Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants by Goldberg, Lee (books for students to read .TXT) 📕

“Why what?” Father Bowen replied.

“Why did he have to work so hard at it?”

“We all do, Mr. Monk,” Father Bowen said.

“But he worked harder than most,” Monk said, “didn’t he?”

“Perhaps,” Father Bowen said, shifting position on the bench.

“Why did he have to do that?” Monk said. “There must have been a reason.”

“Being a good person is an end in and of itself,” Father Bowen said. “It allows you to be blessed in the eyes of the Lord.”

“He must have wanted that blessing very badly to come to morning mass every single day,” Monk said. “And you obviously knew the strength of that devotion or you wouldn’t have been so worried when he didn’t show up one morning that you called his shoe store looking for him.”

“I’m concerned about the well-being of all my parishioners, Mr. Monk.”

“If that was true,” Monk said, “you wouldn’t let them all drink wine from the same glass.”

I spoke up, eager to change the subject. “What can you tell us, Father, about Ronald Webster’s relationship with his family and friends? About his past?”

“He didn’t talk about those things,” Father Bowen said, shifting again in his seat. “We mostly discussed issues of faith.”

I’m not a shrink or an expert on human behavior or even an astute observer of body language, but I got the distinct impression that our rather tame questions were making Father Bowen uncomfortable.

“That fits with the description of Ronald that we got from one of his fellow shoe salesmen,” Monk said. “But his coworker said that it seemed as if Ronald worked at being dull. It’s funny, but you used almost the same words to describe him being a good man.”

“I don’t see your point,” Father Bowen said.

“I think that Ronald was dull on purpose. He didn’t want to be noticed, which is why I don’t believe he would go to a nude beach,” Monk said. “I also think he was trying to overcome enormous guilt, which is why he came here every single day.”

“Even if you’re right,” Father Bowen said, “I fail to see what that has to do with Ronald’s death.”

“I can think of a very good reason why a person would be guilt-ridden and desperate to remain inconspicuous.”

And once Monk said that, so could I.

“Ronald Webster committed some terrible crime and got away with it,” I said. “He wanted absolution.”

“Did he get it?” Monk asked Father Bowen.

“Of course he did,” Father Bowen said. “God forgives.”

“The law doesn’t,” Monk said.

“Maybe someone else doesn’t, either,” I said.

Monk nodded. “Someone with a hungry pet alligator.”

Father Bowen shuddered at the thought.

“What did Ronald do?” I asked.

Father Bowen chewed on his lower lip. I guess he was in some kind of moral or ethical turmoil.

“He’s dead, Father,” I said. “You aren’t violating the sanctity of confession by telling us what he told you.”

“It might help us catch Ronald Webster’s murderer,” Monk said.

“The captain didn’t say that Ronald was murdered,” Father Bowen said. “He said the circumstances of his death were uncertain.”

“I’m certain,” Monk said.

Father Bowen sighed. “Ten years ago, somewhere in the East Bay, he was speeding in his car. He hit a young woman. She was thrown up onto the windshield and, for a few seconds, looked him right in the eye before she fell off onto the side of the road. Instead of stopping to help her, he kept on driving.”

“Was she killed?” I asked.

Father Bowen shook his head. “She was badly hurt. Multiple fractures and internal injuries. She may even have been left crippled. Ronald told me that the story was in all the newspapers and the police made a public plea for any information leading to the capture of the hit-and-run driver. But there were no witnesses and the poor girl didn’t remember anything about the car that struck her.”

“So Ronald got away with it,” I said.

“On the contrary,” Father Bowen said. “He saw her face every time he closed his eyes. He was tormented with guilt.”

“Not enough to actually step forward and take responsibility for his actions,” Monk said.

“He sent her money,” Father Bowen said, “an envelope full of cash every few months. Anonymously, of course.”

“How much did he send?” I asked.

“It varied,” Father Bowen said. “But it amounted to tens of thousands of dollars over the years. And he gave generously to the church.”

“Enough to buy your silence?” Monk said.

Father Bowen’s face flushed with anger. “My silence is a given, Mr. Monk. When people confess, they do so with the understanding that I will keep what they say in complete confidence.”

“Even if they’ve committed a crime,” Monk said.

“We are all sinners, Mr. Monk.”

“Not me,” Monk said. “I lead a clean life.”

“Nobody is that clean,” Father Bowen said.

I was tempted to invite Father Bowen to see Monk’s house, but I didn’t want to shatter the man’s beliefs.

I arranged a playdate for Julie and one of her friends with one of the other soccer moms, who agreed to take my daughter for the day. I was accumulating a lot of debts with other mothers lately, but I figured it was worth it in the long run. Even so, in the near future, I was going to be spending a lot of mornings giving rides and days playing host to other people’s kids.

While I bartered that deal, Monk policed the bleachers and made sure that all the parents were observing the importance of balanced seating. They were glad to accommodate Monk’s request, at least while he was present. It was the least they could do, considering he’d nailed the coach of an opposing team for murder. The Slammers were legendary now, even if they hadn’t won a single game.

Then Monk and I got into the rented Corolla, which I drove back to