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those instances, we appreciate qualified help wherever we can get it, whether it’s from other law enforcement agencies, journalists, civilian experts in various fields, or anybody else with relevant information or special insight.”
    Monk sipped his water, set his glass down next to Stottlemeyer’s, and compared the two. He didn’t like what he saw, though they looked even to me.
    “And what happens when Mr. Monk shows up uninvited at the scene of one of these routine cases?” Braddock said.
    “I solve them.” Monk took another sip of water, so small it could have counted as evaporation. But this time when he compared the two glasses, he seemed satisfied. He sat back in his seat and relaxed.
    Braddock looked at Stottlemeyer. “So he does your job for you even on the small cases and doesn’t charge you for it. Lucky you.”
    “When Monk solves a murder, it’s good for the citizens of San Francisco whom we protect and serve,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s not about me.”
    Stottlemeyer took another sip of water, much to Monk’s obvious consternation.
    “In fact, Mr. Monk solves a lot more murder cases than he’s paid for,” Braddock said. “In the last seven years, Mr. Monk has personally solved nearly a hundred and fifty homicides and your department’s closure rate has reached an incredible ninety-four percent.”
    “That’s all?” Monk said. “We should be ashamed of ourselves.”
    Monk narrowed his eyes at his glass, picked it up, and took a carefully measured sip, then set it back down next to Stottlemeyer’s.
    The captain glared at Monk. “Most police departments are lucky if they can clear half their murder cases. Our closure rate is thirty percent higher than the national average.”
    “Explain the six percent of murders in San Francisco that haven’t been solved,” Monk said.
    Stottlemeyer motioned to Braddock. “He’s asking the questions, Monk.”
    “They must have been cases nobody showed me,” Monk said. “If you give them to me now, I’ll solve them.”
    “They’re not for you. They’re mostly gang shootings and drug-related murders,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ve got detectives with a thorough understanding of gang culture and a lot of experience on the streets handling those cases.”
    Stottlemeyer picked up his glass, drank all of the water, and slammed it back down on the table so hard I thought it might break.
    “But they’re not solving them,” Monk said. “I will. I’m streetwise. I’m down with those hepcats.”
    Laughter rippled through the audience. Stottlemeyer was visibly embarrassed for Monk and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. So did I but there wasn’t anything either one of us could do to help him.
    “Are you saying that you’re infallible, Mr. Monk?” Braddock asked.
    “No,” Monk said. “There is one case I haven’t been able to solve.”
    “Next question,” Stottlemeyer said bluntly, and looked out into the audience. “I’m sure somebody out there has a question they’d like to ask.”
    I could have hugged him for that. He always tried to protect Monk from pain, self-inflicted and otherwise.
    A detective stood up. “I’m Zev Buffman, Owensboro, Kentucky, PD. I got one. What was the department’s homicide closure rate before Monk began consulting with you?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t have those figures in front of me,” Stottlemeyer said.
    “I do,” Braddock said. “It was forty-three-point-five percent. How do you explain that, Captain?”
    I think Stottlemeyer would have liked to explain it by punching Braddock in the face. Instead, he took a more diplomatic approach.
    “There were lots of factors, Paul. Violent crime and homicide rates in the city were way up and at the same time we were understaffed and underfunded. The department cut four million dollars from the overtime budget, resulting in a hundred and ninety-five thousand fewer overtime hours, and forty-eight officers either quit or took early retirement. You can’t