"OK everyone, step back please," Stottlemeyer announced loudly as he arrived on the scene shortly after the attack, noticing a swarm of paparazzi surrounding Wendy, "Official police business, please step back and let Miss Whitehurst alone for a few seconds if you can."
"Captain, do you think this is part of some foreign threat or attempt to sabotage the Games?" a reporter shoved a microphone right in his face.
"Do you have any proof of previous attacks?" demanded another.
"What precautions are you going to take from here on to protect Wendy and the other athletes here?" a third asked sharply.
"All right, all right, we're working on it, when we know anything, we'll let you know," the captain muttered out loud in frustration, "Now please disperse."
"Captain, is it true the police are spread too thin to do anything about this?" another reporter asked, leading to a forest of microphones being shoved right in his face.
"You heard the man, back off, all of you!!" Mrs. Whitehurst irately rose up from her position over her daughter and waved her arms like a windmill, prompting the reporters to obligingly step back several paces. "Thank you," Stottlemeyer commended her. He bent down towards Wendy, still seated on the floor looking deeply pained. "How does it feel now?" he asked the gymnast sympathetically.
"Hurts a lot more than I thought something like this would," Wendy's face was still flushed with pain from the blow to her chest.
"Well we've got medical aid coming soon, we're going to make sure you're taken care of," Natalie rubbed her shoulder.
"Just try and have me out by four; I'm supposed to shoot another Wheaties commercial before practice starts," the girl told her, "Whoever it is might think I'm giving in if I don't go..."
"Well, that's going to be contingent on what the doctors and I myself say from here on," Stottlemeyer informed her firmly. He walked over to Adrian, pacing around in tight circles making his familiar hand gestures. "What've you got on this so far, Monk?" he asked his go-to man.
"I'm still trying to piece it together, Captain," without turning around, Adrian held up his hands in a framing gesture, "Wendy says she was buying a hot dog here when he came around that corner and came at her with the bat. Now what I'm wondering..."
"Captain," Disher came jogging up with a middle aged couple in tow, "These two got the best look at him out of everyone I asked."
"Wonderful," Stottlemeyer turned to the witnesses, "For starters, you two are...?"
"Ed and Kate Logan," the man told them, "We were over there by the popcorn stand by the bathroom, when this guy threw open the door, rushed over there and...well," he pointed towards Wendy on the floor, "I think you know the rest."
"What did he look like?" the captain inquired.
"Oh, I'd say about six foot three, I think; roughly as big as Ed," Kate told him, "He was wearing dark glasses and a ski mask, so we didn't so the face, but he was wearing a green and gold jacket. He also was breathing rather heavily and walked a little sitffly."
"Captain," Adrian had been taking the conversation in. He waved his boss over to the tunnel leading back into the stadium. "Something's not quite right here," he told Stottlemeyer and Disher when they joined him. "They said he came out of the bathroom. I saw the guy in the upper deck about thirty seconds before the attack. There's no way he could have gotten down to the ground level that quickly, even if he was running as fast as he could."
"That is a bit strange, Monk," Stottlemeyer mused with a frown, "How did he get down here that quickly, then?"
"Hold on a minute," Disher shifted through his notes, "You said he wore green and gold, Mrs. Logan?" he called back to the witnesses.
"Yes," Kate confirmed for him, "Why?"
Disher snapped his fingers. "I've got it, sir," he told Stottlemeyer.
"Got what?"
"How he got down here so quickly."
"How?"
"He's Jamaican."
"Huh?"
"Green and gold are their national colors, sir," Disher pulled out an official Olympic program, leafed through it to the Js and held it up for the captain to see.
"So what does that have to do with anything, Lieutenant?" Stottlemeyer looked completely lost.
"Like I said, it explains how he got down from the upper deck so quickly."
"How?"
"He used a bobsled, sir."
Stottlemeyer staggered backwards in disbelief. "And you're going to stand by that, Randy?" he mumbled numbly.
"Uh, yeah. He had it hidden in the upper deck somewhere and slid down the girders outside the stadium to ground level. Why?"
"OK, where to start?" the captain rolled his eyes in disgust, "First, let me remind you these are the SUMMER games; second, even taking that into account, don't you think a bobsled would be a hair conspicuous when there's a thousand or so people here!?"
"Um,..." Disher thought this very noticeable flaw in his theory over hard, then snapped his fingers again. "He used a bobsled with an invisibility switch."
Stottlemeyer calmly turned, walked into the nearby restroom, knelt down by the toilet closest to the door, and began slamming the seat down on his head in frustration repeatedly. "OK," he said firmly once he had vented and returned, "That all being said, we're going to take what we've got here and follow up on that. Which," he held up his hand as Disher opened his mouth to speak, "Will NOT involve having a medium contact John Candy's spirit so we can ask him if he knows anything about a renegade bobsledding assassin. I want the security feeds from all the cameras in this stadium; one of them has to have a good shot of his car when he left, and..."
"Hold on sir, do you hear something?" Disher raised his hand. Sure enough, a low thumping could be heard from a nearby trash can. Stottlemeyer threw up his hands in resignation. "I should have guessed," he mumbled out loud. He casually strolled over to the can and pushed the flap open. "Hello Ernie, still trying your hand at undercover security work, I see," he said into the opening.
"Damn it Leland, shut it; you'll blow my cover!" Travers hissed, causing everyone in the vicinity to stare at the can in amazement. Stottlemeyer pulled the top off the can. "If you were right here the whole time, tell me at least you got a glimpse of the guy?" he inquired.
"I was detained," Travers grumbled defensively as he climbed out of the can, covered in garbage (prompting Adrian to turn towards the wall so he wouldn't have to look at him), "Some idiot dumped a whole tray on top of me in there thinking this was a real garbage can. It happened while I was trying to clean myself off; by the time I got the flap back open, the lousy Commie was gone."
"Well Ernie, hate to burst your bubble, but this is probably no Commie we're dealing with here," the captain sighed.
"Even if not, I just know he'll strike again," Travers continued, oblivious, "So before I got set up here, I called the FBI; they'll put their best people on this with us."
"Did you have to do that?" Stottlemeyer slapped his head in frustration, "You do know I hate working with those..."
"Pardon me, Captain Stottlemeyer," a security guard was coming up to them carrying something in his arms, "A couple witnesses outside saw him running around to the far side of the stadium before he disappeared. We found these in the dumpster out back."
He handed the objects to Disher. "Stilts," the lieutenant mused, "That explains why he had a stiff walk."
Adrian sized up the stilts and walked back and forth in place. "He's about five eight, Captain," he told Stottlemeyer, his face squinting as he tried to pinpoint the exact seat he'd seen the assailant in earlier, "Check for whoever bought the ticket to Section Four, Row Eighteen, Seat Thirteen; that's the guy."
"Right, gotcha Monk," Stottlemeyer waved Disher towards the ticket office near the stadium entrance, "Maybe we'll get this guy sooner than we think."
"Hey," Natalie came running up, "The ambulance just showed up; they're going to let you guys know what the damage is once they run the tests, but Wendy looks fine to me. Her mother did ask us to stop by gymnastic practice around six to let the coach know what the prognosis is; the medics said they should know by then."
"Good," the captain nodded, "One less crisis to worry about. Now to get..."
"Hey Charles, an impatient looking Lagos stuck his head out the tunnel, "Is this bathroom break of yours going to take much longer? Everyone's getting very restless out here waiting!"
"Be, be right there," Adrian called back. "Well," he shrugged hesitantly to the others, "Might as well get back to work, for what it's worth."
"I told you putting me under cover like that was a mistake," the detective was grousing to his assistant as they pulled up in front of Maples Pavilion, which was set to host the gymnastics competition in a few days.
"I think you're doing just fine, Mr. Monk," Natalie told him.
"You don't want to admit you're wrong for once," he countered, "Doesn't it mean anything to you the other spectators started throwing things onto the court at me after that last point? I thought as partners, as you put it so succinctly, we're supposed to look out for each other, so let me say for the record that if that's still your stance, you're failing your end miserably."
"Well that's your problem, you're only looking at the glass half empty again; because you went along with this we've now got leads that..."
Adrian pointedly climbed out of the car before she could answer, even though he had to concede she was right that they'd gotten what they knew now from taking the judging job. "Now, um, these gymnasts," he asked Julie as she got out as well, "They, they will be...clothed, right?"
"Don't worry, you won't see anything you don't want to," she told him with just a little tinge of frustration; the detective could tell that Wendy's latest mishap had been weighing heavily on her all afternoon, "But be warned, a lot of what they do in here might get you worked up, just so you know."
"Worked up in what way?"
"For you, EVERY way," she informed him.
"That bad, huh?" he nodded softly, "Well, let's hope God's on our side. We may not come out alive, then."
Both Teegers rolled their eyes. Inside the pavilion, a half dozen or so young women wearing the expected red, white, and blue gymnastic garb were working out at various equipment. Adrian was immediately overwhelmed in terror at the sight of one of them trying out one particular piece. "Hey, hey, hey!!" he cried out, running over to the uneven bars, "Come down! You're in grave danger!"
The girl on it--a short haired brunette--abruptly stopped in the middle of a twirl around the higher bar. "Why?" she asked, confused.
"These are the uneven bars!" Adrian gestured at the apparatus.
"And!?"
"And!? And!? They're UNEVEN!!" he spelled it out for her, "This equipment is evil, it's Satanic! You're life's in grave danger as long as...!"
"Excuse me, mister," the coach, a balding man with an American flag jacket, tapped him hard on the shoulder, "I really don't like anyone disturbing my...oh, you're Monk? I got the call you were coming."
"Yes, I'm, I'm Adrian Monk," the detective reluctantly shook the coach's hand when he offered it, then waved at Natalie for a wipe, "You're Norm Shute?"
"That I am," the coach nodded, "What's the latest update on Wendy?"
"You don't have to worry," Natalie approached him, "We got the call from the hospital; no lasting damage, just a bruise or too. Apparently the attacker didn't get that good a shot at her, or it could have been worse."
"Well that's a relief in more ways than one," Coach Shute nodded, "At least for once this is legitimately a case for..."
"Wait, wait, legitimately?" Adrian raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, well, nothing, except that, well, frankly, Wendy has been getting on my nerves a little the last few weeks with all these commercials she's shooting," Coach Shute told him with a sour expression, "I concede that sponsorship is part and parcel of the Games these days, but I can't accept that she's repeatedly late to practice because of it. After three weeks, I thought I'd gotten my point across, but..."
"No, no, no, no!!" Adrian gasped loudly, seeing another gymnast was pounding chalk onto her hands in preparation for an exercise on the rings. He seized the wipes from Natalie and rushed towards the girl. "What on earth are you doing!?" he demanded, pushing the wipes towards her, "Quick, clean it off or it'll never come off!!"
"Are you supposed to be wacko or something?" the girl raised an eyebrow at him.
"They say that a lot, but right now I'm just a concerned citizen asking you to wash your hands clean in the name of humanity," he gestured with the wipes. The girl rolled her eyes, but complied. Just stay back, please," she asked him firmly as she leaped up onto the rings and began spinning around. Adrian, however, had no intention of doing so when she was putting her life in such complete jeopardy. "No, no, with both hands!!" he pleaded desperately, "Not upside down!! No, no, the other...!!"
He was abruptly kicked in the face--whether by accident or design he didn't know and didn't really care. "You all right there?" Coach Shute came over to him.
"Good, good, but I'd recommend a safer routine," the detective grimaced, clutching his jaw.
"That's my prize routine," the girl on top protested loudly, "It's not my fault you were..."
"All right, Katie, I know it was an accident," Coach Shute reassured him. He looked Adrian in the face and almost pleaded, "Thank you for the good news with Wendy, but please just let my girls work, OK? We're all trying to bring home the gold here, so if you can wait over on that bench there, I think we'd all be very happy."
"Could, could you at least take those uneven bars away, or better yet destroy them?" Adrian asked him, "It's cruel and unusual punishment to make someone work out on that."
Coach Shute stared at him incredulously, then shook his head and walked away. Adrian nonetheless shuffled towards the bench and tried to ignore all the dangers around him.
"So you're Monk?" the girl from the uneven bars had approached from the other side of the gym.
"Yes, yes I am," he told her, "How, how can I help you?"
"What did Wendy tell you?" her voice got lower and sharper.
"Why?"
"If I were you, I'd drop the whole thing right now," the girl told him firmly, "Wendy's just using you for whatever purpose she has in mind."
"How...why..."
"Because she's a glory hound," the girl almost snarled, "She's been hogging up the spotlight, taking credit for everything we regular gymnasts who actually worked to get here, and she has no qualms saying terrible things behind our backs. Whatever this whole fake attack thing is, it's just some ploy to get at us."
"But, but I saw the aftermath of the attack, Miss...uh, you are...?"
"I'm Wendy's worst nightmare," she said roughly, "And if she comes around here again after pulling this, she's toast. Listen to me on this, Monk; Wendy's lying to you. And in time you'll see her for what she really is, just like we all have. Trust me."
"Shannon, want to see your vaulting," Coach Shute called from across the gym. Adrian frowned as the girl ran off and tried to wonder what to make of what he'd been told. And what to do if by some chance it was in fact true.