Arrest warrant in hand, Stottlemeyer, Washington, and Monk arrived at Officer Greg Barlowe's craftsman-style home in an older San Francisco neighborhood. Stottlemeyer parked along the street with two black and whites arriving behind him, providing backup if necessary. Being unarmed, Monk stayed behind in the captain's police cruiser while Stottlemeyer, Washington, and the uniformed officers approached the front door.
Stottlemeyer knocked. "Open up, Barlowe! We have a warrant for your arrest."
When no one answered after repeated knocks and shouts, the uniformed officers prepared the battering ram to knock down the door, but before they did, Stottlemeyer tried the doorknob. To their surprise, the door opened without resistance. The detectives and officers did a sweep, and when the house was cleared, Washington stepped outside to motion Monk to join them. He set foot inside, not quite prepared for what awaited him. One could barely walk through the house without stepping on something. Clothes, trash, and papers of various sorts littered the rooms. It was almost as bad as the Gomez scene, without the stench of death.
Monk adjusted his neck against the aversion he felt to the mess. There was no time to let his compulsions take control. They needed to find Barlowe and find him fast. Keeping that in mind, he lifted his hands to look for any clue leading them to their suspect. In the kitchen, a plate with stale sandwich crumbs sat next to a pile of mail. The now-warm deli meat, sliced cheese, and mayonnaise remained on the counter instead of in the refrigerator where they belonged.
"Look at that," Stottlemeyer said. "He didn't even bother to put his food away. Must have been in a hurry."
Monk sorted through the mail with his pen. "He's not planning to come back anytime soon either. There's an overdue electric bill, and an overdue rent bill. I think he's been planning an exit for some time."
Reaching the bedroom, they witnessed an unmade bed strewn with clothes and hangers. A large, hard-sided suitcase lay open and abandoned on the bed. The closet and dresser had been emptied, as well as a small safe.
"He's making a run for it," Monk said. "He abandoned that large, bulky suitcase for something else, probably a lighter, more portable bag. If he had any drugs or money left here, they would have been in that safe."
The captain surveyed the disaster. "Yeah, but where is he headed?" He turned to Washington, who stepped up behind him. "Get Barlowe's license plate number and the make and model of his truck. Alert the airport, train station, bus station, and the marina. Get an APB out on him."
"Right on it, Captain," Washington said as he ran in the opposite direction.
Monk continued to search the bedroom, then met Stottlemeyer in what appeared to be a combination workout room/office. A treadmill and weight bench sat closest to the door with a desk at the other end. He held up a tan, leather boat shoe with his pen. "Sperry. Size ten."
"Nice," Stottlemeyer said. "Look what we have in here."
Monk dropped the shoe into the evidence bag held out by the waiting officer and turned to where the captain was pointing. His eyes fell on a camera sitting atop a laptop computer at the edge of the desk. Crossing the room, he picked it up. "Nikon—the same brand as the camera equipment found at Gomez's house." He turned it on to find the memory wiped clean. While he continued with a closer examination of the room, Stottlemeyer turned on the MacBook found with the camera.
Looks like the pictures were deleted from here too …" Stottlemeyer pulled out the chair and sat down. After a few keystrokes, a smile spread across his face. "Eddie Gomez was using a backup service. If he uploaded the pictures he took of Barlowe before he was killed, we can still get them. Now, if we can just figure out where Barlowe went."
"It's only been a few hours since you interviewed him," Monk said. "He couldn't have gotten too far." His eyes fell on a smaller, black laptop laying closed next to the captain. "Is that Barlowe's computer? Maybe there's a record of a ticket purchase or something else that might give us an indication."
Monk leaned in for a closer view as Stottlemeyer turned on the device and checked the recent activity. Nothing of significance turned up at first glance, but after a few minutes, Monk touched the screen with his finger. "Wait. Picture go back."
"What? Monk, this isn't a TV."
"I know, but there was something there before you switched screens."
Stottlemeyer returned to the browsing history.
"There." Monk pointed to a line near the top of the history. "San Francisco General? Does it show when he visited their website?"
Stottlemeyer scrolled. "Yeah. About an hour ago."
"Captain," Washington called from the hallway.
"In here."
Washington joined them with his hands full. "Look what I found in the garage." In one hand he held a police officer's jacket with the SFPD patch sewn onto the sleeve. He turned it around so the back could be seen and pointed to a small tear near the hem. "He probably never even realized he tore it on the fence. Besides all this, the techs lit up a blood spill in the garage with Luminol. They expect to find more on the boat parked in there."
In the other hand, Washington held a multicolored mountain climbing rope, the same kind Officer Gray had been hanged with. Along with it, he held a bright yellow rope of a different material.
Monk took hold of the yellow rope. "Propylene. The same kind of fiber I found on Ross and Gray …" He turned his head and rubbed his eyebrow. As understanding came, he stopped. "Captain, I know where Barlowe is going."
For the second time that evening, Stottlemeyer pulled his dark blue police cruiser into the parking lot of San Francisco General Hospital. This time, he passed the designated visitors' lot and screeched to a halt at the entrance of the towering red-brick hospital. The black and whites pulled in behind him, the pulsating blue lights and blaring sirens effectively parting the traffic like the Red Sea. Uniformed officers joined the detectives as they pushed through the glass entrance doors. Monk didn't even have time to enjoy the highly sanitized smell of the medical facility as their feet hit the polished floor in a run.
"SFPD," Stottlemeyer yelled as he flashed his badge in the direction of the reception desk.
Not waiting for the elevator, they continued on for the stairs and vaulted up them to the second floor. They careened down the hallway, metal trays and wheelchairs clanging together as they were thrust aside. A collective gasp was heard as nurses and aides plastered themselves to the walls to avoid being trampled.
Reaching Ken Eastman's room, they paused, and Stottlemeyer called out to the nearest nurse. "Have you seen anyone go in there?"
"Not since I came on this floor." The wide-eyed man swallowed hard. "That was about ten minutes ago."
The detectives and officers positioned themselves on either side of the hospital room door and drew their sidearms. Stottlemeyer cracked the door, and Monk could see a nurse standing over Eastman with what appeared to be a syringe in her hand. As the door swung wider, a half-dozen 9mm service pistols leveled at the figure across the room. There, Greg Barlowe stood with his own 9mm pistol pointed at the nurse.
The nurse heard the commotion and dropped the syringe. "Thank God! This man was making me inject the patient with a high dose of insulin. In his condition, it would have killed him."
"Drop the gun, Barlowe," Stottlemeyer shouted.
Barlowe wiped his sweat-beaded brow. "You … you don't want to shoot me, Captain. If I go down, the nurse does too."
Monk stepped up, positioning himself between the captain and lieutenant. "You're not getting away with this, Barlowe. We know what you did." He tilted his head with the smile his colleagues knew well. "Here's what happened. You were a good cop, serving this city well until you got greedy. You caught Eastman stealing from the drug busts you both worked, and you wanted in. It got under your skin until you blackmailed your friend, demanding a piece of the action.
You thought you were clever. You put on a disguise and headed down to the Mission District to sell what you had stolen. It was all going smoothly until you got caught. Eddie Gomez recognized you under the disguise and snapped a picture of you in the act, but you saw him do it. You knew you had to get that picture from him, so you went to his house on the night of June 14th. He let you in because you wore your uniform and pretended to be on official business. You roped Eastman into being your ride out of there. He didn't know you planned to kill Gomez. But you did, didn't you? You brought a second uniform to change into so you wouldn't be caught with blood splatter on your clothes, and you cut a hole in the fence to make for a quick escape. You trashed Gomez's house and stole his watch and wallet, along with his camera and laptop. You thought you could fool the San Mateo cops into thinking Gomez's murder was the result of a home invasion. You may have gotten away with it too if you hadn't been interrupted by the neighbors knocking on the door. You had to get out of there fast and you did, but your jacket tore on the fence, and your wig caught in a tree.
With Eddie Gomez out of the picture, you thought you were free and clear, but by this point, your partner, Elliott Ross was suspicious. The amounts of drugs being turned in for evidence didn't match up to the amounts seized during the arrests After work on June 16th, he came to your house to confront you. It caught you by surprise, and you killed him with a hammer blow to his skull. Now, you had a problem. You had a body to get rid of. A storm was rolling in, but you decided to risk it. You loaded Ross's body onto your boat and dumped him into the bay. You also dumped Gomez's watch and wallet, hoping they would also get washed out to sea. What you didn't account for, was the fierceness of the storm. It changed the direction of the currents in and out of the bay and Ross's body, along with the bag, washed up on Alcatraz Island instead of going out to sea as you had hoped.
Now, you had a bigger problem. As Walter Scott wrote, 'Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive'. You knew Adam Gray was already suspicious of what was going on in Narcotics, and with Ross's body washed ashore, he would question you. So, when Gray invited you and Eastman to his house on the night of June 18th, you saw your opportunity. You brought your stash of drugs and forced Gray to put them in his own safe. Then, you had him lock up his dog, and you strangled him with the same propylene rope you used on your boat. After strangling Gray, you prepared a noose with your mountain climbing rope and lifted Gray's body to the rafters to make it look like a suicide. You tried to frame Gray for the deaths of Gomez and Ross. Besides planting the drugs in Gray's safe, you wrote 'sorry' on his forearm and planted the hammer you used to kill Ross in his garage. It may have worked too, but you got sloppy. I suppose you didn't notice Adam Gray never used Craftsman tools. Besides that, you left your shoe print on the garage floor after stepping in oil. You must have not known he was left-handed or at least didn't think about it when you scrawled your note on his left arm." Monk steeled his eyes at his foe. "Give it up, Barlowe. Even if you kill Eastman, we have enough evidence to convict you."
Barlowe returned Monk's glare. "Gray was left-handed? What does that have to do with …"
"Come on Barlowe," Stottlemeyer said. "Do you really want to add one more death to your record? Put the gun down."
Barlowe's wide eyes darted from Monk to Stottlemeyer. He looked like a caged animal ready to pounce. Wiping the sweat from his face, he began to lower his gun. The nurse watched his every move. Once Barlowe lowered the gun to his side, she tried to sneak past him, but he grabbed her arm and yanked her back. She screamed as he placed his gun against her temple and his other arm around her throat.
"All right," Barlowe said. "This is what's going to happen. I walk out of here alive, or this nice lady doesn't."
The officers didn't move, their guns still sighted on their target.
Barlowe tightened his hold on the nurse's throat, making her gasp for air. "Did you hear me?" he snarled.
Stottlemeyer turned and motioned for the officers to lower their guns. They backed out of the room, but their guns remained in their hands as Barlowe led his hostage out. More screams followed them as hospital workers ducked for cover and ran into rooms to protect patients. The detectives and officers followed Barlowe and the nurse to the elevator, which they took to the first floor. Along with Stottlemeyer and Washington, Monk watched for an opportunity to surprise and overtake Barlowe, but it never came. The hospital corridors, lined with frightened people, were far too crowded to risk it. As they reached the hospital entrance, more police cars arrived. The doors flew open, and the officers took aim at Barlowe. With the young nurse still in his grasp, he jerked his head from the right to the left. He squinted into the night, breathing hard.
Stottlemeyer loosened his tie. "Come on, Barlowe. Let the girl go."
Monk's eyes fell on his friend with concern. The captain's face was red, and his words were raspy. Before Monk could speak, he was forced back to the action. Barlowe released his hold on the nurse, and she ran to the safety of the waiting officers. It looked like Barlowe was going to drop his gun, but before he did, he bolted for a gap between the cars.
The detectives and officers gave chase across the hospital parking lot to the street. They reached the curb, but Barlowe didn't stop. He raced across the crosswalk amidst the honking of horns, squealing of tires, and angry shouts. One car stopped within inches of hitting him, causing him to slide across its hood. A couple of uniformed officers stationed themselves in front of the traffic to stop the flow despite the green light they wished to heed. Monk and Washington kept after him with Stottlemeyer close behind. Their lungs filled with the night air, thick with the dampness of oncoming rain. Distant lightning revealed heavy clouds looming in the sky, and a cackle of thunder drowned out the pounding of their feet on the pavement.
Monk could hear Stottlemeyer behind him, gasping for air as they climbed the hill. "Are you okay, Captain?" he yelled over his shoulder.
"I'm okay," he yelled back. "Don't lose him!"
They reached the top of the hill and stopped, breathing hard as they filtered through the sights and sounds of the city for a glimpse of their suspect. A light rain began to fall, bringing on a flurry of umbrellas as pedestrians dashed for cover.
Washington pointed to a figure in jeans and a black t-shirt running downhill amidst the angry shouts of those he shoved aside. "There he is. He's trying to catch that cable car."
They took off again and began to close the gap between themselves and their suspect. Barlowe looked over his shoulder and saw them. Washington took the lead and was catching up fast. Barlowe paused at the corner of an intersection, frantically looking in all directions. The traffic at the light stopped, allowing him just enough time to cross. The light turned green, but a black and white arrived, stopping the traffic and allowing the chase to continue. With Washington's long strides bringing him ever closer, Barlowe veered off into an alley and dove between a, rusted four-door Chevy and the graffiti-embellished building beside it. He threw open the passenger door and ducked behind it. Lifting the gun above the door frame, he aimed it at the men who were chasing him. Two shots rang out as Stottlemeyer, Washington, and Monk dove behind a reeking dumpster on the other side of the alley. Eight more bullets pierced the metal box in vain, then silence.
"He's reloading," Stottlemeyer said. "Cover me, Dwayne. I'm going in."
The other officers caught up and took cover, readying themselves.
Stottlemeyer crossed halfway and lifted his pistol. "Give it up, Barlowe. You're surrounded."
Barlowe's now-reloaded gun crested the car door serving as his shield, but before Stottlemeyer could decide to speak or shoot, he clutched at his chest and dropped to his knees. His pistol skidded across the slippery pavement.
The blood drained from Monk's face. His heart pounded in his head. He couldn't think. He only felt a blaze of fear course through his veins. Washington grabbed his arm as he jumped from his hiding place, but he yanked it free and ran toward his friend in the middle of the alley. "No! Leland!"
A bolt of lightning lit up the alley as Barlowe rose from behind the door of the car. Thunder shook the air. Two more bullets were fired, and Greg Barlowe fell backward in a heap. The chase was over.
Dwayne Washington ran to the middle of the alley while officers directed curious onlookers away from the scene. He knelt beside his friends as heavy droplets of rain poured down on him. Yanking his radio from his belt, he yelled into it, "We need a couple of ambulances and a trauma kit, and we need them now."
Stottlemeyer lifted himself off the pavement. Clutching his chest, he leaned over his best friend. "What happened? Monk?"
Monk moaned as he slid his hand from where he had placed it on his chest. Blood streamed from the wound it had covered.
"Oh, buddy, what did you go and do?" Stottlemeyer rasped out.
He tried to stand, but Washington placed his big hand on the captain's shoulder. "Stay down, Captain. I've got this." He unbuttoned Monk's brown jacket and wiped his brow. "I'm sorry, man, but I've got to do this." Taking hold of Monk's shirt, he ripped it open to expose the bullet wound in the right-side region of his chest. Washington then tore a strip of hem off Monk's shirt and pressed it against his wound. "This is probably the most sterile thing we've got around here." He twisted around and squinted into the rain. "Where's that trauma kit?" he bellowed.
"It's coming, sir." A young, uniformed officer ran, meeting another officer halfway with the kit.
"Get me gauze and a chest seal," Washington instructed the young officer.
Two officers held black umbrellas over Washington as he attached the seal to Monk's chest. Then, he removed Monk's jacket to look for an exit wound in his back. Finding one, he placed a seal over it as well. He carefully lowered Monk back to the pavement, where he folded his jacket to cushion Monk's head. He maintained pressure on the wound as he watched apprehensively for the ambulance.
Washington glanced back at his injured friend and saw his terror-stricken eyes start to close. "Stay with me, Monk. Help is on the way."
Monk reopened his eyes and tried to speak. He coughed, then tried again. "Nat … Nat …"
Stottlemeyer took Monk's hand. "We'll call her."
"Tell … tell her … please." Monk sputtered. His eyes closed.
Washington grasped his shoulder. "Come on, Monk. Stay with me."
Stottlemeyer looked at Washington, then squeezed Monk's hand. "Tell Natalie what?"
Monk's eyes cracked open as he gasped for breath. "Tell her … I love her." He gasped again. "And my … my children." His eyes closed.
"Monk," Washington shouted, but his friend was unconscious.
Two ambulances pulled to a stop outside the alley. A pair of paramedics made their way to Barlowe's side and went to work. The other pair ran to where Monk lay. Stottlemeyer, Washington, and the other officers backed away to give them room.
"He's going into shock," one of them yelled.
The rain continued to pour as the paramedics worked on Monk. Precious minutes ticked by. One of the paramedics tried to lead Stottlemeyer to the waiting ambulance, but he refused to leave Monk's side. Dwayne knelt beside him, his head bowed in prayer. When at last their friend was stable, he was lifted onto the stretcher and into the ambulance.
A police officer wrapped a blanket around Stottlemeyer's shoulders and helped him to the ambulance, where he would ride with Monk. He looked to the paramedics as he climbed in, tears mixing with the raindrops coursing down his cheeks. "Please don't let him die."
One of them reached for his hand. "Come on, Captain. We're not going to let that happen."
He sat him down and they began taking his vitals, but Stottlemeyer's teary eyes never left the still form of the man on the stretcher.