Mr. Monk Goes to Germany by Lee Goldberg (general ebook reader .TXT) 📕

been arrested, but he just shrugged. He never doubted that she was guilty, no more than he doubted himself about seeing the man with eleven fingers.

The dispatcher’s phone rang. She answered it and motioned to Schust to pick up the extension. He did.

The officer listened for a moment, looked over at us with astonishment, hung up, and made another call. He spoke to someone for a few minutes, glancing at us repeatedly as he did, then ended the call and walked over to us.

“I apologize, Mr. Monk, if I offended you in any way,” Schust said. “I’ve been ordered by the leader of the regional police to take you to see Hauptkriminalkommissar Stoffmacher right away. Please come with me.”

The officer led us outside to his car. As we followed him, Monk looked at me for an explanation. I shrugged.

“You must have friends in high places,” I said.

“I’m afraid of heights,” Monk said. “That’s why I’m glad I have two friends down here with me that I can always count on.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mr. Monk Sees a Corpse

We’d barely been in Germany for twenty-four hours and we were about to see a dead body. It’s not exactly on my list of things to do when I go someplace new. But the same thing happened when Monk followed me to Hawaii, when we went to a wine tasting in Napa, and when he was a guest at my brother’s wedding. Wherever Monk goes, you can always count on a dead body showing up sooner or later.

Maybe that’s why he never received invitations to weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, parties, movie screenings, time-share presentations, or anything else. Nothing kills a good time faster than a killing. He attracts more death than Jessica Fletcher and she’s practically the Grim Reaper in a housedress.

The crime scene was one of those duplexes built in the foothills below the forest, right under the shadow of the Franziskushohe. The duplex was a wide A-frame with matching front doors and windows. I’m sure that Monk appreciated the perfect symmetry.

An officer was unfurling red-and-white-striped police tape and wrapping it around trees and streetlights on the property to secure it in place. The police tape read: POLIZEIABSPERRUNG. The one thing I’d already noticed about the German language was that it seemed to cram entire sentences into one long, incomprehensible word.

Schust lifted the tape up so we could pass under it and then he escorted us into the right-side portion of the duplex.

It was a tiny place, maybe seven hundred square feet, with the living room and kitchen on the first floor and the bedroom on the second. The decor was thrift-shop Euroseventies, with lots of bright colors.

The victim was a man who appeared to me to be in his early thirties. He was sprawled on his side on the floor, a gun not far from his hand. His hair was matted with blood. This definitely wasn’t what I’d had in mind for sightseeing.

There were two men standing over the body. The men were both in off-the-rack suits and ties, which was the same underpaid-plainclothes-cop attire you’d see in America. I guess some things are true everywhere—cops aren’t paid enough and people kill.

One of the men had an enormous black mustache that looked like a crow had been caught in an oil slick, tried to fly, and crashed into his face instead. The elaborate mustache completely overpowered his face and, frankly, the entire room.

The other man was younger, with an earnest, puppy-dog expression on his pale, baby face. He gripped his notepad and pen as if they were life preservers.

“Hauptkriminalkommissar Stoffmacher,” Schust said to the man with the outrageous mustache, “this is Adrian Monk and his assistant, Natalie Teeger.”

Stoffmacher offered Monk his hand.

“Welcome to Lohr, Mr. Monk. Your reputation precedes you,” he said and waved Officer Schust away. The officer left.

“You’ve heard of me?” Monk shook Stoffmacher’s hand.

“You were preceded by a phone call by my superiors,” Stoffmacher said. “They tell me you are the top detective in San Francisco, perhaps in all of America.”

“I am,” Monk said.

“They neglected to mention your modesty,” Stoffmacher said.

“I am also very tidy,” Monk said, trying to shake a bit of white fluff off his shoe.

“Good to know,” Stoffmacher said, narrowing his eyes at him. He clearly wasn’t sure what to make of Monk. Most people aren’t.

The man next to Stoffmacher cleared his throat. Stoffmacher took the hint.

“This is Kommissar Geshir,” Stoffmacher said, almost reluctantly.

“I’m always glad to meet another colleague in law enforcement. It so happens that I’m the top detective in this department,” Geshir said to Monk as he offered him his hand. Monk shook it.

“Congratulations,” Monk said, still wiggling his foot to rid himself of the evil fluff. Finally it flew off.

“You are also the only detective in the department,” Stoffmacher said.

“Which puts me at the top,” Geshir said.

“Or the bottom,” Stoffmacher said. “If you count me.”

“You’re the boss,” Geshir said, “so you don’t count.”

They were so busy arguing that neither one of them appeared to notice Monk disinfecting his hand with a towelette.

Watching the two detectives, I was overwhelmed by a strange sense of déjà vu.

“You’re telling me I don’t count?” Stoffmacher said. “You might want to consider the implications of that remark.”

Geshir shifted his weight nervously. “My English isn’t very good. I probably chose the wrong words.”

“I’m sure you did,” Stoffmacher said.

He turned to Monk, who at this point was already beginning to roam around the room, tipping his head from side to side, doing his Zen-detecting thing.

I found it