cheap beer, cigarettes, and lottery tickets.
The harsh glow from the fluorescent bulbs inside the market spilled out into the street, bathing the police cars, sidewalks and asphalt in a dull yellow light.
A woman stood outside the store, leaning against the wall and nervously smoking a cigarette. She was in her thirties, wearing faded jeans and a red Speed-E-Mart clerk’s vest over a long-sleeved white T-shirt. The dark circles under her eyes were as ingrained on her face as the grime on the building.
Standing beside her was a uniformed cop in his fifties, his gut slopping over the edge of his pants and straining the buttons on his shirt. He had his notebook out and was making some notations in it with a stubby pencil. The officer saw us coming and met us at the entrance to the minimart.
“I’m Sergeant Riglin,” the officer said. “Are you Captain Monk?”
“Yes, I am,” Monk said. “This is my assistant, Natalie Teeger. What happened here tonight, Sergeant?”
“A couple of black guys came in, held up the place. The cashier, who was the owner of the market, emptied the register, and they shot him anyway. The bastards. The name of the deceased is Ramin Touzie, age forty-seven.”
Monk tipped his head toward the woman. “Who is she?”
“Lorna Karsch, age thirty-four, works nights here as a clerk.” Riglin referred to his notes. “She was in the storeroom when it went down, came out when she heard the shots, and saw two black individuals exiting the premises.”
“There’s a blue stain on the cuff of her right sleeve,” Monk said, adjusting both his sleeves.
“Yeah, so?” Riglin said.
“There isn’t one on her left sleeve,” Monk said.
“Is that important?” Riglin asked.
It was if I ever wanted to get home tonight. Monk wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the case as long as her sleeves didn’t match.
“Would you like me to ask her to change her shirt or stain her other sleeve?” I said.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Riglin said.
“I wish I were,” I said.
“It’s a beautiful blue,” Monk said.
“What is?” I asked.
“The stain,” Monk said. “Deep, vibrant, and rich.”
“Uh-huh,” Riglin said. “Is there anything else, Captain?”
“Who called the police?” Monk asked.
“She did,” Riglin said, gesturing to Lorna. “So did the guy who runs the porno shop next door.”
“Do we have any security-camera footage of the shooting?”
Riglin shook his head. “The clerk says the VCR broke a couple of days ago. The owner was gonna buy a new one tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Monk said. “I’d like to look inside. Has anything been moved?”
“No, sir,” Riglin said.
Monk and I went into the store. The cashier’s counter was to the left of the front door, facing the four cramped aisles of groceries and the refrigerators and freezers that lined the back of the store. The drawer of the cash register was open.
We peered over the counter. Ramin Touzie was crumpled in the tight space between the counter and the wall, a gunshot wound in the center of his chest, his head resting against the side of a plastic trash can. He was wearing a Speed-E-Mart vest over a rugby shirt.
Monk cocked his head, something catching his eye. He walked around the counter, removed a pen from his pocket, and used it to lift out an open box of Ziploc bags from the trash can. Those were the same brand that Monk bought by the case.
He set the box of Ziploc bags down on the counter.
“It’s a crime,” he said.
“You’re talking about the box of Ziploc bags?”
“What else?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “How about the dead guy behind the counter?”
“Why would someone open a box of Ziploc bags, take one or two out, and throw the rest of them away?” Monk said. “It’s unconscionable.”
“Maybe that’s why those two guys came in, stole his money, and shot him,” I said. “As punishment for wasting Ziploc bags.”
“What kind of world are we living
The harsh glow from the fluorescent bulbs inside the market spilled out into the street, bathing the police cars, sidewalks and asphalt in a dull yellow light.
A woman stood outside the store, leaning against the wall and nervously smoking a cigarette. She was in her thirties, wearing faded jeans and a red Speed-E-Mart clerk’s vest over a long-sleeved white T-shirt. The dark circles under her eyes were as ingrained on her face as the grime on the building.
Standing beside her was a uniformed cop in his fifties, his gut slopping over the edge of his pants and straining the buttons on his shirt. He had his notebook out and was making some notations in it with a stubby pencil. The officer saw us coming and met us at the entrance to the minimart.
“I’m Sergeant Riglin,” the officer said. “Are you Captain Monk?”
“Yes, I am,” Monk said. “This is my assistant, Natalie Teeger. What happened here tonight, Sergeant?”
“A couple of black guys came in, held up the place. The cashier, who was the owner of the market, emptied the register, and they shot him anyway. The bastards. The name of the deceased is Ramin Touzie, age forty-seven.”
Monk tipped his head toward the woman. “Who is she?”
“Lorna Karsch, age thirty-four, works nights here as a clerk.” Riglin referred to his notes. “She was in the storeroom when it went down, came out when she heard the shots, and saw two black individuals exiting the premises.”
“There’s a blue stain on the cuff of her right sleeve,” Monk said, adjusting both his sleeves.
“Yeah, so?” Riglin said.
“There isn’t one on her left sleeve,” Monk said.
“Is that important?” Riglin asked.
It was if I ever wanted to get home tonight. Monk wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the case as long as her sleeves didn’t match.
“Would you like me to ask her to change her shirt or stain her other sleeve?” I said.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Riglin said.
“I wish I were,” I said.
“It’s a beautiful blue,” Monk said.
“What is?” I asked.
“The stain,” Monk said. “Deep, vibrant, and rich.”
“Uh-huh,” Riglin said. “Is there anything else, Captain?”
“Who called the police?” Monk asked.
“She did,” Riglin said, gesturing to Lorna. “So did the guy who runs the porno shop next door.”
“Do we have any security-camera footage of the shooting?”
Riglin shook his head. “The clerk says the VCR broke a couple of days ago. The owner was gonna buy a new one tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Monk said. “I’d like to look inside. Has anything been moved?”
“No, sir,” Riglin said.
Monk and I went into the store. The cashier’s counter was to the left of the front door, facing the four cramped aisles of groceries and the refrigerators and freezers that lined the back of the store. The drawer of the cash register was open.
We peered over the counter. Ramin Touzie was crumpled in the tight space between the counter and the wall, a gunshot wound in the center of his chest, his head resting against the side of a plastic trash can. He was wearing a Speed-E-Mart vest over a rugby shirt.
Monk cocked his head, something catching his eye. He walked around the counter, removed a pen from his pocket, and used it to lift out an open box of Ziploc bags from the trash can. Those were the same brand that Monk bought by the case.
He set the box of Ziploc bags down on the counter.
“It’s a crime,” he said.
“You’re talking about the box of Ziploc bags?”
“What else?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “How about the dead guy behind the counter?”
“Why would someone open a box of Ziploc bags, take one or two out, and throw the rest of them away?” Monk said. “It’s unconscionable.”
“Maybe that’s why those two guys came in, stole his money, and shot him,” I said. “As punishment for wasting Ziploc bags.”
“What kind of world are we living
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