FIVE

"…and that was when I realized how he did it," Adrian told Fraser through the closed bathroom door, "It was a magnet. With Dexter's career in electronics, he could easily build one in his workshop. He used his car battery to charge it, then borrowed Danny Bonaduce's car so as not to draw attention to himself. Since he had the key to the apartment, all he had to do was let himself in and wait until Elliot DiSouza was in position. Then he turned it in, and the rest was history. That's why the clock was off and everything in the room was pointing that same way."

"Very ingenious," Fraser nodded, "It might have taken me even longer to figure that one out on that much evidence." He turned to Diefenbaker at his feet and said, "Don't you think that was clever, Dief?"

The wolf looked more puzzled than anything. "So, Adrian, I hate to sound like I'm going back on what I said earlier, but you having been bathing now for exactly five hours and fifteen minutes," the Mountie pointed out, "I'm sure by now you've gotten all the mud off."

"Yes, but I'd like to make sure," Adrian told him, "And then I have to clean out the tub so you, you know, won't be repulsed or anything."

"Understood," Fraser nodded. He fortunately had bathed the previous night and didn't need to take another one. As such, he'd already changed into his long johns—not that he wouldn't have, as it was now close to one in the morning. There was the sound of the water being flushed down the drain, followed by cleaner being scrubbed against the tub. "So, did they find where the shooter was?" Adrian asked as he cleaned on.

"We checked the area; apparently he was atop the building across the street, half a block away," Fraser told him, "We found his footprints—a size eleven—near the right corner, where he'd have an unobstructed shot at Amanda Graystone. We also found five shell casings left behind. We figured he'd been in too much of a hurry to get away to bother retrieving them."

"Any fingerprints?"

"Unfortunately none. The bullets were from a semiautomatic hunting rifle, though, so Ray's going to check for licensed owners at some point tomorrow. Since we still seem to be in the dark, my idea was that we'd stop by the Flemings' residence tomorrow and see if we could find anything there. Perhaps Mrs. Fleming wrote something down that would explain a bit more about this whole ordeal."

"Anything else?" there was the sound of water rushing down the drain again.

"Well yes, I had a report filed as to Miss Teeger's lost social security card. Odds are it'll turn up whenever the thief uses it."

"I know that guy," Adrian commented.

"What guy?"

"The old man that took Natalie's card; I have seen him somewhere before. I don't know where, but I know I have."

"That should help," Fraser nodded, "Also, we did a background check on our victim. The late Miss Graystone it seems lived in New Jersey up until about a month ago. We're not sure yet if she ever had contact with Mrs. Fleming. Now I believe you did say that your former assistant had once been an exotic dancer herself, did you not?"

Adrian came out of the bathroom, clad now in his maroon pajamas. "Sharona gave up…dancing eleven years ago," he said, an uncomfortable expression on his face at the thought of someone so close to him performing such a dubious trade, even for her son's benefit, "I saw Amanda Graystone's driver's license just before they took her body away; she would have been twelve at the time, and I know that the…place Sharona worked at had rules against allowing anyone inside under fifteen, even for…dancers. I highly doubt they knew each other."

"I see," Fraser nodded, "Well then, since that avenue is apparently closed, we'll have to find another in the morning, shall we?"

"Of course," Adrian reached into one of his few remaining full chests and pulled out two items, a nightlight and Trudy's picture. "So you brought your wife along for the trip, I see?" Fraser inquired as the former detective placed the latter on the nightstand and plugged the former into the wall.

"She makes it feel more like home," Adrian said, smiling at the picture. His hand went instinctively for his wedding ring, "It really wasn't a choice, you see. She'd have known if I didn't bring her."

"I see," Fraser said, laying down on his sleeping bag next to the window, "I comprehend fully. At least my father never required that. He understands, having been away all those years. You know, Detective Monk, I've realized you and I really have much in common. We were both essentially orphans in a sense for long stretches, both outside the popular fringes during our formative years, both spent our whole lives in the pursuit of upholding the law, both highly ethical, both favoring styles that would be deemed very conservative by most people…"

"I'm glad someone can see me in themselves," Adrian forced a smile, "Most people simply try and pretend I'm an alien. I'd like to have gotten your life, Constable Fraser. All up there in the Yukon, no crowds, no germs, no snakes or mushrooms in the winter. Of course, there's mud, plenty of it, and animal droppings and heights and wolves…."

There was a low moan of disdain as Diefenbaker looked up from atop his autographed Mark Smithbauer jersey. "No, no offense to you," Adrian said, throwing in what he assumed were the correct sign language for his remarks.

"Um, Adrian, you just told Dief to stick his tail in a beehive," Adrian pointed out.

"Oh," Adrian frowned. An insulted Diefenbaker rose up and trotted toward the bathroom. "Well, I understand your thought process on wanting to be me," Fraser said, "But if I were you, I'd be content with the life you do have, because it's really quite a good one."

"You mean the life I HAD," Adrian said dejectedly.

"No, the one you still HAVE," Fraser told him, "And besides, you did find the right woman. My right woman showed her affection for me by burning down my father's cabin and having me shot."

"True," Adrian admitted. He was unable to stifle a yawn. "Well, I guess it's about time I get to sleep."
"Agreed," Fraser lifted the top of his lantern and blew it out, "Pleasant dreams, Adrian."

"Pleasant dreams…Benton," Adrian said, flicking on the nightlight. He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. One thing was for sure…the mattress was WAY too hard…

"Trevor, we're here," Stottlemeyer said as he knocked on the door of the Flemings' house the next morning.

"Wow," Vecchio said, staring at the impressive Victorian architecture, "How'd they get a place like this?"

"It's their grandmothers, she said they could have it while she was in the hospital," Adrian explained, straightening the detective's askew tie for him, "Here, let me get that for you. You slept in again today, didn't you?"

Vecchio gave him a look of discomfort that quickly told him to stop. Trevor opened the door. "Come in," he told the cops, "I wasn't expecting you this early. "Any news?"

"Trevor, did Sharona happen to know a Miss Amanda Graystone?" the captain inquired as he and the others came inside and hung up their coats.

"Um, if she did she didn't tell me," Trevor said, looking puzzled, "Who's she?"

"She was involved in your family's disappearance somehow," Disher said, "She was killed just before she could tell us who was responsible for the abduction. You mind if we look around?"

"No, not at all," Trevor waved them in, "What exactly are you looking for?"

"We don't know yet, but we'll let you know if we do find it," the lieutenant said as he walked into the den.

"While you're here, Monk, we searched Amanda Graystone's apartment while you were taking the longest bath in history last night," Stottlemeyer said, holding up about six photographs, "Take a look at these. We couldn't find anything important; maybe you can."

Adrian examined each photograph carefully. "The killer got there before you did," he announced when he was finished, "He took incriminating evidence with him. He was someone she knew personally."

"And we know this because…?"

"Look at the table here near the door," Adrian pointed to one of the photographs, "There was something lying there recently—a small book of one kind. There's a very distinct dust outline there and no dust in the center, which says that the book was taken away only a short time ago. Plus, look at the floor. It's been vacuumed heavily so he wouldn't leave footprints."

"Well you would notice that," Natalie commented, leaning over his shoulder, "So how do we know he knew her?"

"Examine the door," Fraser had already caught on, "There's no visible signs of forced entry. The lock hasn't been broken, and the window's intact. Whoever came in had his or her own key—and knew exactly where to find the vacuum."

Vecchio stared back and forth between the Mountie and the former detective. "Are you two related?" he asked incredulously.

"Now why would you say that?" Adrian and Fraser asked him simultaneously.

"Well maybe he came in the back door?" the Chicago cop suggested.

"No, because that door and window are the only ways in or out; this apartment's on the third floor of a motel," Stottlemeyer was catching on as well, "And the vent wasn't broken in either, I remember that. Good work, Monk, we'll look into this."

"Thank you, Captain," Adrian nodded, "I'd better go see if I can find anything here that might help."

He strolled toward the master bedroom, stopping briefly to straighten out two crooked pictures on the wall. "Did you find anything since we last talked that could help us, Trevor?" he asked the husband.

"No, I'm afraid," Trevor said. He was starting to make the bed for the day. "Let, let me," Adrian said, taking one corner, "I'll make it, you know, perfect."

"Sure, why not?" Trevor shrugged. He stepped back and watched as Adrian began making the bed—ever so slowly one blanket at a time. "I think it over," Trevor told him, "I wonder sometimes if this whole ordeal is some kind of punishment for all the past sins I've committed. Did you ever think that was the case with your wife's—loss, Detective Monk?"

"Not really, but now that you mention it, maybe it was," Adrian admitted, "Maybe having her die was my judgment for not granting her request to have kids, I don't know."

"Well lord knows I'd deserve it; look at this," Trevor walked over to the closet and pushed aside a blue tuxedo and an old gray coat. He reached down and picked up a think wad of lottery tickets held together by a rubber band. "At least five thousand dollars I wasted over the last ten years," he told the detective, "I keep it with me to remind myself about how bad a father figure I was. My thinking is that if I see it, I'll know not to do it again."

Adrian nodded. Natalie came into the room, "Mr. Monk, this was under the bathroom sink, you might want to take a look at this," she said, handing him a small journal. Adrian took it with a pair of tweezers and flicked it open. "Interesting," he mused. Sharona's name had been signed on all the pages repeatedly. "Why would she do something like this?" he asked out loud.

"Your guess would be as good as mine, Detective Monk," Trevor shrugged, "Maybe she really was going crazy and…"

Disher ran into the room. "Monk, you'd better take a look at this," he said breathlessly, "I think we've just found the reason for this whole thing."

"I'll be right there, I just need to finish making the bed," Adrian told him, "I'm about a quarter of the way there."

"Well Monk, this kind of can't wait," the lieutenant informed him.

"Let's compromise; you bring it in here and I'll finish making the bed," Adrian offered. Disher looked puzzled, but shrugged and left. Two minutes later, he was back with a piece of paper. "It was inside Benjy's pillow," he announced, "I'm guessing she kept it there for safe keeping."

"Randy, what've you got?" Stottlemeyer asked as he and the other cops ran into the room. Adrian hefted the paper. "It's dated two weeks ago," he announced, "Dear Dr. DiNardo. I hereby inform you of my resignation from the Salandria Clinic. I know what you've been doing with those elderly patients is wrong, and I cannot go on living a lie like this. When human life is at stake, I always choose the moral approach, and in this case that entails leaving your employment. I have many friends in law enforcement that will be very interested in knowing about your schemes, and rest assured they will. Not sincerely, Sharona Fleming."

"DiNardo," Vecchio mused, "Dr. Stephen DiNardo. I remember reading about him; he had his license suspended briefly a couple of years back for performing unnecessary surgery on a four-year-old. He claimed it was an experiment, but his bosses proved in court it was unapproved."

"He said he was trying to prove his methods of open heart surgery was superior to the traditional method," Stottlemeyer had apparently heard of him too, "They gave him his license back after he'd served probation and promised never to do it again. It looks like he may be doing it all over, however."

"The question is, why would Sharona get mixed up with someone like him?" Adrian wondered out loud, "She would have known his reputation. If he was doing unapproved medical testing, she wouldn't go along with it."

"Well maybe he misled her, Monk," Stottlemeyer pointed out, "He could have told her it was an approved experiment, and she discovered the results later on. It was brought out at the trial that he blackmailed his assistants into silence the first time around. He could have done it again. Randy, call the precinct and tell Detective Vecchio's sister to pull Dr. DiNardo's file. Maybe the answer lies in there."

Just then, the doorbell rang. "Who could that be?" Vecchio frowned.

"I'm not expecting anyone," Trevor pointed out.

"I'll see," Fraser strolled to the door. When he opened it, however, there was no one there. There was, however, a small brown package lying on the doorstep. "Now what have we here?" he asked out loud, picking it up.

"Careful, it could be a bomb," Disher warned him.

Fraser sniffed the package. "No, it's definitely not a bomb, Leftenant," he announced, "There's no nitro glycerin or other explosive properties present."

"It might be anthrax," Adrian voiced his own concern as the Mountie opened the package carefully, "They never did catch that guy who gave it to Congress."

"No need to worry, Detective Monk, there's also no anthrax present," Fraser reassured him. Inside the package was an unmarked videocassette. "Now what could this be for?" he pondered.

"There's only one way to find out," Stottlemeyer took it off him and walked over to the TV. "Mind if we turn it on and see, Trevor?" he asked.

"Not at all," Trevor told him, "But don't look at me. I have no idea why they sent this to you, either."

Adrian, meanwhile, walked out onto the porch and glanced around. "Got anything?" Natalie asked him as she joined him.

"He went that way over the grass," Adrian pointed over the right flowerbed, "You can see the broken flowers on the edge there."

"Ah," Natalie nodded seeing what he meant, "You know, I really feel sorry for your ex-assistant's husband. He's going through exactly what I went through with Mitch and all. It's terrible, knowing your loved ones might be in the hands of killers."

Just then, a frightened voice cried out from the TV, "Mommy!" A very familiar voice. One that made Natalie turn deathly pale. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed in horror as she abruptly ran back inside the house, "Oh my God! Julie!"

It was a horrific sight. On the tape, a terrified Julie sat on a worn-out chair dressed only in her pajamas. There was a brutal red mark on her face, indicating she'd been taken violently. And to her right, a Luger was aimed at her head, although the person holding it wasn't visible. "Mommy, they've got me!" the frightened girl sobbed out, "Tell Mr. Monk to back away or they'll kill me, please Mommy!"

"Oh dear," a concerned Fraser said, a solemn look on his face, "This is apparently a lot more intricate than any of us could have imagined."

A hooded and masked figure stepped into frame. "This is your warning, Adrian Monk," it said in a voice that had been digitally altered, "If you do not drop the Sharona Fleming case as soon as possible, the next package you receive will be the remains of your current assistant's daughter—in little pieces. Take this seriously or else."

The screen faded to snow. For the longest time everyone stared blankly at the screen. Adrian spoke up first. "His mask was crooked," he pointed out.

Immediately it became clear he'd made the wrong comment. "His mask?" a now enraged Natalie stormed up to him, "My daughter's in the hands of murderers, and you're more concerned about his mask? You insensitive, uncaring, ignorant…!"

Unable to come up with further things to call him, she started smashing every breakable object in sight, despite Disher and Fraser's attempts to restraint her. "Miss Teeger, I don't think Detective Monk meant that in the manner you seem to think he did," the Mountie tried to console her. But Natalie wasn't listening. She punctuated her rampage by overturning the hall table and breaking off three of the legs. "You like things nice and even?" she challenged his employer, "Clean this mess up!" Then she stormed outside, slumped down and the steps, and began sobbing heavily.

"I should probably do some counseling," Fraser announced out loud, "We at the R.C.M.P. are trained in crisis management for situations such as these."

"Tell, tell her I didn't mean to upset her like that, if she lets you," Adrian told him, his face now wracked with guilt.

"I'll do my best," Fraser said, stepping outside.

"Well, this is definitely a setback," Vecchio said as he ejected the tape, "Now we've got a multiple hostage crisis here and on the West Coast."

"Well it's clear now they have large manpower to pull something like this," Stottlemeyer said, "You have any ideas, Monk?"

"Last night before she was shot, Amanda Graystone said the kidnapper had connections to the police," Adrian was staring at the tape, "The old man took Natalie's social security card for a reason; they needed her address to get Julie as leverage against us."

"Yeah, but what's the point?" Vecchio inquired.

"The point is, I don't think all the cops here are on the same team," Adrian said, "Someone's working for them."