A/N: This is a bizarre twist of a story I thought up. I guess it's not that bizarre. I'm sure all of us have wondered what Monk would be like if Trudy was alive. So, here it is. It also gives Monk and Sharona an alternate way to meet. I hope you like it.
DISCLAIMER: I never claimed to be a medical expert so some of the medical stuff might be kind of off. Deal with it. :o)
Adrian Monk scrubbed the pots and pans leftover from the dinner that his wife Trudy had cooked. It was his favorite—roast beef, mashed potatoes and green beans. He was a traditionalist at heart. He loved a good home cooked meal. He wasn't into trying different things. Trudy had once asked him to order Cantonese. He ended up making himself a turkey sandwich while she enjoyed the foreign fare. She just smiled and shook her head at her husband, set in his ways.
"Honey, leave the dishes for later," she called from the living room sofa. "You're going to miss the movie."
One of the commonalities the two of them shared was their love of classic movies. Monk was a fan of classics. Classic cars, classic movies, classic meals. Trudy teased him about living in the past, but in truth it was one of the main things she loved about him.
"But they'll get crusty," he said. He was always a clean man. Most people would call him a neat freak. Trudy called him particular.
"They'll be fine," she said. She patted the sofa next to her. "I saved you a seat."
He smiled and wiped his hands on a dishtowel, forgetting the dishes momentarily. He sat and wrapped his arms around his wife, pulling her close to him.
"So, what is it tonight?" he asked, referring to the movie.
"Casablanca," Trudy replied with a smile. The movie channel played a few clips from the movie to introduce it. A shot of Humphrey Bogart in his trench coat and fedora flashed on the screen. "Hey, why don't you wear a trench coat and fedora?"
"I tried, but Captain Stottlemeyer said it looked ridiculous and told me to take it off," he joked.
Trudy smiled and then sighed wistfully. "Don't you ever wonder what it would be like to live back then?"
"I have before," he replied. "Sometimes I think it would be so much simpler. But the movies don't really paint a realistic picture. At least the old movies don't."
"That's why I love them," Trudy commented. "Who wants to watch reality when you're living it?"
Monk chuckled and squeezed her shoulders. "I don't."
* * *
The night shift was Sharona's favorite shift. It worked out well with the way her life worked. She worked it for six months. They were school months, and it was perfect. She got off her shift at 6:30 a.m. Then she would go home, get her son, Benjy, off to school, come home and sleep. Then she picked up Benjy, ran some errands and they spent the evening working on his homework, eating dinner and just spending time together. Then she went to start her shift at 9 p.m., her sister, Gail, showing up for the night just in time for Benjy to go to bed. It worked out perfectly.
She made her rounds on the second floor of the hospital, reading charts and doling out medication as indicated by the patients' doctors. Most of the patients didn't even know she was there. Just about all of them. Except for Mr. Vernon. It seemed like that old man never slept, and he always gave Sharona a hard time. He was one of her most difficult patients. She saw that tonight Dr. Morgan had prescribed some medication to help Mr. Vernon sleep. She smiled, hoping it would be a quiet night.
"How are you tonight, Mr. Vernon?" she asked, forcing a polite smile towards him. The old man growled.
"Damn hip is killing me sitting in this bed," he grumbled. "You people don't give me enough for the pain."
"Any more morphine and you wouldn't have to worry about your hip killing you," Sharona said with a smirk.
"Is that a threat, girlie?" he asked. Sharona shook her head.
"Just a statement, Mr. Vernon," she said. She looked at the chart for the prescription, pulled out a bottle and syringe and started filling the syringe.
"What's that?" he asked, staring at her suspiciously. "What are you giving me?"
"It's to help you sleep," Sharona replied sharply. "Dr. Morgan prescribed it."
"That quack?" he asked. "I don't know if I want him giving me anything to help me sleep."
"Who are you calling a quack?" Sharona asked. Mr. Vernon shot her a look and shook his head. She inserted the syringe into Mr. Vernon's IV. "I thought you liked Dr. Morgan."
"As much as I like any doctor, which doesn't say much," he said gruffly. He pointed down toward the end of the bed. "Get me my newspaper."
She looked to where he was pointing and saw his newspaper sitting on the floor across the room. She retrieved it and tossed it on his bed table. "What the hell's it doing over there?"
"I threw it at the television," he said. "Damn news pissed me off."
"Everything pisses you off," Sharona responded. She threw the empty syringe in the medical wastebasket and returned to check Mr. Vernon's vitals.
"Watch it, girlie, or you're going to piss me off."
"Are you gonna throw your newspaper at me?" she asked sarcastically. Mr. Vernon rolled up the paper and shook it at her threateningly. She shook her head and walked out of the room. "Goodnight, Mr. Vernon."
When Sharona got out to the nurses' station, her fellow nurse, Whitney Harmon, shook her head and laughed. "How do you put up with it?"
"I don't know. That's gotta be the grumpiest old fart I've ever met. I swear, some nights I just want to…" she said, trailing off and holding her hands up in a strangling motion.
"Hang in there, girl," Whitney said. "That old fart is checking out of this hotel in a couple days."
"Maybe I should host a party," Sharona joked. She plopped down in the chair next to Whitney and got ready to settle in for the rest of her shift.
* * *
Monk meticulously clicked away at the keyboard of his computer, typing up a report for a recent case. It was a multiple homicide and he had just discovered the damning evidence that got the arrest warrant for a lawyer who murdered his wife and two daughters in an attempt at insurance fraud. The murderer certainly knew his way around the law, but he didn't know his way around leaving evidence.
His partner Lieutenant Randy Disher sat at a neighboring desk, working on his own report. Unlike Monk he didn't get to solve the case much. Monk was one step ahead of everybody, usually including the suspect. Part of Randy found pride in being partnered with the greatest detective in the city of San Francisco. Another part of him resented the fact that he was living in Monk's shadow.
"Monk. Disher." Captain Stottlemeyer approached them holding a slip of paper. "I need you two at San Francisco Memorial Hospital."
"What's the case?" Disher asked, jumping up from his seat, a little too eager to get going on a new case.
"Mitchell Vernon. Sixty-five. In the hospital for hip surgery. Died last night of a morphine overdose."
"That's malpractice, not homicide," Monk said skeptically.
"Maybe, but we're looking into it," Stottlemeyer said. He handed the slip of paper to Disher. "You're looking into it."
Stottlemeyer walked away and Disher turned to Monk with a smile. "I'll drive."
* * *
"He crashed this morning right after I came on my shift," Nurse Donna Davis explained to Monk and Disher. "Blood tests turned up with an overdose of morphine. Three times more than any doctor would prescribe. We did everything we could for him, but with that much morphine your heart just doesn't wanna pump anymore. It's like when you flood your car engine. It doesn't wanna run."
"Would it be possible for a nurse or doctor to accidentally give Mr. Vernon that much morphine?" Monk asked.
"Anything's possible. But I doubt this was an accident. When you're filling a syringe you can tell when it's too much," she replied.
'Thank you," Disher said as Monk turned away. "If we have any more questions, we'll call you."
Nurse Davis nodded her head and went back to her duties. Disher followed Monk into the hospital room, which was marked off with police tape. Monk just walked slowly through the room, taking everything in. Disher waited, knowing that this was Monk's usual process. He took everything in. He recorded the scene in his mind, taking in every detail and scrap of possible evidence. Then he turned.
"Do you think it's homicide or malpractice?" Monk asked. Disher shrugged his shoulders.
"Would we really be here if it was malpractice?"
"I suppose we wouldn't. Now who are our suspects?"
"Nobody has been up here except hospital staff," Disher replied. He flipped through his notepad. "We've got a list of the nurses on night and day duty, as well as orderlies and on-call doctors."
"We should start with the nurses," Monk said. "They're least likely to draw suspicion moving in and out of rooms at all hours, and they have access to medication. What about forensics?"
"Medical waste was taken into evidence. Room's been dusted. We're working on print matches."
"Who are the night nurses?"
"Uh…Whitney Harmon and Sharona Fleming," Disher read off his list. Monk started to walk out of the room, speaking as he walked.
"We'll go alphabetical. Start with Fleming."