either.
Then again, he’d never been able to experience so much of the pleasure and enjoyment in life that I have because of his OCD, which, in a cruel joke of nature, was the root of his detecting genius.
When I looked at it that way, I decided I’d rather live with the drudgery and back pain of an ordinary detective. And once I came to that conclusion, my resentment toward Monk—at least that particular resentment—disappeared.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mr. Monk, Matchmaker
A s I pulled up in front of the thrift store, Jerry and his team were just leaving in their vans. Monk waved good-bye to them, a wistful look on his face. He stood there in his shirt and slacks and yellow boots, holding his mask in his hand, and continued to wave until the vans disappeared around the corner.
I assumed that Jerry had disposed of Monk’s biohazard outfit. It wasn’t a loss. Monk had plenty more of the Tyvek coveralls. They were hanging in his closet to keep them from getting wrinkled.
Monk climbed into the car and sighed.
“Why are you so sad?” I asked.
“Because it’s over,” he said. “Don’t worry, my boots have been decontaminated and disinfected.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I said as I pulled away from the curb.
“You should have been. I hope you don’t make a habit of letting people in your car with suspect boots.”
“How did the cleaning go?”
“It was great. The blood was everywhere, it dripped and splattered in places you wouldn’t believe, and we had to get it all. Jerry is relentless when it comes to finding every speck.”
“Wow,” I said, trying to sound impressed.
“He removes every piece of furniture, opens every drawer, and examines every item. That attention to detail extends to the entire room,” Monk said. “He has this incredible spray, a mix of enzymes and surfactants, that liquefies the dried blood so it can be scrubbed off with industrial tissues, stiff brushes, and putty scrapers. It’s hard work.”
“But you liked it,” I said.
“I loved it. There are no half measures with Jerry. The linoleum was covered with blood. Some less dedicated people might have just mopped it up, scrubbed the floor, and moved on. But he could see some tendrils of blood had reached the wall’s edge. So he insisted that we remove the baseboards and lift up the linoleum. Sure enough, the wood underneath the linoleum was soaked. The linoleum had to go. Then we all got on our hands and knees, scrubbed the wood with that miracle spray, and then coated it with sealant so no moisture could get in or out again. I want to do that when I get home.”
“You want to rip up your floor?”
“I bet the wood underneath has never been thoroughly cleaned and sealed.”
“That’s because it’s always been covered with a floor,” I said. “No one has died on your kitchen floor. I don’t think your landlord would appreciate you tearing it up so you can scrub the wood.”
“He’ll thank me later,” he said.
“No, he won’t. He’ll kill you, and then there will be a reason to clean up your kitchen, only you won’t be around to do it,” I said. “How did Jerry and his crew treat you?”
“They’re my new posse,” he said. “They are such a wacky, zany gang. Gene, he’s the jokester. He says the funniest things.”
“Like what?”
“He said that I was a lunatic at best, a pervert at worst, because I enjoy crime scene cleaning.”
“That’s not funny,” I said. “It’s an insult.”
“No, you don’t get it. What he said is the opposite of what everyone knows to be true, which makes it a comical absurdity. You’d be crazy not to enjoy cleaning, but he said I was crazy because I do . Get it? Hilarity ensued.”
“Uh-huh. What about the others?”
“William is the newbie, so he’s the brunt of lots of goodnatured ribbing, too. Gene would recount particularly gruesome cleaning assignments from the past in an effort to make William gag.”
“Gene sounds like a lovable
Then again, he’d never been able to experience so much of the pleasure and enjoyment in life that I have because of his OCD, which, in a cruel joke of nature, was the root of his detecting genius.
When I looked at it that way, I decided I’d rather live with the drudgery and back pain of an ordinary detective. And once I came to that conclusion, my resentment toward Monk—at least that particular resentment—disappeared.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mr. Monk, Matchmaker
A s I pulled up in front of the thrift store, Jerry and his team were just leaving in their vans. Monk waved good-bye to them, a wistful look on his face. He stood there in his shirt and slacks and yellow boots, holding his mask in his hand, and continued to wave until the vans disappeared around the corner.
I assumed that Jerry had disposed of Monk’s biohazard outfit. It wasn’t a loss. Monk had plenty more of the Tyvek coveralls. They were hanging in his closet to keep them from getting wrinkled.
Monk climbed into the car and sighed.
“Why are you so sad?” I asked.
“Because it’s over,” he said. “Don’t worry, my boots have been decontaminated and disinfected.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I said as I pulled away from the curb.
“You should have been. I hope you don’t make a habit of letting people in your car with suspect boots.”
“How did the cleaning go?”
“It was great. The blood was everywhere, it dripped and splattered in places you wouldn’t believe, and we had to get it all. Jerry is relentless when it comes to finding every speck.”
“Wow,” I said, trying to sound impressed.
“He removes every piece of furniture, opens every drawer, and examines every item. That attention to detail extends to the entire room,” Monk said. “He has this incredible spray, a mix of enzymes and surfactants, that liquefies the dried blood so it can be scrubbed off with industrial tissues, stiff brushes, and putty scrapers. It’s hard work.”
“But you liked it,” I said.
“I loved it. There are no half measures with Jerry. The linoleum was covered with blood. Some less dedicated people might have just mopped it up, scrubbed the floor, and moved on. But he could see some tendrils of blood had reached the wall’s edge. So he insisted that we remove the baseboards and lift up the linoleum. Sure enough, the wood underneath the linoleum was soaked. The linoleum had to go. Then we all got on our hands and knees, scrubbed the wood with that miracle spray, and then coated it with sealant so no moisture could get in or out again. I want to do that when I get home.”
“You want to rip up your floor?”
“I bet the wood underneath has never been thoroughly cleaned and sealed.”
“That’s because it’s always been covered with a floor,” I said. “No one has died on your kitchen floor. I don’t think your landlord would appreciate you tearing it up so you can scrub the wood.”
“He’ll thank me later,” he said.
“No, he won’t. He’ll kill you, and then there will be a reason to clean up your kitchen, only you won’t be around to do it,” I said. “How did Jerry and his crew treat you?”
“They’re my new posse,” he said. “They are such a wacky, zany gang. Gene, he’s the jokester. He says the funniest things.”
“Like what?”
“He said that I was a lunatic at best, a pervert at worst, because I enjoy crime scene cleaning.”
“That’s not funny,” I said. “It’s an insult.”
“No, you don’t get it. What he said is the opposite of what everyone knows to be true, which makes it a comical absurdity. You’d be crazy not to enjoy cleaning, but he said I was crazy because I do . Get it? Hilarity ensued.”
“Uh-huh. What about the others?”
“William is the newbie, so he’s the brunt of lots of goodnatured ribbing, too. Gene would recount particularly gruesome cleaning assignments from the past in an effort to make William gag.”
“Gene sounds like a lovable
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