It was truly a dark and stormy night.
Gray, shadowy clouds shrouded what might've been a star-speckled sky, save for the glow of the streetlights and office buildings across San Francisco.
Lightning skipped across the clouds every now and then, followed suddenly by a clap of thunder. The windows of the Teeger household flashed bright colors from the storm as rain beat against them.
The house was very quiet after dark, when all the downstairs was pitch-black and empty with the exception of the small fish swimming peacefully in a tank in the corner. The water bubbled quietly, a sound barely audible over the raging storm. Two of the Teeger family slept soundly upstairs, a young woman and her tween daughter.
The lower floor of the house, while unoccupied at the moment, still had unmistakably been lived in. It felt very much like a home. Framed family pictures and childhood scribbles in crayon lined the walls, and piles of books and craft paper covered the coffee table in their living room. Even the lone fish tank had a few friendly stickers pasted on its glass walls and an open pack of fish food tucked underneath it.
However, the eerie tranquility of the dimly lit space was shattered in a matter of seconds when a dark figure forced open the living room window.
The clouds lit up with lightning as he slipped over the windowsill, briefly illuminating the room and casting oddly shaped shadows.
The intruder was unarmed and unmasked, showing his confidence in the success of his mission. He didn't have time to waste for closing the window behind him, letting stray homework papers of the younger Teeger flutter in the rainy wind. The man approached the fish tank that sat at the other end of the room. Behind the toy treasure chest submerged in the water hid a small, orange and white patterned fish watching curiously.
The man reached an arm around the side of the tank, flicking a switch that turned the lights of the aquarium on. Startled, the fish darted to the far side of its enclosure.
He pried open the lid of the aquarium without hesitation, and without looking, for he didn't notice a cup that had been resting atop it. It clattered loudly to the floor, startling him.
"Shit" — the intruder cursed under his breath. The clack! of the plastic cup on the hardwood was certainly loud enough to be heard across the house.
Sure enough, the young woman, Natalie, woke with a start upstairs. Noises in the night were never a good sign, and a particular worry of Natalie Teeger's — she was a single mother of one, and her first priority was to keep her daughter Julie out of harm's reach at all times.
Lucky for Natalie, this uneasiness meant she came prepared.
Hidden underneath her bed was a baseball bat, Natalie's go-to quick and easy weapon. It was also something that could fit in spaces that 11-year-old girls wouldn't be looking. As far as Natalie was concerned, her daughter should feel safe in her own house, and not like she needed protecting.
Which she very much did.
Natalie crept down the hallway, ignoring how her hands shook as they clutched the bat firmly. She cast a quick glance into Julie's room as she passed it. Julie was still safe and sleeping quietly, thank God, wrapped in her blankets and holding onto a purple Care Bear. Natalie let a sigh of relief escape her lips as she watched Julie breathe, and relaxed her hands as she moved on.
The stairs creaked softly as she made her way down them. At their foot was a beaded curtain marking the entrance to the lower level of the house, separating Natalie from the dark and cluttered living room. Natalie pushed it aside, taking in her surroundings.
At first sight, the room appeared to be empty. All the clutter just barely concealed the intruder where he was poised over the fish tank.
Natalie looked to her left, then to her right, and took another step forward. It was noticeably colder than it ought to be, but Natalie dismissed that thought, telling herself it was only nerves.
She was completely unaware of the man standing in the corner of the next room, hidden by the shadows and studying her next move to determine his own.
The second Natalie turned toward the kitchen, he sprung forward.
She screamed.
Her body collided with the hardwood floor. The bat fell from her fingers.
In an instant, all coherent thoughts were driven out of Natalie's mind, and she was left with one instinct: to fight back.
He held her from behind; she could only flail helplessly — stumbling backwards until she could force him against her bookshelf.
Smack!
His head had smashed into the wooden shelf. Natalie took the opportunity to make a run for it.
The freedom was short-lived, unfortunately. Seething, the intruder steadied himself and shoved Natalie forward. She landed against the sofa.
"Leave — me — alone!" Natalie cried, reaching blindly for the lamp on her side table. Her hands found the ceramic base and she flung it forward. It smashed against the man's head.
The force of her attack sent him tumbling onto the floor, taking a nasty blow from the corner of the table on his way. He reached a hand up to feel his head — where he'd made contact with the table, his hair was matter with blood.
Natalie scrambled over the back of the sofa, but the blow from the lamp had still only slowed down the intruder briefly. He took her from behind again, forcibly pushing her over the back of the sofa.
It was then that his fingers locked around her neck.
Natalie gasped for air, choking back a scream interlaced with a sob.
There followed a fleeting, intense moment of struggling in which Natalie was practically throwing her fists, every inch of her body she could use as a weapon at the intruder, using the last of her strength to fend him off — reaching for anything at all she could use —
— and then her hands found the scissors.
She had no time to think, only a moment to act. Natalie thrust the scissors forward, lodging them just beneath the intruder's neck.
Time caught up to her then, and she gasped as she made eye contact with the man above her. For a single, horrifying moment he was frozen, looking through her with glassy eyes...
Then he thudded to the floor, unmoving.
Natalie's expression held exhaustion and fear that showed through her heavy eyes and flushed cheeks. She collapsed against her sofa, covering her face to block out the pale corpse before her.
And then, just as quickly as the disruption had began, it was over.
The Teeger household resumed its quietness. For the little fish in its little aquarium world, it was like nothing had even happened. The water continued to bubble. The filter continued to hum. Natalie and Julie Teeger were again the only living souls occupying the house.
But as the phone rang, waiting for 9-1-1; as blood stained the wooden floors; it was clear that the atmosphere of the once cozy house had changed. And to young, struggling Natalie Teeger, it was unclear when or if it would ever be the same.
//
It was now morning.
The storm had cleared up, leaving an exceptionally cloudy sunrise behind. Yellows and oranges tinted the blue sky covering downtown San Francisco. A flock of police cars filled the street outside Natalie's house, a tan station wagon among them.
Yellow tape blocked off the scene, instructing passerby to stay back. Despite this, curious neighbors surrounded the sight, peering at officers as they entered and exited the house.
Inside of the house, near the living room sofa, a man whose name tag identified him as Police Captain Leland Stottlemeyer stood. Approaching him was his trusty lieutenant Randy Disher, who, instead of meeting the captain by going around the sofa, hopped over it awkwardly and landed sprawled on the cushions.
"Captain," Randy addressed him, before adding in a hushed whisper, "Monk's here."
"Aw, goddamnit," was Leland Stottlemeyer's response as usual.
Sure enough, amidst the crowd, two people emerged from the tan station wagon. Even at first sight, their differing personalities were clear to the eye.
One was a pretty woman with brilliantly curly dirty-blonde hair, a confident aura, and a brightly colored, leopard printed outfit (in stark contrast to her companion) — this was Sharona Fleming, the one and only.
The other was a sharply dressed man wearing only tones of brown, looking rather nervous and adjusting the collar of his shirt as he followed Sharona up the steps of Natalie Teeger's house — this was Adrian Monk, the famed detective.
"What the hell are they doing here?"
No response from Randy; his eyes were already fixed on Monk's companion. This earned him an eye roll from his superior.
Monk continued to fidget with his suit as he walked through the doorway. He and Sharona found their way over to where the two policeman stood.
Randy looked up as Sharona and her boss approached. "Sharona... Monk," he greeted them.
"Lieutenant," Sharona returned drily.
Monk rubbed his hands together in response and looked at Disher and Stottlemeyer in turn. Evidently, he considered this a suitable greeting.
A beat, and then: "What are you doing here, Monk?" — from Stottlemeyer.
"I was in the neighborhood," Monk answered cheerfully.
"You are not on the force anymore, Monk," Stottlemeyer told him. "You cannot just show up to a crime scene and expect to solve everything for us. We have this under control."
Sharona raised an eyebrow. The captain shot her a look before continuing.
"Besides, we don't need your help on this one. There's no case here, Monk."
Monk was still doubtful. "What exactly happened?"
"Self-defense stabbing." Stottlemeyer raised two fingers in the direction of Natalie Teeger. She sat at her kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, clutching a mug of coffee.
"Intruder breaks in, he's looking for anything — money, drugs, you know — she finds some scissors," Randy explained.
"Who was the victim?" Monk inquired.
"So far, he's John Doe," Randy read off the notepad he held in his hand. "No wallet, no ID. We're running the prints now."
Monk pressed his lips together as he thought. "I'd like to speak to her," he proposed, nodding at Natalie.
Stottlemeyer sighed. "C'mere."
He led the group towards Natalie. Sharona reached her first, and greeted her with a warm smile. "Hi, I'm Sharona Fleming, and this is my boss, Adrian Monk."
She turned toward Monk, who acknowledged Natalie with a simple wave of his hand.
"Natalie Teeger," she told them.
"We work with the police on a consulting basis," Sharona continued. A cough from Stottlemeyer told her that this was not supposed to be a consulting situation, but she ignored him. "Would you mind telling us what happened here tonight?"
Natalie nodded vacantly. "I heard a noise from downstairs — I think it was maybe two in the morning, I didn't get a look at my clock. But I came downstairs to check it out and he grabbed me from behind."
"So you struggle," Stottlemeyer interjects, "and you found some scissors on your coffee table, correct? What were they doing there?"
"Julie — my daughter — was working on a school project," Natalie answered tiredly. "She has a science fair coming up, I guess she left them out on the table."
"Where is she, Julie?" Sharona asked.
"She's with a neighbor," Randy cut in, tucking his notebook and pen inside his suit jacket. "Didn't see anything."
"Good," Stottlemeyer mumbled, before turning back to Natalie: "So you grabbed the scissors and you stabbed him?"
"I wasn't trying to kill him," Natalie demurred, sighing. "Maybe I was. I...I don't know." She put her head in her hands, pinching the bridge of her nose wearily. Sharona rubbed her shoulder sympathetically.
"Natalie, you had every right to defend yourself," Stottlemeyer assured her. Natalie nodded again as if trying to convince herself.
"Where is your husband, Miss Teeger?" Monk asked. "I notice a man present in a lot of your photographs."
"He died," Natalie said quietly, "six years ago. He's — he was a Navy pilot."
"I'm sorry," Sharona said softly. Natalie nodded her thanks.
There was a pause, and then Natalie burst out, "Captain, why are they doing this? What do they want from me?"
"Who's 'they'?" Monk said, curious.
"There was another intruder two days ago," Randy informed him.
"On Tuesday, a man came to my house," Natalie explained. "He said he was here to check my water meter. But he didn't go downstairs. I — I caught him over there, just looking around." She pointed over to the living room. "But when he saw me, he ran out the back door."
"And you're sure this was a different man?" Monk probed.
"Yeah."
"You're sure about that?" repeated Stottlemeyer.
"Yeah," Natalie said again.
Stottlemeyer considered this, then continued: "Is there anything of value in your house?"
"Yeah. My daughter."
"Of course," Stottlemeyer said, gently but still firm. "I mean, cash or jewelry? Medicine?"
"No," Natalie answered.
"Drugs?" Randy put in. Sharona glared at him from behind Natalie.
"No," Natalie said again, numb to Randy's blunt accusation.
"And you've never seen either of these men before? This guy, or the meter guy?" Monk questioned.
"No, neither of them."
"Well, Ms. Teeger, we figure this was a fairly routine breaking and entering. Probably entirely coincidental. I can have an officer keep an eye on you for the near future, but otherwise, we don't have the grounds to further investigate this."
"Wait, wait, you're leaving? You can't leave. No, you have to help me."
"No charges are being pressed," Stottlemeyer assured her.
"No, I don't care about that. I just — what do they want from me? What if one comes back? I want somebody to figure this out."
Monk took Stottlemeyer aside. "I believe her," he said. "There is a case here, I know it."
"There is no case here, Monk," Stottlemeyer corrected him. "Run along."
Monk gave a squint that said very plainly he did not want to, yet he complied. He made sure to touch all the lamps he passed on his way out, which a few nearby officers chuckled at. They were shut up quickly by a look from Sharona.
"You know where to find us when you need help!" Sharona called as she followed Monk out the door.
"If we need help, and we won't!"
"When!" The door shut behind her.
The next day, Monk and Sharona were spending a typical Wednesday afternoon at the former's apartment. Monk sat in his living room armchair, reading a book, while Sharona flipped through magazines near him. Occasionally, Monk would announce an error he'd discovered in his novel and Sharona would drown him out by listing the latest sales on her favorite perfume brand.
To Monk, his apartment harbored a cozy feel — at least, the closest he could be to 'cozy' with his nonexistent comfort zone. To anyone else, it was unnervingly tidy, drab, and always seemed to have a lingering odor of sanitizer.
Not exactly the ideal hangout spot, but in many of her off hours, it was where Sharona chose to be.
Yesterday, Stottlemeyer had closed the Natalie Teeger case officially, dismissing it as nothing out of the ordinary. Adrian Monk, as expected, still had his personal reservations.
"What are you doing?"
Sharona had placed her magazine on the edge of the chair (askew, most likely to intentionally mess with Monk) and had moved over to the mantle.
"Lighting a candle," Sharona replied. "Your place reeks."
"It's just the disinfectant. You're making it worse."
"It's lavender scented, Adrian," she told him. "Anything is better than this. It smells like you're living in a doctor's office."
"Ah, good. That's what I was going for."
"I thought you were afraid of doctors."
"No, that's dentists," he corrected her. "It goes germs, needles, dentists — or snakes — milk — have you seen the list?"
"It's on your desk."
On his way to the desk, Monk whisked the candle away from Sharona and promptly dropped it, still burning, into one of many nearby garbage cans.
"Adrian, that's a fire hazard," said an exasperated Sharona.
"It wasn't me who lit the candle, was it?"
Sharona scoffed.
"Germs, needles, dentists, milk, heights, vomiting..." Monk mumbled, reading off his paper and ignoring the sharp look directed at him from Sharona.
"Is fire on there?" Sharona leaned against the doorframe.
"Number twenty-seven." He looked up. "Why?"
The garbage can was aflame.
Turns out, if you're constantly disposing of hand sanitizer and old newspapers, and you toss a lit candle onto them, you're likely to start a fire.
Monk yelped and dashed to the kitchen. When he returned, he was holding a fire extinguisher (one of many he kept in a cabinet under the sink).
"Hold upright. Pull away pin," Monk read quickly off the label. "Stand eight feet back from the flame. One... two..."
"Adrian, it means approximately!"
"Three, four — it doesn't say approximately! You have to trust the label makers, Sharona. They're professional label makers."
"Ugh, give me it!"
The kerfuffle that ensued was enough to drown out a knock at the door, followed by, "Hello? Mr. Monk? Hello?"
Natalie Teeger let herself into the apartment, glancing around the corner tentatively to find the source of the shouting.
"What are you doing?"
Monk managed to yank the extinguisher away from Sharona and resumed taking steps away from the flaming garbage can. "Measuring. It says eight feet. Stay back!"
"No-no-no, it doesn't mean exactly!"
"I think I would know," Monk said, with an eye roll at Sharona as if to say 'Can you believe this?'
She could indeed believe it. "Put the damn fire out!"
"Alright, alright..." He hesitated for just a second too long.
"Okay, give me that." Natalie grabbed the fire extinguisher.
"Now wait a second, you're too close!" Monk cried, but Natalie ignored him and squeezed the trigger shut. There was a fsshhh sound as the fire went out.
She sighed and put the fire extinguisher down on Monk's coffee table. "Is everyone okay?"
Sharona nodded. Monk made a funny noise.
"I'm gonna write these people a letter," he assured Sharona and Natalie, picking the fire extinguisher back up. "We could've been killed. They should say... approximately."
"You're Monk, as in the detective?" Natalie asked in disbelief. "The famous, admired, respected detective?"
In response, Monk pushed the nozzle of the fire extinguisher back into place. It made a feeble squeaking sound.
"I read up on you after yesterday," Natalie said. "Captain Stottlemeyer said you were the best cop he's ever met. I guess he's never seen you put out a fire.
"He is brilliant," Sharona told her. "Kooky, but brilliant."
"Thank you," Monk said quietly, taking both as a compliment.
"Okay, well, listen. I need your help. Those men in my house, they were after something from me. I know it. But your police department isn't looking into it and I don't know what to do. Do you have kids, Mr. Monk?"
"Uh, no."
"I have a son," Sharona volunteered.
"Then you know how I feel. I would do anything for my daughter. She's eleven years old; she's so young. Mr. Monk, I don't say this very often, but I'm scared." Natalie bit her lip. "Please, help me. Help us. I can pay you. I'm not rich, but I can take out a loan. I'll do anything," she stressed.
"Of course we'll help," Sharona promised her before Monk could open his mouth to speak.
Monk shrugged in agreement. "I'd like to take a look at where you killed this man two nights ago, if that's okay."
Natalie had flinched at the blatant reminder of the manslaughter she had committed, but she nodded calmly. "Yes, of course."
On their way to Natalie's place, Monk and Sharona discussed the case.
"There's something bothering me about this," Monk said. That could be his catchphrase, among the thousands of other expressions of his. 'There's something wrong here. Here's the thing. You'll thank me later.' Over and over and over again.
Funnily enough, he was never thanked later.
"What's that?" Sharona checked her rearview mirror.
"Two intruders? Within days of each other? It can't be — that was a red light! Slow down a little, would you? It can't be a coincidence."
"Mm-hmm," Sharona agreed. "I don't believe the captain. There's gotta be a connection."
Monk rubbed his hands together in thought. "I just can't grasp what it is. I didn't get a good look at the house yesterday. I'm missing something."
"You'll get it. You always do. You're never wrong, it's infuriating."
"That's true," Monk mumbled, and it wasn't clear if he was referring to his inability to be wrong or how infuriating it was.
Julie had returned to the house when they arrived.
She stood opposite her mother at the doorway to the dining room, watching Monk with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Sharona stood in a different corner of the room, watching both her boss's bizarre way of investigation and the Teeger's reaction with amusement.
Monk was bent over, holding his hands out in front of him as he ran back and forth across the dining room.
He came to a halt very suddenly, and, staying unnervingly quiet, walked across the room to face Julie. She shrunk back against the wall, and looked to her mother with wide eyes.
"It's okay," Natalie whispered to her.
"Yeah, he's creepy, but he's harmless," Sharona chimed in to assure her with a smirk at her boss.
Oblivious to all of them, Monk picked up a ruler for the nearby table and held it level against Julie's head to the wall. He drew a pencil from the inside of his jacket pocket and made a small marking above her.
Monk handed the ruler nonchalantly to Julie and ventured past her into the kitchen. The three followed behind him and watched as he tilted his head to be level with the countertop.
Julie's apprehension turned to amusement as she watched the detective work. Natalie elbowed her as she suppressed a giggle.
"Is there money in the house?" Monk asked, standing over the coffee can.
"No," answered Natalie.
"What about the coffee can? Isn't that where you hide your money?"
Natalie furrowed her brows. "How did you know that?"
"There are coffee grounds on the counter, indicating that it's been opened recently," Monk explained, using his silver pen to point to the scattered grounds, "but you don't have a coffee maker."
"Wow, he's like Velma from Scooby-Doo," Julie whispered in awe to her mother.
Sharona beamed.
Monk used the same pen to prop open the lid of the coffee can and started to peer inside. Natalie interrupted him.
"I — I had money in there, but I spent it on luxury items like food and rent."
Monk nodded and let the coffee can lid fall back down.
"You grew five-eighths of an inch," he told her simply, noting the pencil marks on the doorway.
Looking more amused still, Julie and Natalie followed Monk as he approached a shelf in the next room. A triangular frame showcasing a folded American flag rested upon it — reminiscent of a past military funeral.
"You said your husband was in the Navy?"
"Yeah," Natalie confirmed, "He died six years ago."
Monk nodded; he shared her pain.
"And you recently starting dating again," he observed, changing the subject.
Natalie's mouth fell open. "How did you know that?"
"It's patently obvious," said Monk, as if there was no reason he should not have known Natalie was dating from the minute he stepped inside her house. "I happened to notice these in your coat pocket..."
He drew a packet out of her coat. Sharona looked up just then, realizing a second too late what Monk was doing. "Birth control pills."
"Adrian!" Sharona hissed from the doorway.
Natalie gaped at Monk. Behind her, Julie was frozen, eyes wide. For a brief second Monk waited expectantly — the awkward silence was broken when Natalie snatched the pills from his hand and he started.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"I can't believe you just did that!" Sharona told him off quietly. She looked up at Natalie. "I'm sorry, he — he has trouble with —"
Natalie wasn't listening, however; instead, she was still glaring at Monk. "Right in front of my daughter? What is wrong with you? Do you have, like, zero social skills?"
Sharona bristled.
"Mom, it's okay," Julie said, looking fairly embarrassed. "I'm not a baby."
Monk quickly tried to correct himself off of Natalie's glare. "Ah, wait a minute. Wait a minute." He laughed weakly as if the situation was amusing to them all. "Oh, my mistake. These are not birth control pills. These are tic-tacs!"
Nobody was buying it.
"Just little pink and green tic-tac candies," Monk went on. "But don't eat them. You shouldn't, because... they're special, adult, you know, tic-tacs..."
He fell silent at a forceful cough from Sharona.
Natalie shook her head and stuffed the pills in her purse, crossing her arms. "Detective Monk, what..." she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "What do you think these guys are after?"
"I don't know," he mumbled. "Okay, we... we have two intruders? One last night, two days ago." He was talking more to himself than Natalie or Sharona now. "Both in this room? Where were they exactly, again?"
"Just around the television," Natalie said, pointing.
Monk followed her gaze and leaned to his side again, right hand outstretched, taking slow steps toward the television. He came to a halt once he reached the sofa and bent forward. The group watched him intently.
Monk had discovered something between the cushions: a small, turquoise fishing net that he used a pair of tweezers to obtain.
"Is this yours?" he asked, turning around to face Julie.
"Um, no, mine's over there." Julie gestured to underneath the aquarium where a darker green net lay instead of the blue one Monk held.
Monk raised the net to his face, sniffed it, and held it out to Sharona. "It's brand new. It's never been used."
Natalie peered at it and then looked from Monk to the net, intrigued. "I can't believe all those detectives from yesterday missed that."
"Well, they probably saw it..." Monk reasoned. "They just didn't give it a second thought. Sharona — baggie?"
Sharona rifled through her purse and whipped out a plastic evidence bag, which she handed to Monk. He took it gingerly and dropped the net inside.
"Is this light always on?" He was looking at the illuminated aquarium.
Natalie followed his gaze curiously. "Actually, it was off last night." She looked at Julie. "I didn't turn it on."
"Me neither."
Monk looked back over to the fish tank; the fish swam calmly among the rocks at the bottom. Sharona was thinking along the same lines as him.
"What can you tell us about the fish?"
"His name is Mr. Henry," said Julie quietly. "My father gave him to me."
"Wait, wait, wait." Natalie walked over to where Monk and Sharona were standing, bent over to mimic their stance. "You think the fish has something to do with this? What, like that's what they're after?
"Why?"