“Relax, Mr. Monk,” I said, reaching into my purse for a wipe. “I’m coming.”
He hopped in place as I tried to remove the paint with the wipe.
“Stand still, Mr. Monk, or I’m going to get the paint all over you.”
He immediately froze. He didn’t speak or move a muscle while I worked, terrified that he might get paint in his mouth. The silence was nice. I subtly positioned him so I could admire the view at the same time.
It took a whole package of wipes and about twenty minutes, but I finally managed to get all the paint off his face. Luckily, none of it had gotten on his clothes.
By the time I was done, the painter who’d put the X on Monk had packed up his things and left for the day. I’m sure that watching the felon escape and not being able to chase after him was frustrating for Monk.
I managed to talk Monk out of calling an ambulance for himself and taking a trip to the emergency room. I reminded him that the dangers he faced at the hospital were far worse than any posed by the paint that had been on his skin.
Instead we headed back to the police station so Monk could marshal the full resources of law enforcement to, and I quote, “hunt down that psychopath like a ravenous dog.”
As soon as we arrived at police headquarters, it was obvious to me from the expression on Stottlemeyer’s face that he was already in a bad mood—and Monk hadn’t even opened his mouth yet.
“We need to launch a manhunt,” Monk declared as he marched into Stottlemeyer’s office.
The captain sighed wearily. “Who are we manhunting? ”
“A drooling, paint-covered psychopath,” Monk said. “We need to form an impenetrable dragnet around this entire city until we arrest him.”
I didn’t recall the painter drooling, but I didn’t say anything.
“On what charge?” Stottlemeyer said. “Or is it the drooling that’s bugging you?”
“He attacked me with a deadly paintbrush,” Monk said.
“You look fine to me.”
“Only because Natalie was there to provide immediate lifesaving measures,” Monk said and then, almost teary-eyed, he turned to me. “I am eternally grateful.”
I thanked Monk and then briefly explained to Stottlemeyer what had happened in what I like to think was an objective, nonjudgmental way. The account seemed to lighten the captain’s mood considerably. I could see him fighting back a smile.
“He could be the Zodiac killer,” Monk said when I was done.
“The guy would have to be at least in his sixties to be the Zodiac killer,” the captain said.
“If he’s not the Zodiac killer, he’s another killer,” Monk said. “He’s the paintbrush killer.”
“Who has he killed?”
“I don’t know,” Monk said. “But if he hasn’t killed somebody yet, he will. He’s covered in paint.”
“He’s a painter,” Stottlemeyer said. “It goes with the job.”
“The hell it does,” Monk said. He was getting pretty worked up. “He’s a psychopath and that proves it. It’s a reflection of his disordered mind. You can ask the profilers at Quantico.”
“You want me to bring the FBI into this?”
“It’s a matter of national security,” Monk said.
“I’m not calling the FBI, the National Guard, or the CIA, but I’ll be sure to alert all my patrol units to be on the lookout for him, okay?” Stottlemeyer said. “In the meantime, how about telling me how it went with Andrew Cahill and Veronica Lorber.”
“The usual,” Monk said.
“That much I know,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’ve already heard from their lawyers, the chief, and an aide to the mayor. Did you really ask her if she had her husband’s head on the wall?”
“She’s a nut job,” Monk said.
I looked at Monk. “Did you just say ‘nut job’?”
“Did you see the room she was in?” Monk said.
“I’ve never heard you use that phrase before,” I said.
“I’ve never been in a room like that before.”
“Technically, you still haven’t,” I said. “You stood out in the hall.”
“Tell me that one of them hired the guy who killed Brandon Lorber,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I can’t,” Monk said. “At least not yet.”
“That’s a shame,” Stottlemeyer said. “It would make it a lot easier for me to deal with the pressure I’m getting from my superiors if I could say that one of the people complaining about you is guilty of murder.”
“One of them is a nut-job adulteress, the other is a liar and embezzler,” Monk said. “Who cares about their complaints?”
Stottlemeyer nodded. “You’ve got a point there, Monk.”
Disher rushed in carrying a sheaf of papers. “I’ve got the artist renderings of the people who bought Beyond Earth uniforms at the convention.”
He laid some of the drawings out on Stottlemeyer’s desk. We leaned over to look at them. None of the faces looked familiar to me.
Disher glanced at Monk. “Did you really tell Lorber’s grieving widow that she was sitting on dead flesh that should be taken out and buried?”
“Yes,” Monk said.
“I wish I could have been there to see her reaction to that,” Disher said.
“No,” I said. “You don’t.”
Disher laid out the rest of the sketches that he was holding. “These are descriptions of customers who bought second-season Mr. Snork ears from the vendors that Ambrose told us about.”
Monk tapped one of the drawings of one of the rubber-ear buyers, a guy who looked vaguely like a wax figure of Jude Law, and found an almost identical drawing from among the costume customers. He put them side by side.
“This is the same man,” Monk said.
“I noticed that, too,” Disher said. “I ran the sketches through the various criminal databases and came up with nothing.”
Monk held up the pictures in front of me. “Take a good look at these.”
“I am,” I said.
“Now imagine him covered with paint and wielding a
