“I’m not talking about the crime-scene investigators; they aren’t equipped to handle a situation like this,” Monk said. “This requires professionals who deal with garbage every day.”
“You want me to call a garbage man?”
“That’s a pejorative and sexist term. They really prefer ‘sanitation technician.’ ”
“How do you know?”
“I talk to them,” Monk said.
“You do? Why?”
“They’re people, too, you know.”
“Who hang around with garbage,” I said. “I’d think you’d want to be as far away from them as possible when they show up.”
“I take precautions,” Monk said. “Gloves, surgical mask, goggles. But I have to be there to supervise.”
“You supervise your trash collection? Why?”
“I have special needs.”
“Believe me, I know, but what does that have to do with your trash?”
“I have to make sure my trash isn’t being mixed with the other trash,” Monk said.
“Why? What terrible thing could possibly happen?”
“It could get dirty.”
“It’s trash, Mr. Monk. It’s all dirty, even yours.”
“No, mine is clean dirty,” Monk said.
“Clean dirty,” I said. “What is that?”
“For one thing, each of my discarded items is placed in an individual airtight bag before being put in the mother bag.”
“So it won’t get the other trash in the ‘mother bag’ dirty.”
“Not everyone is as conscientious as I am,” Monk said. “It’s the sad truth.”
“But your bags get tossed in the back of the truck with everybody else’s trash anyway.”
Monk shook his head. “My bags ride up front with the drivers.”
“It doesn’t make a lot of difference in the end,” I said. “It still goes to the dump.”
“My garbage goes in zone nine.”
“Your trash has its own zone?”
“All the really clean trash goes there.”
I groaned, handed him my purse, and climbed up the rest of the way onto the trash bin.
“Wait, wait,” Monk protested. “You’re exposing yourself.”
I stopped. “Are my pants riding down on my butt?”
“Hell, no,” Monk said.
“Then what am I exposing?”
“You’re exposing your body to deadly toxins,” Monk said. “You haven’t had your shots. You aren’t wearing gloves. You aren’t using a respirator. It’s suicidal.”
“Mr. Monk, I’m only going to lift the lid,” I said.
“And God only knows what you’ll release into the atmosphere,” Monk said. “If you’re not going to think about yourself, think of humanity, think of your daughter, but most of all, think of me.”
I lifted the lid. Monk screamed and leaped away as if he expected the Dumpster to explode, spraying its shrapnel of decaying food, broken glass, old shoes, and soiled diapers all over him. It didn’t.
I looked inside. The bin was nearly empty, with only a few bulging “mother bags” of trash at the bottom. I knew that couldn’t have been all the garbage the hotel had tossed since Friday. I slid along to the end of the bin and climbed over to the next one. I lifted the lid. It was empty. So was the next one.
If the overcoat had been in one of the bins, it was gone now, along with any hope we had of proving Lucas Breen was guilty of murder.
I looked over my shoulder for Monk, but he wasn’t behind me anymore. He was standing on the street twenty yards away, holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth.
I had to yell the bad news to him.
“We’re too late,” I said.
15
Mr. Monk Visits His Trash
It took me thirty minutes to convince Monk it wasn’t necessary for him to call a hazardous materials emergency response team to come and decontaminate me, the alley, and the rest of the block.
But to do that, I had to assure him I was clean, which meant I had to wipe my hands and face with Wet Ones about fifty times, and use the hotel restroom to brush my teeth, wash out my eyes with Visine, and clean my sinuses with nose spray.
Even then, as we drove to the city dump, Monk sat as far away from me in the car as he could without riding outside on the luggage rack.
All of the city’s nonrecyclable garbage is taken to the San Francisco Solid Waste Transfer Center, which is a fancy way of saying “a garbage dump with a roof over it.” The trash is collected there until it can be transported by bigger trucks to the Altamont Landfill in Livermore, about sixty miles east of San Francisco.
The transfer center is an enormous hangar-like building next door to Candlestick Park, which these days is called Monster Park, and not because it’s an amusement park full of dinosaurs. It’s also not named after the killer winds that swoop in off the bay—the winds that blew Giants pitcher Stu Miller off the mound during the 1961 All-star game and that tossed the entire batting cage into center field during a New York Mets practice. Nor is the stadium named for the fact that it’s upwind from an enclosed garbage dump.
It’s named for Monster Cable, some company that makes computer cables and paid the city millions of dollars for the right to plaster their name on the stadium. I think the city should have also let the cable company put their name on the transfer station at no charge. They could’ve called it “Monster Dump,” since that’s what it smelled like and since the name is a lot catchier than “San Francisco Solid Waste Transfer Center.”
It’s a testament to Monk’s determination to get Breen that we were there at all. You know what his reaction was when I merely lifted the lid of a trash bin, and now here he was at the heart of darkness itself—the city dump.
Monk didn’t want to get out of the car. He just sat in his seat, staring in horror at the enormous warehouse and the line of trash trucks going in and out of the building. So I had to call Chad Grimsley, the facility supervisor, and ask him to come out and meet us.
Ten minutes later, Grimsley scooted out of the warehouse in a golf cart. He was a thin, little man with a trim goatee, and he wore a yellow hard hat that seemed five sizes too big for his head.
Grimsley pulled the golf cart right up to the passenger’s side of the car. Monk rolled down the window a quarter of an inch and held a handkerchief to his face.
“I’m Adrian Monk and this is my assistant, Natalie Teeger.” Monk motioned to me in the driver’s seat. I waved at Grimsley. “We’re working with the police on a murder investigation. I’d like to talk to you about a trash pickup outside of the Excelsior hotel.”
“Your assistant mentioned that on the phone,” Grimsley said. “Why don’t you come up to my office and we can discuss it?”
“I’d rather not,” Monk said.
“I can assure you it’s perfectly safe to step out of your car,” Grimsley said. “You don’t even notice the smell after a few minutes.”
“You don’t notice radiation either,” Monk said. “But it’s still killing you.”
Grimsley looked past Monk to me. I shrugged.
“The trash in the neighborhood around the Excelsior was picked up at approximately seven this morning,” Grimsley said.
“Where would it be now?” Monk asked.
Grimsley pointed to the warehouse. “In there. It was dumped about two hours ago.”
Monk showed Grimsley one of the pictures of Breen wearing his overcoat that we’d printed out before we left the house.
“We’re looking for this overcoat. If you could grab it for us, put it in an airtight bag, and bring it out here, we’d appreciate it.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. It really would be better if I could show you.” Grimsley pointed to the office building adjacent to the transfer station. “Those are the executive offices. You could drive right up to the lobby door and run inside. It’s only about five feet from the curb to the door so you can hold your breath the whole way.”