Mr. Monk in Outer Space (36 page)

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Authors: Lee Goldberg

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He led us out of the interrogation room and into the hallway, where Disher joined us.
 
 
“That was amazing,” Disher said. “I’ve never seen an interrogation like that before.”
 
 
“Neither have I,” Stottlemeyer said, and gestured to my cell phone. “Could you tell Ambrose you’ll call him back?”
 
 
“Sure,” I said and did as he asked.
 
 
After I ended the call, Stottlemeyer turned to Monk.
 
 
“I didn’t want to have this discussion in front of the murderer or your brother. You’re embarrassing yourself, and it’s painful to watch.”
 
 
“I’m doing what I always do,” Monk said.
 
 
“Yeah, that’s the problem. You’re refusing to acknowledge anything that doesn’t fit the way you want it to.”
 
 
“That’s how I solve murders,” Monk said.
 
 
“Not this time,” Stottlemeyer said. “The guy in that room is nuts. You’re taking his word, in some make-believe language, as some kind of gospel. It’s not. It’s the babbling of an idiot.”
 
 
“I believe him,” Monk said.
 
 
“Because he’s playing you, Monk. He’s telling you what you want to hear.”
 
 
“I know this man,” Monk said.
 
 
“You only met him two days ago,” Disher said.
 
 
“He’s me.”
 
 
We all stared at Monk in disbelief. It certainly wasn’t the first time, as you know. But this was a particularly outrageous statement for him to make.
 
 
Two days earlier, Monk was calling the
Beyond Earth
fans drug-addicted freaks. He was ready to disown his brother and have him committed for associating with them. And now he was joining their ranks?
 
 
Something was very wrong with Monk. Had he finally snapped?
 
 
“He’s nothing like you,” Stottlemeyer said.
 
 
“He’s me,” Monk said. “And he’s my brother.”
 
 
Stottlemeyer pointed at the door to the interrogation room. “He’s got pointed ears and an elephant nose!”
 
 
“Ernie
had
an elephant nose,” I said. “Until you tore it off of him in an act of police brutality.”
 
 
Stottlemeyer gave me a withering look. “It’s a rubber nose. I took it off of him, I didn’t beat him with it.”
 
 
“You might as well have,” I said.
 
 
Stottlemeyer turned his attention back to Monk, dismissing my objections by showing me the back of his head.
 
 
“He lives in a house that’s been remodeled to look like a spaceship,” Stottlemeyer said. “He speaks a made-up language. He’s not you or Ambrose.”
 
 
“Technically, Ambrose does speak the language and knows the show inside out,” Disher said. “So Pinchuk isn’t Monk, but maybe he’s a little bit Ambrose.”
 
 
Stottlemeyer gave Disher the same withering look he’d given me, but before he could rip Disher’s head off with his bare hands, Monk spoke up.
 
 
“Ernest Pinchuk is a messed-up, probably drug-addictedfreak, no question about it,” he said. “But in his deranged mind, he’s living according to the natural order of his universe. His life fits. He’s making sure every detail is correct. He wouldn’t wear a first-season Confederation uniform with second-season ears any more than I would walk down the street with mismatched socks.”
 
 
“You’d kill yourself first,” I said.
 
 
“I’d have you change my socks and
then
kill me,” Monk said. “I wouldn’t want to be seen dead with mismatched socks either.”
 
 
“But if you
were
buried with mismatched socks, that would definitely be a desecration,” Disher said. “And you have my word that the Special Desecration Unit wouldn’t rest until we caught whoever did it.”
 
 
“Is there a point here somewhere?” Stottlemeyer asked.
 
 
“Ernest Pinchuk is a lunatic but a man of principle,” Monk said. “Look at what he’s doing right now. He’s sticking to his vow to speak Dratch, even when his life is at stake, because he believes it’s a necessary step to restore the natural order of his world. I understand him because we’re the same. Only I’m not insane.”
 
 
This was a revelatory, life-changing moment for Adrian Monk.
That
was the point that Stottlemeyer was missing.
 
 
Monk had just taken a monumental step forward in understanding himself and others. Dr. Kroger would probably call it a breakthrough.
 
 
By comparing himself to Pinchuk, Monk was actually empathizing with someone whose beliefs and life-style were fundamentally different from his own.
 
 
It was incredible!
 
 
It was what I’d been trying to get him to do for years and even more intensely since this case began. I wanted him to see how similar he was to Ambrose, the Earthers, and other people he criticized for not being just like him.
 
 
And now he was getting it. Or at least he seemed to be.
 
 
I hoped this new understanding would stick, though I wasn’t convinced by the argument he was making as far as the actual case was concerned.
 
 
“I’m telling you, Monk, you’re being manipulated,” Stottlemeyer said. “That guy probably knows all about you and is taking advantage of it.”
 
 
“Even if that’s true, he’s admitted to one murder,” Monk said. “If he did the other one, too, what would he have to lose by admitting it? That alone should indicate to you that your scenario just doesn’t make sense.”
 
 
“
Mine
doesn’t? If I hold up the evidence for my theory against your gum, candy wrapper, and this guy’s idiotic blathering, it’s no contest which one adds up to the more convincing case,” Stottlemeyer said. “Any reasonable person, and more importantly, any jury of twelve of my peers, would agree that I’ve got the shooter responsible for two murders.”
 
 
“And they’d be wrong,” Monk said. “Conrad Stipe was killed by a hit man.”
 
 
“Who you think killed two people just so he couldn’t be pinned for shooting a man who was already dead,” Stottlemeyer said.
 
 
“Exactly,” Monk said.
 
 
“Desecration is a very serious crime,” Disher said. “That’s why we have a special unit to combat it. The assassin was terrified that we’d catch him.”
 
 
“The unit didn’t exist until Lorber was shot,” I said. I didn’t mind contradicting Disher. I didn’t work for him.
 
 
“But the shooter anticipated that we’d form the special unit after we saw his crimes,” Disher said. “That’s how clever he is and why he’s met his match in me.”
 
 
“The hit man is still out there, free to kill again,” Monk said. “And he will for the right price. We have to find him before he does.”
 
 
Stottlemeyer rubbed his temples.
 
 
“We’re done here, Monk,” the captain said. “This homicide is closed and your services on this case are no longer needed.”
 
 
“You’re firing me?” Monk said.
 
 
“No,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m just telling you that this particular investigation is concluded and that we have our man.”
 
 
“You have the man in one murder,” Monk said. “Not two.”
 
 
“Let it go, Monk. It’s over. You misread the clues in this one. It was bound to happen sometime,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I want you to know that it’s okay. I still think you’re the best detective I’ve ever met. I’ll call you when another difficult case comes along.”
 
 
“You’re making a big mistake,” Monk said and walked away.
 
 
Stottlemeyer looked at me. “You have to help him deal with this. Convince him the case is closed. If he obsesses over it, he’ll only make things worse for everybody.”
 
 
I didn’t say anything one way or the other. I just turned and followed Monk out.
 
 
I had a lot of faith in my employer, and I wanted to be supportive, but I couldn’t help feeling that maybe this time Stottlemeyer was right.
 
 
28
 
 
Mr. Monk Spreads the Word
 
 
When I got outside, I found Monk pacing in front of my car.
 
 
“Let’s go,” he said impatiently.
 
 
“Where?”
 
 
“Burgerville headquarters, of course.”
 
 
I sighed. “Mr. Monk, the case is closed.”
 
 
“Not for me it isn’t,” he said. “It’s not done until the murderer has been caught.”
 
 
I thought about what Stottlemeyer had just told me. “Maybe you ought to take a time-out.”
 
 
“A time-out?”
 
 
“Step back from this for a day or two, relax a little, collect your thoughts. Afterwards you may see things differently.”
 
 
“My thoughts are already collected,” he said. “Indexed and color-coded.”
 
 
“Color-coded?”
 
 
“It’s an integral part of my thought filing system,” he said.
 
 
“You have a thought filing system?”
 
 
“You don’t?” Monk said.
 
 
I shook my head.
 
 
He nodded knowingly, as if some other great mystery had finally been solved.
 
 
“That explains so much,” Monk said. “I’ve had a real breakthrough today.”
 
 
“I think so, too,” I said. “You’re understanding people now in a way you never have before.”
 
 
“That’s so true,” Monk said. “I can’t imagine how anyone could go through life with their thoughts spread out all over their psyche. I see you in a whole new light, Natalie. Your mind is a mess. You can’t hold a thought if you can’t find it first.”
 
 
“I was talking about Ernest Pinchuk and how he’s really no different than you.”
 
 
“I’m glad you can see that although he’s crazy, his thoughts are organized. It’s the first step in your rehabilitation. If you can organize your thinking, you’ll be a lot more rational,” Monk said. “But we don’t have time to straighten out your life right now. We have to save the captain from making a mistake that could destroy his career.”
 
 
“But what if he’s right?” I said. “Then all you’ll be doing is antagonizing powerful people who could get him fired. And if he’s gone, you’ll lose the only champion you have in the San Francisco Police Department.”
 
 
“He’s not right,” Monk said. “And I can prove it.”
 
 
“With gum and candy wrappers?”
 
 
“With the hit man himself,” Monk said.
 
 
“You can do that?”
 
 
“I can,” Monk said.
 
 
Archie Applebaum saw us coming, so he got up from behind his security desk in the lobby of Burgerville headquarters and opened the after-hours employee door for us.
 
 
“You really ought to try the revolving door, Mr. Monk,” he said. “It’s fun.”

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