Captain Leland Stottlemeyer’s theory on the footprints was that the victim must have delivered a blow in self-defense that left his attacker reeling and dizzy.
Lieutenant Randy Disher, the captain’s right-hand man, was checking area hospitals for anyone who might have come in with a head wound.
I’ve seen Monk solve a homicide within a few minutes of arriving at the crime scene. But this case had too many suspects and too few clues. The investigation was making Monk even more nuts than usual.
Monk’s basic problem is that he’s obsessed with imposing order on a world that is, by nature, disordered. It’s a problem he’s never going to solve. But he’s not alone in his futile pursuit. We’ve all got the same problem, only not to his degree.
Look at me, for example. My job is to make Monk’s life as orderly as possible so he can focus on bringing order to disorder, which is the method he uses to solve murders, which is how he makes a living, which is how he’s able to pay me.
When I’m not with Monk, I’m trying to maintain some kind of order in my own life and to create a consistent, safe and nurturing environment for my daughter.
So I scramble to pay the bills, to do the laundry, to keep the house clean, to get Julie to school on time, to make sure she gets all her work done, to coordinate all her activities, playdates, to— Well, you get the point, because you’re probably doing it, too.
I can never get ahead of it all. I can never get everything under control. And I never will. I know that, but I keep trying to anyway.
That’s Monk, too.
But I don’t obsess about my failure to get my life under control.
And because I’m unlike Monk, the act of trying to put things in order doesn’t give me a unique perspective on the world around me—one that allows me to see things that others don’t and solve complex mysteries.
I’ve learned to accept that there’s always going to be chaos, that things can never, ever be brought under control and that it’s the unpredictable, disorderly, uncontrollable nature of things that is life.
Disorder is the unexpected. It’s discovery. It’s change. And as hard as we try to bring order to our lives, deep down we all know that it’s that little bit of disorder that makes life exciting.
So why do we constantly keep working to put our lives in order anyway? Why do I?
I don’t know.
But sometimes I wonder if Monk does, because restoring order in all things is his obsession.
I knew the disorder that the Lancaster case represented had to be eating away at Monk. And I was worried about what he’d do to compensate for that anxiety.
So on that Sunday afternoon, I had decided to stop by Monk’s place on our way to the soccer game just to see how he was doing. Julie begged me not to, but I was worried about him.
It turns out I had good reason to be.
I found Monk on his hands and knees cleaning his carpet strand by strand, using a magnifying glass and a toothbrush.
I couldn’t leave him like that, so I made him come along with us, despite Julie’s fervent protests. I couldn’t blame her for objecting. Monk once helped me coach her basketball team, and it was a disaster.
I tried to console Julie by assuring her that this time Monk was going to be merely a spectator in the stands. How much harm could he do?
Little did I know.
We were playing at Dolores Park on a clear, sunny day, with barely a wisp of fog in the air. The park was on the steep hill that divided the Noe Valley neighborhood where we live from the urban bustle of the Civic Center. The spectators not only had a great view of the field, but of the downtown San Francisco skyline as well.
The Slammers were up against the Killer Cleats, the number-one team in the league—also the meanest. The Killer Cleats played soccer as a contact sport, mowing down any kid who got in their way. They were way too rough, and their coach, a big, angry man named Harv Felder, drove them hard, brutally berating any player who didn’t come off the field with an opposing team member’s flesh between her teeth.
The coaches and families of both teams were on the same side of the field, but each on their own set of four-row, metal bleachers.
Early in the first quarter, one of the Killer Cleats got hit in the back of the head with the ball, allowing one of the Slammers to get past her and score a goal.
The ref blew his whistle, calling a brief time-out to give the injured player, a girl named Katie, an opportunity to leave the field.
Katie staggered to the sidelines, trying not to cry, and another Killer Cleat went out to replace her.
“Good defense, Katie. Way to play,” Raul Mendez, our coach, said sincerely to Katie as she passed him. He was the father of four girls and a real sweet guy. The player glanced at him but didn’t acknowledge his comment.
“You call that playing?” Felder screamed at her, getting his face right in hers, close enough so Katie could probably feel his spittle spraying her from between his clenched teeth. “You’re a loser, Katie, a sniveling little worm. You sicken me.”
Katie burst into tears and Felder mimicked her as she lumbered back to her embarrassed parents.
“Boo-hoo-hoo. And you’re a crybaby too,” Felder added. “Get out of my sight before I puke.”
Raul shook his head in disgust. “Hey, man, don’t you think you’re being a little hard on her? They’re just kids. It’s only a game.”
Felder sneered at Raul. “That’s what the losers always say.”
The game resumed and almost
