TEN
Stottlemeyer barreled into the hospital outpatient wing like a man possessed, Disher hot on his heels. "Constable Fraser!" he shouted toward the Mountie as he spotted him near the front desk. He ran up to him, "Constable, how's Monk?" he asked breathlessly.
"Is he alive? Is he conscious? Will he ever walk again? Any broken bones?" Disher asked in rapid fire.
"I think my question contains all yours in one, Randy!" Stottlemeyer shouted, likely out of concern for Adrian's health.
"Well gentlemen, in regards to all your questions, Detective Monk fortuitously managed to get partially behind one of the warehouse's support pillars just before the explosion occurred," Fraser informed them, "He's suffered a concussion and mild burns, but that thankfully is the extent of his damage. The doctors have informed me that he should be released within five minutes."
"Oh thank God," Stottlemeyer and Disher both heaved huge sighs of relief.
"Miss Teeger is another story though, I'm afraid," Fraser grew solemn, "She incurred the full force of the explosion and is presently on life support. Although her condition is stable at the moment, I'm told she could easily slip off into…well, let's not think negatively."
There was an awkward silence among all the law enforcement officials. "So, did you see anything inside the warehouse when you pulled them out that could help us figure out who did this?" Disher asked the Mountie.
"In fact I did," Fraser dug deep into his pocket, "It was lying near Detective Monk—where he'd fallen anyway. Otherwise I probably wouldn't have noticed it in my desire to protect human life. I think it was attached to one of the sets of explosives."
He handed Stottlemeyer a burnt scrap of paper. "Property of San Francisco Police Department Crime Lab, do not remove," the captain read off it. He turned to look at Disher. "So, one of our own's selling us out," he said, ashamed to be admitting it.
"But who'd want to go this far in the S.F.P.D. to eliminate Adrian Monk?" Disher asked out loud. Then the lieutenant snapped his fingers. "Richardson and Perkins. The cops we caught planting evidence on the drug dealers in Palo Alto. They want revenge."
"Why?" Stottlemeyer shook his head, "Monk had absolutely nothing to do with catching them, and he barely even knows them. Why would they go after him?"
"Good point," Disher conceded.
"Of course, it is possible that it is this six-fingered individual that Detective Monk has been tracking," Fraser pointed out, "There's no evidence to disprove that he is involved in this whole case, or that he's somehow part of your department. Indeed, I might…"
"Here he comes; Monk!" Stottlemeyer waved up the hallway. His friend was walking very slowly toward them, a strangely benign smile on his face. "Monk, we were so worried!" Stottlemeyer ran up to him. Adrian looked back over his shoulder, as if he thought his boss was talking to someone else. "Did get a look at who did this to you and Natalie, Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked.
"Who, who are you talking to?" Adrian asked.
"You, Monk," Stottlemeyer was puzzled.
"Monk? Who the hell's Monk?" the detective looked equally puzzled.
"You are. You know that, don't you?"
"I don't know any Monk. I'm Les Lackawaxen, garbage man, you should know that," Adrian told him.
"Les Lackawaxen, garbage man?" Stottlemeyer shot a glance at Fraser and Disher. Turning back to Adrian he said, "Look, I think you're just going through some kind of post-surgery thing. Your name's Adrian Monk, you're a private consultant to the San Francisco Police, I'm Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, your former watch commander, you've helped me on numerous cases that I couldn't…what's so funny?"
Adrian had burst into laughter. "Boy do you have the wrong guy!" he exclaimed, "I've never seen you before in my life. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to the dump; my truck's parked outside, and the engine's running."
He started to walk away. Stottlemeyer took hold of his shoulder. "Listen to me Monk,…" he tried to say.
"The name's Les Lackawaxen, buddy!" Adrian pushed him off, "And don't be harassing me, or I'll call the police! I have to get back to work!"
"Monk, would you just…?"
"Help, police, assault, murder!" Adrian cried out, shaking Stottlemeyer in an apparent attempt to simulate an attack. From the elevators, Vecchio came running up. "Hey what the hell's going on here?" he demanded at the sight of the fracas.
"Well, Detective Monk seems to have contracted a severe case of amnesia as a result of being in the explosion, Ray," Fraser told him, "In an incredible irony, he now believes himself to be a garbage man."
"Les Lackawaxen's the name," Adrian vigorously pumped Vecchio's hand, "Thank God you came, officer. This man's stalking me."
He pointed to the aghast Stottlemeyer. "I have no idea what's happening," Stottlemeyer told the Chicago cop.
"Cuff him and rough him up, if you will," Adrian asked Vecchio, "I've got work on the streets to do; garbage is piling up to the roof without me on the beat; give me that, toots."
He snatched a half-drunken bottle of soda off a passing nurse and downed it completely. Tossing it carelessly on the floor, he trotted off, singing softly, "We've got the touch, America, and we're coming home with all the best; we've got the touch, America, you and CBS." Everyone stared after him, agog. "Lieutenant, follow him and don't let him get away," Stottlemeyer ordered Disher, "That man needs serious help."
"Indeed sir," Disher ran after Adrian, who was already inside an elevator crowded to the brim with people that were heading down toward the ground floor. "That," Vecchio pointed after the befuddled detective, "Is the most bizarre thing I've seen him do yet. Even you weren't that crazy when you had amnesia, Benny."
"He had it too?" Stottlemeyer glanced at Fraser.
"Yes, Captain, but it thankfully did not involve as drastic a change in personality as we have just seen," Fraser admitted.
"So in the meantime, tell me you've linked this explosion to Zuko?" Vecchio pleaded the Mountie.
"Well Ray, although it is indeed likely—approximately 61.4923 percent certain—that Frank Zuko masterminded this explosion, we were unable to find any direct evidence to connect him with it," Fraser said, "Plus, if he did plan and execute it, he had assistance from a turncoat in the San Francisco Police Department."
He showed Vecchio the evidence he'd collected. "I see," Vecchio nodded, "Well, I should probably tell you, the good Doctor DiNardo may well be involved after all. The feds raided his office in New Jersey. They found a whole closet full of dead grannies and three pounds of burned documents. They can't make out what they said, but it looks like he had a lot of skeletons in the closet; both literally and figuratively. Plus he tried to bolt this afternoon; they caught him halfway to Midway. Maybe your pal Detective Monk was wrong about him."
"We can't prove he isn't yet," Stottlemeyer argued, "I saw him crack a case with burned files before; the killer picked out a random file and burned it to throw the authorities off track. Of course, that was just one file and not three pounds of it, but it might still be a framing attempt on the Doc. And why would he look to us to get rid of Monk? I don't think he could ever have met any of our cops. Did anything else pop up, Detective?"
"In fact yeah; they just found a headless corpse in Lake Michigan," Vecchio said, digging out some photos, "They've identified him as Robert Anderson, a convenient store owner from New Jersey. And take a look at what he looked like when he still had a head."
He handed Stottlemeyer the photo in question. He whistled. "Almost exactly like our friend Mr. Zuko," the captain said, "This explains a lot, I think. If we can get Monk back to normal, he could probably figure it out."
Disher came running back, panting heavily, "I'm sorry Captain, Monk got away," he said.
"So which way did he go?" an impatient Stottlemeyer asked.
"I don't know," Disher told him, "He sort of vanished into a large crowd in the lobby, and I sort of, you know…"
"Great!" the captain slapped his head in disgust, "Adrian Monk is lost in the third biggest city in America with amnesia that he's a garbage man. He could tear the whole city up before we find him."
"Well if he tears up the city, pal, he should be pretty easy to find, but I'm not going to let him do it," Vecchio said, "Everybody follow me, we've got to stop him before he causes extensive damage."
"I'll be there in a minute, Ray," Fraser walked up to the front desk. "Miss, call this number for the precinct and ask for Lieutenant Welsh," he told the receptionist, handing her a paper, "Tell him I'm requesting a guard on Miss Teeger's door, just in case the attempted killers try and come to finish her off. Also call Detective Vecchio cell number there if she takes a turn for the…well, it would probably be better to think positive."
"I can't see the wolf anymore," Stottlemeyer complained, leaning halfway out the Riveira's window with his eye on the crowded sidewalk of Wacker Drive.
"I can still smell him," Fraser sniffed the early evening air, "He turned right here, Ray. And he seems to have just defecated as well."
"Oh no!" Vecchio cringed in disgust at the thought.
"Oh yes," Fraser said.
"Wait a minute, up there," Disher abruptly pointed. Vecchio slammed on the brakes. "What, what is it?" he asked.
"I think that's Larry and Balki's apartment up there," Disher pointed to the building on the left, "I loved that show. I'd tune in every Friday night to…"
"Randy, they shot the damn show on a soundstage in Burbank!" Stottlemeyer yelled at him, "Now do you see Monk or not?"
"Uh, no," Disher admitted.
"Dief turned right again," Fraser was still tracking his pet, "He's stopped. There he is."
Vecchio screeched to a stop again…and was promptly rear-ended by the cars behind him. "Hey, I'm stopping here!" the Chicago cop yelled back at the honking horns and shouting motorists. He eased over to the curb and immediately hopped out to assess the damage to his beloved vehicle. "Not too bad, thank God," he sighed in relief.
"Good work, Diefenbaker," Fraser scratched the wolf affectionately behind the ears, "You're just as good with following trails in an urban setting as you are with…oh dear."
He glanced up at the sign over the bar they'd traced Adrian to. A male lesbian strip bar, to be exact. "Oh dear God," Stottlemeyer felt pretty much the same way as Fraser did as he looked up at the sign himself, "Monk must be seriously amnesic to come here."
"How do you propose we get him to his senses, sir?" Disher asked his superior.
"Well try and talk him into remembering who he is," Stottlemeyer said, "If that doesn't work, we'll try hitting over the head with something heavy."
"Just so you know, I don't have a rubber hose, or even a nightstick, so you've got to make do with whatever we find in there," Vecchio told them.
The four of them—and Diefenbaker—entered the bar, which was already swinging with people of unclear sexual orientations. The strippers were fast at work doing their dubious trade, and were being egged on by the customers, some of whom looked well over eighty. "Excuse me madam…or sir, whatever the case may be," Fraser asked the first person (possibly a bisexual) he saw, holding up a picture of Adrian, "Where in here might we find this gentleman?"
"Over there, having the time of his life,' the person said in a gender-uncertain voice. He/She pointed to the sound of raucous laughter at the far end of the bar. A very familiar laugh. "Thank you kindly," Fraser tipped his Stetson to his informant.
"Monk?" Stottlemeyer rushed up to the detective, who looked about as drunk as a human being could possibly be, "Monk, what the hell are you doing? What the hell have you done to your hair?"
"Oh you again?" Adrian snorted, apparently not caring that he had dressed himself in a filthy garbage man suit—or that he'd dyed his hair red and pierced his ears, "Why won't you leave me alone? Bartender, call the cops! This man's stalking me!"
"Hold it!" Stottlemeyer yelled to the bartender, flashing his badge, "I am the police. This man has amnesia, we're taking him home before he hurts someone, most likely himself."
"Monk, you've been drinking?" Disher gasped at the empty beer glasses before him, "How many have you had?"
"Probably about seven or eight, if it's really any of your business, sonny," Adrian told him off with a burp."
"You listen to Jay-Z?" The tape of the volatile entertainer's work in the detective's CD player equally shocked Vecchio.
"He's great," Adrian said, "Don't you just love his song where he's loving that woman all night long?"
Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes in disgust, "All right, listen to me," he told the detective, "Your name is not Lester Lancaster or whatever…."
"It's Les Lackawaxen, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop following me, pal," Adrian told him icily.
"You do not work at a dump; you'd never even be caught dead in one," Stottlemeyer continued, trying to stay as calm as he could, "You work as a police consultant for us in San Francisco. Here, do you recognize her?"
He held up a wallet-sized photo of Trudy. Adrian squinted at it. "Catherine O'Hara?" he guessed.
"No, you moron, it's your wife; don't tell me you don't remember Trudy?" Stottlemeyer pressed him.
"Trudy," Adrian grew thoughtful, "Wasn't she Leo the butcher's three hundred pound wife who went out and…?"
Stottlemeyer groaned in frustration. "Allow me, Captain," Fraser told him. The Mountie sat down next to his drunken associate. "Wow!" Adrian exclaimed at the sight of him, "Halloween must be really early this year! I haven't even bought my costume yet."
"No, this is my uniform," Fraser explained, "You must remember me somewhere in your subconscious. Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. You've come here to the Windy City on your assistant's trail. You must remember Sharona, don't you, Detective?"
"No, but I did love her song when I was younger," Adrian admitted. He held up his glass to the Mountie. "Care for a shot?"
"No, I never drink," Fraser said, "And technically, neither do you."
"What are you talking about, I've been drinking since I was sixteen; you can ask both of my fathers; here you go, Cujo," Adrian held the glass down to Diefenbaker, who lapped up about half the glass. The confused detective then patted the wolf on the head and proceeded to down the rest of the glass himself, much to the detriment of everyone else. "And I thought you were bad enough when you'd never touch the stuff!" Vecchio groaned, utterly repulsed.
"Detective Monk, you must remember something," Fraser wasn't giving up quite yet, "You yourself told me about the theater case, where Sharona's sister was framed by her understudy, don't you remember that? She poured peanut oil over the apples the actor ate, and after he had an allergic reaction, her father came on stage posing as a doctor and stabbed him. You went on stage and almost had a coronary before you solved the case. Now surely that's in your subconscious."
"Acting? I've never like the stage," Adrian told him, "I always wanted to pull trash. When I was a young boy in Walla Walla, I'd roll around in it after my fathers put it out on the curb for the night. What a feeling it was, to be…"
"All right, that's it!" Stottlemeyer had had enough. The captain strode up the bar. "Police, I'm commandeering your beer," he told a patron with a bottle of Coors, flashing his badge. The customer handed it to him with a pale expression. Stottlemeyer raised it high in the air over Adrian's head, but at the last minute the detective got up and walked toward the bathrooms, causing the intended blow to miss. Stottlemeyer rapped on the door. "Come on out of there, Monk, I've got something for you," he said.
"I'm busy right now," the detective said.
"You've got till three!" the captain bellowed.
"A.m. or p.m.?"
"Not three o'clock, the count of three!" Stottlemeyer yelled, "One, two…!"
And then there was the sound of the bathroom window smashing open. Stottlemeyer yanked the door open to find the toilet deserted. "Out front, up the alley!" he yelled to the others.
By the time they'd gotten there, however, there was absolutely no trace of the amnesic detective in the alley or anywhere. "Perfect!" Vecchio kicked a trashcan in disgust, "I just know he's going to blow something up, I just know it, and I'm going to be held responsible for it!"
"Oh how could you be held responsible for that, Ray?" Fraser had to know.
"Trust me, I will," Vecchio checked his watch, "And we can't follow him, because the drop's in an hour; I'm not letting Ford and Deeter go ahead with their big glory run."
"Right," Stottlemeyer nodded, "Monk'll pop up again in due time…probably at the dump. Surprise of the century. What is it, Randy?"
The lieutenant was grinning from ear to ear. "Oh nothing, it's just, the thought of Adrian Monk as a garbage man," he snorted with laughter.
"I know, it's hysterical," Stottlemeyer conceded, "He's in for the shock of a lifetime when he comes to "
"Did I miss anything?" came a new voice that only Fraser could hear. "Oh, uh, not really, Dad," Fraser walked back toward his father where he stood by the wall, "Detective Monk is wandering around the city with the delusion that he's a garbage man. I wonder, could there be anything you could do to alleviate his symptoms? His know-how is quite necessary to bring this case to a successful conclusion."
"I don't think I could help, but I think I know someone who can," Fraser Senior told him, "I'll see you in about a half hour. Have to go make some arrangements." And with that he vanished into thin air.
"Hey, who were you talking to?" Disher had been looking over Fraser's shoulder.
"Uh, I'm not at liberty to say," Fraser said quickly.
"I see," Disher nodded slowly. As they walked back up the alley, the lieutenant said to himself, "Must be a Canadian thing."