Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants by Goldberg, Lee (ready player one ebook .TXT) 📗

“It can’t be any stranger than what happens here,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I sincerely doubt it,” Monk said.

“You haven’t seen what we’ve got to deal with today,” Stottlemeyer said and tipped his head toward the rocks and tide pools behind him.

There was a huddle of police officers and crime-scene techs farther up the sand, presumably gathered around a corpse, but that wasn’t what caught Monk’s attention.

It was the sunbathers. They were all nude.

Monk immediately spun around and turned his back to the sunbathers, who were letting it all hang out. And I mean that literally. These weren’t supermodels working on their tans. The full force of gravity, fatty foods and age had hammered these people.

I had to admire the sunbathers’ casual confidence and their complete lack of shame. These were people who were totally comfortable with their bodies and accepted whatever imperfections they had as natural facts of life. I haven’t achieved that same sense of confidence.

“You’re going to have to call in reinforcements,” Monk said to Stottlemeyer.

“For what?” the captain asked.

“To arrest all the perverts,” Monk said.

“This is a nude beach, Monk.”

“Don’t these people have any sense of human decency?” Monk declared.

“It’s perfectly legal,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk stared at me, aghast.

He would have stared at Stottlemeyer aghast, too, but that would have meant turning around and facing the nudity.

“The California Penal Code, section 314, clearly states that any person who willfully and lewdly exposes his or her person or private parts thereof in any public place is violating the law,” Monk said. “Those are all willfully lewd persons. I’ve never seen such willful lewdness before.”

“This beach is a state park and this is an authorized, clothing-optional area,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’ll just have to live with it, Monk. Let’s go.”

“You go,” Monk said. “I’ll wait here.”

“The body is over there,” Stottlemeyer said, pointing to the gathering of cops and crime-scene techs thirty yards away.

“They’re everywhere,” Monk said. “And all of them are naked.”

“I was referring to the dead body,” Stottlemeyer said. “You need to see it at the crime scene, if it’s actually a crime scene.”

“You aren’t sure whether it’s a murder or not?” I asked.

“Good. Call me when you find out.” Monk started to go, but Stottlemeyer grabbed him by the arm.

“That’s why you’re here, Monk. You’re the one who is going to tell us if it’s a murder or not.”

“Can’t the medical examiner do that?” Monk asked.

“Trust me. This is a case that cries out for Adrian Monk,” Stottlemeyer said and headed for the crime scene, pulling Monk along with him.

Monk looked up at the heavens as if seeking spiritual guidance, but I knew all he was really doing was trying to walk across the sand without seeing any nudity.

“If you’re afraid of seeing a naked body,” I said, “why don’t you just close your eyes?”

“I don’t want to bump into any private parts,” Monk said.

“It’s not like they’re flung out all over the sand,” I said.

He stumbled along, letting Stottlemeyer lead the way until we reached the scene, which had been cleared of any nearby sunbathers. The forensics team, clad in jumpsuits, carefully sifted through the sand, which they’d separated into quadrants with stakes and yellow string.

“The victim’s name is Ronald Webster,” Stottlemeyer said. “He’s single, thirty-five, and works at a shoe store. His body was found by sunbathers this morning.”

“Willfully lewd persons,” Monk said. “Hippies, most likely.”

“The ME figures the guy died sometime last night,” Stottlemeyer said. “But it’s hard to tell, given the body’s immersion in salt water.”

We followed a staked-out path in the sand that had already been cleared by the forensics team. Disher and the medical examiner were leaning over a naked body that was floating facedown in the tide pool. The victim’s midsection had been ripped open.

I turned away, sickened and repulsed.

But Adrian Monk, a man who couldn’t look at a naked sunbather, had no problem staring at this mutilated corpse. In fact, he was fascinated by it.

I’m not a shrink, but I’m guessing that Monk didn’t see a naked body in front of him now. Once the person was dead, he or she was no longer human to him. The victim was just an object, a puzzle piece that he had to put back into its proper place in the larger picture.

Stottlemeyer put his hand gently on my back. “Are you going to be all right? I can have an officer take you back to your car.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

I wasn’t going to run away, even if that was exactly what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to be seen as weak by the detectives I worked with. Besides, I wouldn’t be much good to Monk sitting in the car.

I took a couple deep breaths, let them out slowly to calm myself and turned around again.

Monk crouched beside the medical examiner, Dr. Daniel Hetzer, a balding man who studiously maintained two day’s worth of stubble on his fleshy pale cheeks.

“What do you think, Monk?” Stottlemeyer asked.

Monk rose without saying a word and held his hands up in front of himself. He tipped his head from side to side, looking at the body of the late Ronald Webster from various angles.

Then he shifted his gaze to Webster’s clothes, which were neatly folded on a rock near the tide pool.

“Where was his wallet?” Monk asked.

“In his pants pocket,” Disher said and held up the clear plastic evidence bag that contained the wallet. “I don’t think anything has been taken. There’s still a bunch of credit cards and about two hundred dollars in cash inside.”

“Where are his car keys?” Monk asked.

"They were also in his pocket,” Disher said, “along with his house keys.”

“Where’s his car?”

“The DMV told us