Mr. Monk in Outer Space

by Goldberg, Lee

  Monk and I looked at Ambrose. Tears welled up in his eyes.

  “Excuse me,” he said hoarsely. He got up and hurried out of the room.

  Monk glared at me. “Happy now?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Monk.”

  “This was your idea,” Monk said. “All we’ve done is hurt him more.”

  “I thought it might help him,” I said.

  “To see someone he admired shot dead?” Monk said. “What was I thinking listening to you? This was wrong, Natalie. Very, very wrong.”

  I had to agree. I felt terrible.

  Monk bent down and ejected the DVD. He was putting it back in the jewel case when Ambrose returned.

  “What are you doing, Adrian?”

  “We’re done,” Monk said. “I should have known better. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “Me too,” Ambrose said, sitting down beside me. “Play it again.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Monk said.

  I was surprised, too.

  “I have to see it again, Adrian. I was overcome with shock and emotion the first time. I probably will be again, but I’m going to keep watching it until I know every detail by heart.”

  I put my hand on Ambrose’s knee. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do, Natalie. The killer is on that tape. And we’re going to catch him.”

  15

  Mr. Monk and the Details

  Each time we watched the footage, I tried to concentrate on the events playing out in just one of the four quarters of the screen, but I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at the others.

  We watched the shooting again and again without comment. Each time the tape ended, either Monk or Ambrose would say “again” and one of them would hit PLAY on the remote.

  The more Ambrose watched the tape, the less emotional he became, until he was sitting on the edge of the couch like Monk. I could really see the family resemblance in their faces, in the intensity of their concentration.

  Finally, Monk rolled his shoulders and tipped his head from side to side, trying to work out that psychosomatic kink in his neck that reflected a glitch in his mind, a piece of information that refused to fit in.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” he said, freezing the pictureon Mr. Snork raising the gun and about to squeeze the trigger.

  “It seems pretty straightforward to me,” I said. “It’s a shooting. You’ve had much stranger cases.”

  “But look at Mr. Snork when he shoots Stipe—” Monk began.

  “That’s not Mr. Snork,” Ambrose interrupted.

  “That’s who he’s dressed up as, so for the sake of discussion let’s just call him Mr. Snork.”

  “Mr. Snork would never violate the Cosmic Commandments of Interplanetary Relations,” Ambrose said. “He wrote them.”

  “That isn’t Mr. Snork the fictional character. It’s someone dressed like Mr. Snork,” Monk said. “He just steps up and without hesitation shoots Stipe right in the heart.”

  “He’s defiling the uniform,” Ambrose said.

  “Mr. Snork didn’t hesitate, didn’t aim—it was a perfect shot,” Monk said, ignoring Ambrose.

  “Maybe he’s a hunter,” I said. “Or has some experience target shooting.”

  “The uniform,” Ambrose said, pointing at the screen. “Look at his Confederation uniform.”

  Monk shook his head dismissively. “It’s not the same as shooting a human being. He didn’t even wince at the blood spatter or the sound of the gunshot. It’s like he’s done it a thousand times before.”

  “It’s an orange shirt with the silver starburst insignia, ” Ambrose pointed out as he rose from his seat and went over to the TV. “That’s from the first season.”

  “And if he’s an angry fan, where’s the emotion?” Monk said. “Why is he so calm?”

  “Adrian,” Ambrose said, tapping the screen with his finger, “he’s wearing a season-one shirt.”

  “So what?” Monk snapped at him.

  “But he’s got season-two ears,” Ambrose said significantly. “Take a good look. It’s so obvious, I feel like a fool for not noticing it from the start.”

  “That’s another thing,” Monk said. “We have a totally unobstructed view of Mr. Snork. I’m sure there are a hundred places in San Francisco where he could have assassinated Stipe with less opportunity to be seen by witnesses and virtually no chance of being photographed. Instead he happened to choose the one spot where he could be seen clearly by not just one camera but four of them. It’s almost as if he wanted to be absolutely sure that he was seen. Why would a murderer take such an enormous risk?”

  “To make a statement,” I said. “Which makes sense if he’s a member of the Galactic Uprising.”

  “Or if that’s what Arianna Stipe wanted us to think,” Monk said. “Either way, the killer is wearing the perfect disguise.”

  “That’s just it, Adrian. It’s not perfect. It’s all wrong,” Ambrose said. “In season two, the network demanded that the producers make Mr. Snork’s ears less pointy. They were afraid he looked too scary and unsympathetic. In fact, they wanted Stipe to change them to puppy ears so Snork would be more lovable, but he refused. They had to explain the ear change by having Mr. Snork suffer from a rare disease.”

  “That’s an interesting story, if you have no life and never leave your house,” Monk said. “It’s also totally irrelevant.”

  “There’s more—” Ambrose began.

  “Please, God, no,” Monk said, rubbing his temples.

  I was suddenly reminded of what Stottlemeyer looked like most of the time he was around Monk. And me, too. There was more than a little poetic justice in this moment, and I savored it.

  “In season two, they made the Confederation insignia on the uniform gold instead of silver,” Ambrose said. “There’s a lot of discussion about why that particular decision was made, but the actual facts have never emerged. Sadly, there’s no paper trail and memories have faded with time.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Monk asked.

  “The killer is wearing a season-one uniform with season-two ears!” Ambrose said. “Aren’t you listening to a word I’m saying?”

  “No, not really,” Monk said. “This is a murder investigation. The first thing you learn is how to prioritize information. You can’t be distracted by insignificant details that simply don’t matter.”

  I had to remember that comment for the next time Monk wanted Stottlemeyer and Disher to stop their work to do something like contribute lint to a murder victim’s pocket.

  “A member of the Galactic Uprising would never make that mistake,” Ambrose said. “They know and respect Beyond Earth too much—that’s why they are fighting so hard against the new version. And surely Arianna Stipe, the wife of the creator of the show, would never let someone, even a hired killer, wear the wrong uniform with the wrong ears. The killer is violating canon and that’s just going too far.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I do,” Ambrose said. “Any Earther would.”

  “Listen to yourself, Ambrose. You’re obsessing over meaningless things that just don’t matter. Follow my example and focus on what’s important. Prioritize. That’s how you solve cases.”

  “I’m telling you, Adrian, it’s a season-one shirt with season-two ears,” Ambrose said. “It’s a very big deal.”

  “I think we’re done for tonight,” Monk said, turning off the TV and taking the DVD out of the player. “There’s only so much we can do now. Maybe the captain will have more information for us to work with tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the help, Ambrose,” I said gently, trying to smooth things over.

  “I tried,” Ambrose said, then shot a glare at Monk. “But he can be so stubborn. Good night, Natalie.”

  “Good night, Ambrose,” I said.

  Ambrose walked away. Monk looked after him and shook his head.

  “How sad,” he said. “Imagine going through life getting hung up on su
ch meaningless little things.”

  I looked Monk right in the eye. “You certainly aren’t anything like that.”

  “That’s because I’m a seasoned man of the world,” Monk said. “Ambrose is just a man of the house.”

  I went home, too exhausted by the long day to do anything but soak in a hot bubble bath. It was warm, cozy, and relaxing, but I felt like I was squandering my vacation from parental responsibility. I should have been doing something exciting, edgy, and fun that I couldn’t do on an ordinary night with my daughter at home.

  Instead, I was playing with the bubbles and thinking about why someone would shoot a dead man three times, why someone would dress up like a TV character and shoot a man in full view of security cameras, and why the Monk brothers were so incredibly messed up.

  I couldn’t solve any of those mysteries, of course, but I couldn’t get them out of my head either. They were too compelling.

  But the one mystery that took center stage in my thoughts was the one closest to my heart.

  The Monks.

  I knew the other two cases would be solved, but the mystery of the Monks was probably something that psychologists could ponder for decades and still not figure out.

  They were raised by a very cold, controlling woman who drove their father away. She didn’t show her sons any affection whatsoever or teach them how to deal with the simplest of social interactions.

  It’s no surprise that they both developed debilitating psychological disorders. Monk was obsessive-compulsive. Everything had to fit his personal sense of order. His brother was agoraphobic, unable to cope with anything outside of his carefully controlled environment.

  Both were trapped in their own worlds, worlds with rules that they created and rigidly followed, even if it meant alienating everyone around them.

  I found it almost unbearably sad.

  And yet both men were sweet and honest and astonishingly brilliant. They both had an eye for detail that allowed them to see with remarkable clarity things that the rest of us found confusing, mysterious, and downright impossible to understand. They could see how things worked and explain it to the rest of us so we could see it, too.

  It was, Monk liked to say, a gift and a curse.

  It was also a tragedy and a mystery.

  The more I thought about it, the more I wondered about Mrs. Monk. Who was she? What was her childhood like? What hopes and dreams did she have for her two children and did they achieve them?

  I probably found her so fascinating because I was a mother and because, as much as I wanted time to myself, I missed my daughter and she was never far from my thoughts. By thinking about Mrs. Monk and her sons, I was also thinking about Julie without directly thinking about Julie.

  I believe that our children are reflections of ourselves and we like that but we want them to emulate only our best qualities and values and none of our faults. We want a better life for them than we ourselves had. We also want them to develop their own unique personalities separate from ours and to explore their full potential.

  I still remember the first time Julie expressed an opinion. She was four or five years old. She pointed to a woman on the street and said, “That’s an ugly dress.”

  I was stunned, mainly because I thought it was a very nice dress. And I told her so.

  She shook her head. “It’s ugly.”

  Julie had looked at something, measured it against her own values and tastes, and found it unappealing.

  Her own values and tastes. Not mine. Hers.

  Wow. In that moment, she wasn’t just my baby anymore. She’d become a person. I gave her a great big hug and smothered her with kisses. So, of course, for the rest of the day she called everything and everyone ugly, just to get more attention from me.

  There’s probably a lesson in that, but never mind. Let’s stick to the Monks.

  I couldn’t understand how Mrs. Monk could be pleased by their social isolation, which I know began when they were children. I’ve seen some of their home movies. They are the saddest things ever captured on film.

  I wanted Julie to be happy and free. And I certainly didn’t want her to be alone, to be an outcast. I wanted her to have a rich life, full of family and friends.

  She was only twelve, but I could already see that I didn’t have to worry about that aspect of her life. She had lots of friends and could function in society, at least the dog-eat-dog society of the seventh grade.

  But that didn’t seem to be what Mrs. Monk wanted for her sons. Or was she just so frightened for their safety that she became overprotective and encouraged them to live in an ordered world of their own making that was intentionally unwelcoming to outsiders? A world where they would be safe because they were alone?

  Like I said, I don’t have the answers. But it was something to think about.

  By the time I reached that profound conclusion, the bubbles had all popped and the water had turned cold. I dried off, put on some skin cream, and poured myself into bed. I was asleep the instant my face touched my pillow.

  I don’t remember much of what I dreamt that night, except that at one point I was in a stainless-steel room folding socks into pairs while Scooter watched me through an observation window. I couldn’t hear him, but I could read his lips.

  He kept saying, “You’re so needy,” again and again.

  16

  Mr. Monk and the Session

  Captain Stottlemeyer was right. When I turned on the TV during breakfast, the first thing I saw was Mr. Snork aiming his gun at Conrad Stipe. The station at least had the good sense not to show the actual murder, but even without that the video was still disturbing.

  The content hadn’t changed, but the context had, making the footage disturbing in an entirely different way. I was seeing it now in a newscast, heavily edited and pumped up with dramatic graphics. The station was showing the shooting repeatedly in a brazen, calculated attempt to titillate viewers. The worst part was that it was probably succeeding.

  I couldn’t swallow my bagel. I’d lost my appetite.

  The footage was followed by a live report from outside the county morgue, where hundreds of devoted fans had held a candlelight vigil. One of them, an overweight man in his forties in a too tight costume and a Snork trunk dangling sadly from his puffy-cheeked face, explained to the reporter, the bubbly Mindy Drake, what they were doing.

  “We’re waiting for him to rise again,” the fan said.

  Mindy was dumbfounded. Then again, I’d seen her dumbfounded by the meteorologist predicting rain.

  “You mean like Jesus?” Mindy asked.

  “No, of course not,” the fan said. “Like Starella when she was reborn on Tryptonia.”

  “But we aren’t on Tryptonia,” she said. “We’re on Earth.”

  “Tryptonia is Earth on a parallel plane of existence,” the fan said.

  “Oh,” Mindy said solemnly. “I didn’t know that.” She didn’t know Sacramento was the capital of California either. She discovered that when she announced during the Begonia Festival in Capitola that she was reporting live from the state capital.