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mostly hidden behind Devlin’s torso, so I didn’t think much of it.
    In the narrow hall, a row of three cops stood against the right wall, lined up, drinking cups of coffee and ignoring us. Again, as we passed, I noticed something half hidden behind them. A painting or a poster? Colorful again, with a striped tent and flags, although I couldn’t really tell. Monk was preoccupied with keeping any part of his body from touching anything in this grimy hole.
    Captain Stottlemeyer stood at the end of the hall, holding a set of plastic gloves in each hand. “In here, Monk. Natalie, good to see you. Put these on before you step inside. And don’t touch anything, even with them on.”
    Lying in the middle of a multistained, rumpled bed was the body of Dudley Smith, late forties, curly dark hair, not unlike Monk, except he was dressed in a stained T-shirt and ratty jeans. Stottlemeyer neglected to tell us his occupation. Whatever it was, it must have paid well, because surrounding him on the bed were stacks of money, everything from singles to twenties. Hundreds of bills.
    “He dialed nine one one, complaining of nausea, dizziness, seizures. When the EMTs arrived, maybe twelve minutes later, he was like this.”
    “Shouldn’t the CDC be here?” I asked, taking a big step back. “If this is a disease . . .”
    “You mean the CDC branch at the Department of Public Health? Been and gone. They took their hazmats and left a few minutes ago. It’s not viral or bacteria-based. It’s a poison. Monk?”
    This is one of the strange things about Monk. Well, there are plenty of strange things, but I mean strange as in “out of character.” Here is a man who actually called the CDC when I had a cold and demanded I be quarantined. He’s a man who’s been quoted (by me) as saying, “Nature hates us. Nature wants nothing more than to kill us all.” And yet corpses don’t bother him.
    He bent over Dudley’s face, hands clasped behind his back so that he couldn’t touch anything, even by accident. “Dilated pupils, massive sweating. Quick acting. Combined with the other symptoms, I’m guessing atropine. How was it ingested?”
    The captain wriggled his mustache. When he had weird news to deliver, this was his tell. Not good news or bad news, just weird news, which in our world happened quite often. “The EMTs called our boys before trying to move the body. An hour later, both EMTs were admitted to their own ER. Same symptoms.”
    “Are you saying it’s airborne?” Monk almost shrieked. “Augh. Why are we even here?” He slapped a hand over his mouth and began to hyperventilate, which of course made him breathe even harder.
    “Not airborne.” Stottlemeyer tilted his head toward a corner of the room. A trio of canaries fluttered in a large hanging cage, chirping and flapping their wings. “The proverbial canaries in a coal mine,” he said. “If it was airborne, they’d be dead.”
    “What if they’re immune?” Monk asked.
    “The canaries are not immune.”
    “They could be super canaries. We could die any second—horrible, gasping deaths—and they’ll still be chirping away.”
    “It’s not airborne,” Stottlemeyer insisted. “Get a grip.”
    And, surprisingly, Monk did. It took him a minute or two. But with a sheer force of will, he paced in a tight little circle, each time a little calmer. I was so proud. This was his job—more than a job; it pretty much defined him—and he was now willing himself to be a professional.
    “Topical, then,” he said, and returned to his normal breathing, at least normal for him. “The poison was on the body?”
    “The EMTs said they didn’t touch him, but obviously they did.”
    “Or maybe they didn’t,” Monk argued. “After all, they’re pros. And no one lies to an ER doctor who’s trying to save his life, especially something minor like an EMT touching a body. By the way, are they dead?”
    “They both survived. Thanks for asking.”
    I’d like to say