He sat in a chair by her bedside, watching her just lie there with
intravenous tubes and wires running to and from her body. Her left arm was
in a sling and she had an oxygen tube running to her nose. He shook his
head and muttered to himself, "If only we weren't on this case." He knew
who had done this. He wasn't sure how, but he knew. And if he had backed
off the case, it wouldn't have happened.
"Just like Trudy," he whispered. "My fault."
"Mr. Monk." He wiped at his eyes to conceal that he was near tears and turned when he heard Ben's voice. He stood as Ben and Stottlemeyer approached the bed.
"Benjy," Monk said.
Ben just stared at his mother for a while, resting his hands on the bed. Then he looked up to Monk and asked quietly, "Is she going to be okay?"
Monk forced a smile to reassure Ben. "Of course she is. You know your mom," he said. "She's tough as nails. It takes more than one little bullet to stop her."
Ben smiled slightly and nodded. They all looked up when Lt. Disher joined them.
"Captain, there's news," he said with an excited smile. Monk and Stottlemeyer moved over to Disher while Ben sat in the chair and held Sharona's right hand. Disher spoke in a slightly hushed tone. "We think we found the gun. It was mounted on a tripod in a building across the street. It's in the lab for testing. But the bullet that got Sharona is the same caliber as the ones from the dogs."
"The dog sniper did this?" Stottlemeyer asked in surprise. "Why Sharona?"
"He felt he was threatened," Monk said his face etched with disappointment. "It was a message to get me to back off."
"He would risk murder over some dog shootings?" Stottlemeyer asked. "That doesn't make sense."
"The guy's going around shooting dogs because of some money," Monk said agitatedly. "Nothing makes sense."
"You still think it's Corson?" Stottlemeyer asked. Monk nodded his head.
"He has an alibi for every shooting. We haven't talked to him yet, but he probably has an alibi for this one, too," Disher said.
"It's him. I know it is," Monk said. "I just don't know how."
"It's not possible, Monk," Stottlemeyer said. "For one of the shootings, he was all the way on the other side of the city."
"I know," Monk said. "But it's him."
"We can't arrest him on your intuition," Stottlemeyer said. "You better pull a rabbit out of your hat like you always do."
"I'll figure it out. Eventually."
Monk looked over to Ben and Sharona. Ben was just sitting there holding his mother's hand. Monk knew he owed it to both of them to get Corson put behind bars.
* * *
Disher, Stottlemeyer and Monk left the hospital once Stottlemeyer's wife, Karen, arrived to stay with Ben. They were at the lab to see the rifle used in the shootings.
"It's a standard sniper rifle," Disher said. The rifle was mounted on a tripod. Disher stood on one side of it with Stottlemeyer and Monk on the other side. "The serial number was scraped off. No way to trace it to the owner."
"Any prints?" Stottlemeyer asked.
Disher shook his head. "But check this out," he said with a smile. He paused for his own dramatic effect. Stottlemeyer shook his head in frustration.
"Check what out?" he asked.
"The scope has heat sensors," he said. Monk and Stottlemeyer both looked closely at the large scope that was mounted on top of the rifle. It had a three inch screen that showed different colors for different temperatures. "It also has a memory chip with certain temperatures programmed into it. One hundred one degrees. One hundred two degrees. We're not sure what that's for."
"One hundred and two degrees," Monk muttered. He knew that meant something to him, but his brain just wasn't wrapping around it at the moment. He shook his head and looked up at Disher. "This scope is very high tech."
"Yeah, our guys in the lab said it's homemade," Disher replied. "The shooter built this scope himself."
"And there's no prints," Monk said.
"None," Disher replied.
"No prints," Monk repeated. He started to walk away. Stottlemeyer began to follow him. "One hundred and two degrees."
"Get that back into evidence, lieutenant," Stottlemeyer said. Then he caught up with Monk and walked beside him. "What next Monk?"
"I need to talk to Sharona," he said.
"Sharona's not conscious," Stottlemeyer said.
Monk nodded his head. "I know, but I need to talk to her."
* * *
When they arrived at Sharona's room she was in the same condition as when they had left her. Karen was sitting in the chair by Sharona's bed reading a book. Ben was asleep on the small bench against the wall.
"Any change?" Stottlemeyer asked his wife. She shook her head.
"Nothing significant," Karen said. "Her blood pressure's up a little. The doctor said that was good. I don't know."
"Can I be alone with Sharona for a little bit?" Monk asked abruptly. The two of them nodded their heads and moved toward the door.
"We'll be right outside if you need anything," Stottlemeyer said. Monk just nodded his head and sat in the chair once they had gone. He glanced over at Ben, making sure he was fast asleep.
"I need your help, Sharona," he began. "I'm missing something. It's something small, but it's important. And I know you would help me remember it. You know what it is." He stared intently at her face, hoping for movement. "You know, but you can't tell me. Corson is right there. I can nail him, but I'm just missing that one tiny piece of the puzzle." He paused and sighed. "I'm missing you. Remember how yesterday you joked that you were tempted to leave me? You can't do it like this. You just can't."
Monk closed his eyes and bowed his head, trying to will Sharona to wake up. It was his own form of prayer. He was willing her to wake up and he was willing the final clue to fall into place in his mind. He hoped that at least one of the two would happen soon.
A small moan made his head shoot up like a jack-in-the-box. Sharona's brow was furrowed and her head was turned a different way. Monk stood and watched her in excitement.
"Sharona?" he asked, wondering if she was really waking up. He got his answer when her eyelids slowly lifted. She squinted at him and blinked a couple times.
"Adrian, what . . .?" She paused, her voice hoarse. She looked down at herself then, saw her arm in a sling, the machines all around and the ugly hospital gown and she finally realized where she was. The earlier events of the day were slowly coming back to her in a haze. "Poochie."
"You're awake!" Monk said excitedly, not realizing what Sharona had just said. He had the biggest, goofiest smile plastered on his face that Sharona had ever seen. Then he turned. "Benjy! Benjy, wake up."
Ben slowly stirred and sat up. He rubbed his eyes and then also wore a huge smile. "Mom!" He hurried over and stood next to Monk.
"Hey sweetheart," Sharona said. She ran her good hand through Ben's hair briefly and then held his left hand.
Ben's shout had gotten the attention of the Stottlemeyers and a nurse. The three of them entered the room. The nurse immediately started checking Sharona's vitals.
"Everything's looking good," she said. "BP, temperature. I'm going to go get Dr. Robbins. I'll be right back."
The nurse left and Monk got a confused look on his face. "Temperature?" he muttered to himself. Nobody else heard him.
"You gave everybody quite a scare," the captain said.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to," Sharona responded with a smirk.
"As long as you don't do it again," Ben said. Sharona gave him a mock serious look.
"Okay, I won't."
"Promise?" he asked.
"Cross my heart and hope to never get shot again," she said with a smile. He climbed up onto the bed next to her and she wrapped her right arm around him. The nurse rejoined them then with Dr. Robbins close behind her.
"Well, Ms. Fleming, hello," he said. "I'm Dr. Robbins."
"Hi, and please call me Sharona," she said. "The only people who call me Ms. Fleming are my son's friends."
"Okay then," he said. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been shot," she said sarcastically.
"Sorry, stupid question."
"No, that's okay. I'm just cranky when I first wake up," she replied. Ben nodded his head, making Dr. Robbins smile.
"Sharona, did you say 'Poochie' earlier?" Monk asked suddenly. Everyone stared at him in confusion.
"What?" Sharona asked, wondering if she actually heard him correctly.
"When you woke up, did you say 'Poochie'?"
"Uh, I don't know," she said, trying to remember everything that had happened in the last ten minutes. She thought she remembered saying it, but she wasn't sure. "I guess I did."
"Why did you say that?" Monk asked.
"Monk, is this really important right now?" Stottlemeyer asked.
"It might be," he replied. "Do you know why you said it?"
"Uh, I guess because I saw Poochie in the park," Sharona responded. "She was there right before I got shot."
"Where exactly?" Monk asked.
"Mr. Monk, I really think-" Dr. Robbins began.
"I'm sorry. I promise you this is important," Monk interrupted, holding up his hand to silence the doctor. He then turned to Karen. "Karen, would you mind being Sharona. I need to set this up. Pretend the doorway is the street. Stand with your back to it."
Karen complied, but Sharona interrupted. "Adrian, I'm really not sure I remember."
Monk ignored her and gestured to Ben. "Benjy, I need you to be Poochie."
Ben climbed off the bed and moved over to stand by Monk and Karen. Monk turned to Sharona and waited for her to describe the scene. She knew what he wanted and she closed her eyes, trying to remember.
"I was walking toward the vendor and Poochie ran up to me from the left," Sharona said. She opened her eyes. "Then I knelt with my back to the street and started to pet Poochie." Monk gestured for Karen to kneel on the floor with her back to the door. She did so and then Monk gestured for Ben to kneel directly in front of Karen. Monk stood behind Karen and looked at it, imagining that Karen actually was Sharona and Ben actually was Poochie. "Yeah, like that. Then I was shot," Sharona finished.
"How long between the moment you knelt with your back completely to the street and the moment that you were shot?" Monk asked, everything was clicking into place in his mind.
"I don't know," Sharona replied. "A few seconds."
"A few seconds," Adrian muttered. Dr. Robbins was finally frustrated enough to interrupt.
"Okay, I'm going to have to ask everyone to leave so Sharona can get some rest," he said. Karen and Ben stood.
"Poochie!" Monk exclaimed. "One hundred and two degrees. That's it. I know how he did it."
"What are you talking about Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked.
"I'll explain on the way," he said as he headed for the door. "And call Lt. Disher."
Monk was already out the door. Stottlemeyer shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, Sharona. I guess we'll be back later."
He hurried after Monk, wondering what was going on just as much as everybody else was.
* * *
Albert Corson was not a happy man when he opened his door at 8 at night to find Monk, Stottlemeyer and Disher there. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Disher holding a sniper rifle and a tripod.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked angrily. "It's a little late for a visit from the police."
"It's never too late, Mr. Corson," Monk said. "May we come in?"
"Do you have a warrant?" he asked snidely.
"As a matter of fact, we do," Stottlemeyer said, holding up a folded piece of paper. That's when Corson saw a police cruiser pulling up in front of the house. Two uniformed officers stepped out of the cruiser. Stottlemeyer stepped through the door, forcing Corson to move back. Monk and Disher followed the captain into the foyer. The uniformed officers also hurried inside and Corson closed the door.
"And I ask you again, what is going on?"
"It was hard to really pin you down," Monk said to Corson. "I mean, you had five air tight alibis. You had the means, the intelligence, the motive."
"I told you, Mr. Monk," Corson said with a smirk. "Why waste my time shooting dogs? Poochie will be dead of natural causes within ten years."
"Maybe so, but you'll be out of your mother's will within two weeks," Stottlemeyer said.
"I had a chat with your mother's lawyer," Monk said. "Seems you weren't exactly loved by your parents. After two weeks, Poochie's death would send that money off to various animal charities. You wouldn't see a dime."
Corson looked slightly uncomfortable but tried not to give too much away. "That doesn't mean I would kill Poochie. Or any other dogs."
"But it does," Monk said. "And up until about an hour ago, I didn't know how you did it. But after Sharona was shot, you panicked. You left your rifle behind."
"What are you talking about?" Corson asked, trying to conceal his unease. He was definitely getting nervous. Disher was setting the rifle up on the tripod. After he was done, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Poochie came trotting into the foyer. Monk looked nervously at Poochie and stepped behind Stottlemeyer.
"Poochie, sit," Disher said. The dog complied in accordance with her expensive and expert obedience training. Disher commanded further, "Stay."
The others watched as Disher slowly moved the rifle on the tripod, using only his right hand on the butt of the rifle to point it downward. His hands were nowhere near the trigger. He watched the scope, waiting for Poochie to come into sight.
"What are you doing?" Corson asked.
"Oh, don't worry," Stottlemeyer said. "It's not loaded."
When Poochie came into view on the small screen of the scope there was a quiet beep and a few seconds later there was a very audible click as the trigger mechanism attempted to fire the gun. Had it been loaded, Poochie would be dead.
"This scope has heat sensors that trip the trigger mechanism to fire the gun without any human guidance," Monk said. "But it doesn't sense just any heat. It is set to fire when a target is 102 degrees Fahrenheit. The normal body temperature of a dog."
"What? You're saying that I set this rifle up, pointed it someplace and then let it sit there until a dog passed in front of the sensor?" Corson asked with an incredulous laugh. "The odds of that happening are slim."
"Slim, but not impossible," Monk said. "You knew the police wouldn't take dog shootings very seriously, and you needed a cover in order to take Poochie out. It needed to look like it wasn't you who did it or else you wouldn't get your parents' money. You knew you could set the rifle up and come back for it later. You knew the police wouldn't spend enough time on the cases in order to find the rifle where you left it. Finally after I started asking you too many questions, you let Poochie get out near the park. But when Sharona was shot, you couldn't risk being seen anywhere near the park. You couldn't go back for the rifle."
"There's a four second delay between the moment the scope picks up the target and the moment the trigger fires," Stottlemeyer continued. "Sharona moved into the line of fire during that delay. The bullet that got her was meant for Poochie."
"Even if this unbelievable story were true," Corson began. "You can't prove that I own or have even touched that rifle."
"You're almost right," Disher said. "There's no fingerprints anywhere on the outside of the gun or on the tripod."
"Exactly," Corson said.
"But there is a fingerprint on the inside," Monk added. Corson looked at him, nervous and confused. "That scope is homemade. The lab confirmed that. You're very good with electronics, Mr. Corson, but not with forensics. Did you remember to wipe down the inside of the scope's casing?"
He didn't say anything. He was too busy mentally kicking himself. "The lab picked up a really nice thumb print," Stottlemeyer said. "It matches yours."
"I want to talk to my attorney," Corson said abruptly.
"You have every right to do that," Stottlemeyer said. He motioned for the uniformed officers to arrest Corson. One of them started cuffing him. "You also have the right to remain silent. You're under arrest for four counts of animal cruelty and the attempted murder of Sharona Fleming. If you can't afford your attorney because you just lost out on a million bucks, one will be appointed to you by the courts."
The officers escorted Corson out of the mansion. Disher took the rifle off the tripod and then quickly followed the officers out the door.
"That was some rabbit you pulled out of your hat," Stottlemeyer said to Monk. But Monk was too busy looking down at Poochie nervously. "Monk?"
"Does she look like she wants to lick me?" he asked. Stottlemeyer shook his head.
"Heaven help us all if she does," he said. He walked out of the mansion while Monk remained in a staring match with San Francisco's richest dog.
"Just like Trudy," he whispered. "My fault."
"Mr. Monk." He wiped at his eyes to conceal that he was near tears and turned when he heard Ben's voice. He stood as Ben and Stottlemeyer approached the bed.
"Benjy," Monk said.
Ben just stared at his mother for a while, resting his hands on the bed. Then he looked up to Monk and asked quietly, "Is she going to be okay?"
Monk forced a smile to reassure Ben. "Of course she is. You know your mom," he said. "She's tough as nails. It takes more than one little bullet to stop her."
Ben smiled slightly and nodded. They all looked up when Lt. Disher joined them.
"Captain, there's news," he said with an excited smile. Monk and Stottlemeyer moved over to Disher while Ben sat in the chair and held Sharona's right hand. Disher spoke in a slightly hushed tone. "We think we found the gun. It was mounted on a tripod in a building across the street. It's in the lab for testing. But the bullet that got Sharona is the same caliber as the ones from the dogs."
"The dog sniper did this?" Stottlemeyer asked in surprise. "Why Sharona?"
"He felt he was threatened," Monk said his face etched with disappointment. "It was a message to get me to back off."
"He would risk murder over some dog shootings?" Stottlemeyer asked. "That doesn't make sense."
"The guy's going around shooting dogs because of some money," Monk said agitatedly. "Nothing makes sense."
"You still think it's Corson?" Stottlemeyer asked. Monk nodded his head.
"He has an alibi for every shooting. We haven't talked to him yet, but he probably has an alibi for this one, too," Disher said.
"It's him. I know it is," Monk said. "I just don't know how."
"It's not possible, Monk," Stottlemeyer said. "For one of the shootings, he was all the way on the other side of the city."
"I know," Monk said. "But it's him."
"We can't arrest him on your intuition," Stottlemeyer said. "You better pull a rabbit out of your hat like you always do."
"I'll figure it out. Eventually."
Monk looked over to Ben and Sharona. Ben was just sitting there holding his mother's hand. Monk knew he owed it to both of them to get Corson put behind bars.
* * *
Disher, Stottlemeyer and Monk left the hospital once Stottlemeyer's wife, Karen, arrived to stay with Ben. They were at the lab to see the rifle used in the shootings.
"It's a standard sniper rifle," Disher said. The rifle was mounted on a tripod. Disher stood on one side of it with Stottlemeyer and Monk on the other side. "The serial number was scraped off. No way to trace it to the owner."
"Any prints?" Stottlemeyer asked.
Disher shook his head. "But check this out," he said with a smile. He paused for his own dramatic effect. Stottlemeyer shook his head in frustration.
"Check what out?" he asked.
"The scope has heat sensors," he said. Monk and Stottlemeyer both looked closely at the large scope that was mounted on top of the rifle. It had a three inch screen that showed different colors for different temperatures. "It also has a memory chip with certain temperatures programmed into it. One hundred one degrees. One hundred two degrees. We're not sure what that's for."
"One hundred and two degrees," Monk muttered. He knew that meant something to him, but his brain just wasn't wrapping around it at the moment. He shook his head and looked up at Disher. "This scope is very high tech."
"Yeah, our guys in the lab said it's homemade," Disher replied. "The shooter built this scope himself."
"And there's no prints," Monk said.
"None," Disher replied.
"No prints," Monk repeated. He started to walk away. Stottlemeyer began to follow him. "One hundred and two degrees."
"Get that back into evidence, lieutenant," Stottlemeyer said. Then he caught up with Monk and walked beside him. "What next Monk?"
"I need to talk to Sharona," he said.
"Sharona's not conscious," Stottlemeyer said.
Monk nodded his head. "I know, but I need to talk to her."
* * *
When they arrived at Sharona's room she was in the same condition as when they had left her. Karen was sitting in the chair by Sharona's bed reading a book. Ben was asleep on the small bench against the wall.
"Any change?" Stottlemeyer asked his wife. She shook her head.
"Nothing significant," Karen said. "Her blood pressure's up a little. The doctor said that was good. I don't know."
"Can I be alone with Sharona for a little bit?" Monk asked abruptly. The two of them nodded their heads and moved toward the door.
"We'll be right outside if you need anything," Stottlemeyer said. Monk just nodded his head and sat in the chair once they had gone. He glanced over at Ben, making sure he was fast asleep.
"I need your help, Sharona," he began. "I'm missing something. It's something small, but it's important. And I know you would help me remember it. You know what it is." He stared intently at her face, hoping for movement. "You know, but you can't tell me. Corson is right there. I can nail him, but I'm just missing that one tiny piece of the puzzle." He paused and sighed. "I'm missing you. Remember how yesterday you joked that you were tempted to leave me? You can't do it like this. You just can't."
Monk closed his eyes and bowed his head, trying to will Sharona to wake up. It was his own form of prayer. He was willing her to wake up and he was willing the final clue to fall into place in his mind. He hoped that at least one of the two would happen soon.
A small moan made his head shoot up like a jack-in-the-box. Sharona's brow was furrowed and her head was turned a different way. Monk stood and watched her in excitement.
"Sharona?" he asked, wondering if she was really waking up. He got his answer when her eyelids slowly lifted. She squinted at him and blinked a couple times.
"Adrian, what . . .?" She paused, her voice hoarse. She looked down at herself then, saw her arm in a sling, the machines all around and the ugly hospital gown and she finally realized where she was. The earlier events of the day were slowly coming back to her in a haze. "Poochie."
"You're awake!" Monk said excitedly, not realizing what Sharona had just said. He had the biggest, goofiest smile plastered on his face that Sharona had ever seen. Then he turned. "Benjy! Benjy, wake up."
Ben slowly stirred and sat up. He rubbed his eyes and then also wore a huge smile. "Mom!" He hurried over and stood next to Monk.
"Hey sweetheart," Sharona said. She ran her good hand through Ben's hair briefly and then held his left hand.
Ben's shout had gotten the attention of the Stottlemeyers and a nurse. The three of them entered the room. The nurse immediately started checking Sharona's vitals.
"Everything's looking good," she said. "BP, temperature. I'm going to go get Dr. Robbins. I'll be right back."
The nurse left and Monk got a confused look on his face. "Temperature?" he muttered to himself. Nobody else heard him.
"You gave everybody quite a scare," the captain said.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to," Sharona responded with a smirk.
"As long as you don't do it again," Ben said. Sharona gave him a mock serious look.
"Okay, I won't."
"Promise?" he asked.
"Cross my heart and hope to never get shot again," she said with a smile. He climbed up onto the bed next to her and she wrapped her right arm around him. The nurse rejoined them then with Dr. Robbins close behind her.
"Well, Ms. Fleming, hello," he said. "I'm Dr. Robbins."
"Hi, and please call me Sharona," she said. "The only people who call me Ms. Fleming are my son's friends."
"Okay then," he said. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been shot," she said sarcastically.
"Sorry, stupid question."
"No, that's okay. I'm just cranky when I first wake up," she replied. Ben nodded his head, making Dr. Robbins smile.
"Sharona, did you say 'Poochie' earlier?" Monk asked suddenly. Everyone stared at him in confusion.
"What?" Sharona asked, wondering if she actually heard him correctly.
"When you woke up, did you say 'Poochie'?"
"Uh, I don't know," she said, trying to remember everything that had happened in the last ten minutes. She thought she remembered saying it, but she wasn't sure. "I guess I did."
"Why did you say that?" Monk asked.
"Monk, is this really important right now?" Stottlemeyer asked.
"It might be," he replied. "Do you know why you said it?"
"Uh, I guess because I saw Poochie in the park," Sharona responded. "She was there right before I got shot."
"Where exactly?" Monk asked.
"Mr. Monk, I really think-" Dr. Robbins began.
"I'm sorry. I promise you this is important," Monk interrupted, holding up his hand to silence the doctor. He then turned to Karen. "Karen, would you mind being Sharona. I need to set this up. Pretend the doorway is the street. Stand with your back to it."
Karen complied, but Sharona interrupted. "Adrian, I'm really not sure I remember."
Monk ignored her and gestured to Ben. "Benjy, I need you to be Poochie."
Ben climbed off the bed and moved over to stand by Monk and Karen. Monk turned to Sharona and waited for her to describe the scene. She knew what he wanted and she closed her eyes, trying to remember.
"I was walking toward the vendor and Poochie ran up to me from the left," Sharona said. She opened her eyes. "Then I knelt with my back to the street and started to pet Poochie." Monk gestured for Karen to kneel on the floor with her back to the door. She did so and then Monk gestured for Ben to kneel directly in front of Karen. Monk stood behind Karen and looked at it, imagining that Karen actually was Sharona and Ben actually was Poochie. "Yeah, like that. Then I was shot," Sharona finished.
"How long between the moment you knelt with your back completely to the street and the moment that you were shot?" Monk asked, everything was clicking into place in his mind.
"I don't know," Sharona replied. "A few seconds."
"A few seconds," Adrian muttered. Dr. Robbins was finally frustrated enough to interrupt.
"Okay, I'm going to have to ask everyone to leave so Sharona can get some rest," he said. Karen and Ben stood.
"Poochie!" Monk exclaimed. "One hundred and two degrees. That's it. I know how he did it."
"What are you talking about Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked.
"I'll explain on the way," he said as he headed for the door. "And call Lt. Disher."
Monk was already out the door. Stottlemeyer shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, Sharona. I guess we'll be back later."
He hurried after Monk, wondering what was going on just as much as everybody else was.
* * *
Albert Corson was not a happy man when he opened his door at 8 at night to find Monk, Stottlemeyer and Disher there. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Disher holding a sniper rifle and a tripod.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked angrily. "It's a little late for a visit from the police."
"It's never too late, Mr. Corson," Monk said. "May we come in?"
"Do you have a warrant?" he asked snidely.
"As a matter of fact, we do," Stottlemeyer said, holding up a folded piece of paper. That's when Corson saw a police cruiser pulling up in front of the house. Two uniformed officers stepped out of the cruiser. Stottlemeyer stepped through the door, forcing Corson to move back. Monk and Disher followed the captain into the foyer. The uniformed officers also hurried inside and Corson closed the door.
"And I ask you again, what is going on?"
"It was hard to really pin you down," Monk said to Corson. "I mean, you had five air tight alibis. You had the means, the intelligence, the motive."
"I told you, Mr. Monk," Corson said with a smirk. "Why waste my time shooting dogs? Poochie will be dead of natural causes within ten years."
"Maybe so, but you'll be out of your mother's will within two weeks," Stottlemeyer said.
"I had a chat with your mother's lawyer," Monk said. "Seems you weren't exactly loved by your parents. After two weeks, Poochie's death would send that money off to various animal charities. You wouldn't see a dime."
Corson looked slightly uncomfortable but tried not to give too much away. "That doesn't mean I would kill Poochie. Or any other dogs."
"But it does," Monk said. "And up until about an hour ago, I didn't know how you did it. But after Sharona was shot, you panicked. You left your rifle behind."
"What are you talking about?" Corson asked, trying to conceal his unease. He was definitely getting nervous. Disher was setting the rifle up on the tripod. After he was done, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Poochie came trotting into the foyer. Monk looked nervously at Poochie and stepped behind Stottlemeyer.
"Poochie, sit," Disher said. The dog complied in accordance with her expensive and expert obedience training. Disher commanded further, "Stay."
The others watched as Disher slowly moved the rifle on the tripod, using only his right hand on the butt of the rifle to point it downward. His hands were nowhere near the trigger. He watched the scope, waiting for Poochie to come into sight.
"What are you doing?" Corson asked.
"Oh, don't worry," Stottlemeyer said. "It's not loaded."
When Poochie came into view on the small screen of the scope there was a quiet beep and a few seconds later there was a very audible click as the trigger mechanism attempted to fire the gun. Had it been loaded, Poochie would be dead.
"This scope has heat sensors that trip the trigger mechanism to fire the gun without any human guidance," Monk said. "But it doesn't sense just any heat. It is set to fire when a target is 102 degrees Fahrenheit. The normal body temperature of a dog."
"What? You're saying that I set this rifle up, pointed it someplace and then let it sit there until a dog passed in front of the sensor?" Corson asked with an incredulous laugh. "The odds of that happening are slim."
"Slim, but not impossible," Monk said. "You knew the police wouldn't take dog shootings very seriously, and you needed a cover in order to take Poochie out. It needed to look like it wasn't you who did it or else you wouldn't get your parents' money. You knew you could set the rifle up and come back for it later. You knew the police wouldn't spend enough time on the cases in order to find the rifle where you left it. Finally after I started asking you too many questions, you let Poochie get out near the park. But when Sharona was shot, you couldn't risk being seen anywhere near the park. You couldn't go back for the rifle."
"There's a four second delay between the moment the scope picks up the target and the moment the trigger fires," Stottlemeyer continued. "Sharona moved into the line of fire during that delay. The bullet that got her was meant for Poochie."
"Even if this unbelievable story were true," Corson began. "You can't prove that I own or have even touched that rifle."
"You're almost right," Disher said. "There's no fingerprints anywhere on the outside of the gun or on the tripod."
"Exactly," Corson said.
"But there is a fingerprint on the inside," Monk added. Corson looked at him, nervous and confused. "That scope is homemade. The lab confirmed that. You're very good with electronics, Mr. Corson, but not with forensics. Did you remember to wipe down the inside of the scope's casing?"
He didn't say anything. He was too busy mentally kicking himself. "The lab picked up a really nice thumb print," Stottlemeyer said. "It matches yours."
"I want to talk to my attorney," Corson said abruptly.
"You have every right to do that," Stottlemeyer said. He motioned for the uniformed officers to arrest Corson. One of them started cuffing him. "You also have the right to remain silent. You're under arrest for four counts of animal cruelty and the attempted murder of Sharona Fleming. If you can't afford your attorney because you just lost out on a million bucks, one will be appointed to you by the courts."
The officers escorted Corson out of the mansion. Disher took the rifle off the tripod and then quickly followed the officers out the door.
"That was some rabbit you pulled out of your hat," Stottlemeyer said to Monk. But Monk was too busy looking down at Poochie nervously. "Monk?"
"Does she look like she wants to lick me?" he asked. Stottlemeyer shook his head.
"Heaven help us all if she does," he said. He walked out of the mansion while Monk remained in a staring match with San Francisco's richest dog.
