[Gilson has been brought into the hospital]
Maybe not for a while. He's in a coma. So how do you know this guy?
He's-He's my men's room attendant.
It had to be him. He worked at the theater.
Teeger, give it a rest! Are you going to blame every crime in California on this man? [Monk looks at Gilson's belongings]
Yeah we already checked, he never smoked. It's probably a gift for somebody else.
[Monk looks at Gilson's wristwatch and its luminescent dial, and notices something]
Wait... don't hug me. You're gonna want to hug me, but don't hug me.
You were right about Hannigan, he's the guy.
[Hugging Monk] Oh, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!
[Natalie hands Monk a check to recruit him to investigate]
A check for $300. I'm hiring you, Mr. Monk. I need your help. I can't do it myself.
Oh, this check's no good.
That's sweet of you to say, but...
No, I mean it's literally no good. You can't cover this.
Sure I can. I just deposited my paycheck on Wednesday.
Right. But I happen to know that that check is going to bounce. So this check is pretty much worthless.
You wrote me a bad check? How could you do that?
I might ask you the same question.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! Your check was bad first!
Natalie, there's no right and wrong here. It's all tangled up. One check, another check. It's like the chicken and the egg.
No, it's not! There... there's no egg here. There's no egg. This is all chicken!
[Monk, Stottlemeyer and Disher are trying to figure out what really happened to Martha Murphy]
Whaddaya think, act of God? [Monk nods] So how do you explain the doll?
What, you want me to start rounding up witch doctors?
That'd make a hell of a line up. [Monk, Stottlemeyer and Disher chuckle to themselves, but Natalie is not impressed]
You know what? It's not funny! I used to laugh about it, too.
Monk About what?
Wait, you don't actually believe in that stuff?
Somebody predicted that that poor woman would get hit by a baseball three days before it happened! How would you explain it?
Oh, I've got it. Well she came by here every day. Right? So maybe the killer was waiting, behind that tree with a baseball gun.
A baseball gun? There's no such thing!
Yeah, but there are pitching machines.
All right, how would your baseball gun killer-
That's a good name for him actually.
...how would he know that a home run would be hit at exactly that moment? And what happened to the other baseball? [No response from Monk, Stottlemeyer and Disher] It's voodoo, it's real, and it kills people!
Okay, how 'bout this? She had an insurance policy with a no-suicide clause. So she had to make it look like an accident. She came here, she waited for a home run to be hit. She grabs the ball... and cracks her own cranium. [Mimics hitting his head with a ball]
[Incredulously] With a baseball? She fractured her cranium?
MSMonk, Stottlemeyer and Disher
Yeah, she exercised.
I think voodoo's looking better and better.
All right, let's be rational! We live in the real world. It is governed by science, physics, laws of nature. There is always, always a non-voodoo explanation for everything!
Except voodoo. [Randy takes a call on his cell phone]
I don't understand! Did some gypsy put a curse on you when you were a child?
I don't wanna talk about it!
[On his phone] We'll be right there. [Hangs up]
There's been another doll.
[Jorgenson does a cleansing ritual on Natalie]
RJReverend Jorgensen
Mr. Monk, if you would be so kind as to reattach it's head. Here's some adhesive. [He hands the two materials to Monk as he adds ingredients] Some witchgrass. Some coltsfoot. [He adds Mandrake root] Ah. Mandrake root. Smidgen more. [Adds a little more] All I need now is the doll. [Monk continues trying to get the doll's head centered]
RJReverend Jorgensen
It doesn't have to be perfect.
RJReverend Jorgensen
It's symbolic, really.
RJReverend Jorgensen
The forces of darkness are gathering.
RJReverend Jorgensen
It doesn't have to be perfect!
RJReverend Jorgensen
It doesn't have to be perfect.
RJReverend Jorgensen
Doesn't...
Mr. Monk, please, just let him finish!
RJReverend Jorgensen
She's suffering, Mr. Monk! It doesn't have to be... okay, that's close enough. [Grabs the doll from Monk]
[Natalie accidentally drinks the potion]
RJReverend Jorgensen
What did you do?!?
RJReverend Jorgensen
Did you drink that?
Yeah, you said it was ready.
RJReverend Jorgensen
You're supposed to rub it on your neck. What, are you mental?
RJReverend Jorgensen
What? 911. 911! 911!
RJReverend Jorgensen
No! Call 911!
[Stottlemeyer notices that Monk is less superstitious about voodoo than Natalie is]
Wait, let me get my head around this: you are the level-headed, brave one now?
[Looking out the window] She's shaking her head.
It's this voodoo stuff. She believes it.
Well, I can't really blame her. We've all got the heebie-jeebies. Say hello to Doll #3. [Monk looks at the doll]
Victim #3, Robert Boyd, 64. Guy was a big fish, he owned Boyd Teletronics, you know, the cell phone company? [He points to Angeline a few feet away] According to his niece, Angeline Dilworth - that's her over there - she's been worried about him, especially this past week.
Apparently he was obsessed with the voodoo killings. He was watching the news, following the case...
So this morning, he goes to collect the mail, including this box-
Same as the others - it was postmarked three days ago, no return address. He opens the box, sees the doll, Bob's your uncle, his heart just stopped.
"Bob's your uncle"? That doesn't sound right.
[The police station is swarming with activity. A detective drops a box on Stottlemeyer's desk as Stottlemeyer talks on the phone]
No-no-no-no, no toche la muneca ["Do not touch the doll"], you understand me? Do not touch la muneca! Don't touch anything! [He listens] Look, we'll have an officer there in 20 minutes! [He hangs up and turns to Monk] I told the Mayor not to go public; now we've got fifty copycats out there, half the town is getting voodoo dolls in the mail and all of them want a squad car in their driveway!
Yeah but these are the four; the only four that count. [He walks over to a bulletin board containing photos (from left to right) of Natalie, Martha Murphy, Robert Boyd, and Ralph Farris, with each person's respective doll being placed underneath their head shot] The same wrapping paper, same handwriting. That's strange: he doesn't write the address on the boxes. He uses these labels. [He scans the address labels]
It's the damndest thing, huh?
What about the victims? Is there any connection?
No. No, the FBI's been running their names all day. There's no connection. Oh, and here's some more bad news: our primary suspect - our only suspect - is not gonna fly. [Takes a surveillance photo of Jorgensen off the board]
Hmmm, the guy who was selling all the dolls?
Reverend Jorgensen. He's got an alibi for all three victims.
And now Natalie. How's she doing?
Uh, scared to death. I just talked to Randy; she hasn't gotten off the couch all day. Now he says she's wearing one of those plastic dog funnels around her neck!
Could be a serial killer. He's killing people according to their phobias. This guy was afraid of heights, so he pushed him off the roof.
Augie wasn't afraid of heights. He was afraid of spiders.
That's different. He's killing people using the opposite of their phobias. The Opposite Killer.
So you're saying the opposite of a spider is a tall building?
What do you think the opposite of a spider?
I have no idea, but it's not a tall building.
Hmm, tell that to the Opposite Killer.
I am not giving up, Mr. Monk. You are officially on notice. I am throwing you a party.
As a matter of fact, you are not.
Oh, yes I am. We're going to have balloons and cake and dancing!
Oh, for the love of God, why?
Because, Mr. Monk, it's your birthday, and whether you like it or not, you have friends who love you and want to celebrate your life. We're happy you were born.
[They see a small sheet on a stretcher covering what remains of Bradley Foster]
Oh my God! Where's the rest of him? [Stottlemeyer and some other cops come up from beneath the compactor]
That's all there is [of him].
But he's all... squished!
His name was Bradley Foster; he was the maintenance man. Apparently he fell into the trash compactor.
We've sent a guy to check the parking lot for his car.
I'd look for a compact. [The other cops burst out laughing]
UCUniformed Cop #2
Hey did you see what he was wearing? Those aren't briefs; they're more like boxers! [More laughter]
[The team is searching Bradley Foster's apartment]
Excuse me, but do I have to remind both of you that two nights ago the guy who lived here got torn apart in a trash compactor?
I bet he was "surprised"!
[To Monk] I know she's been trying to throw you a party, and, um, she's going to. Oh, she's gonna get you.
But this is a murder victim's place of residence. Do you honestly think she would do it here?
No. No, I don't. And that is precisely why I do. And because I do, I don't. So yes, I do.
