Mr. Monk Goes to Germany (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mr. Monk Gets Some News

Geshir rubbed his chin. Stoffmacher curled the end of his enormous mustache. And I swatted at the flies that were buzzing around me while we considered the implications of Monk’s observation.

Leupolz didn’t walk there.

So how did he get on the trail? If he didn’t float there, then it meant he was carried somehow. And the odds are he wasn’t alive when that happened.

But that explanation raised even more questions.

Why not leave him at his house? Why dump his body on a hiking trail? How did he die? Why weren’t there any signs of violence? How was his death connected, if at all, to the violent end of Axel Vigg? Or was it just one more bizarre coincidence in a day filled with a record-breaking number of them?

Those were just a few of the questions going through my mind and were probably among the ones that Stoffmacher and Geshir were thinking about, too.

“There’s more,” Monk said.

Stoffmacher sighed. “Of course there is.”

“Look at how his laces are tied. The starting knot and finishing bow are perfectly balanced. It’s a textbook example of the Norwegian Reef Knot. But, as I am sure you recall, the shoes he kicked off in his bedroom were tied with sloppy Granny Knots.”

I remembered the shoes, but not the knots. I don’t pay attention to the things that Monk does. I also couldn’t tell you how many parking meters there are on Market Street, how many sesame seeds there are on a hamburger bun, or if there are any hangers in my closet that aren’t facing the same direction.

“You’re suggesting that someone else put on his shoes,” Stoffmacher said.

“And dressed him in that jogging outfit,” Monk said. “It was probably the same person who dumped his body here. This whole scene has been staged.”

“To tell us what?” Geshir said.

“I don’t know yet,” Monk said. “But it was improvised in a hurry. If the killer had planned this in advance, he wouldn’t have been so sloppy.”

“You keep saying ‘the killer,’ ” Stoffmacher said. “But there is no indication yet that Leupolz was murdered.”

“He was,” Monk said.

I heard the sounds of people approaching. I turned and saw a dozen people in matching yellow plastic overalls marching up the trail. They carried metal cases, cameras, a body bag, and a stretcher. I assumed that they were the coroner and the first wave of crime scene technicians.

“You should dredge that pond,” Monk said, tipping his head towards the muddy brown watering hole a few yards from the trail.

“What for?” Geshir said. “We aren’t looking for anything.”

“There’s the missing laptop,” Monk said. “My guess is that’s where the killer tossed it, in a vacuum cleaner bag stuffed with feathers and a pillowcase, after removing the hard drive.”

The technicians began to take pictures and set up shop around the body. A man I took to be the coroner squatted beside Stoffmacher and began to examine the body.

“I think we can take it from here,” Stoffmacher said to Monk. “We appreciate all the advice you’ve given us.”

“What about my problem?” Monk said.

“We’ll contact you at your bed-and-breakfast if we have any developments in our investigations,” Stoffmacher said.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Monk said. “How am I supposed to get there?”

Stoffmacher looked confused, so I explained things to him.

“Mr. Monk is referring to his muddy shoes,” I said. “If he takes a step, he risks getting even muddier.”

Stoffmacher sighed and said something in German to the two men with the stretcher. They brought the stretcher over to Monk.

“They’ll take you back to the car,” Stoffmacher said.

The two men held up the stretcher and Monk carefully eased himself onto it.

“I knew this was how I would be leaving here,” Monk said miserably. “At least I’m not in the body bag.”

Monk had to change his shoes the moment we returned to the bed-and-breakfast. He came out of his room a few minutes later wearing an identical pair of Hush Puppies, his dirty pair in a sealed plastic bag that he held at arm’s length.

“You’re throwing out your shoes?” I said.

“What other choice do I have?”

“You could clean them.”

“There’s only one thing that will clean these shoes.” Monk handed the bag to Heiko Schmidt on our way out. “Incinerate this immediately.”

We headed out for an early dinner at the same place we’d visited the night before. This time I was a bit more daring. I ordered the Wienerschnitzel and was pleasantly surprised when they didn’t deliver a hot dog to the table.

When I was growing up in Monterey, there was a chain of fast-food places in California called Der Wienerschnitzel that served a wide array of lousy hot dogs that looked even worse than they tasted.

I assumed, like every other ignorant Californian, that Wienerschnitzel was the German term for hot dog. But no, it’s not. It’s actually a lightly battered and fried veal cutlet that’s similar to a country-fried steak, only a lot more light and tasty.

So why would somebody call a hot dog stand the Fried Veal? It would be like calling a hamburger place the Chow Mein.

It made no sense.

Trying to understand the logic behind Der Wienerschnitzel was the depth of intellectual thought I was capable of after the long day that I’d had.

As tasty as dinner was, it took all the willpower I had not to fall asleep at the table. Monk was fighting fatigue, too. We left the instant we finished eating.

I was back in my room and in bed by eight p.m. I was so exhausted, I was certain that I would sleep through until breakfast. But jet lag was still messing with my internal clock and I woke up, refreshed and fully alert, at three a.m.

I was lying in bed, trying to decide what to do with myself for the three or four hours until breakfast, when my cell phone rang. I answered it, grateful for something to do.

“That’s a surprisingly energetic and cheerful greeting for someone who was rudely awakened from a deep sleep,” Stottlemeyer said to me.

“That’s because I was wide-awake,” I said.

“It is three a.m. there, right?”

“Yep,” I said.

“And you’re awake,” he said.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Captain.”

“Are you kidding? I’m relieved,” Stottlemeyer said unconvincingly. “The last thing I want to do is disturb your rest.”

“Were you able to find out anything about Dr. Martin Rahner?”

“I was,” Stottlemeyer said. “Is Monk awake?”

“How would I know?” I said. “We aren’t sharing a room.”

“Find out,” Stottlemeyer said. “If he’s asleep, you’d better wake him up.”

“Can’t whatever you have to say wait until morning?”

“He’s waited too long already,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s that big?”

“It’s that big,” he said.

I put on a bathrobe and, carrying my cell phone, went down the hall to Monk’s room. I knocked on the door and hoped I was loud enough to wake him but not the rest of the guests.

He answered the door in his pajamas. His eyes were closed. He might even have been sleepwalking.

“What is it?” he asked groggily.

“The captain has some information about Dr. Rahner,” I said.

Monk motioned me inside and closed the door. We sat down side by side on the edge of his bed; I put Stottlemeyer on the speaker and held the phone up between us.

“We’re both here, Captain,” I said.

“How are you holding up, Monk?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“The whole world is conspiring against me,” Monk said. “With the possible exception of you, Natalie, and Randy Disher.”

“
Possible
exception?” I said.

“I like to keep an open mind,” Monk said.

“That’s what you are famous for,” Stottlemeyer said, his sarcasm completely lost on Monk. “Here’s what I’ve learned. Dr. Rahner is a respected psychiatrist and author in Germany who has lectured at several colleges in the United States over the years, including UC Berkeley.”

“When was he in the Bay Area?” Monk asked.

There was a long pause. For a moment I thought we’d lost our connection.

“The two weeks before Trudy was killed,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk took the news stoically, nodding slightly, as if Stottlemeyer was only confirming what he already knew.

“What was he doing there?” Monk asked.

“He delivered a couple of lectures,” Stottlemeyer said. “They were underwritten by a grant from Dale Biederback.”

Dale the Whale. The obscenely obese madman who tried to ruin the Monks after Trudy wrote a series of unflattering investigative reports about his business dealings.

The significance of the news nearly knocked me off the bed, but once again Monk took it all with astonishing calmness. He just nodded.

“Did you find any connections between Dr. Rahner, Dr. Kroger, and Dale?” Monk asked.

“Not so far, but we haven’t dug very deep,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ll need lots of search warrants for that.”

“So get them,” Monk said.

“We don’t have any evidence of a crime.”

“You know where Trudy is buried,” Monk said.

It was like a slap. There was a long silence on the phone. For a moment I wondered if maybe Stottlemeyer had hung up. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. Monk didn’t appreciate how hard his friends worked for him. Or if he did, he rarely showed it.

“That’s not fair,” Stottlemeyer said softly.

“Neither was her murder,” Monk replied, without a trace of remorse for his cutting remark.

“I want to get the sonofabitch who killed Trudy and I’ll do whatever is within my power to do. But I can’t convince a judge to give me search warrants based on what we’ve got. It’s all circumstantial and adds up to nothing.”

“It adds up to me,” Monk said.

“Lots of things add up to you that don’t to anybody else,” Stottlemeyer said.

“But they do in the end,” Monk said.

“Okay, then maybe you can tell me what Dr. Rahner’s motive was for hiring someone to plant a bomb in Trudy’s car.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have one,” Monk said.

“If you want to commit a random murder, you don’t seek out a bomber and hire him to do it,” Stottlemeyer said. “You do it yourself, fast and simple.”

“What I meant was that maybe he did it for Dale,” Monk said. “The same way that Dale’s doctor murdered a judge for him.”

“You think that Dale blackmailed Dr. Rahner into it?” I asked. “And also blackmailed Dr. Kroger into playing with your mind to keep you off the police force?”

“That’s one possibility,” Monk said.

“You haven’t got any evidence,” Stottlemeyer said.

“That’s what we need the search warrants for,” Monk said.

“A judge is going to want a lot more than possibilities before he’ll give us warrants to rummage through everyone’s phone, travel, and bank records,” Stottlemeyer said. “All I can tell a judge now is that Dr. Rahner was in San Francisco in the weeks preceding Trudy’s death, giving a lecture that was sponsored by Dale the Whale, and that your shrink might have attended. There’s nothing even remotely criminal about that.”

“It suggests a conspiracy,” Monk said.

“To you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“And me,” I said.

“But it won’t convince a judge,” Stottlemeyer told us.

“The bomber who killed Trudy said in a deathbed confession that the man who hired him had six fingers on his right hand,” I said. “So does Dr. Rahner.”

“The last time I checked,” Stottlemeyer said, “having an extra finger isn’t a criminal offense.”

“You checked?” Monk said.

“I was being facetious, Monk. I didn’t check.”

“Maybe you should.”

“I didn’t check because I know it’s not a crime and so do you,” Stottlemeyer said. “Maybe it is in Germany. Ask the cops over there.”

“I will,” Monk said.

“Let me know how things go. I’m here if you need any more help,” Stottlemeyer said. “Within reason.”

I spoke up. “Could you find out why those hot dog places in America are called Der Wienerschnitzel when in German the words actually mean ‘fried and breaded veal cutlet’?”

“I believe I said ‘within reason,’ ” Stottlemeyer said.

“That’s what I am looking for,” I said. “The reason. And it better be a good one.”

“I must have a bad connection,” Stottlemeyer said. “Is that Natalie Teeger talking or Adrian Monk?”

“Adrian Monk here,” Monk said.

“I thought so,” Stottlemeyer said.

“No, the ridiculous request was Natalie’s. Here’s mine: I want to talk to Dale Biederback.”

“I liked her request better. It made more sense.”

“He knows the truth,” Monk said.

“You don’t want to do this, Monk. Dale is a monster. He’s just going to toy with you and take pleasure in your pain. He’s got nothing better to do.”

“Can you arrange the call or not?” Monk insisted.

Stottlemeyer sighed wearily. “I’ll talk to the warden and see what I can do. Now get some sleep. You both sound like you need it.”

We said our good-byes and then we sat there in silence. There was a lot for us to think about.

Was this another perfect storm of coincidences? Or were Dale the Whale, Dr. Rahner, and Dr. Kroger involved in Trudy’s death and a plot to keep Monk off the police force?

If so, why?

I looked at Monk. He appeared numb. Neither one of us was going to get any sleep now.

“How are you feeling?” I asked him.

He sighed, his shoulders sagging with the weight of all that he’d learned.

“I’m glad that I’ve got an appointment with my psychiatrist tomorrow,” he said. “I really need it.”

“But he could be involved in all this,” I said.

“So it will be a very productive session,” Monk said. “One way or another.”

“I wish I could be there,” I said.

“You will be,” he said.

“Really?” I said. “Why?”

“I need someone there I can trust,” Monk said. “And the way I’m feeling right now, I’m not sure I can even trust myself.”

In a way, it was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and left his room before he could ruin the moment by asking me for a wipe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mr. Monk and Dr. Kroger

After breakfast, I called the Franziskushohe and asked the receptionist to connect me to Dr. Kroger’s room. I could tell from his sleepy voice when he answered that I’d awakened him. It seemed like I couldn’t call anyone lately without disturbing their rest.

“You have an appointment with Mr. Monk today,” I said.

“I haven’t forgotten. Frankly, I’m relieved that Adrian still wants to see me,” Dr. Kroger said. “It means he’s open to resolving the misunderstandings that came up yesterday through positive interaction.”

Rather than getting punched in the nose by Monk’s lovely assistant, though I wasn’t ruling out that approach again.

“I don’t want to make him uncomfortable by asking him to meet me here,” Dr. Kroger continued, “considering this hotel’s history as a sanitarium for people with lung diseases.”

“And you’d rather not take a chance that we’ll cause another embarrassing scene in front of your colleagues.”

“That too,” Dr. Kroger admitted.

At least he was honest about that, though it could have been a trick. Maybe he thought if he was honest on the small things, we’d be convinced that his candor extended to the big things, too.

I gave him directions to our bed-and-breakfast and told him to be there in an hour. I expected an argument but I didn’t get one.

Monk used the time to rearrange his room into a rough approximation of Dr. Kroger’s office. We moved the bed and angled two chairs in front of the window in the same position as the doctor and patient chairs.

That was the intention anyway. Actually accomplishing it was an exasperating experience. Monk kept sitting down in his chair and getting up again to make subtle adjustments in its position right up until the moment Heiko called to say that Dr. Kroger had arrived.

I went downstairs to find Dr. Kroger standing awkwardly in the entry hall, clearly self-conscious about the way he looked, which was awful. His nose was swollen and the bruising had spread to his eyes. It didn’t help that Heiko was staring at him.

“It looks worse than it is,” Dr. Kroger said.

I don’t know whether he was trying to downplay his injury to appear tougher or if it was a gesture to relieve my guilt, not that I felt any. Either way, the comment was wasted on me.

“I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee,” I said and then glanced at Heiko. He was wearing Monk’s old shoes, cleaned and buffed. “Very stylish.”

Heiko beamed. “Danke.”

I led Dr. Kroger upstairs.

“Those looked like the shoes that Adrian wears,” he said.

“Mr. Monk has always been a trendsetter,” I said.

We’d climbed only a few steps when Dr. Kroger smacked his head against one of the low beams. He cursed and clutched his forehead. That had to hurt.

“Watch your head,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, glaring at me. “I haven’t done anything to deserve this.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

Monk was sitting straight in his seat, his arms on the armrests, when we came in. His eyes widened when he saw Dr. Kroger’s face.

“What happened to your face?” Monk asked.

“Natalie hit me,” Dr. Kroger said like a child ratting out a sibling to a parent.

Monk looked at me. “You did?”

“I did,” I said proudly.

Monk smiled a little. I think he was flattered.

“But I’ve forgiven her,” Dr. Kroger said, taking his customary seat to Monk’s right. “I’m glad you wanted to see me, Adrian.”

“I’ve never missed an appointment,” Monk said.

“That’s true. You haven’t.”

“Though now I’m not so sure I needed them as much as I thought,” Monk said.

“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve felt for some time that you could see me just once a week, but you’re the one who has insisted on seeing me more often, daily if possible. You even followed me here for sessions.”

Dr. Kroger glanced at me as I took a seat on the edge of the bed. If he had any questions about me being here, he kept them to himself.

“You must be so pleased,” Monk said.

“Why would that make me happy, Adrian?”

“Hasn’t it always been part of your plan to keep me dependent on you?”

“My goal is to help you control your anxieties so that you can become as self-sufficient as possible and enjoy a normal life.”

“And return to the police force,” Monk said.

“If that’s what you want,” Dr. Kroger said.

“But you don’t,” Monk said.

“That’s not true. I’d like to see you become a homicide detective again.”

“And yet you haven’t written a report to the police that declares me fit for duty and recommends my reinstatement.”

“Because I don’t think you’re ready yet,” Dr. Kroger said. “But I am confident that you will be soon.”

“What does Dr. Rahner think?” Monk asked.

“I haven’t discussed your therapy with Dr. Rahner,” he said.

“How about Dale Biederback?” Monk asked.

“I haven’t discussed your therapy with anyone, Adrian. What goes on between us is private and I won’t talk about it without your consent.”

“How long have you known Dr. Rahner?”

“I’ve been aware of his work for over a decade,” Dr. Kroger said, “but I met him for the first time a few years ago at one of his lectures.”

“In Berkeley,” Monk said.

“Captain Stottlemeyer has been working overtime,” Dr. Kroger said, shifting his position in his seat. “Yes, it was in Berkeley.”

“Two weeks before Trudy’s murder,” Monk said.

Dr. Kroger looked at me. I glared right back at him. I think he was checking to see if I was about to hit him again.

“I was not aware of that,” Dr. Kroger said softly.

“I suppose that you also weren’t aware that Dr. Rahner’s visit to the Bay Area was underwritten by Dale Biederback,” Monk said.

“Oh God, this keeps getting worse and worse,” Dr. Kroger said. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again he spoke in a calm and measured voice. “Things aren’t what they appear to be.”

“That much I know,” Monk said.

“I didn’t mean it that way, Adrian.”

“Why did you do it?” Monk demanded, leaning forward in his seat. “What leverage could Dale possibly have against you that would make you do this to me?”

“I haven’t betrayed your trust and you aren’t the victim of a conspiracy,” Dr. Kroger said. “Contrary to the way things appear, nothing nefarious has occurred. Everything can be explained.”

“I’m listening,” Monk said.

“I’ve never met Dale Biederback and I had no idea he financed Dr. Rahner’s lecture series,” Dr. Kroger said. “But I’m not surprised that he did.”

“Why not?” Monk asked.

“Biederback was an extraordinarily wealthy and influential man with a tremendous ego and lust for power. Before he went to prison, he underwrote hundreds of social, cultural, and educational programs and construction projects in the Bay Area. You could theoretically connect him to thousands of people just through the events they attended that he supported. Some of them are bound to be people you’ve met, even Natalie.”

I didn’t like him using me as part of his defense, so I spoke up.

“But this wasn’t just any event. This one happened right before Trudy Monk’s murder. And it brought together an eleven-fingered man, who matches the description of the person who arranged the murder, and you, the psychiatrist who would later treat Mr. Monk.”

“It’s a cruel trick of fate,” Dr. Kroger said. “That’s all.”

“I agree that it was a cruel trick,” Monk said. “But I am not ready to blame fate for it just yet.”

“I wouldn’t either if I were you,” Dr. Kroger said. “There’s only one way you will ever accept it. You have to do what you do best.”

“Sit alone in the dark in abject misery?”

“Investigate,” Dr. Kroger said. “You’ll get to the truth, as you always do. You should start by getting Dr. Rahner to answer your questions.”

“What makes you think he’ll talk to me?” Monk asked.

“Because he’s a psychiatrist and he’s devoted his life to helping people,” Dr. Kroger said. “Which is why he’s waiting for you right now at the café across the street.”

Dr. Rahner was sitting at a tiny table in front of the café, sipping an espresso and picking at a piece of streusel. He smiled and gestured to us to sit with a sweep of his six-fingered hand.

“Thank you for coming, Martin,” Dr. Kroger said as we took our seats.

“It’s the least I can do,” Dr. Rahner said, and turned to Monk, who sat directly across from him. “Charles has filled me in on the unfortunate series of coincidences and what they mean to you. I’d like to help ease your pain in any way I can. Feel free to ask me anything.”

“Do you know Dale Biederback?” Monk asked.

“Yes,” Dr. Rahner said, “I do.”

“You do?” Dr. Kroger said, unable to hide his surprise.

“Of course. He underwrote my lecture series in Berkeley and invited me to his home for dinner.”

“Whenever you visit Dale, it’s dinnertime,” Monk said. “The man never stops eating.”

“That’s why I was eager to meet him. I’d heard that he was so obese that he couldn’t leave his bed. His physical condition fascinated me.”

“Most people are disgusted,” I said.

“That’s what made him so compelling. I study people with physical anomalies and how they interact with a society that considers them outsiders and ‘freaks.’ He was a very special case because he was so rich and powerful. I was especially interested in how he treated others.”

“With enormous cruelty,” Monk said. “That’s how.”

“Which, sadly, is also the way most people with physical anomalies are treated by society. But Biederback amassed the wealth, power, and influence to strike back.”

“By ruining lives and killing people,” Monk said.

“He is a horrible person. I am in no way condoning what he did. But as a psychiatrist and researcher, I can understand the psychological and societal forces that made him who he is. He was born abnormally overweight, and as he grew, he got fatter and fatter. You can imagine the cruelty he endured, and I believe that’s what drove him to become so rich.”

“So Dale was just a benefactor and a research subject to you,” Monk said.

“He wasn’t my direct benefactor; his money went to the university that invited me to speak. But otherwise, yes, I’d say that’s a fair assessment.”

“I think you’re lying,” Monk said. “I think Dale had you hire the bomber who killed my wife.”

If Dr. Rahner was offended by Monk’s accusation, he didn’t show it. He just took a sip of his coffee and dabbed his lips with his napkin, using his six-fingered hand to do it, of course.

Monk couldn’t take his eyes off that hand and Dr. Rahner knew it.

“You think that I’m a liar and a murderer just because I was born with an extra finger,” Dr. Rahner said, wiggling the extra finger for emphasis.

“The bomber was hired by a man with six fingers,” Monk said. “How many people could there be who match that description?”

“One hundred and two in the United States that I know of,” Dr. Rahner said. “There are probably many, many more.”

“How many of them knew Dale Biederback?” Monk said.

“Do you know for certain it was Dale Biederback and not someone else who killed your wife?” Dr. Rahner asked. “Aren’t you only making that assumption because you saw Dr. Kroger and me here together?”

“It was Dale who led me to the bomber,” Monk said, “and it was the bomber who told me about the man with the extra finger.”

“And you’ve been looking for this elusive eleven-fingered man ever since,” Dr. Rahner said. “Now you think you’ve found him.”

“Haven’t I?”

“I’m merely the first person you’ve encountered with an extra finger,” Dr. Rahner replied. “But there are many of us out there. Two out of every one thousand children are born with extra fingers or toes.”

“I’ve never seen any of them before,” Monk said.

“That’s because extra appendages are usually surgically removed at birth by overprotective parents acting on the advice of narrow-minded doctors,” Dr. Rahner said. “It’s barbaric and inhuman. I’ve devoted my career to encouraging the acceptance of physical differences. I’ve also spoken out against surgeries that force people to conform to a perfect body image, whether it’s removing webbed toes or adding breast implants. We should embrace diversity.”

“ ‘Diversity’ is just another word for things that don’t match,” Monk said. “It’s unnatural.”

“Not everything has to match, Adrian,” Dr. Kroger said.

“That’s just what Dale the Whale would like me to think,” Monk said.

Dr. Kroger sighed and shook his head.

“In some ancient civilizations, physical anomalies were considered signs of divine power,” Dr. Rahner said. “Lord Chan-Bahlum, ruler of the Mayan city of Palenque in 683 A.D., had six fingers on his right hand and six toes on his right foot.”

“Now you know why the Mayans aren’t around anymore,” Monk said.

“Pope Sixtus II had six fingers on his right hand,” Dr. Rahner said. “And the Catholic Church has endured.”

“Barely,” Monk said.

“I founded Sicherer Hafen, a private resort outside of Lohr where people with physical anomalies can be themselves and experience true freedom without facing scorn, ridicule, or stares,” Dr. Rahner said. “I’m giving some of the attendees of the conference a tour this morning and I’d like you to join us.”

“Why would I want to go with you?” Monk said.

“It will give you some insight into who I am and how I think so you can judge my sincerity,” Dr. Rahner said. “And I have an ulterior motive. I’m hoping that after you meet the people there you’ll be less suspicious of the next man you meet with an extra finger.”

“What have you got to lose, Adrian?” Dr. Kroger asked. “You might even gain some insights into yourself.”

Monk got up and motioned to me to join him. We stepped a few feet away, out of earshot of the others.

“What do you think?” Monk whispered to me.

“You don’t have any evidence against Dr. Rahner now,” I said. “If he did kill Trudy, the more time you spend with him, the more opportunities you will have to catch him in a lie.”

“Good point,” Monk said, and returned to the table. “Okay, let’s go to Freakville.”