Monk explained to Sherlock, John, and Natalie what Randy told him about Sharona. Randy still wanted it kept private, so they interviewed her in the back interrogation room.

"We don't want you to be too disturbed, so if this too painful, we'll understand if you want to stop," Natalie told her.

"It's just so hard," Sharona said. "I've never experienced this before. I've always been the tough one."

"Yeah, we know," Monk said. "So can you tell us how it started?"

"Well, I was just a couple months gone. I was shopping at a grocery store, and there was this guy, I thought he was stocking the produce at first. While I was reaching for some potatoes, he said, 'When's the big day?' Now, I wasn't showing, so I nearly knocked him upside the head, but then he grabbed my wrist, and he said, 'I wouldn't do that, Sharona.' And then he said, 'That's right, I know who you are. I know where you live. I where you work. I know where you used to work. I know who your husband is. And most of all, I know you're pregnant.' I thought he was just talking big game because my husband is the police captain, but I went ahead and asked him who he was, and he wouldn't tell me his name. He said, 'You know all those mob bosses your husband attempts to keep in line? I know them all by name, and they do what I say.' And then I asked him what he wanted, and he looked at me with those cold, brown eyes and answered, 'I'm going to kill you, Sharona. And your dear man in blue can do nothing to save you. It's not a question of 'if,' it's a question of 'when,'" Sharona paused for a moment, shut her eyes tightly, and took a couple deep breaths, then said in a softer voice, "and then he patted my stomach, and he said, 'and that entirely depends on you.'"

"So he was blackmailing you?"

"Something like that, yeah. He promised to keep me alive if I gave him what he demanded. I just wanted to keep it going as long as I could so he wouldn't hurt the baby."

"What did he ask for?" Natalie asked.

"Randy's notes. Old ones. He wanted me to go as far as 2001. I couldn't believe Randy still had those notebooks, but they were all there, stacked in the basement. I gave him one a week, until Randy found out and we came back here."

"That make sense," Monk said. "Randy's extremely meticulous, he takes notes on everything. He's been like that as long as I known him. I think it was part of being the captain's right-hand man. He was sure to have all the details the guy needed to get under my skin, and then some."

"Well, I have the last notebook I was going to give him since I came here." She pulled it out of her purse. Monk took it from her, opened it, and saw all kinds of symbols he didn't recognize. He showed it to Sherlock. "What is this, some kind of shorthand?"

"I certainly hadn't seen it before."

They showed it to Randy and asked him to explain. "Oh, this is based on a language I created when I was nine years old. I've been tweaking it and perfecting it ever since, trying to make it as secretive as I can. I call it Randese."

"You write your notes in code?" Monk asked.

"Well, sure. Why not? They're for my eyes only; I can put them in an official police report later. You know, if I do something stupid and misplace my notebook, it could wind up in the wrong hands. I actually thought it impressed my commanding officers in police academy, got me through."

Sherlock was scanning through it. "This is actually quite clever, Disher."

He grinned. "Thanks."

"I can't believe you came up with it."

"Huh?"

"He means he's very impressed, and he apologizes," John said.

"Apologizes for what?"

"Never you mind."

"So, do you think he cracked this?" Monk asked.

"He probably could," Sherlock answered. "I wouldn't be surprised if he tried. However, I think he probably decided there was an easier way to that kind of information. He did visit Miss Maven."

"Yeah, how was that?"

"You may be right, Mr. Monk; there may be a Type C, but there's still certainly a lot of Type B overlap. If you ask me, it should've been Type NC, as in No Caffeine Allowed."

"He visited my half-brother, too. So he probably got a wealth of information from both of them. But still, there were gaps. How did he get to those?"

They were getting back to the bullpen, and once they reached there, a phone at one of the desks rang. Sherlock suddenly stopped in his tracks. "Bell," he whispered. He ran through his memory, just to make sure. At the car rental place, John said, "Natalie says we can take our time. Mr. Monk's meeting with his therapist, Dr. Bell." Ambrose told him that Dr. Bell came by. Randy asked Monk if he was sure he didn't want to talk to Dr. Bell. "That's it."

"What?" Monk asked.

Sherlock turned to him. "I had a feeling you were holding something back. Of all the people who knew about all these events, there's one you failed to mention—your therapist."

"Yes, well, here's the thing—Dr. Bell wasn't my therapist during all these events. For most of them, he was, but Tommy and Monica were before his time."

"Oh, come on. You who are so afraid of change, why would you change therapists?"

"Because Dr. Kroger died. Natural causes, heart attack. Dead therapists are good at listening, but they don't offer a lot of advice. Not that I didn't try; I went to his grave a couple times."

"Regardless, I'm sure he has the files from your former therapist."

"One other thing—I don't know how you do things in Britain, but in America we have very strict doctor/patient confidentiality laws. Not even the police can have access to a therapist's files or know anything about his patients without his permission or a warrant."

Sherlock just looked at him. "You think I'm going to find out something about you, aren't you? You have nothing to fear; I already know you're mental."

"It's not just me! I've had cases that involved my therapists before. It's a real ironclad rule; I couldn't even overstep it when someone had been murdered."

"No, there's something more. There's a reason why you're holding this back." He pointed to him. "Your therapist said you shouldn't call me, didn't he? He's the one who told you I'm not real."

"Well, we talked about it. He agreed it was not a good idea to continue in a fantasy. But I had my suspicions when I reread the stories."

Sherlock did not like this at all, and his meeting Dr. Bell went about how he thought it would.

"So, this is who you told me about, Adrian?" The therapist shook his hand. "Please to meet you. Adrian's said a lot of good things about you."

"Thank you, doctor," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, how may I address you?"

"Sherlock, please."

"You know, there's no reason to be 'on' here. We're all friends. So who are you, really?"

He glared at him. "Sherlock's been my name since the day I was born."

"Really? Hmmm. You sincerely believe that."

"Why wouldn't I? Just because I share a name with a fictitious character—"

"Well, it could be a serious issue. I've met some men, very good men, kind men, who sincerely believe that they're Santa Claus."

"Yes, I've heard that story. They took him to court to prove his identity, and the Post Office diverts all mail addressed to Father Christmas to the courthouse, and somehow that proves it."

"I wasn't referring to Miracle on 34th Street, Sherlock. I've met other people, all sorts of people, most of them pretty good though some not great, who believe with all their heart that they are the Messiah, the Son of God."

"Oh yes, I know that story ends."

"OK, maybe you'll appreciate this. I once met someone who believed he was a knight from the Round Table in search for—"

"I'M NOT DELUSIONAL!"

"That's funny. You know the kind of people who say that, especially with that intensity? People who have delusions."

"But they don't have proof, do they? I have identification, birth certificate, look, here's my passport. People with delusions maintain them when all evidence points to the contrary."

"I can vouch for him too, Dr. Bell," John said. "I have a therapist myself. She's never called Sherlock crazy. I've never called him crazy. I've called him a lot of other things, but . . ."

"You know, all the same, a little examination couldn't hurt," Dr. Bell answered. "Technically, Adrian's in group therapy, but all the other members of the group are no longer with us. You know, you could take one of their spots."

"Oh, so you want me to come here every day from England?" Sherlock said sarcastically.

"No, I think you know that's ludicrous. As I understand, you've wanted to Skype with Adrian. This could be your chance." He started pulling it up on his tablet.

"I don't need therapy."

"You know the kind of people who say that?" John piped up.

"Shut up!"

"Dr. Bell, that's not what we're here for," Monk said. "We're concerned that—"

"What kind of computer is that?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Isn't it something?" Dr. Bell said. "It's a prototype, straight from Silicon Valley. They wanted me to test it out. I feel like the future is here, like I'm in Star Trek with this thing."

"Can I see it?"

"I'd rather you didn't. All my personal files on my patients are in here."

"That could be a problem. It's been hacked."

Everyone, including Monk, stared at him in shocked silence, but then Dr. Bell smiled and shook his head. "No, that's not possible. The security is state of the art. I have it all set up according to the manual, which by the way, Adrian's brother wrote."

Sherlock was a little taken aback by that. "How do you know that? Instruction manuals are not signed."

Monk explained, "He read a portion aloud in one of our sessions. I recognized Ambrose's style. He's wordy, a little too overwhelming with details."

"You recognized his style?"

Monk shrugged. "I used to proofread his English papers before he handed them in to Mom."

John said, "That's amazing, really, Mr. Monk, but what does that have to do with the hacking?"

Sherlock went into his deduction speed as he explained. "Here's what happened. This isn't from Silicon Valley. It's not even from California. It does seem a little too good to be true, doesn't it, being sent an exquisite, expensive computer for free? But getting a trustworthy name like Ambrose Monk associated with it further assuaged any concerns you might have. You downloaded all your files on Adrian into the tablet, but they were also downloaded to a secondary location." He looked at Monk, "And then he had all the information on you he could ever want, from both your therapists. His plan was to get his information from Disher's notes, but when that didn't work the way he intended. So he used your therapist without his knowledge. All he had to do was fill in the details using gullible innocents with enough connections to you and yet not personally affiliated with you, like Miss Maven. The rest was simple."

Everyone was silent again and marveled at him. "Well, OK, that makes sense," Monk said, "but where are you getting this information? Where's your evidence?"

Sherlock pointed at the tablet. "The logo."

Monk looked at the back of the tablet. "Lahmet Industries."

"What about it?" Dr. Bell said. "I always assumed it was Middle Eastern."

But as Monk looked at it, he realized it was an acronym. He mentally rearranged the letters and he said aloud with Sherlock, "Hamlet."

"Wonder why I never noticed that. I saw it for weeks," Monk said.

"Can't blame yourself, it wasn't on your radar," Sherlock said.

"This could be our key."

"The trail of blood."

"Excuse me, I don't understand," Dr. Bell.

Monk explained, "We've been investigating a number of cases, kidnappings and murders, involving people I knew, most of which include references to Hamlet. We wondered how the guy knew about these people when their information was not made public. We thought it might have something to do with you."

"Oh, is that what the deal is? Why didn't you say so?"

"We tried, but then you went on a tangent of questioning my sanity," Sherlock answered. "Now, I really need to see that tablet."

"I think the logo is enough to get a warrant," Monk said.

"We don't have the luxury of time." He turned to the psychiatrist. "Doctor, you have my word, I swear I will not open any of your patients' files, including Mr. Monk's. Your confidentiality will remain entirely intact."

"Yes, I'll verify that. You have my word as well."

Dr. Bell, confused, asked, "Well, if you're not going to open the file, why do you need it?"

"Because, Doctor," Sherlock answered, "this may include the key that's eluded us all along—how to find them."

"OK, explain this to me again," Monk said as they came back to his place. "Why do we need his computer to find them?"

"You remember every time a security system was involved, they never went off? A code was downloaded into the keypads, which as I explained before, was consistent at both scenes. You may also remember that there were flashes on the tape neither of us could perceive. I believe there's another code in the tape. And somewhere in the hard drive of this computer, we may find another code. We can triangulate this codes to pinpoint a location. Do you understand?"

"Yeah . . . no."

"Just leave it to me, Mr. Monk. I'm the computer whiz here. I know what I'm doing."

Monk went forward to unlock the door, but as he came closer, he saw the door was already cracked opened. He could already see a mess in the study. "Oh no," he whispered.

"What's the matter?" Natalie asked.

"Someone broke in."

"Oh no, Ambrose!"

"We don't want to rush in, Miss Teeger," Sherlock said. "It could be a trap."

"He could be hurt!"

"John, you go in first."

"Why me?" he asked.

"Because I'm unarmed, and you can rely on your military background."

"I thought he was a doctor," Monk said.

"He had bad days."

So John went in slowly, and very shortly after, they heard a scream.

"AMBROSE!" Monk ran in. He found his brother on the floor.

John had his hands pressed on Ambrose's stomach, which was covered in blood. "He's been shot! Natalie, call an ambulance! Sherlock, help me apply pressure to the wound."

"Adrian?" Ambrose said weakly. "Adrian?"

Monk came to his side. "I'm right here."

"He wants me to go outside. I don't wanna go outside. Don't make me go outside."

Monk held his hand. "It's OK. You don't have to go outside if you don't want to."

"Keep your eyes open, Ambrose," John said. "Stay with us."

"Who did this?" Sherlock said.

"I don't know," Ambrose shook his head as he grimaced in pain. "He didn't say. It wasn't the man from the video. He . . . he smelled . . . like pasta primavera . . . Dad's . . . favorite . . ." He closed his eyes.