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

Stoffmacher reached into his pockets and produced two little shoe covers that looked like blue shower caps. He put them over his shoes, then took two more out of his pocket and handed them to me.

“What is he doing?” Stoffmacher asked.

“I call it Monk Zen,” I said as I slipped the covers on my shoes. “I think he’s trying to sense what’s out of place.”

Monk stopped, looked at his feet, and started to whimper.

Stoffmacher glanced at me. “Is that normal?”

“That’s a flexible concept when it comes to Mr. Monk,” I said and started towards him.

“Stand back!” Monk yelled, holding up his hand in a halting gesture. “Nobody move!”

“What is it?” Geshir asked. “Are you standing on a land mine?”

Stoffmacher gave Geshir a withering look. “A land mine? Why would there be a land mine here?”

“I don’t know.” Geshir motioned to Monk. “Ask him.”

“This is worse.” Monk spoke very slowly. “At least with a land mine the hot kiss of death comes quickly.”

“What could be worse than a land mine?” Geshir said.

“The ground around me looks dry, but it’s actually moist,” Monk said. “I have mud on my shoes. It’s too late for me, but not for you. Go. Save yourselves while you still can.”

Stoffmacher muttered something in German that I’m pretty sure was profane, marched past Monk, and crouched beside the body. Geshir joined him.

Monk remained frozen in place, wincing. I stayed with my boss like the loyal assistant that I am. Plus, I had no desire to lean over a smelly corpse.

The dead guy appeared to be in his late forties. He had two days’ worth of stubble on his fleshy cheeks and was pale-skinned, but maybe that was just because he was dead. His head was turned to one side, his eyes and mouth wide open.

“He’s in exercise clothes and wearing running shoes,” Stoffmacher said. “He must have been jogging through the forest when he died.”

“He was murdered,” Monk said.

Geshir searched the man’s pockets with his gloved hands and pulled out a thin wallet. He sorted through it.

“It’s Bruno Leupolz,” Geshir said. “His credit cards are still in his wallet. There’s also about sixty euros in cash.”

“I don’t see any blood or signs of violence,” Stoffmacher said. “No cuts, not even a bruise.”

Geshir looked back at Monk. “You were wrong. He wasn’t shot.”

“Maybe he was poisoned,” I said.

“Whether he was poisoned or not,” Stoffmacher said, “this doesn’t fit with Monk’s theory of what happened in the house at all.”

“It fits mine,” Geshir said.

“That Leupolz accidentally killed Vigg while trying to shoot himself,” Stoffmacher said.

Geshir nodded. “Leupolz was so distraught over what he’d done that he ran into the woods and poisoned himself.”

“Why not do it in his apartment?” I asked.

“He was trying to distance himself from what he’d done,” Geshir said. “That’s why he made it look like Vigg killed himself. Leupolz didn’t want to die a murderer.”

Stoffmacher nodded approvingly. “You may be on to something.”

“The only thing he’s on is a feather,” Monk said.

“What?” Geshir said.

“Lift up your left foot,” Monk said. Geshir did. There was a feather in the mud. “That feather is the same as the ones we found in Leupolz’s apartment.”

“So what?” Stoffmacher said. “It makes sense that he might track things with him from his own apartment.”

“The pillow exploded when the killer used it as a silencer,” Monk said. “That’s why there were feathers all over the apartment. That feather proves I was right.”

“But there weren’t feathers all over the apartment,” Geshir said.

“Because the killer cleaned most of them up,” Monk said.

“But Leupolz wasn’t shot,” Stoffmacher said. “So there was no killer, no silencer, and no exploded pillow. This body proves that you were wrong.”

Monk shook his head. “We’re missing something.”

“What’s missing is a coherent explanation for these two deaths,” Stoffmacher said. “We need to go back to the beginning and rethink all of our assumptions.”

“You mean his assumptions.” Geshir gestured to Monk.

“Yours, too,” Stoffmacher said. “Mine as well.”

“You have assumptions?” Geshir said.

“I do, occasionally, think about the investigations I am conducting,” Stoffmacher said. “I just don’t feel the need to share with you everything that runs through my head.”

“You are both getting lost in irrelevant details,” Monk said. “You need to step back and concentrate on what’s truly important here.”

“And what would that be?” Stoffmacher asked.

“My shoes,” Monk said. “They are covered with mud.”

“There is a dead body in front of us,” Stoffmacher snapped. “Your dirty shoes don’t matter!”

“What about his?” Monk said, motioning to Leupolz. “How did he get up here without getting a speck of dirt on them?”

We looked at Leupolz’s running shoes. They were bright white and perfectly clean, the laces tied in a neat double bow.

That certainly complicated things.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mr. Monk Gets Some News

Geshir rubbed his chin. Stoffmacher curled the end of his enormous mustache. And I swatted at the flies that were buzzing around me while we considered the implications of Monk’s observation.

Leupolz didn’t walk there.

So how did he get on the trail? If he didn’t float there, then it meant he was carried somehow. And the odds are he wasn’t alive when that happened.

But that explanation raised even more questions.

Why not leave him at his house? Why dump his body on a hiking trail? How did he die? Why weren’t there any signs of violence? How was his