Mr. Monk in Outer Space by Goldberg, Lee (best books to read for self development TXT) 📗

I’m sure there are a hundred places in San Francisco where he could have assassinated Stipe with less opportunity to be seen by witnesses and virtually no chance of being photographed. Instead he happened to choose the one spot where he could be seen clearly by not just one camera but four of them. It’s almost as if he wanted to be absolutely sure that he was seen. Why would a murderer take such an enormous risk?”

“To make a statement,” I said. “Which makes sense if he’s a member of the Galactic Uprising.”

“Or if that’s what Arianna Stipe wanted us to think,” Monk said. “Either way, the killer is wearing the perfect disguise.”

“That’s just it, Adrian. It’s not perfect. It’s all wrong,” Ambrose said. “In season two, the network demanded that the producers make Mr. Snork’s ears less pointy. They were afraid he looked too scary and unsympathetic. In fact, they wanted Stipe to change them to puppy ears so Snork would be more lovable, but he refused. They had to explain the ear change by having Mr. Snork suffer from a rare disease.”

“That’s an interesting story, if you have no life and never leave your house,” Monk said. “It’s also totally irrelevant.”

“There’s more—” Ambrose began.

“Please, God, no,” Monk said, rubbing his temples.

I was suddenly reminded of what Stottlemeyer looked like most of the time he was around Monk. And me, too. There was more than a little poetic justice in this moment, and I savored it.

“In season two, they made the Confederation insignia on the uniform gold instead of silver,” Ambrose said. “There’s a lot of discussion about why that particular decision was made, but the actual facts have never emerged. Sadly, there’s no paper trail and memories have faded with time.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Monk asked.

“The killer is wearing a season-one uniform with season-two ears!” Ambrose said. “Aren’t you listening to a word I’m saying?”

“No, not really,” Monk said. “This is a murder investigation. The first thing you learn is how to prioritize information. You can’t be distracted by insignificant details that simply don’t matter.”

I had to remember that comment for the next time Monk wanted Stottlemeyer and Disher to stop their work to do something like contribute lint to a murder victim’s pocket.

“A member of the Galactic Uprising would never make that mistake,” Ambrose said. “They know and respect Beyond Earth too much—that’s why they are fighting so hard against the new version. And surely Arianna Stipe, the wife of the creator of the show, would never let someone, even a hired killer, wear the wrong uniform with the wrong ears. The killer is violating canon and that’s just going too far.”

“Who cares?”

“I do,” Ambrose said. “Any Earther would.”

“Listen to yourself, Ambrose. You’re obsessing over meaningless things that just don’t matter. Follow my example and focus on what’s important. Prioritize. That’s how you solve cases.”

“I’m telling you, Adrian, it’s a season-one shirt with season-two ears,” Ambrose said. “It’s a very big deal.”

“I think we’re done for tonight,” Monk said, turning off the TV and taking the DVD out of the player. “There’s only so much we can do now. Maybe the captain will have more information for us to work with tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the help, Ambrose,” I said gently, trying to smooth things over.

“I tried,” Ambrose said, then shot a glare at Monk. “But he can be so stubborn. Good night, Natalie.”

“Good night, Ambrose,” I said.

Ambrose walked away. Monk looked after him and shook his head.

“How sad,” he said. “Imagine going through life getting hung up on such meaningless little things.”

I looked Monk right in the eye. “You certainly aren’t anything like that.”

“That’s because I’m a seasoned man of the world,” Monk said. “Ambrose is just a man of the house.”

I went home, too exhausted by the long day to do anything but soak in a hot bubble bath. It was warm, cozy, and relaxing, but I felt like I was squandering my vacation from parental responsibility. I should have been doing something exciting, edgy, and fun that I couldn’t do on an ordinary night with my daughter at home.

Instead, I was playing with the bubbles and thinking about why someone would shoot a dead man three times, why someone would dress up like a TV character and shoot a man in full view of security cameras, and why the Monk brothers were so incredibly messed up.

I couldn’t solve any of those mysteries, of course, but I couldn’t get them out of my head either. They were too compelling.

But the one mystery that took center stage in my thoughts was the one closest to my heart.

The Monks.

I knew the other two cases would be solved, but the mystery of the Monks was probably something that psychologists could ponder for decades and still not figure out.

They were raised by a very cold, controlling woman who drove their father away. She didn’t show her sons any affection whatsoever or teach them how to deal with the simplest of social interactions.

It’s no surprise that they both developed debilitating psychological disorders. Monk was obsessive-compulsive. Everything had to fit his personal sense of order. His brother was agoraphobic, unable to cope with anything outside of his carefully controlled environment.

Both were trapped in their own worlds, worlds with rules that they created and rigidly followed, even if it meant alienating everyone around them.

I found it almost unbearably sad.

And yet both men were sweet and honest and astonishingly brilliant. They both had an eye for detail that allowed them to see with remarkable clarity things that the rest of us found confusing, mysterious, and downright impossible to understand. They could see how things worked and explain it to the rest of us so we could see it, too.

It was, Monk liked to say,