area. He shook his head slightly and took a deep breath. "Yeah, yeah, I think so. My right shoulder hurts like a son-of-a-gun, though."
Gentle fingers ghosted across his injury. "I think the bullet just grazed you. You hurt any place else?"
More sirens were approaching.
Adrian felt his breathing rate increase. Taking a quick inventory, Adrian decided nothing else was injured. "No, I'm okay." He started feeling uneasy about having Jim so near. And the idea of the cops being there, of having to deal with so many people again, twice in one day, made his anxiety level begin to rise. He felt himself trembling. Damn, he thought. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to control the anxiety, to stop the trembling.
"Come on, Adrian, breathe slow. Take it easy. It's okay." Sharona. Thank goodness for Sharona. Adrian focused on her voice and tried to do as she said.
"Jim?" That was Sandburg's voice, coming from outside the car. "Maybe we could take him up to our room. It would be quieter. The EMTs could check him out and the officers could take our statements there."
"Good idea, Chief. What do you think, Monk? Sharona? Would you like to go up to our room? We can let the uniforms know where we'd be and they can come up when they're finished with the scene here. It would be less stressful for all of us."
"Adrian?" Sharona's hand was stroking Adrian's left arm gently.
Monk nodded, his eyes still clenched shut. "Yeah, thanks." Please, anything to get away from this. He could hear all the people talking, could almost feel them looking at him. He let out a shuddering breath.
Monk kept his eyes shut as the others helped him out of the car. Sharona and Blair stayed with him while Jim spoke with one of the officers. Apparently he convinced her that it was for the best for them to go up to the hotel room, because a couple minutes later they were ensconced in an elevator, riding up toward the seventh floor. Finally he opened his eyes. He let out a sigh of relief; it was just the four of them.
Soon they entered room 712. Jim asked Adrian to take off his jacket and shirt and lie face down on one of the beds--Blair had put down clean towels first, for which Adrian was very grateful. Sharona helped him get undressed and lay down.
"I was a medic in the Army," Jim told him. "I'm just going to take a quick look before the EMTs arrive, to make sure you're doing okay, if that's all right?"
"Okay," Adrian agreed. He really didn't like the idea of anyone touching him, but knew his injury needed attention.
"Good. I'm just going to wash up." Jim went into the bathroom. Adrian heard the water come on and heard the paper wrapper come off a bar of soap.
Sharona sat down next to him. "Do your breathing exercises, Adrian," she whispered softly into his ear. "It'll help you relax."
He tried to do that, breathing in slowly, then out. It did seem to help somewhat. But the pain in his shoulder was getting worse, throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Blair brought out a small first aid kit, which he had apparently had in his suitcase. "We always bring one with us," he said rather sheepishly. "Unfortunately, it seems we always need one."
"We call Blair our trouble magnet," Jim said from the bathroom as he continued washing his hands thoroughly.
"Hey, you attract trouble just as much as I do, if not more so," Blair retorted.
Sharona, who was perched on the edge of the bed, patting Adrian's arm and ready to assist Jim if he needed it, laughed at their teasing. "You guys are something else."
"Thank you, Sharona," said Blair. "We work hard at it." He gave her a mock bow.
Monk smiled a little at their attempts to lighten the atmosphere. Jim came out of the bathroom and sat next to him. Gentle touches explored his injury. Adrian was surprised; he barely felt them. Hmm. Extra sensitive touch, too? he wondered.
"Looks like just a graze. Shouldn't need stitches. Some antibiotic cream and it should heal fine." Jim took some gauze from the first aid kit and laid it on Adrian's wound. "I'm not going to do more than just put some sterile gauze on for now. The EMTs will still want to examine you."
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door.
After wiping his hands on a hand towel, Jim stood up, slipped his Sig Sauer out of its holster, and went to the door. He checked through the peephole, then carefully opened the door. After checking identification, he let the two officers and two EMTs into the room, and holstered his weapon.
*** Room 712, Hilton San Francisco, 333 O'Farrell Street, San Francisco, Friday, 7:10 pm
Blair moved to answer the knock on the door, only to be intercepted by Jim, Sig Sauer in hand. Blair rolled his eyes and stepped aside. After checking who their visitor was, Jim let Captain Stottlemeyer in.
The captain entered, greeting the two men from Cascade, Sharona, and Monk, who was now bandaged, dressed, and propped comfortably against the wall. "Well, everything squared away?"
"The last of the officers just left about ten minutes ago," Jim told him. "But I'm guessing you know that."
Stottlemeyer ignored Jim's comment. "I hope the four of you are finished causing trouble for today."
Jim raised an eyebrow and leaned against the wall next to the small desk, arms crossed. "Seems to me we solved the problem, Captain," he said coolly.
"We did?" Blair asked, looking at his partner.
"We did?" Sharona echoed, looking at Monk.
"Of course we did," Monk told her.
"I did help you apprehend the shooter, after all." After the man in the Cherokee had shot at Monk, Jim had returned fire and wounded the shooter, who had then crashed the Cherokee into the pickup truck in front of him, totaling his vehicle. Jim had rushed out and immediately subdued the injured shooter, keeping him under control until a police officer appeared on the scene. Jim had then gone to Monk's aid.
"Perhaps Captain Stottlemeyer would be so kind as to update us. Why don't you have a seat, Captain?" Jim gestured toward one of the upholstered chairs next to the window. Monk was sitting propped up on one of the beds, Sharona next to him, and Blair was perched on the desk chair. Jim remained leaning again the wall.
"Uh, I prefer to stand, thanks." Stottlemeyer cleared his throat. "Well, the man you shot," he said, looking at Jim, "was Billy Cafferty. Professional hit man. He was only wounded, nothing serious; he'll live. He was more than willing to roll over on the man who hired him." The captain looked at Monk.
"So who hired him?" Blair asked.
"Harry Ashcombe."
Sharona's eyes got round. "You're kidding. He tried to have Adrian killed?"
"Who's Harry Ashcombe?" Jim asked.
"The Former San Francisco Police Commissioner," Adrian said. He was carefully straightening the fringe on the bedspread, making sure each strand was exactly parallel to it neighbors.
"Whoa, what did you do to piss him off?" Blair asked.
"Monk proved he killed his wife. Got him put away for life," Stottlemeyer said.
"Ooh, that would do it." Blair nodded.
"So measures are being taken to isolate Ashcombe so this won't happen again?" Jim asked.
"Yeah," Stottlemeyer said. "At least that's what they're telling me. If I were you, Monk, I'd be a little careful, just in case."
Sharona looked at her boss, concern on her face. "Yeah, Adrian, you be careful."
Monk looked at her and nodded. "Yeah, I'll be careful." Then he went back to straightening the fringe.
"What about tying Cafferty in with the shooting in the park?" Jim asked.
"He had a rifle in the Cherokee, matches with the casing you found in Richardson's office. Haven't got the ballistics reports back yet, of course, but we'll probably find a match there, too."
"And Cafferty had short, blond hair--"
"--like the one you found in Richardson's office," Blair said.
Jim nodded. "And he wore Old Spice."
"--like the guy who had been in Richardson's office did," Blair said.
"I still don't know how you know that," Stottlemeyer said, eyes narrowed as he studied Jim. "I couldn't smell anything in that office." He turned and looked at Monk. "This guy reminds me a lot of you, Monk. It's too scary."
Adrian returned the captain's look, raising an eyebrow. "I'm not quite sure how to take that."
"Take it as a compliment," Sharona said, patting Adrian's arm and glaring at the police captain. Then, as if sensing her boss had had about all he could take for the day, Sharona stood up. "Well, Adrian, I think it's time we got you home."
"Yeah, that would be good." He smoothed the fringe one last time, then moved slowly to the edge of the bed, trying to stay on the towels Blair had laid down for him earlier. He stood with Sharona's help, then brushed his clothes off as best he could.
"Um, do you know where my car is, by any chance?" Sharona asked Stottlemeyer. "I left it out front when we came up here."
"It was probably towed. You'll have to get it tomorrow. I can give you a lift home tonight, if you like."
"That would be great, thanks," Sharona said.
They all said their thanks and goodbyes, and a couple minutes later it was quiet in the room. Blair rolled up the towels Monk had been lying on and took them into the bathroom, setting them on the tiled floor, then returned to the main room.
Jim was lying on the bed nearest the door, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "Wow, what a day." Jim took a deep breath and blew it out in a long sigh.
"Yeah, and it's only been eight hours since we got here!" Blair laughed. "We sure know how to pack in the excitement on vacation." He lay down on the other bed. He had just started to relax when there was another knock on the door. He groaned. "Oh, man, now what?"
Jim grinned and rolled smoothly off the bed. "It's Carolyn, Chief. We're going out for dinner, remember?" He opened the door and Carolyn came in.
Blair moaned. "So what do you think will happen during dinner? Armed robbery? Aliens invading? Bombs? Droughts? Comets on a collision course with Earth? Swarms of insects? Terrorists?"
Carolyn looked at Blair, then at Jim. "What's the matter with him?"
"Oh, nothing. Just a typical day with Sandburg." He tossed Blair's jacket at him. "Come on, Chief, let's go get something to eat."
Blair got off the bed, clutching the jacket. He was mock glaring at Jim and still muttering under his breath as they left the room.
~~~Epilogue~~~
*** Apartment #307, 852 Prospect Street, Cascade, Washington, Wednesday, 5:57 pm
Jim opened the letter addressed to both him and Blair and read it aloud. Blair stirred the pasta sauce as he listened.
Dear Jim and Blair,
What does one say to people who have saved one's life? 'Thank you' seems so woefully inadequate. The two of you did so much to help me last Friday. I hope you realize the extent of my gratitude.
I must admit that, after our encounter I was rather curious about the two of you, and did some research. I was impressed by your background, Jim, with your high solve rate and many awards, both in the military and recently with the Cascade Police Department. You are a true protector of your city.
And Blair, you have similarly distinguished yourself academically. I found your anthropological research papers to be most interesting. You should keep searching for a modern-day sentinel. You may very well find one some day. Only recently I met someone who may meet at least some of the criteria you mentioned in your master's thesis. But I respect his privacy and wouldn't discuss this without his permission, as I'm sure you understand. So don't stop searching for your sentinel. You may just find him or her one of these days.
Thank you again for saving my life. I am grateful to you, and would like to help you out if I could ever be of service.
Sincerely yours,
Adrian Monk
Jim and Blair exchanged looks.
"You think we can trust him?" Blair asked.
"I don't think we have much choice," Jim responded. His instincts told him Monk was trustworthy. Usually his instincts were right. He folded the letter up and went to burn it in the fireplace.
~End~
Author's comments:
First, I know I don't do justice to the wonderful writing of the new show, "Monk." So my apologies for not portraying Adrian and Sharona as well as I wish I could. I would therefore suggest you get a true sense of who they are: watch the show if you can--it is delightful! Monk, the "defective detective," is something of a cross between Columbo, Sherlock Holmes, and a vulnerable, angst-ridden teddy bear, with a strong sense of justice and a fear of heights, dust, disorder, and milk. Oh, and Tuesday night is chicken pot pie night, no matter what.
Second, the places in San Francisco, the street names, hotel, police HQ, prison etc., that I used in this story actually exist. However, I chose them using the Internet. I have no idea how accurate I am in describing them. <g> For example, the school exists at the address I gave, but for all I know it's a single story building with no view of the Golden Gate Promenade whatsoever. I was able to get some pictures (e.g., of Golden Gate Park, of the Hilton hotel), but had to make up a good portion of it, too. So please forgive me for any and all inaccuracies. It's the best I can do from 2,000 miles away! <g> (Hey, if anyone would like to provide funding for on-location research for my next story, let me know! <bg>)
