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

the house, so his desire to be part of something must be even more intense and even more difficult to achieve. I’m glad that he’s apparently found something.”

“Why do you think Ambrose is so attracted to Beyond Earth and its fan following?” I asked.

“Science fiction is a highly imaginative genre that isn’t restricted by reality or any of the rules of modern life. It has broad appeal but it’s especially attractive to people who, for whatever reason, have been marginalized or ostracized by society at large for their perceived physical, mental, or social imperfections. For them, it’s much easier to fit into a rich fantasy world where anything is possible than a real one that excludes them. I’m not at all surprised that Ambrose is drawn to it. It’s not just a support system, it’s also a means of escape.”

I told Dr. Kroger about the reimagining of the show and the fervent opposition to it by the Galactic Uprising.

“Do you think a fan would kill Stipe over the changes to Beyond Earth?”

“I think people will kill over just about anything,” Dr. Kroger said. “But especially something or someone who threatens to totally destroy what they believe in.”

“It’s a TV show,” Monk said.

“To you and me it is, Adrian. To them, it’s their way of life.”

“How do we rescue Ambrose from their clutches?” Monk asked.

“It’s simple, Adrian. Become more involved in his life. The more he’s involved with you and others, the less he will need what the fan club gives him.” Dr. Kroger looked at his watch. “I’m afraid our time is up for today.”

“We haven’t even started,” Monk said.

“Not only have we started,” Dr. Kroger said, standing up. “We’ve finished.”

“But Natalie was here,” Monk said. “It doesn’t count.”

“Think of it as a group session and a very productive one, too. Thank you for participating, Natalie.”

“My pleasure,” I said.

“But we didn’t talk at all about me,” Monk said.

“It was all about you, Adrian.”

“I don’t see how,” Monk said.

“Think about it,” Dr. Kroger said, leading us to the door and opening it. “It will give us something to discuss at our next session.”

“You’re not going to charge me for this,” Monk said.

“Of course I am,” Dr. Kroger said.

“You’re lucky I’m not a police officer,” Monk said.

“Why?” Dr. Kroger asked him.

“Because I’d arrest you for robbery,” Monk said and walked out in a huff.

17

Mr. Monk Speaks Up

Captain Stottlemeyer and Lieutenant Disher were starting their day at a crime scene at the foot of the Filbert Steps, so that’s where we had to go to tell them about our new leads.

Filbert Street dead-ends at the base of Telegraph Hill, where a concrete and steel stairway crisscrosses the weedy cliff up to Montgomery Street. From there, wooden steps climb the rest of the way among cottages and a lush, beautiful garden that’s home to wild parakeets.

It’s a place I usually associate with solitude and beauty. But today, the dead end was living up to its name and casting its shadow over everything else.

Seeing a corpse in the morning puts a damper on my entire day, but unfortunately it was becoming increasingly typical for me. Even so, I wasn’t getting so blasé about it that I could stand over the corpse and sip my morning coffee, which was exactly what Stottlemeyer and Disher were doing. They both held Starbucks cups in their hands. Stottlemeyer had a little foam in his mustache.

The corpse was in a narrow, weedy patch beside the steps between the sheer face of the hill and a windowless side of an office building that abutted it.

There was an empty taxicab double-parked at the curb near the lot, the driver’s-side door ajar, which led me to brilliantly deduce that the victim was the cabbie.

Monk and I stepped over the yellow crime scene tape and joined the captain and Disher beside the body. The victim was lying faceup, his legs curled underneath him in an unnatural way. He appeared to me to be in his early thirties. He’d been shot once in the head.

“Good morning,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s hard to feel good about it when you’re looking at a dead man,” I said.

Stottlemeyer nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “If I let every murder get to me, there wouldn’t be any of me left.”

“And if you don’t,” I said, “are you still the person that you want to be?”

“That’s the last time I’m ever going to say good morning to you,” Stottlemeyer said. “What brings you here?”

I wiped my upper lip. Stottlemeyer got the message and dabbed at his mustache with a napkin from his pocket. “The Stipe case,” I said.

“Who is the victim?” Monk asked, walking carefully around the body, looking at it from various angles.

“His name is Phil Bisson,” Disher said. “He’s a cabbie. A tourist walking down the Filbert Steps spotted the body two hours ago and called 911. The ME puts the preliminary time of death around one a.m.”

Monk looked up at the staircase, then back down at the body.

“What do you think happened?” I asked Disher.

“A robbery-homicide,” he replied.

Monk cocked his head from side to side. He was processing the information. It wasn’t tracking for him. He was a man whose body language gave away just about everything he was thinking and feeling. It’s a good thing he never played poker.

“Here’s what we think happened,” Disher said. “The cabbie gets flagged down by a guy, who pulls a gun on him and forces him out of the car. The guy leads the cabbie over to the lot behind the building, out of sight of the street, and shoots him. The robber takes the cabbie’s cash and runs.”

I tried to imagine what this dead end must have looked like at one a.m.