We were in Trotter’s one-bedroom apartment in North Beach, which is nowhere near a beach, but don’t get me started on that. Even without a stretch of sand, the rent on seven hundred square feet in this neighborhood will set you back twice as much as my mortgage payment.
The apartment was furnished in what I like to call Contemporary Single Guy. All the furniture was big, black, and upholstered in leather (men love their animal hides). The living room was dominated by an altar to the god of electronics—a massive flat-screen television surrounded by stacks of devices. I could pick out a Play/Station, an Xbox, a DVD player, a TiVo, a Wii, a satellite receiver, a cable box, and an amplifier. There was a lot more stuff, too. I just didn’t know what it all was.
The coffee table was covered with more electronics—a laptop, an iPod, an iPhone, a BlackBerry, a dozen remotes— and a smattering of men’s “lifestyle” magazines, like FHM, Stuff, and Maxim, and empty cans of Red Bull. It was a mess.
The owner of this mess, the aforementioned and very dead Clarke Trotter, was in his bathrobe and lying sideways on the couch. He was a bit pudgy, although I wouldn’t call him fat. But it was clear the only exercise he got was on his Wii. There was congealed grease in his hair and splattered over the couch, carpet, and coffee table.
Stottlemeyer, Disher, and I stood behind the couch. A bunch of forensics guys were dusting and photographing and putting things in Baggies. The CSI crew reminded me of Willy Wonka’s Oompa-Loompas, only not as adorable or musical.
Monk stood absolutely still in the doorway to the apartment, his hands gripping the wall on either side of him as if the room was listing under his feet.
Stottlemeyer glanced at Monk, then back to us. “What’s traumatized him this morning?”
“I think it’s the spot on your tie,” Disher said.
“Thanks for pointing that out to him. I’ve only worn this once and now he’s going to make me incinerate it.”
“He’s obviously noticed,” Disher said. “Look at him.”
“I don’t think it’s my tie,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’ve only got seven holes in your belt.”
“I do?” Disher said, looking down at himself.
“Everybody knows you need six or eight. You’ve upset the time-space continuum. You’re going to have to go punch another hole in it.” Stottlemeyer glanced back at Monk. “Isn’t that right?”
“I’ve lost count of my blinking,” Monk said.
“You count your blinks?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“I always do it in the back of my mind. It’s how I maintain my sanity.”
“Is that how you do it?” Stottlemeyer said. “If I had to count my daily blinking, it would drive me insane.”
“I don’t know how many times I’ve blinked so far today,” Monk said, his voice tinged with hysteria. “I’ve lost count.”
“So start again,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I’ve kept track of my blinks since the day I learned how to count.”
I bet if I asked, he could have given me the exact date of that fateful day.
Monk made that strange tearless weeping sound. “My mom kept track for me before that.”
“She did?” I asked.
It was a rhetorical question, of course. I’ve long since stopped being shocked by the things Monk’s mother did to completely screw him up for life. It was no wonder that his father went out for Chinese food one night and never came back. Or that Monk’s only brother, Ambrose, never leaves the house.
“Didn’t you count Julie’s blinks for her?” Monk asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“Then how did she know how much you loved her?”
“I told her,” I said. “Every day. I still do. I also give her lots of hugs and kisses.”
Monk shook his head. “There’s no substitute for the comfort and certainty of a mother’s accurate blink count.”
“What difference does it make how many times you’ve blinked?” Disher asked.
“It’s your foundation. It’s who you are,” Monk said. “Now I have no center. Who am I? What am I? Where do I go from here?”
Stottlemeyer marched impatiently up to Monk.
“You are Adrian Monk, a detective, and you’re walking into this apartment and solving a murder.”
He grabbed Monk by the lapels and dragged him into the room.
“But my count—” Monk began.
“Consider yourself reborn,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re at blink number one. Most of the people I know would kill for a fresh start.”
“Maybe that’s what happened here,” Disher said.
I looked at the dead guy on the couch. “He was killed so someone else could start their life anew?”
Disher shrugged. “It’s one possibility.”
Stottlemeyer turned to Monk. “What do you think?”
Monk stood by the couch. He seemed lost. He blinked.
“Two,” he said.
Stottlemeyer massaged his temples. “Randy, tell Monk what we know. Maybe that will get things rolling.”
Disher referred to his notebook. “Clarke Trotter is a thirty-seven-year-old lawyer, recently single. Works as general counsel for San Francisco Memorial Hospital. He left his wife two months ago for another woman. He moved in here; his wife stayed in their house in San Rafael with their five-year-old son. She’s seven months pregnant.”
I looked at Trotter. What a lovely guy, leaving a pregnant woman and sticking her with caring for their kid. If he was still alive, I’d be tempted to murder him. Following that train of thought led me to an obvious suspect.
His wife, of course.
But it couldn’t have been easy for her. It’s nearly impossible to find a babysitter to watch the kids while you go
