Mr. Monk Meets his Nemesis
A Monk Fanfic by SJO
Note: NBC Universal owns "Monk," not me. I wasn't sure what they're going to do about Dr. Kroger since Stanley Kamel passed away when I was writing this chapter. All I really knew was they cast a new psychiatrist character. I know a few more details now, like the new psychiatrist is named Dr. Bell. So, this is officially an AU. Maybe there's still some truth to it, though.
Chapter 1: Burying the Hatchet
Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock, knock. Knock.
It was 6:30 in the morning. Natalie usually didn't come until somewhere between 7:00 and 8:00. Maybe she came early.
Monk had just finished getting dressed, and he starting going to the door. It was knocking again. Five more times. 17, 18, 19 . . . come on, one more, make it an even 20—there. He opened the door.
"Hi." It wasn't Natalie.
"Harold?!"
Harold Krenshaw nodded. His wide-eyes looked very baggy, and he had a bit of a five o'clock shadow. His hair was messed up, and his clothes were wrinkled. He had some sort of bundle under his arm. He bent down and picked up the newspaper on Monk's mat and handed it to Monk. "Your newspaper," he said in the same meek voice.
Monk snatched it out of his hand. He still didn't like the guy. "Why are you here?"
"Just a minute. Can I come in?"
"Do you have to?"
"I guess not, but I am tired. I'd kinda like to sit down."
"OK, you can come in." Monk stepped aside and let Harold walk past him. He really didn't want Harold to come in his house because now it meant he had to be a good host. "Just a minute." He started to get the wrap for the couch.
"Oh, you don't have to bother. I brought my own." Harold took the bundle out from under his arm and pulled out a white, king-sized towel. "I bought it last night. Then I washed it, bleached it, dried it, ironed it, and for good measure I Febreezed it. Smell if you don't believe me."
"No, that's fine."
"And I got ten more just like it in the car," Harold said as he draped the towel over the couch and sat down.
"Can I get you anything, some water, coffee?" Monk asked half-heartedly.
"Coffee would be good. I take it black."
"I bet you do," Monk muttered as he went to the kitchen to prepare it.
"Your house looks very nice," Harold called into the kitchen. "I mean, it's perfect! Mine's a train wreck. I really mean it. It literally looks like a train hit it. No matter what I do, it's like that every day."
"So now we're making small talk," Monk thought bitterly as he put a purposely-uneven scoop of coffee into the filter. "What could he want to talk about? What do we have in common except—?"
Monk said aloud, "I haven't seen you since the—"
"—funeral. Yeah, I know. I've seen you a few times, though, on the news."
"Have you found a new therapist yet?"
"Not yet. I was thinking about joining a support group. I mean, I don't really like crowds, but it probably isn't too big. And if we all had the same issues, it shouldn't be all that bad. How about you?"
"Yeah, I was lucky. I happened to meet one just after the service who was willing to deal with me. Dr. Kroger told me about him once, Dr. Lowenstern."
"Really, the Nobel winner? Wow, you are lucky. I don't think I can afford him."
"How did you find my house?
"Directions Direct. It's an Internet site. You just type in the name, and it gives you an address and directions. Pretty weird, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is." Monk came back with a mug. "Here's your coffee," he said dryly.
"Thank you." Harold took a sip; then he pulled out of his bundle a coaster and set it down on the coffee table. "You still don't like me, do you?"
"I don't think I'll ever like you, Harold."
"I can't say I blame you. I wouldn't like me either, after all our spats. You know, Dr. Kroger wouldn't want us to fight, especially not now."
"What are you doing? After acting like a spoiled toddler every time I met you, you're now playing the parent?"
"Monk, please. Let me talk." Harold took another sip of his coffee. "It's not just you. I've been having problems lately getting along with a lot of people—coworkers, neighbors, my . . . wife. In my last couple of sessions with Dr. Kroger, I was talking to him about it. It's a problem I really want to take care of. He's the one who brought up you because he'd seen us fight. You know, he told me something I hadn't even considered. He said . . ." (Harold paused and took a hard gulp) "He said we pretty much have the same problems, but we just deal with them in different ways. Our session ran out of time, and he promised to give me some steps to help me next time. Then . . . well . . . it never happened."
Monk put his hand to his forehead. That must have been the day of the accident.
"He didn't tell you, did he?"
"No, he never talked about his other patients, even when I asked."
"I know. He never talks to me about you, either. It really surprised me that he said that one thing."
"My session was going to be the next day."
"Yeah, I thought so."
"Look, Harold, if you're here to find out what happened to him, you came to the wrong guy. I've been over it and over it, and for once, it's exactly the way they're saying in the papers."
"Monk, it's not about—"
"Dr. Kroger was not murdered! It was an accident!"
"I know, I—"
"He was hit head on by a drunk driver late that afternoon. I don't understand it anymore than you do. I know he had air bags. I know he was a responsible driver—Dr. Kroger, I mean, not the drunk."
"I know."
"But the police have taken care of it. The guy is sitting in a jail cell, and he'll more than likely be there for twenty years without parole, which is probably the closest we're going to get to justice."
"I know, I know, I . . ." Harold bowed his head, closed his eyes, and squeezed his hand into a hard fist.
"I've been trying for weeks to figure out another reason for his death, and . . . I can't. My new doctor has been trying to help me let go, and I'm really bad at letting go."
"It's not about that. I'm not here to talk about Dr. Kroger." Harold looked Monk in the eye. "I was just thinking, for his sake, could we at least try and bury the hatchet?"
Monk stared at him. Could he really be serious? Finally, he chuckled. "What good would that do? We'd just get really dirty!"
"It's a figure of speech, Monk."
"I know it's a figure of speech," Monk said in a serious tone. "Harold, I hate you. We can't be friends." He took Harold's coffee mug. "Why don't you just leave and we'll never see each other again?"
"I can't live with that!"
"Yeah, well, that's how I bury the hatchet!" He walked briskly back into the kitchen.
Harold stood and called into the kitchen. "Won't you even try? I mean, haven't you ever thought about it? Why did we get off on the wrong foot? We're not that different! We could have been friends from the start!"
"Natalie ought to be here any minute. You should go."
"Well, that's one thing I wanted to offer. I—" Just then, there was a knock at the door. "I'll get that."
"THAT would be her!" Monk started to walk past him, purposefully getting in Harold's way.
"I said I'll get it!" Harold tried to push past Monk, so they ending up fighting on the way to the door. Natalie ended up opening it herself.
"Hey, what's going on—Harold?! What are you doing here?"
"Good question," Monk muttered as he pulled himself away.
"Uh, good morning, Miss Teeger," Harold said as he straightened up. "You're looking . . . lovely today."
"Oh, thank you," she said uneasily.
"I see you've cut your hair again."
"Well, yeah . . . two months ago."
"Um, I probably should say, I hope there's no hard feelings about my beating you in the school board election."
Natalie laughed. "That was, what, four years ago?"
"I know, but I don't think I . . . ever said anything."
"Well, you did tear the school down, but . . ." (Harold gave her a very disappointed look) "Well, it's a moot point anyway. Julie's in high school, so . . . water under the bridge."
Harold smiled. "Thank you. Um, I was just going to offer for you to take the day off."
Monk shot him a horrified look. "WHAT?!"
Natalie smiled uncomfortable. "Well, that's very generous, but—"
"Natalie, don't!" Monk came closer to her and said softly in her ear, "Don't leave me alone with him."
"Relax, Mr. Monk, I'm not going anywhere," she replied softly.
"Well, what can she do that I can't?" Harold said in an annoyed tone. "Monk, I'm in the place that you're in! I know what you need! I can help out as well as she can. I'll start by washing the coffee mug. You want me to wipe it clockwise or counterclockwise?" He started walking to the kitchen.
"I have a dishwasher, Harold!" Monk yelled at him.
"All the same!" Harold yelled back. "I'll just pre-wash it. Nothing can be washed too much, can it?"
"Yes it can!" Monk turned back to Natalie and said quietly, "Can you make him leave?"
"Well, what's he doing here?" Natalie asked back.
"I don't even know, but he's already driving me crazy."
"Did he come all this way to argue with you again?"
"No, it's worse! He's being nice! That's the thing; all because Dr. Kroger is gone, he thinks we can be all buddy-buddy."
"Alright, I'll go talk to him." Natalie went into the kitchen, where Harold was already running water in the sink. "Hey, Harold?"
"Mmm?" he replied, looking up at her.
Natalie paused as she looked very closely at his expression, and she felt bad. "Listen. It's, uh, very . . . sweet, what you're doing, but uh—"
"You think so?"
"Well, uh, you see, uh, Mr. Monk and I have got to run some errands. We have a tight schedule today. He needs to do some grocery shopping, and then we probably ought to check in with Captain Stottlemeyer, and—"
"Oh, I'll come with you! Actually, I'll be happy to drive. I know Monk can't drive, but that's fine. One step at a time, you know."
"I'm not getting in the same car as you, Harold!" Monk said angrily as he came into the kitchen. "You probably listen to . . . music."
"I'm more of a talk radio fan. But now that you mention it, Dr. Bill's show is coming on. You'd probably like Dr. Bill. He's a no-nonsense kinda guy."
"Oh yeah, I love Dr. Bill!" Natalie said.
"Dr. Bill?" Monk said doubtfully.
"Dr. Bill Spicer," Harold explained. "He's a famous psychiatrist, and he's got a talk show on the radio. He's been doing it for about ten years, I think. When I didn't have a session with Dr. Kroger, I'd usually listen to Dr. Bill. He'd really give me some advice I could use."
"Well, if you liked him so much, why did you even go to Dr. Kroger?" Monk asked.
"Because I called in so much, they blocked my number," Harold grumbled. "Besides, there are some things that are easier to talk about in person."
"You know, that's really nice, Harold, but I think Mr. Monk would be more comfortable with me," Natalie said in an apologetic tone.
"Well, can I come anyway? I just remembered, I'm running low on milk—" (Monk gave a frightened squeak, and Harold saw the look of terror on his face) "—do-dads. Milk Do-Dads." Harold chuckled. "I find a lot of comfort in chocolate and peanut butter-covered raisins. I've been downing them a lot lately, and I'm about to run out. Don't tell anybody."
"I guess you could follow us."
"OK, thank you!" Harold's face brightened, and he turned back to washing the cup. Monk looked at Natalie with complete shock.
On the way to the store, Monk told Natalie everything. "I don't like this one bit, Natalie. I really don't like this! He's up to something; I just know it. Wait, you just missed the exit!"
"I know. We're taking the long way." Natalie sighed. "Mr. Monk, I know you're not going to want to hear this, but . . . I don't think we should send him away."
"What?! Natalie, you're supposed to be on my side!"
"Harold took Dr. Kroger's death really hard. Don't you remember at the service? When the rabbi invited us to share our favorite memories with Dr. Kroger, Harold couldn't do it. I mean, you even said a few things."
"Don't remind me."
"Well, when I look at Harold now, he looks so sad. Even when he tries to smile and look happy, I see this really deep sadness in his eyes. He looks almost as sad as you. And it's obvious he's not taking care of himself. You could probably tell, he's having trouble sleeping. I think he's still grieving over Dr. Kroger, and unlike you, he hasn't found someone to help him process that grief yet."
"What part of the grieving process involves pestering people who hate your guts?"
"I wouldn't think of it that way! You know, when Mitch died, I talked to some of his buddies, even some of the other pilots who served with him. I still call his best friend sometimes. I hardly knew these people when Mitch was alive! I may have said, 'Hi, how are you' a couple of times. I just felt like I needed to talk to them because they were almost as close to Mitch as I was. Wasn't there anybody like that with Trudy?"
"Oh yeah, pretty much everybody we knew, but I didn't want to talk to them. When Trudy died, I didn't want to talk to anybody . . . ever again."
"Well, we all grieve in different ways. Anyway, I think that's what Harold is trying to do with you. He knows that you knew Dr. Kroger, and he wants to connect with somebody who was just as close. And this thing he's talking about with Dr. Kroger advising him to bury the hatchet with you, well, it sounds almost like he's trying to fulfill Dr. Kroger's last request. You know, it's Harold's way of tying up loose ends, honoring his memory. It's the same reason you're looking for Trudy's killer!"
"No, it is not! I'm trying to bring someone to justice. This is . . . this is completely insignificant by comparison!"
"It's not insignificant to Harold! You know, I think he's trying to empathize with you. Do you really think he wants to go to the grocery store to buy candy? Why don't you, for once, try to empathetic too, if not for your sake or Harold's sake, then for Dr. Kroger?"
"Because I hate the man."
"Why?"
Monk stuttered as he searched for an answer. "Well, you've seen him! You know what he's like."
"You know, a lot of times when I see him, I see you."
Harold deserted them as soon as they got to the grocery store. Monk felt a little relieved, thinking that they lost him. Then, they got to the soup isle. Monk was staring at the labels, and Harold joined them, a grocery bag already in his arms.
"Oh, you want me to hold that for you?" Natalie asked.
"No, it's fine. I got it," Harold answered.
"It's ok. Let me." She took it out of his arms. "Wow, it's heavy."
"Yeah. Well, thank you. Man, where can I get a Natalie?"
"Uh, aren't you married?" Natalie asked ambivalently.
"Yeah, but Marissa's usually at work."
Monk was trying so hard to zone him out. "That one. No, no wait . . . that one. No, on second thought . . ."
"You should probably go on out to the car," Natalie said. "This could take up to an hour."
"He's having a problem with choices?" Harold asked.
Natalie nodded. "It happens all the time."
Harold stood next to Monk. "Hey, you really need to learn a little rhyme I learned in grade school. I used to have a problem with choosing, and this rhyme got me out of a lot of binds. I think it could really help you out."
Monk sighed. "What is it?"
"OK, which one's are you trying to choose between?" Monk pointed to three different labels. "OK." Harold extended his index finger and pointed at each can of soup while reciting, "Eenie, meenie, miney, moe, catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, make him pay fifty dollars every day. My mother told me not to pick the very best one, and you are not it."
Monk stared at the last item Harold pointed to. "So, what do I do?"
"Well, that one's 'not it.' It's out of the running. So, you say the same rhyme to the other two, until you have one left."
"I don't understand. You said, 'My mother told me NOT to pick the very best one, and you are NOT it.' Isn't that a double negative? Don't they cancel each other out?"
"You know what? Now that you mention it, that doesn't make much sense. I never thought of that."
"And how can you possibly catch a TIGER by the toe?"
"Oh, you know actually, that wasn't the original word. The word that was originally there is deemed offensive."
"Oh . . ." Monk said as it dawned on him what that word was.
"I tell you what. I know another one. It makes a little bit more sense. It has a literary reference you might recognize." He cleared his throat and started pointing at the other two and recited, "Wire, briar, limber, lock, three geese in a flock. One flew east, one flew west, one fl—"
"Flew over the cuckoo's nest," Monk recited with him.
Harold nodded and continued, "O-U-T spells out goes you, you old . . ." (Harold paused and grimaced) "dirty . . . dish . . . rag . . . you." Monk grimaced too. Harold handed him the "winning" can of soup. "I'm sorry. I didn't write it. That's just the way it goes."
"Why didn't they change that one?"
"I don't know. It's useful, though, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Memorable."
"It's certainly that."
Natalie just watched them in amazement. She never heard anybody try to analyze those stupid rhymes before. Just then, her cell phone rang.
"So, you already paid for your stuff?" Monk asked.
"Yeah. I only had one thing to buy, so I went through the express lane. I love those, you know, self-checkouts. It makes me feel so independent. I tried to teach myself patience by waiting in the ordinary lines. Well, I'm not doing that anymore."
"What if you had to buy more than twenty things?"
"I ask Marissa to do it."
"Mr. Monk," Natalie spoke up. "It's the Captain. He has a job for us."
"Thank goodness," Monk said under his breath.
"Oh, I can get to see what you do. Can I c—?"
"No, you can't come!"
"Please?"
"Harold, this isn't a walk in the park. It's a crime scene! More than likely, it's a murder! Civilians are not aloud."
"Well, technically, you're a civilian. So is Natalie."
"Come on, Mr. Monk," Natalie said as she put the phone to her chest. "I don't think the Captain's going to mind if he comes along, as long as he stays out of the way." Then she very quickly mouthed through gritted teeth, "Remember what we talked about."
"No, no!" Monk turned around to Harold. "I'm sorry, Harold Krenshaw, but there is absolutely positively no way on God's green earth that you are coming with us!"
"Captain, I think you remember Harold Krenshaw?" Natalie said with a gesture.
"Oh, oh yeah!" Stottlemeyer approached the visitor and extended his hand to shake. "Howdy do, Harold?"
"Hello, Captain Stottlemeyer," Harold said softly.
"Yeeah, couldn't remember if you shook hands or not." He added in a really low voice, "My heartfelt condolences on your loss."
"Thank you, sir."
The Captain patted his shoulder and then walked toward Monk and Natalie. "Is he with you?"
"Barely," Monk mumbled.
"Yes, he's with us," Natalie said. "He's trying to get to know Mr. Monk a bit better so that they could become friends."
"Look, Captain, if you don't want him to come inside and cause a scene, I'll support that."
"No, he can come in, as long as he doesn't touch anything," Captain Stottlemeyer answered.
Monk sighed in annoyance. "Thank you, Captain," Natalie said. She gestured to Harold, and he followed them inside.
"Make yourself at home. Just don't touch anything," Randy told him.
"OK," Harold nodded.
The Captain took Monk to the scene of the crime and explained to him the situation. There was a body on the dining room floor, apparently shot, but they couldn't find the gun or any additional evidence. Monk started walking around the room, looking through the gaps in his fingers. Then, he paused, looked over, and saw Harold's huge eyes on him. Monk closed his eyes for a moment and then tried again. He then looked up to see Harold still staring at him. "Harold, could you move? I can't concentrate!"
"But I want to see what you do!" Harold retorted.
"Mr. Krenshaw," Captain Stottlemeyer said, "if you don't mind, please go to the other room. There's not much else to see, and he really needs to concentrate. You can still hear his summation."
Harold sighed. "All right." He walked into the living room, but then he saw something that made his hand itch and cramp. It was an overwhelming compulsion to touch something, and he couldn't handle it. "Excuse me, officer?" he said to a member of the crew standing by, "do you have some latex gloves?"
"Pardon me?" he asked asked.
"I got to touch something in this room. I can't stand it. If they don't want me to touch anything because I'll leave finger prints, I'll be happy to wear gloves."
"Yeah, I think I got an extra pair." He pulled the gloves out of what looked like a kleenex box. Harold put them on, then he darted across the room and started playing "Heart and Soul" on the piano.
"Will you stop that?" Stottlemeyer yelled as he finished the first verse. Harold stopped playing for a moment. "Dang it, Harold, I told you not to touch anything!"
"I'm wearing gloves, sir. Just let me finish. It's not a long song, and I have to—" He started playing again. Then he hit a chord. "Wait. That didn't sound right." He started from the chorus, then he hit the chord again. "No. Am I hitting the—?" He played the chord again. He listened over and over, then he started play each note one by one. They, he centered on one note and played it several times. "There's something wrong with that note."
"OK, so they needed to tune the piano. I don't think that's a crime."
"Captain!" Monk called. Everybody got really quiet. Monk looked through his fingers at the piano. Then, he walked toward it. "It's . . .open. I think I see something." He gestured over to Randy, who reached inside where the strings were, and with his gloved hands pulled out a bullet casing.
"Well!" Captain Stottlemeyer said laughing. "Your friend found our evidence!"
"Please, don't call him that," Monk said under his breath.
"Way to go, Harold," the Captain said as he patted his shoulder again.
Harold smiled. "It's beginner's luck, really."
"You bet, it was."
Monk just glared at him. Harold noticed for a moment. Then he got distracted. "Oh! Look, they had one of these!" He went over to a shelf in the living room, which had a basket that held some smooth, glossy rocks. Harold started to pick some of them up and run them through his palms. He sighed in contentment and gave a genuine smile. "These are just so beautiful, so smooth and perfect. It's a wonder what erosion can do, isn't it?"
"Uh, I hate to burst your bubble, Harold, but that's not erosion," Monk said.
"It's not?"
"Nope. At least, not natural erosion." He couldn't help but grin just a little. "Wanna see what it is?"
"Sure."
They went back to Monk's house, where Monk showed him his rock collection and his rock tumbler. As Monk was showing him how it worked, Harold took a finished product out of the rock tumbler and inspected it. "How long have these things been around?"
Monk shrugged. "Years. Since I was a boy."
"And I'm just now finding out about this?" He picked up another rock. "I need to get me one of these. I love the feel of smooth, cold things, like these rocks."
Monk turned the rock tumbler off. "Me too."
"I don't know what it is. They just make me feel so . . . peaceful. You know, in one of my first sessions with Dr. Kroger, I was looking out at that big fountain outside, and I told him about that. And he gave me this blue marble. I think he got it out of a Chinese checkers game. He told me to carry it in my pocket, and whenever I felt anxious I could just hold it, just rub it in my hand, and I'll feel better. And you know, it worked. It really worked." He laughed a little and added, "And you know, he said the best thing about it is if anyone ever accused me of losing my marbles, I could say, 'No, I got one right here.'"
Monk laughed a little at that and secretly wished Dr. Kroger did something like that with him. He was probably making it up. "Can you show it to me?"
"No. I was holding it one day, and I dropped it. It fell into a sewer grate. I lost it, just like that. But sometimes, I like to pretend I still have it. My skin can remember what it felt like." He picked up a small, blue stone. "It felt a lot like this. So smooth and round."
"Why don't you just take that one?"
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I got plenty. Besides, you need a replacement for your missing marble, so take some marble."
Harold laughed really hard about the word play. Monk couldn't resist laughing a little too. Harold finally composed himself and said, "I can't just take it from you. Here." He got out his wallet and pulled out a perfectly pressed one-dollar bill. "I think this would be enough."
Monk took the money out of Harold's hand and put it in his pocket. "Thank you," he said flatly.
Harold was a bit disappointed at that; if they really were friends, he would have refused his money. "Uh, Monk, Adrian, this was a good day. This was a better day than any that I had in a long time."
"Well, I'm glad you thought so."
"I'm grateful that you let me be a part of it, however grudgingly that was."
"OK. Well, goodbye."
"Actually, Adrian, I hope you don't mind that I call you Adrian—"
"I suppose it's OK."
"I was going to return the favor. I want to invite you to my house. You could meet Marissa and see a little of what I do. And maybe you can help me straighten a little, take care of this 'train wreck.'"
Monk was not interested in the invitation, but when Harold mentioned the prospect of cleaning, he perked up. "OK."
"Great. Well, I have to go to work, so I won't be in until 3:00."
"Wait, when do you want me to come?"
"Oh, tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?!"
"Well, you see, the support group is tomorrow night. It would be great if you can come with me. I don't think I'll know anybody else. It may be good for you, too. You don't have anything on the agenda tomorrow, do you?"
"Just my appointment to see Dr. Lowenstern."
"Well, that's in the morning, isn't it? So, tomorrow afternoon should be fine."
"I guess so."
"Good." Harold started to walk away, but then he turned back around. "You know, I probably ought to tell you, I lied to you."
"About what?"
"About introducing Dr. Kroger to his fiancee, and coming to his house, and meeting his daughter."
"Well, that was rather obvious."
"Yeah. I was just trying to be important. I mean, you're the big guy who's always in the paper and on the news, the big-shot detective. I'm just a nobody. I guess I just wanted to one-up you. I wanted to feel more important. But I'll tell you what was true. I did feel particularly close to Dr. Kroger because he lived nearby. His subdivision was pretty close to mine. I sometimes saw him driving to and from work, sometimes in between. I always honked my horn at him, and he waved at me. He was always happy to see me." Harold closed his eyes and squeezed his hand again. Then he looked over at Monk. "I never meant for this to be a competition. I was wrong. I'm sorry."
Monk was not sure if he bought this apology, but he couldn't think of any evidence that conflicted with it on the top of his head. "OK," he whispered.
Harold nodded. "Thanks. That takes a load off my mind. I'll see you tomorrow." He waved and walked out the door. Monk started cleaning up the rock tumbler stuff, just all too glad that it was over.