"Twenty-five."

Monk tried to hide his doubt. That seemed impossible. Only seven years separated them? Monk flexed his prosthetic hand, aware that a lot could happen over seven years. Still, he studied his companion more closely for the first time, trying to size him up.

On the train ride from Washington, Monk had read through the details about Dr. Henry Malloy, but he knew only the briefest bio on his traveling companion. Creed was from Ohio, had quit medical school after one year, and served two tours in Kabul as a grunt. Shrapnel from an IED had left him with a permanent limp. He tried for a third tour but ended up out of the service, though the details on that were less clear. Due to his test scores and background, he was recruited by Sigma and trained in genetics at Cornell.

Still, the kid looked like he could be in high school.

"So, Doogie," Monk continued, "how long have you been active?"

Creed just stared at Monk, plainly accustomed to ribbing about his baby-faced looks. "Finished Cornell three months ago," he said stiffly. "Been in D.C. for two months. Mostly getting settled in."

"So this is your first assignment?"

"If you call this an assignment...," he mumbled, and stared out the passenger window.

Though Monk felt the same way, he still bristled. "Nothing's trivial when it comes to fieldwork. Every detail matters. The right piece of information can make or break a case. It's something you need to learn, Doogie."

Creed glanced to him. His dour look turned a bit sheepish. "Okay. Point taken."

Monk folded his arms, hardly satisfied.

Kids. Think they know everything.

Shaking his head, Monk turned his attention outside as the cab crossed onto the Princeton campus. It was as if a verdant chunk of England had been dropped into the middle of New Jersey. Autumn leaves spread across rolling green lawns, ivy climbed walls of stately gothic stone buildings, even the dormitories looked like something out of Currier and Ives.

As they glided through this bucolic world, it did not take them long to reach their destination. The cab pulled to the curb, and they climbed out.

The Carl Icahn Laboratory occupied a corner of a wide green expanse. While many of Princeton's structures dated to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the laboratory was only a few years old, a stunning example of modern architecture. Two rectangular buildings stood perpendicular to one another, housing the main labs. Joining them together was a two-story curved atrium, facing the parklands.

That's where they were to meet Dr. Henry Malloy. "Ready?" Monk asked and checked his watch. They were five minutes late. "Ready for what?"

"The interview."

"I thought you'd conduct the debriefing of the professor."

"Nope. It's all you, Doogie."

Creed sighed heavily through his nose. "Fine."

They entered the building and crossed into the atrium. A curving two-story wall of glass faced the park's lawn. Forty-foot-tall louvers sectioned the windows and were timed to move with the sun. They cast shadows deep into the atrium, dappling across chairs and tables. Spatters of students sat and chatted, their hands permanently glued to coffee cups.

Monk searched and spotted where he was supposed to meet Dr. Malloy. It was hard to miss. "This way," he said and led his companion across the atrium.

Off by a set of stairs rose a one-story sculpture. It looked like a half-melted conch shell. Even if not informed about it, Monk would have recognized the architectural design as Frank Gehry. The conch shell sheltered a small meeting place within its folds. A few people were already seated at a square conference table.

Monk crossed to join them. As he approached, he realized they were all too young. In his briefcase, Monk had a photograph of Dr. Malloy. The man was definitely not here.

Maybe the professor had come and gone already.

Monk stepped out of the conch and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed the man's office number. It rang and rang, then went to voice mail.

If he's already left, and I came all this way for nothing...

Monk dialed a second number. It was for the doctor's assistant.

A woman answered. Monk quickly explained about Dr. Malloy's absence.

"He's not there?" his assistant asked.

"No one here but a lot of kids who look like junior high students."

"I know," the woman said with a laugh. "Students just keep getting younger, don't they? And I'm sorry, but Dr. Malloy must still be in his lab. That's where I last saw him, and he never hears his cell phone. He can get so focused on what he's doing that he'll work right through a scheduled lecture. I feared as much today, so stuck around. He's very excited about what he's discovered."

Monk perked up with her last words. Had the professor figured something out, something that might help the case?

"Listen," the woman continued, "I'm just across the street in my office, finishing some work with my lab partner. There's an underground walkway that connects my building to yours. Ask one of the students. I'll borrow a keycard from the administrator and meet you down there. Dr. Malloy's lab is on the basement level. I imagine he'll want to show you the DNA assay himself."

"Okay. I'll meet you there." Monk pocketed his phone and waved his briefcase at Creed. "C'mon. We're heading directly to the guy's lab."

After getting directions from a coed in a very tight sweater, Monk led the way down to the basement level. The underground passageway was easy enough to find.

As they approached the tunnel entrance, a middle-aged woman waved to them from the other side. Monk waved back. She hurried over, out of breath, holding out her hand.

"Andrea Solderitch," she introduced herself.

After the introductions, she led them down a neighboring hallway. She talked almost nonstop, plainly nervous.

"There are only a few labs down here. So it's easy to get lost. Most everything else is storage rooms, mechanical spaces...oh, and the building's vivarium, where they house the lab animals. The genomics department keeps its microarray facility down here to keep it ozone free. It's right over here."

She lifted the keycard in her hand and approached a closed door.

"The department administrator tried calling the lab," she explained. "No answer. I'll just pop a look inside. I'm sure he wouldn't have left the campus."

She waved the card and pulled the handle. As the door whooshed open, Monk immediately smelled smoke, electrical from the tang to it-and beneath it, a stench, like burned hair. He grabbed for Andrea, but he was too slow. She saw what was inside. Her face dissolved into confusion, then horror. A hand rose to cover her mouth.

Monk pulled her to the side and passed her to Creed. "Keep her here."

He dropped his briefcase and reached to the shoulder holster inside his suit jacket. He pulled out his service pistol, a Heckler & Koch .45. The woman's eyes widened. She turned away, pushing her face into Creed's shoulder.

"Do you have a weapon?" Monk asked him.

"No...I thought this was just an interview."

Monk shook his head. "Let me guess, Doogie. You were never a Boy Scout."

Not waiting for an answer, Monk entered the lab, sweeping the blind spots. He was sure whoever had been here had come and gone, but he wasn't taking any chances. Dr. Henry Malloy was tied to a chair in the middle of the room. His head hung to his chest. Blood pooled under the chair.

A computer station behind him was a charred ruin.