THE MONKISH
BY
BOB WRIGHT
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here we go with what will probably be the next-to-last story in the series, and the last crossover. Eleven tales in, it's admittedly getting harder to come up with strong cases for Monk to pursue, but I'll do my best and hope you come home satisfied again.
I know I take a risk whenever I try and take a stab at deconstructing Trudy's murder, knowing it may well be overridden in the end. Thus, if anything I say here turns out to be incorrect in the end, forgive me when the time comes. If more information about her death is revealed before this story is completed, it will be updated in the relevant places with the information we'll learn.
Adrian Monk and all related characters and indicia are registered trademarks of USA Network, Mandeville Films, and Touchstone Television. The Commish and all related characters and indicia are registered trademarks of Stephen J. Cannell Productions and Three Putt Productions. And now, as always, sit back and enjoy the story.
The clock on the nightstand read quarter to two in the morning. Despite the hour, however, Adrian Monk did not feel like going to sleep. He glanced up at the ceiling in his darkened bedroom, one hand lying on top of his wife's pillow, which he was stroking gently. Today was his wife's birthday, and he had no intention of missing a moment of it; since he'd met her so many years ago, he'd rarely slept on this day.
"I hope, wherever you are now," he whispered softly to Trudy's picture on the nightstand, "You're thinking of me too. I hope you haven't forgotten."
He turned his head towards Trudy's side of the bed, as if he expected her to appear at any moment. The room, however, remained quiet and still. Adrian turned his gaze back to the ceiling. It was taking all his energy to stay awake, for it had been a long day. He'd been awakened early the previous morning for a new assignment. Apparently a half dozen men had been gunned down on the docks in what looked like a double cross operation of some kind, for half of them had been stuffed into empty packaging crates. The detective had been able to determine that, despite the drugs found in each man's pocket, it had not been a drug deal-there was no residue inside any of the crates-but could not figure out what had been going on there before the murders, and thus he'd spent the rest of the day listening to Captain Stottlemeyer plead with him to find something, anything, as the press was up his back on the matter. He'd promised to give the docks a more thorough look-over the day after tomorrow-he'd made it a long-standing tradition to never work on Trudy's birthday, something he'd continued doing even after her death.
Suddenly, without any warning, his doorbell rang. Adrian jumped up in bed, a frown on his face. He quickly threw on his robe and bustled to the door. "Who is it?" he inquired, glancing through the peephole.
"Adrian Monk?" asked a man wearing a janitorial uniform. The detective unlocked the door and opened it a crack. "Can, can I help you?" he asked.
"Hi, Mr. Monk, I'm Rob Nicholls, I work at the bus station downtown," the man introduced himself, "Listen, you should know, I was cleaning out the station an hour ago, and I heard the fire alarms go off by the lockers. I went to check it out, and this guy was burning some things. He ran off before I could stop him, but when I took a look at what he hadn't burned, I saw it related to you, so I brought them over and..."
"Hold on a minute, let me see that...wait, on second thought..." Adrian's brow furled seeing the layer of grime covering the metal box Nicholls was holding. Holding up his hand for the man to hold still, he ran for the kitchen and pulled a pack of wipes out of the drawer. Hustling back, he scrubbed the box down with one. Flicking on the overhead light, he noticed the words TO ADRIAN MONK-OPEN IMMEDIATELY written in marker across the front. "Which locker was it in?" he inquired, producing his tweezers and using them to open the lid.
"Number 1497," Nicholls told him, "Unfortunately, there's not much left; whoever this guy was, I can tell he destroyed a lot of what was inside. How he knew this was in there, I don't know, or how he broke the lock on the locker and the case, but..."
Adrian held up his hand again. He strode into the den and sat down at his desk. Tipping it sideways so the ashes spilled into a handy plastic bag, he pulled out the front-most piece of paper inside and began to read:
Adrian Monk,
My name is Rufus Ziegler. You knew me as Brother Rufus from the monastery. By the time you read this, I will be dead. I can no longer live knowing now the grief I have caused you. I helped to kill your wife Trudy.
Adrian almost fell backwards out of his chair in shock. There was a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach; the road to Trudy's killer HAD run through the monastery all along, and he'd followed the wrong lead! And now it was clearly too late. Dismal, he turned back to the paper:
In 1997 I was a money handler for the mob, nothing really to crow about. I received an anonymous phone call right after Thanksgiving that my services were needed for something big, that I had to deliver some cash to certain parties. On the night of December 16th, I came to Fisherman's Wharf after midnight. Shortly thereafter, a suitcase full of money was thrown out of a passing car with the instructions on where to deliver it. I drove it to a point underneath the Bay Bridge, where Frank Nunn picked it up. He said only thanks and turned and left. Shortly thereafter, I grew tired of my ways and joined the monastery, but reading the newspaper every now and then, and seeing things progress the way they did, I was able to piece together in full what had transpired and who all was involved. I can never make up for my crimes, but having seen firsthand how you've suffered, I would like to try and repent by telling you everything so you can catch the guilty parties and finally find peace.
I should probably start with the information you want most. Your wife's death was ordered...
Unfortunately, the arsonist had burned the rest of the page, destroying the incriminating information forever. Adrian slammed his head down hard on the desk. At least he knew Rufus was telling the truth; only one of Trudy's killers would have known the date of her death-December 14th, 1997-and put the information in locker #1497, or 14-97. But why, why, why, WHY hadn't Rufus told him this directly when he'd had the chance!? He shuffled through the rest of the case. Only one other piece of paper was intact enough to read. He squinted at it and tried to make out Rufus's increasingly hasty handwriting:
...initially only going to give Nunn two grand as well, but Nunn demanded he get preferential treatment for the role he was going to play, so he upped Nunn's share to $10,000 and wired him for the additional funds. This was money that I delivered. Even then I had a feeling the cash had come from him.
If you can catch him, Monk, he can probably tell you everything even if the Judge gets to this note before you do. At last check-which would be two months before you came to the monastery-he was living in the city of Eastbridge in upstate New York. But above all, please hurry; the Judge knows I sent this information for you to find, and if he gets to it first, he'll tip him off and he'll flee. So when you read this, I strongly advice you head to Eastbridge right away, and try not to drag anyone else into it with you; the Judge will know and try and use them against you.
Again, Monk, I cannot express how sorry I am for what I've done to you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me some day. Farewell and good luck.
R.Z.
Adrian's heart leaped. There was still hope after all. Slamming the paper back into the box, he rushed back towards the door, where Nicholls was still waiting. "You said you worked at the bus terminal, right?" he asked breathlessly.
"Yeah?"
"Are there any buses heading to Eastbridge, New York in the next twenty-four hours!?"
"I can check for you," Nicholls pulled out his cell phone and stepped out of the doorway. Four minutes later, he came back nodding. "No direct bus, Monk, but we've got one leaving in forty minutes for NYC; you'll probably be able to get a connector to Eastbridge from there," he told the detective.
"Any tickets left!?"
"Probably; we don't get too much passengers at this hour."
"Thank, thank you, you've been more of a help than you can imagine," Adrian told him, shaking Nicholls's hand, then wiping himself off, "Listen, before you go, call me a cab to take me to the depot; I've got something to take care of; tell it to be here in fifteen minutes. And, if you can, try not to tell anyone about this, it's top secret."
"Sure, whatever..." Nicholls was cut off as Adrian closed the door on him. The detective bustled into his room and dressed as quickly as he could. Fifteen minutes was barely enough time to get together everything he needed. He reached for the phone, ready to tell his assistant where he was going, but his hand paused on top of the receiver. No, he figured, Rufus was right; no need dragging the people he cared for into it if there was a verifiable threat on their lives. He dug through his drawers for a spare piece of paper, wrote down a hasty explanatory note, and placed it on his desk in the den where it could be easily found. He'd give a call back when he'd made progress. He pulled his suitcases out of the closet and began filling them with everything that would be necessary, eager to be on the road and a step closer to solving the most important case in his life.