Mr. Monk in Outer Space (23 page)
Read Mr. Monk in Outer Space Online
Authors: Lee Goldberg
Monk frowned. Stottlemeyer frowned. So did Disher.
I was pretty sure that they were each frowning for very different reasons.
Monk was frowning because something didn’t seem right to him about the murder.
Stottlemeyer was frowning because he thought he had it all figured out and he didn’t want Monk complicating things.
And Disher was frowning because if Monk made things more complicated it would mean more work for him and more time away from investigating the Lorber case.
Monk held out his hand to me. “Baggie, please.”
I reached into my purse and gave Monk one. I carry around a lot of Baggies in my purse for disposing of his used wipes and for collecting any evidence that he finds at crime scenes.
He walked back to the lot and disappeared behind the building. I turned to Stottlemeyer and Disher.
“Have you come up with any new leads in the Stipe investigation?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t call them leads, but we have some interesting information.” Disher referred to his notebook. “A writer named Willis Goldkin filed a lawsuit a couple of days ago against Stipe, claiming half the profits from the show.”
“On what grounds?”
“That he co-created it and that Stipe ripped him off,” Disher said. “Now that Stipe is dead, Goldkin might stand a better chance of winning.”
“Why did he wait so long to sue?”
“There wasn’t any money in it before,” Stottlemeyer said. “Now there is.”
“That’s not all,” Disher said. “Stipe was granted a restraining order a month ago against Ernest Pinchuk, the leader of the Galactic Uprising, for stalking him and sending him threatening e-mails.”
“Were they in English or Dratch?”
“What’s Dratch?” Stottlemeyer asked.
That was when we heard a loud pop that sounded like a gunshot. The sound came from the vacant lot. Two uniformed officers instinctively reached for their guns. We hurried over to find Monk standing beside the body, holding the Baggie, which was now torn.
“What the hell are you doing?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“Proving a point,” Monk said.
“You could have gotten yourself shot,” Stottlemeyer said.
“There’s a big echo in this pocket created by the building and the side of the hill. If blowing up a plastic bag and popping it made that much noise with all the traffic on Sansome, imagine what a gunshot would have sounded like last night. But none of the residents up there along the Filbert Steps reported hearing anything, did they?”
“No, they didn’t,” Stottlemeyer said with a groan.
“So the robber used a silencer,” Disher said.
Stottlemeyer shook his head. Monk walked over to the taxi. Stottlemeyer sighed with resignation.
“We’ve got to face it, Randy,” Stottlemeyer said. “This wasn’t a robbery. It was staged to look like one.”
“Why do you say that?” Disher asked.
“Because robberies like this are done by desperate people, and they don’t usually carry around silencers, ” Stottlemeyer said. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken decaf this morning. I’m sleep-walking through this investigation.”
Stottlemeyer was often too hard on himself for missing the things that Monk saw. I’m sure the captain would have come to the same conclusion as Monk. It just would have taken him a lot longer.
“My coffee is caffeinated,” Disher said. “What’s my excuse?”
“I don’t know, Randy,” Stottlemeyer said. “Maybe you were distracted by the demands of the Special Desecration Unit.”
“Yeah,” Disher said. “That must be it. I don’t need to tell you how overwhelming a command position can be.”
Stottlemeyer turned to Monk, who was walking around the cab, a scowl of disgust on his face.
“Thanks, Monk. We’ll take it from here.”
“This car is filthy,” Monk said. “When was the last time the cabbie washed it?”
“I don’t know, but I promise you that we’ll wash it when the lab guys are done.”
Monk took out a handkerchief and used it to open the rear door of the car.
“There’s no need to do that, Monk. I appreciate your help, and for setting us on the right track, but we’ll handle this one ourselves. I need you to concentrate on finding Conrad Stipe’s killer.”
But Monk ignored him and leaned into the backseat of the taxi.
“That’s why we’re here,” I said. “We’ve got some new leads.”
“You do?” Stottlemeyer said, looking hopeful.
“The uniform that the killer was wearing was from season one,” I said. “But his ears were from season two.”
The hope I saw in Stottlemeyer’s face disappeared. “How is that a lead?”
“I’ll show you,” I said.
I led them over to my car, opened the back door, and pulled out the poster boards. I pointed to one of the blowups of the killer.
“Look closely and you’ll see that it’s not just any season-one uniform. It’s from the pilot episode. There’s only one person making and selling uniforms with that design. Her name is Ursula Glemstadt and she has a booth at the convention.”
I pointed to the photos that Ambrose had arranged to illustrate the typical fading of a uniform over time and multiple washings. As I did, I noticed a tiny footnote referencing Ambrose’s book
The Encyclopedia of Confederation Uniforms and Other “Beyond Earth” Clothing
.
The Encyclopedia of Confederation Uniforms and Other “Beyond Earth” Clothing
.
“Based on the color and lack of fraying on the killer’s uniform,” I said, “there’s a good chance he’s wearing it for the first time.”
“Meaning he could have bought it a day or two before the shooting,” Stottlemeyer said, catching on. The expression of hope was back on his face. “Randy, contact this Ursula woman and see if she can tell us anything about her recent customers. Bring a sketch artist with you.”
“I’m on it,” Disher said.
Stottlemeyer looked at me. “It’s pure Monk to come up with a lead based on when someone last laundered their clothes, but I’ve never seen him do a presentation before.”
“He didn’t,” I said. “His brother did.”
“Ambrose?” Stottlemeyer said. “Since when does he help Monk on investigations?”
“Ambrose is an expert on
Beyond Earth.
”
Beyond Earth.
”
“He’s an Earthie?” Disher said.
“Earther,” I corrected.
Stottlemeyer grinned. “Monk must love that.”
Monk emerged from the back of the cab. “I know who killed this cabdriver.”
We all turned around, shocked.
It wasn’t the first time Monk had solved a case at the crime scene—we’d seen him do it yesterday at the Belmont—but it still never ceased to be startling.
“You do?” Stottlemeyer said.
“It’s the same person who shot Brandon Lorber,” Monk said.
“You solved my desecration case, too?” Disher said, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “They’re connected?”
“Without a doubt,” Monk said.
“Wait a minute,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re saying that whoever murdered this cabbie and made it look like a robbery also snuck into Burgerville headquarters two nights ago and put three bullets into a dead man?”
“That’s what I am saying.”
“That’s saying a lot,” Stottlemeyer said.
“There’s more,” Monk said.
“Don’t tell me,” Stottlemeyer said. “You know who did it.”
Monk didn’t say anything. He just looked at us.
“Well?” Stottlemeyer prodded.
“You just said not to tell you,” Monk said.
“It’s an expression, Monk. It means ‘tell me.’ ”
“How can ‘don’t tell me’ mean ‘tell me’? Wouldn’t it make more sense to
say
‘tell me’?”
say
‘tell me’?”
“Tell me!” Stottlemeyer said.
Monk didn’t say anything.
"I’m waiting, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “Spit it out already.”
“You said not to tell you,” Monk said.
“I just said ‘tell me,’ ” Stottlemeyer said.
“If ‘don’t tell me’ means ‘tell me,’ then doesn’t it follow that ‘tell me’ means ‘don’t tell me’?”
Stottlemeyer massaged his temples. “If you don’t reveal the name of the killer this instant, I am going to tie one of my shoes in a double knot and leave the other one in a single knot for the rest of the day.”
Monk gasped. “Okay, okay, there’s no need to do anything drastic. If this is what happens when you give up caffeine, don’t do it again. It makes you crazy and irrational.”
“Who killed the cabbie and shot Brandon Lorber’s corpse?” Stottlemeyer demanded.
Monk paused for dramatic effect. I think he savors these moments and wants them to last as long as possible.
“Mr. Snork,” he said.
18
Mr. Monk Connects the Dots
Remember how I said before that we were shocked when Monk declared that he’d solved the cabbie’s murder? Well, after Monk said it was Mr. Snork who did it, we were super-shocked. Our jaws were hanging open because we had lost the motor skills to keep them shut.
“Mr. Snork?” I repeated, just to be sure I’d heard him right the first time.
“You know, the guy with the elephant trunk and pointed ears,” Monk said.
“We know who Mr. Snork is,” Stottlemeyer said. “What we don’t know is what makes you think that the same person shot Brandon Lorber’s corpse, shot Conrad Stipe, and shot this cabbie.”
“I can tell you now that the bullets removed from Lorber don’t match the bullet removed from Stipe,” Disher said. I think he didn’t want to see his Special Desecration Unit disbanded before it had even closed its first case.
“I don’t need ballistic evidence,” Monk said. “I have something much more damning and convincing.”
“What?” Disher asked.
“Gum,” Monk said.
“Gum,” Stottlemeyer repeated.
We repeated what Monk said a lot. I think Stottlemeyer, like me, just wanted to assure himself he’d actually heard Monk say the unbelievable thing that we’d just heard him say.
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