Mr. Monk in Outer Space

by Goldberg, Lee

  “This isn’t a photograph,” the painter said. “It’s an artistic interpretation. I’m painting it the way I see it.”

  “Then you need glasses,” Monk said. “And you’re delusional.”

  The painter took his brush and, without any warning at all, painted a blue X over Monk’s mouth.

  Monk staggered back, sputtering and yelping and flailing his arms as if he were being attacked by a swarm of bees. He waved his hands in front of his face because he reflexively and desperately wanted to wipe the paint off but didn’t dare do it for fear of getting it on his hands or clothes. He was in agony.

  The two painters and several passersby stared at him.

  “Relax, Mr. Monk,” I said, reaching into my purse for a wipe. “I’m coming.”

  He hopped in place as I tried to remove the paint with the wipe.

  “Stand still, Mr. Monk, or I’m going to get the paint all over you.”

  He immediately froze. He didn’t speak or move a muscle while I worked, terrified that he might get paint in his mouth. The silence was nice. I subtly positioned him so I could admire the view at the same time.

  It took a whole package of wipes and about twenty minutes, but I finally managed to get all the paint off his face. Luckily, none of it had gotten on his clothes.

  By the time I was done, the painter who’d put the X on Monk had packed up his things and left for the day. I’m sure that watching the felon escape and not being able to chase after him was frustrating for Monk.

  I managed to talk Monk out of calling an ambulance for himself and taking a trip to the emergency room. I reminded him that the dangers he faced at the hospital were far worse than any posed by the paint that had been on his skin.

  Instead we headed back to the police station so Monk could marshal the full resources of law enforcement to, and I quote, “hunt down that psychopath like a ravenous dog.”

  As soon as we arrived at police headquarters, it was obvious to me from the expression on Stottlemeyer’s face that he was already in a bad mood—and Monk hadn’t even opened his mouth yet.

  “We need to launch a manhunt,” Monk declared as he marched into Stottlemeyer’s office.

  The captain sighed wearily. “Who are we manhunting? ”

  “A drooling, paint-covered psychopath,” Monk said. “We need to form an impenetrable dragnet around this entire city until we arrest him.”

  I didn’t recall the painter drooling, but I didn’t say anything.

  “On what charge?” Stottlemeyer said. “Or is it the drooling that’s bugging you?”

  “He attacked me with a deadly paintbrush,” Monk said.

  “You look fine to me.”

  “Only because Natalie was there to provide immediate lifesaving measures,” Monk said and then, almost teary-eyed, he turned to me. “I am eternally grateful.”

  I thanked Monk and then briefly explained to Stottlemeyer what had happened in what I like to think was an objective, nonjudgmental way. The account seemed to lighten the captain’s mood considerably. I could see him fighting back a smile.

  “He could be the Zodiac killer,” Monk said when I was done.

  “The guy would have to be at least in his sixties to be the Zodiac killer,” the captain said.

  “If he’s not the Zodiac killer, he’s another killer,” Monk said. “He’s the paintbrush killer.”

  “Who has he killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Monk said. “But if he hasn’t killed somebody yet, he will. He’s covered in paint.”

  “He’s a painter,” Stottlemeyer said. “It goes with the job.”

  “The hell it does,” Monk said. He was getting pretty worked up. “He’s a psychopath and that proves it. It’s a reflection of his disordered mind. You can ask the profilers at Quantico.”

  “You want me to bring the FBI into this?”

  “It’s a matter of national security,” Monk said.

  “I’m not calling the FBI, the National Guard, or the CIA, but I’ll be sure to alert all my patrol units to be on the lookout for him, okay?” Stottlemeyer said. “In the meantime, how about telling me how it went with Andrew Cahill and Veronica Lorber.”

  “The usual,” Monk said.

  “That much I know,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’ve already heard from their lawyers, the chief, and an aide to the mayor. Did you really ask her if she had her husband’s head on the wall?”

  “She’s a nut job,” Monk said.

  I looked at Monk. “Did you just say ‘nut job’?”

  “Did you see the room she was in?” Monk said.

  “I’ve never heard you use that phrase before,” I said.

  “I’ve never been in a room like that before.”

  “Technically, you still haven’t,” I said. “You stood out in the hall.”

  “Tell me that one of them hired the guy who killed Brandon Lorber,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “I can’t,” Monk said. “At least not yet.”

  “That’s a shame,” Stottlemeyer said. “It would make it a lot easier for me to deal with the pressure I’m getting from my superiors if I could say that one of the people complaining about you is guilty of murder.”

  “One of them is a nut-job adulteress, the other is a liar and embezzler,” Monk said. “Who cares about their complaints?”

  Stottlemeyer nodded. “You’ve got a point there, Monk.”

  Disher rushed in carrying a sheaf of papers. “I’ve got the artist renderings of the people who bought Beyond Earth uniforms at the convention.”

  He laid some of the drawings out on Stottlemeyer’s desk. We leaned over to look at them. None of the faces looked familiar to me.

  Disher glanced at Monk. “Did you really tell Lorber’s grieving widow that she was sitting on dead flesh that should be taken out and buried?”

  “Yes,” Monk said.

  “I wish I could have been there to see her reaction to that,” Disher said.

  “No,” I said. “You don’t.”

  Disher laid out the rest of the sketches that he was holding. “These are descriptions of customers who bought second-season Mr. Snork ears from the vendors that Ambrose told us about.”

  Monk tapped one of the drawings of one of the rubber-ear buyers, a guy who looked vaguely like a wax figure of Jude Law, and found an almost identical drawing from among the costume customers. He put them side by side.

  “This is the same man,” Monk said.

  “I noticed that, too,” Disher said. “I ran the sketches through the various criminal databases and came up with nothing.”

  Monk held up the pictures in front of me. “Take a good look at these.”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Now imagine him covered with paint and wielding a brush of doom,” Monk said. “Do you think it could be the same man?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  “Are you sure?” Monk said.

  “Positive,” I said. “The painter looked completely different.”

  “What painter?” Disher asked.

  Stottlemeyer dismissed Disher’s question with a wave of his hand.

  “Maybe it was a cunning disguise,” Monk said. “We know the assassin likes disguises.”

  “Why would the hit man who shot Brandon Lorber, killed Conrad Stipe, and gunned down the cabdriver be standing outside Mrs. Lorber’s house today disguised as a painter?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Monk said. “But all the paint in the world can’t hide that man’s black soul.”

  “What’s James Brown got to do with this?” Disher asked.

  “We’re talking about a painter,” I said, “not the Godfather of Soul.”

  “Not necessarily,” Monk said. “There could be an organized-crime angle to this.”

  “It’s been a long day, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “My suggestion is that you get some rest and tackle this fresh tomorrow.”

  Monk squinted at the two drawings some more. “Maybe you’re right. But tomorrow I may
want to talk to this Godfather of Soul and see what he knows.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Stottlemeyer said.

  24

  Mr. Monk Makes a Mistake

  I took Monk back to Ambrose’s house. On the way, I thought about reminding Monk of the large contribution his brother had made to the investigation. But then I remembered how close I’d come to being fired and decided to keep my mouth shut for a change. Monk was right when he chewed me out—he wasn’t paying me to meddle in his personal life.

  Monk let himself in without bothering to knock. We found Ambrose in the kitchen, sitting at the table with two open cans of 7-Up in front of him, reading the newspaper. On the front page was a picture of Mr. Snork aiming his gun.

  “Hello, Natalie,” Ambrose said. “It’s a distinct pleasure to see you again.”

  It was nice to know I was distinct. “Thank you, Ambrose.”

  “I’ve already had dinner,” Ambrose said. “But I’ve saved some linguine for you both. There’s eighty-eight noodles left for you. You could split it evenly.”

  “That’s a very tempting offer,” I said, “but I’m afraid I have plans for dinner.”

  My plan was not to eat it with the Monks.

  “Forty-four noodles is more than enough for me,” Monk said. “I don’t mind sharing.”

  “No thank you, Mr. Monk,” I said, heading for the door. “I should really be getting on my way.”

  “How did your investigation go?” Ambrose asked.

  I stopped. I had to hear how Monk answered this. Monk looked at me, then at his brother. “Thanks to you, Ambrose, it went very well.”

  “Me?” Ambrose said. “What did I do?”

  “You saw what nobody else did, that the killer had made a big mistake. He wore a first-season uniform with second-season ears. It helped us to discover that Stipe’s murder had nothing to do with Beyond Earth. We approached the sellers you identified and were able to generate a sketch of the killer without his Mr. Snork disguise.”

  “Tell me everything.” Ambrose sat up straight in his seat. “Talk slowly and don’t leave out a single detail.”

  I couldn’t leave now. So I sat down, took the two 7-Ups that Ambrose offered me, and listened as Monk recounted the events and developments of the day.

  Ambrose listened attentively to every word and even took notes. I looked at his work and was surprised to see that it included annotated footnotes referencing various publications and the dates and times of previous conversations with Monk and me regarding the investigation. I don’t know why he was doing it, exceptthat he was a Monk and they have this thing about noting the details.

  “You made some amazing deductions, Adrian,” Ambrose said when Monk was finished.

  “I could have made them a lot earlier if I’d listened to you,” Monk said. “You’re a great detective.”

  “I’m not really sure what I am, but I’m certainly not a detective,” Ambrose said. “I don’t have your worldly experience, adventurous spirit, or fearless, devil-may-care attitude towards life.”

  Monk was fearless?

  I have a list somewhere that he gave me of the 222 things he’s afraid of. Number 222 on the list is: Having a list that ends on the number 221 or 223.

  But I didn’t think this was a good time to contradict Ambrose’s impression of his brother, not if I wanted to keep my job.

  “You have all those same qualities,” Monk said. “You’d discover it for yourself if you’d just leave the house and go out into the world.”

  Ambrose shook his head. “I’m not you, Adrian. I don’t have your strength.”

  “I’m not strong,” Monk said.

  “I could never go through what you have,” Ambrose said, then looked at me. “Or you. I’d be destroyed.”

  “We are,” Monk said.

  “A piece of us, maybe,” I said. “But it was worth it, Ambrose. Love always is.”

  Ambrose shook his head. “No, you’re both special people. Especially you, Adrian. You’re the best detective on earth and I’m proud of you.”

  Monk stared at him as if seeing his brother for the very first time. “You are?”

  “Of course I am,” Ambrose said. “Who wouldn’t be? I’m sure there are thousands of people who look up to you. I’m just one of them.”

  “No, you’re not,” Monk said. “You’re my brother.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t admire you, does it?”

  I leapt out of my chair and hugged Ambrose and then I hugged Monk. It was like hugging two mannequins, but I couldn’t help myself. It was such a great turning point for them and I wanted them to feel it.

  They both looked a little shocked by my show of affection.

  “Why did you do that?” Monk said.

  “I’m your surrogate hugger,” I said. “I gave you both the hugs that you two should have given each other.”

  Ambrose looked at Monk. “Is she okay?”

  “She has been acting irrationally all day,” Monk said. “I really think she needs some rest.”

  Ambrose looked at me. “Are you pregnant?” “No,” I said. “Absolutely not. What would make you think that?”

  “I’ve read that women get irrational and emotional when they’re pregnant,” Ambrose said.

  “Well, I’m not. But Mr. Monk is right. Some relaxation is exactly what I need,” I said. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. Shall I come a little later than usual?”

  “Sure. Let’s sleep in and rest up,” Monk said. “I’ll see you at nine-oh-five.”

  That was his idea of sleeping in?

  “That extra five minutes is going to make all the difference, Mr. Monk. Thank you.”

  “There’s no need to thank me,” Monk said. “You’ve earned it.”

  Monk and Ambrose walked me to the door.

  “I didn’t bring anything with me to read,” Monk said to Ambrose. “Which one of your books would you recommend?”

  “You’d like to read one of my books?” Ambrose asked.

  “What better way is there to spend an evening at home than to read a good book?” Monk replied.

  As I walked out the door, I looked back to see Ambrose handing Monk a book.

  “This is my manual for the Akita Multi-Standard VCR and DVD Burner Combination Player-Recorder. It won the Pritiker Award for Technical Writing for Electronic Audiovisual Components,” Ambrose said. “I’ve been told it’s a very compelling read, particularly the German version.”

  “It sounds great,” Monk said, as he put the book under his arm and gave his brother a sincere smile. “Why would anyone want to toast a DVD? Are they edible?”