Mr. Monk Goes to Germany
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Mr. Monk Goes to Germany Mr. Monk [6] Lee Goldberg Signet (2008)
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Rating: ★★★★☆ Tags: General, Fiction, Private investigators, Mystery Detective, Detective and mystery stories, Mystery fiction, Monk; Adrian (Fictitious character), Eccentrics and eccentricities, Radio and television novels, Germany
Generalttt Fictionttt Private investigatorsttt Mystery Detectivettt Detective and mystery storiesttt Mystery fictionttt Monk; Adrian (Fictitious character)ttt Eccentrics and eccentricitiesttt Radio and television novelsttt Germanyttt
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From Publishers Weekly
The sixth novel (after 2007's Mr. Monk in Outer Space) based on the popular Monk TV series created by Andy Breckman effectively meets the challenges of translating the screen concept to the page. Monk, an extreme sufferer of obsessive-compulsive disorder who left the San Francisco police department after his journalist wife, Trudy, was killed in a car bombing, decides to accompany his psychotherapist, Dr. Kroger, to a professional conference in Germany so that he won't miss his weekly therapy session. Once in Germany, Monk spots a six-fingered man he believes may have ordered the hit on Trudy. The discovery that the man is an old acquaintance of his psychotherapist leads Monk to investigate Kroger as well. Despite the lack of the TV series' visual humor and the performance of actor Tony Shalhoub, Goldberg does a decent job of conveying both the sleuth's quirks and his genius.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Product Description
Adrian Monk is on a roll—solving murders as fast as they come, and not counting his Wheat Chex until they’re in the bowl. But when his therapist, Dr. Kroger, leaves for Germany, Monk can’t tie his shoes, forgets how to swallow, and loses track of his blinking. Desperate, he follows Dr. Kroger to Germany where he sees a man with six fingers. The man responsible for his wife’s death—or was it just his imagination? Now Monk has to deal with his phobias and the unfriendly polizei to find his man.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE - Mr. Monk and the Assistant
CHAPTER TWO - Mr. Monk and the Balance of Nature
CHAPTER THREE - Mr. Monk Takes the Cake
CHAPTER FOUR - Mr. Monk Sees His Shrink
CHAPTER FIVE - Mr. Monk Falls Apart
CHAPTER SIX - Mr. Monk Loses Count
CHAPTER SEVEN - Mr. Monk and the Likely Suspect
CHAPTER EIGHT - Mr. Monk Takes Flight
CHAPTER NINE - Mr. Monk Arrives in Germany
CHAPTER TEN - Mr. Monk and the Appointment
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Mr. Monk Returns
CHAPTER TWELVE - Mr. Monk and the New Experience
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Mr. Monk Goes on Vacation
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Mr. Monk and the Six Fingers
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Mr. Monk Sees a Corpse
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Mr. Monk and the Deal
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Mr. Monk Makes a Discovery
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Mr. Monk and the Perfect Storm
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Mr. Monk and the Stakeout
CHAPTER TWENTY - Mr. Monk Meets Nature
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Mr. Monk Gets Some News
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Mr. Monk and Dr. Kroger
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Mr. Monk Visits Freakville
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - Mr. Monk and the Guy
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - Mr. Monk and the Friendly Skies
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - Mr. Monk Goes to Berlin
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - Mr. Monk Hits a Wall
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - Mr. Monk Takes a Walk in the Woods
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - Mr. Monk Has a Brand-new Bag
CHAPTER THIRTY - Mr. Monk Gets the Picture
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, July 2008
Copyright © 2008 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Monk © USA Cable Entertainment LLC. All rights reserved
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Goldberg, Lee, 1962-
Mr. Monk goes to Germany / Lee Goldberg.
p. cm.
“An Obsidian mystery.”
Based on the television series created by Andy Breckman.
eISBN : 978-1-436-23646-1
1. Monk, Adrian (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Fiction. 3. Eccentrics
and eccentricities—Fiction. 4. Germany—Fiction. I. Monk (Television program) II. Title. III.
Title: Mister Monk goes to Germany.
PS3557.O3577M728 2008
813’.54—dc22 2008000666
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To Valerie and Madison
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book was written in Los Angeles, California, and in Lohr, Germany … and in hotel rooms in Munich, Cologne, London, and Montreal and in the many airplanes and trains that shuttled me between those destinations.
I am indebted to Hermann Joha, Elke Schubert, Jasmin Steigler, the staff of the Franziskushohe, and the kind people of Lohr for their advice, guidance, and good humor on all things German. I also owe thanks to Justin Brenneman, Dr. D. P. Lyle, Kristen Weber, Kerry Donovan, and Gina Maccoby. And, finally, this book wou
ld not be possible without the creativity and enthusiasm of my friend Andy Breckman and the entire Monk writing staff.
While much of what I have written about Lohr and the surrounding area is true, a lot of it isn’t. I am entirely to blame for any errors of fact, geography, logic, or good taste, intentional or otherwise.
The story in this book takes place prior to the events in the episode “Mr. Monk Is On the Run.” While I try very hard to stay true to the continuity of the Monk TV series, it is not always possible, given the long lead time between when my books are written and when they are published. During that period new episodes may air that contradict details or situations referred to in my books. If you come across any such continuity mismatches, your understanding is appreciated.
I look forward to hearing from you at www.leegoldberg.com.
CHAPTER ONE
Mr. Monk and the Assistant
It’s a tough job being somebody’s personal assistant. You have to answer their phone, manage their correspondence, run their errands, pay their bills, arrange their schedule, and basically do whatever tasks, menial to major, they are too busy or self-absorbed or distracted or pampered or disinterested to do themselves.
I know that there are plenty of other occupations that require a lot more education, talent, courage, patience, skill, and endurance. And there are many jobs considerably more demanding, degrading, disgusting, or dangerous than being a mere personal assistant.
Sure, it might not be as deadly and unpleasant as crab fishing in the Arctic, or as risky as defusing land mines in Afghanistan, or as disgusting as trudging through the human waste in the New York sewer system. But, believe me, being a personal assistant is a lot harder than you think it is.
It involves more than fetching coffee, making restaurant reservations, and picking up dry cleaning. You have to be equal parts shrink, social worker, and mercenary to not only second-guess and satisfy the ever-changing professional, personal, physical, and emotional needs of your employer, but to also predict and manage the impact that he will have on people around him and that they will have on him.
Your intellect, your integrity, your ethics, and your physical endurance are put to the test every single day in ways you never could have imagined.
And you can forget about working only nine to five. Being a personal assistant is a full-time job that never ends. It’s 24/7. You’re on call more than any doctor, firefighter, or cop but for a lot less pay, negligible respect, and no benefits.
Your life and whatever needs you may have are trumped by the whims of your employer. You exist on this earth to serve him.
Now take all of that and multiply it by a thousand. That’s what it’s like when you’re the personal assistant to a brilliant detective, like I am to Adrian Monk.
Brilliant detectives are able to see things we can’t, amid the insignificant details and white noise that normal people like us simply tune out.
They can find connections between objects, events, and behaviors that anybody else would consider random, coincidental, or just fate because, well, most things are.
They can spot inconsistencies that would go unnoticed by anyone else because we have other priorities and simply aren’t paying close enough attention.
They interact with the world in an entirely different way than you and I do. They observe the way we live instead of living the way we do.
That’s what makes the detectives brilliant. And that’s what makes them completely incapable of dealing with everyday life and the basics of simple human interaction. It’s the reasonwhy so many brilliant detectives are considered “difficult” and “eccentric” by most people who meet them.
Adrian Monk’s brilliance comes from an obsessive-compulsive disorder and myriad phobias, all of which finally overwhelmed him when his wife, Trudy, was killed in a car bombing that has remained unsolved, and has haunted him to this day. He was fired from the San Francisco police force after her death and now makes his living consulting on homicide cases with Captain Leland Stottlemeyer.
Monk goes through life making sure that everything is in its place, following detailed rules of order that exist only in his mind and nowhere else. So he’s sensitive to anything that’s out of place and he has an uncontrollable need to put things back where they belong. Or, at least, where he thinks they belong.
To him, an unsolved murder is a story missing an ending, a puzzle missing a piece, an extreme and fatal example of disorder in an orderly world.
He has to set it right.
To do that, he needs someone to manage his life, get him where he needs to go, and keep away all the things that can distract him or provoke his phobias so that he can get through the day without a nervous breakdown. And, if things go really well, maybe he can solve a murder, too.
But it’s not easy dealing with a man who regularly disinfects his box of disinfectant wipes with a disinfectant wipe, who measures his ice cubes to ensure they are perfect cubes, and who once demanded at a crime scene that the police rearrange the cars in an adjacent parking lot alphabetically by their license plates, and then in groups by their make, model, and year of manufacture, so that he could concentrate.
I know I’ve complained to you about my job before and, until recently, that was all I could do to relieve my stress. But that changed a short time back when the San Francisco police walked off the job in a contract dispute and Monk was temporarily reinstated to the police force as captain of Homicide.
He was put in command of a trio of other detectives who’d also been discharged from the force for mental health reasons. One detective had a violent anger-management problem, one was a paranoid schizophrenic, and one was slipping into senility.
As different as their problems were, all three of them had one thing in common: They each had an assistant to help them.
It was a revelation and a relief for me.
Until then, if I wanted advice I had to search for wisdom and guidance in the exploits of fictional assistants like Sherlock Holmes’ Dr. Watson, Nero Wolfe’s Archie Goodwin, and Hercule Poirot’s Captain Hastings. Those days were over. I’d finally found real people who could understand and sympathize with my daily struggles.
I wasn’t alone anymore.
Now the three assistants and I get together about once a month at a coffee shop in the Marina District to vent about our troubles and give each other advice. I look at it as free psychological counseling, since two of the assistants are mental health professionals.
Occasionally we even have guests. A couple of months ago, we met a guy who works in Santa Barbara with a detective who pretends to be a psychic. Imagine that. His plight made us all feel a bit better about our own situations.
Jasper, a psychiatric nurse who assists the paranoid-schizophrenic detective, brought a guy to our last meeting who works with an Atlanta investigator who is a pathological liar. The assistant’s name was Gavin and the fibbing detective he works for was Steve Stone.
“At least I think that’s his name,” Gavin told us. “It could be a lie. He lies about everything. Most of my time and energy is spent trying to parse the truth from whatever he says and then tell it to the cops he consults with.”
“How do you do it?” I asked.
“I keep a running list of what he says and then at the end of the day, I strap him into a lie detector and question him about each comment,” Gavin said.
“He lets you do that?” Jasper asked.
“He knows I’ll quit if he doesn’t,” Gavin said. “But he’s become pretty good at fooling the machine. So sometimes I’ll slip him some Sodium Pentothal.”
“You drug your boss?” I asked, shocked.
“Who doesn’t?” said Sparrow, a young woman with so many piercings on her body she looked like a magnet dropped into a box of needles. She reluctantly assisted her grandfather Frank Porter, a retired SFPD detective who, despite his senility, was still a better investigator than most cops with perfect memory.
“I don’t,” I said.
There actually was an experimental drug Monk could take if he wanted to that would relieve most of his obsessive-compulsive tendencies. But it robbed him of his detecting skills. It also made him an insufferable jerk. Monk was already insufferable, but at least he wasn’t a jerk.
“The problem is that Stone has developed immunity to truth serum,” Gavin said. “So most of the time I’ve got no choice but to rely on my intuition and watch for his tells.”
“Tells?” Jasper asked, rapidly thumb-typing notes into his PDA. Everything we talked about was going into his thesis, the exact topic of which changed on a weekly basis.
“Body language, little tics, unconscious habits,” Gavin said, scratching his closely trimmed beard. “Like the way I’m scratching my beard, which I’m sure reveals something about my emotional state, though I’m not self-aware enough to know what it is.”