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

“It’s common cannibal wisdom.”

“Since when are you an expert on cannibals?”

“Since one of them moved into my building,” he said.

Even if there was a conspiracy against Monk, I was fairly certain that Dr. Kroger’s diagnosis of his mental health was absolutely accurate.

We found Stoffmacher at his desk in the police station, holding a mirror up to his face and examining his mustache, touching it up with a tiny comb. He didn’t seem too pleased to see us standing at the front counter.

“I have no news to share,” Stoffmacher said without getting up from his desk. “We haven’t found Bruno Leupolz or your eleven-fingered suspect.”

“We have,” Monk said. “He’s at the hotel on the hill.”

“Leupolz?”

“The other guy,” I said.

Monk said, “His name is Dr. Martin Rahner and he’s attending the same seminar as my psychiatrist. What do you think of that?”

“It’s not uncommon for psychiatrists to attend psychiatric conferences,” Stoffmacher said. “Regardless of how many fingers they have.”

“I think it’s a conspiracy,” Monk said. “My shrink has been helping my wife’s killer evade capture all of these years.”

Stoffmacher set down his mirror and his comb. “That sounds crazy.”

“That’s exactly what my psychiatrist wants you to think,” Monk said.

“Especially coming from a patient who followed his psychiatrist here from the United States,” Stoffmacher said.

“That’s the beauty of it,” Monk said. “Who would believe me?”

“It’s a convincing argument,” Stoffmacher said.

“His or mine?”

“His,” Stoffmacher said. “And he hasn’t even made it yet.”

“But you aren’t falling for it,” Monk said. “Because I’ve already proven to you at the Leupolz crime scene that I’m thoughtful, intelligent, and rational.”

“Do you expect me to arrest them?” Stoffmacher asked.

“That would be nice,” Monk said.

“Do you have evidence of their guilt or any outstanding warrants for their arrest?”

“Are those necessary in Germany?” Monk asked.

“We follow the rule of law here,” Stoffmacher said. “We are a civilized country.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have cobblestone streets,” Monk said.

“What?” Stoffmacher said.

I spoke up quickly before Monk could make himself look any crazier. “Mr. Monk would appreciate it if you would do a background check on Dr. Rahner and keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Stoffmacher said. “But I’m afraid the homicide investigation is taxing our resources as it is. All my officers are occupied right now looking for Bruno Leupolz.”

“I understand,” I said.

“I don’t,” Monk said. “Leupolz is dead.”

“We don’t know that,” Stoffmacher said.

“I do,” Monk said. “Don’t worry—bodies have a way of turning up. So you can investigate Dr. Rahner and watch his every move until someone finds the corpse.”

“If there is a corpse to be found, we’d like to be the ones to do it,” Stoffmacher said. “Good day, Mr. Monk.”

“The hell it is,” Monk said and walked out.

I followed after him.

Monk stepped carefully from stone to stone, almost as if he was playing hopscotch.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to irritate Stoffmacher? ” I said. “We need his help.”

“He’s hiding something,” Monk said.

“His irritation,” I said.

“What if he’s in on it too?”

“I thought you weren’t going to let paranoia overwhelm you,” I said.

“I’m not,” Monk said. “But this entire town is twisted. Look around.”

“Good idea,” I said.

“What is?”

“Let’s look around,” I said. “We can’t do anything until we hear from the police in San Francisco or the police here. We might as well get a sense of the place in the meantime.”

“I have the sense,” Monk said. “It’s nausea.”

“So do you have a better idea?”

Monk motioned to the hills. “I’ve spent years looking for my wife’s killer. He may be up in that hotel right now. I am not letting him get away.”

“What are you going to do?” I said.

“I’m going to keep watch outside the hotel,” Monk said. “If he tries to leave, I’ll be on him like his shadow, if his shadow had ten fingers instead of eleven.”

I couldn’t go sightseeing while he maintained his vigil, so I reluctantly went along with him. We walked up the road to the Franziskushohe, stopping at the bridge that crossed the tiny stream. The low walls on either side of the bridge gave us a place to sit.

“This is the only way to drive into or out of the property,” Monk said.

“Actually, it’s not,” I said. “There’s a logging road at the far end of the parking lot and a dozen hiking trails. If he wanted to leave, we’d never know it.”

“How do you know?”

“There are maps and historical markers along the trails,” I said. “I looked at one of them.”

“We’re going to need more men,” Monk said. “But in the meantime you’ll have to go on patrol.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll stay here,” Monk said. “You walk the trails.”

“I can’t be on all the trails at once,” I said.

“It’s the best we can do,” Monk said.

“We?” I said. “I’m the one who has to do all the walking. Why don’t you go on patrol?”

“I might encounter nature,” Monk said.

When he put it that way, the idea of an afternoon spent walking through the woods in peace seemed a lot more attractive than sitting on the bridge with him.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

“Check back with me hourly,” Monk said. “Let’s synchronize our watches.”

That was easier said than done. It took us twenty