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

“I only have one more question,” Monk said. “Where can I get a poster like the one in your waiting room?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mr. Monk and the Autopsy

As we drove back to San Francisco, Monk sat with the sun visor down so he could gaze upon the framed poster depicting the transformative power of orthodontics that Dr. Dalmas gave us and that we’d wedged into the backseat.

“That work of art is going to turn my house into a show-place, ” Monk said.

“You’ll certainly be the only house on your block with a dental poster in the living room.”

“I may need to invest in a security system,” he said.

“And a subscription to Highlights for Children,” I said.

“I already have that,” he said.

“You do?”

“Finding the objects in the hidden pictures keeps my powers of observation sharp,” Monk said. “Plus the adventures of Goofus and Gallant are pretty exciting.”

“I hope Dr. Dalmas doesn’t turn out to be the killer,” I said. “Or it’s going to look like you took a bribe.”

“She couldn’t be the killer,” he said.

“Ronald Webster ran her over with a car and left her crippled for life,” I said. “She’s the most likely suspect. Not to mention the only suspect. And best of all, she doesn’t have an alibi.”

“She couldn’t have done it,” Monk said.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re kindred spirits,” he said.

“You’re not at all alike.”

“We both fight injustice and right wrongs,” Monk said.

“She straightens teeth,” I said. “I don’t see the injustice.”

“You would if you had those crooked teeth,” he said. “She restores order, just like I do.”

“Maybe her idea of justice is having Ronald Webster chewed on by a creature with perfect teeth.”

I saw the way she lit up when Monk mentioned uniform dentition. Then again, maybe they were kindred spirits after all.

“I was watching you when she got up from examining her patient,” I said. “There was a strange look on your face. What were you thinking?”

And as I asked the question, the expression came back to his face.

“Ronald Webster broke her. The doctors tried to fix her, but didn’t quite get it right. Now she’s devoting her life to repairing others and she excels at it,” Monk said. “What happened to her was horrible and cruel. And yet I wonder if it’s because of him, and what he did to her, that she’s so good at what she does.”

“We’ll never know,” I said.

“I may,” he said.

He might at that. And if he does, I’m pretty sure it will be on the day he finds his wife’s killer.

We were halfway across the Bay Bridge when Captain Stottlemeyer called to tell us that the medical examiner had completed his autopsy. Stottlemeyer wanted us to meet him at the morgue to hear the results.

There are lots of things I like to do on Saturdays and visiting the morgue isn’t one of them. The morgue is cold, smells bad and is filled with corpses. Other than that, it’s a delightful place.

It certainly was for Monk. He was completely at home there. The morgue is clean, sterile and organized, with shiny metal and linoleum surfaces that are kept sparkling. I’m sure that he’d rather eat a meal off the floor of the morgue than on a picnic table in Golden Gate Park.

There is nothing out of place in a morgue. Nothing scattered. Nothing haphazard. The bodies are carefully tagged and lined up on autopsy tables for examination or kept in refrigerated compartments. Even the things taken out of the bodies are carefully weighed, measured, cataloged and then disposed of.

And if a mess is ever created, it’s quickly and efficiently hosed down and the affected area sanitized, deodorized and probably simonized, too. That would account for the brilliant gleam.

Monk had offered many times to come over in his free time and help clean up. But the medical examiner had always politely declined the offer, much to Monk’s disappointment and to my relief, since I’d probably have to be the one who drove him back and forth.

Captain Stottlemeyer was waiting down in the morgue lobby, right outside the stairwell, when we arrived. It was unusual for him to greet us there. On those occasions when we gathered at the morgue, we’d ordinarily meet around the body at the autopsy table. It was sort of like Thanksgiving, only without the meal and the fancy dishware.

“Why the welcoming committee?” I asked.

Stottlemeyer frowned. “We have a special guest today and I wanted to prepare you for it.”

He meant Monk, not me.

“Who is he?” Monk asked.

“He’s sort of a consultant,” Stottlemeyer said. “Randy thought he might have some special insight into this case and gave him a call yesterday after we found the body.”

“But I’m your consultant,” Monk said.

“Think of him as Randy’s consultant,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I thought I was Randy’s consultant, too,” Monk said. “Why can’t I be everybody’s consultant?”

“Frankly, Monk, I’ll take as many knowledgeable consultants as I can get, especially if they’re free,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I’ll work for free,” Monk said.

“No, you won’t,” I said.

“You haven’t told us who this consultant is,” Monk said.

“It’s Ian Ludlow,” Stottlemeyer said, leading us into the autopsy room. “The author.”

Ludlow was standing across from Lieutenant Disher and Dr. Hetzer on the other side of the autopsy table, where Ronald Webster’s body was laid out.

“Why did you call him?” Monk asked Disher.

“Randy was one of my best students and is very familiar with my work,” Ludlow said, answering the question before Disher had a chance.

“I’ve studied every word he’s ever written and it’s had a huge impact on my prose,” Disher said and turned to Stottlemeyer. “You’ve probably noticed the difference in my reports.”

“I don’t read your reports for the prose,” Stottlemeyer