Mr. Monk in Outer Space by Goldberg, Lee (best sci fi novels of all time .txt) 📕

realized why the victim’s name was familiar to me.

“Wasn’t Conrad Stipe the creator of Beyond Earth?”

Stottlemeyer nodded.

“It’s one thing to shoot somebody. But this was more than that,” I said. “Stipe was gunned down by a guy dressed up as one of the TV characters he created. Someone is sending a message.”

“Now you’re beginning to grasp the situation,” Stottlemeyer said.

“How hard could it be to find a freak like that?” Monk said, pointing at the screen. “He ran into the convention center. With all those witnesses around, somebody must have seen him. It’s not like he’s going to blend in.”

Stottlemeyer glanced at Disher. “Show Monk the feed from the floor of the convention center.”

Disher hit some buttons and the image on the monitor was replaced by four views of a very large banquet hall that was full of hundreds of people. They were crowded into long, narrow aisles, browsing the dozens of vendors selling T-shirts, books, videos, models, and posters.

Most of the people were dressed in different-colored versions of the outfit the killer was wearing, with the same starburst insignia on the chest. And easily a third of those people also had pointed ears and elephant trunks. Another third had an alien mix of fangs, fur, tails, claws, scales, multicolored skin, and an assortment of extra appendages.

Monk leaned forward and stared at the screen in disbelief.

“Arrest them all,” Monk said.

“On what charge?” Stottlemeyer asked him.

“Are you kidding?” Monk said. “They’re obviously high on LSD. They’re tripping out, man. Go ask Alice.”

“Who’s Alice?” Disher asked.

“It was a book, Randy,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It was a lyric in a Jefferson Airplane song,” I said.

“It was a warning, my friends, and you’d best heed it,” Monk said. “Say no to drugs or you’ll rip out your own eyeballs.”

“I don’t remember Alice ripping out her eyeballs,” I said.

“It was the subtext,” Monk said.

“I don’t see any evidence of drug use here,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Look at them, Captain. They are drug-crazed hippies. What other explanation could there be?”

“It’s a Beyond Earth convention, Mr. Monk,” I said. “They’re all dressed up like aliens from the TV show.”

“What TV show?” Monk said.

“The one Conrad Stipe wrote and produced back in the seventies,” Stottlemeyer said. “It has a cult following.”

“Ah, so they’re a cult,” Monk said, nodding knowingly. “Now it all makes sense. We’d better arrest them now before they sacrifice a virgin.”

“There’s a virgin?” Disher said. “Where?”

“They’re probably all virgins,” I said.

“I’d like to make an arrest, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’d like it to be the killer. But how are we going to pick him out of that crowd? There’s got to be a hundred Mr. Snorks in there. It would be like picking a needle out of a box of needles.”

“I could pick a needle out of a box of needles,” Monk said.

“I know. That’s what I’m counting on,” the captain said, “because when the killer ran into the convention center, he immediately got lost in the crowd. Nobody would have given him a second look. If anyone can spot him in there, it’s you.”

“Can’t you test everyone attending the convention for gunshot residue on their hands and clothing?” I asked.

“First I’d have to find a judge insane enough to give me a warrant. But even if I could, for all we know the killer changed out of his getup and slipped away before we got here.”

“Oh,” I said, and then I had another idea. “Couldn’t you trace him by checking the places that sell Snork noses, pointed ears, and Confederation uniforms?”

“There must be fifty vendors in the dealers’ room of the convention alone who sell the stuff, as well as countless merchants on the Internet,” Stottlemeyer said. “That’s not even counting the people who create their own makeup and costumes. And I doubt most of those people keep detailed sales records on every single purchase. We don’t even know when the shooter bought the stuff. Was it today? Last week? Twenty years ago?”

“Oh,” I said.

“As you can see, Natalie, this is demanding work best left to professionals,” Disher said. “We have the experience, resources, and old-fashioned know-how to get the job done.”

Disher looked at me, then at Monk, then back to the captain.

“In most cases. I’d say between half and two thirds of the time,” Disher said. “More or less.”

Stottlemeyer sighed wearily and looked at me. “Now do you see my problem?”

I did. And I could also see that it was about to become my problem, too.

Morris Hibler, the organizer of the convention, would have been a reasonably attractive man if not for the purple Beyond Earth uniform, the pointed ears, and the elephant trunk dangling from his nose.

Stottlemeyer, Monk, and I were talking with him in his Airporter Motor Inn suite, where he was drinking a can of 7-Up and awaiting the results of the diphenylamine swab tests for gunpowder residue that he’d graciously allowed a CSI technician to perform on his hands and clothing. Disher was still outside, taking witness statements.

“Conrad Stipe’s murder is a tragedy of interstellar proportions for fandom,” Hibler said. “The fact that it was committed by a Confederation officer is unthinkable.”

“A Confederation officer?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“The Discovery is a Piller-class Confederation starship, ” Hibler said. “Every member of the crew has sworn an oath to respect all life in whatever form it takes. This heinous act is a gross violation of the Cosmic Commandments of Interplanetary Relations. It just sickens me.”

“You should have another 7-Up,” Monk said. “You’ll feel better.”

“No thanks,” Hibler said. “I’m still working on this one.”

“What was Stipe doing here?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“He was our guest of honor, of course. He was going to inaugurate the con, do a Q&A with the stars, and screen some of the classic episodes.”

“Do you have