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

“That’s why we’re here,” I said. “We’ve got some new leads.”

“You do?” Stottlemeyer said, looking hopeful.

“The uniform that the killer was wearing was from season one,” I said. “But his ears were from season two.”

The hope I saw in Stottlemeyer’s face disappeared. “How is that a lead?”

“I’ll show you,” I said.

I led them over to my car, opened the back door, and pulled out the poster boards. I pointed to one of the blowups of the killer.

“Look closely and you’ll see that it’s not just any season-one uniform. It’s from the pilot episode. There’s only one person making and selling uniforms with that design. Her name is Ursula Glemstadt and she has a booth at the convention.”

I pointed to the photos that Ambrose had arranged to illustrate the typical fading of a uniform over time and multiple washings. As I did, I noticed a tiny footnote referencing Ambrose’s book The Encyclopedia of Confederation Uniforms and Other “Beyond Earth” Clothing.

“Based on the color and lack of fraying on the killer’s uniform,” I said, “there’s a good chance he’s wearing it for the first time.”

“Meaning he could have bought it a day or two before the shooting,” Stottlemeyer said, catching on. The expression of hope was back on his face. “Randy, contact this Ursula woman and see if she can tell us anything about her recent customers. Bring a sketch artist with you.”

“I’m on it,” Disher said.

Stottlemeyer looked at me. “It’s pure Monk to come up with a lead based on when someone last laundered their clothes, but I’ve never seen him do a presentation before.”

“He didn’t,” I said. “His brother did.”

“Ambrose?” Stottlemeyer said. “Since when does he help Monk on investigations?”

“Ambrose is an expert on Beyond Earth.”

“He’s an Earthie?” Disher said.

“Earther,” I corrected.

Stottlemeyer grinned. “Monk must love that.”

Monk emerged from the back of the cab. “I know who killed this cabdriver.”

We all turned around, shocked.

It wasn’t the first time Monk had solved a case at the crime scene—we’d seen him do it yesterday at the Belmont—but it still never ceased to be startling.

“You do?” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s the same person who shot Brandon Lorber,” Monk said.

“You solved my desecration case, too?” Disher said, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “They’re connected?”

“Without a doubt,” Monk said.

“Wait a minute,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re saying that whoever murdered this cabbie and made it look like a robbery also snuck into Burgerville headquarters two nights ago and put three bullets into a dead man?”

“That’s what I am saying.”

“That’s saying a lot,” Stottlemeyer said.

“There’s more,” Monk said.

“Don’t tell me,” Stottlemeyer said. “You know who did it.”

Monk didn’t say anything. He just looked at us.

“Well?” Stottlemeyer prodded.

“You just said not to tell you,” Monk said.

“It’s an expression, Monk. It means ‘tell me.’ ”

“How can ‘don’t tell me’ mean ‘tell me’? Wouldn’t it make more sense to say ‘tell me’?”

“Tell me!” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk didn’t say anything.

"I’m waiting, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “Spit it out already.”

“You said not to tell you,” Monk said.

“I just said ‘tell me,’ ” Stottlemeyer said.

“If ‘don’t tell me’ means ‘tell me,’ then doesn’t it follow that ‘tell me’ means ‘don’t tell me’?”

Stottlemeyer massaged his temples. “If you don’t reveal the name of the killer this instant, I am going to tie one of my shoes in a double knot and leave the other one in a single knot for the rest of the day.”

Monk gasped. “Okay, okay, there’s no need to do anything drastic. If this is what happens when you give up caffeine, don’t do it again. It makes you crazy and irrational.”

“Who killed the cabbie and shot Brandon Lorber’s corpse?” Stottlemeyer demanded.

Monk paused for dramatic effect. I think he savors these moments and wants them to last as long as possible.

“Mr. Snork,” he said.

18

Mr. Monk Connects the Dots

Remember how I said before that we were shocked when Monk declared that he’d solved the cabbie’s murder? Well, after Monk said it was Mr. Snork who did it, we were super-shocked. Our jaws were hanging open because we had lost the motor skills to keep them shut.

“Mr. Snork?” I repeated, just to be sure I’d heard him right the first time.

“You know, the guy with the elephant trunk and pointed ears,” Monk said.

“We know who Mr. Snork is,” Stottlemeyer said. “What we don’t know is what makes you think that the same person shot Brandon Lorber’s corpse, shot Conrad Stipe, and shot this cabbie.”

“I can tell you now that the bullets removed from Lorber don’t match the bullet removed from Stipe,” Disher said. I think he didn’t want to see his Special Desecration Unit disbanded before it had even closed its first case.

“I don’t need ballistic evidence,” Monk said. “I have something much more damning and convincing.”

“What?” Disher asked.

“Gum,” Monk said.

“Gum,” Stottlemeyer repeated.

We repeated what Monk said a lot. I think Stottlemeyer, like me, just wanted to assure himself he’d actually heard Monk say the unbelievable thing that we’d just heard him say.

Monk pointed to the backseat of the cab. “There’s a two-day-old wad of chewing gum under the seat.”

“Meaning what?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Conrad Stipe was in this taxi.”

“Anybody could have stuck gum under the seat,” Disher said. “I’m sure there are gobs of wads under there.”

“There are,” Monk said, looking a little sickened. “But this one is in the same place that Stipe put his gum in the other cab. It’s also the same color and consistency as the other wad of gum and it’s approximately two days old.”

“How do you know it’s two days old?” Stottlemeyer said.

“I have great gum instincts,” Monk said.

“Gum instincts?” Disher repeated.

“I honed them during my years on the