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

one big problem with your theory,” Monk said to Disher. “Brandon Lorber wasn’t murdered.”

“There are bullet holes in his chest and head,” Stottlemeyer said.

“The deadly triangle,” Disher said again.

“Yes,” Monk said. “I can see that.”

“Then how can you say that it isn’t a murder?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Because it’s not,” Monk said. “He died of natural causes.”

“I’m not a detective, Mr. Monk,” I said, “but I don’t think there’s anything natural about getting shot three times.”

“That’s not what killed him,” Monk said.

“Nobody could survive getting shot between the eyes and right in the heart,” Stottlemeyer said. “Those are definitely fatal wounds.”

“If he was alive when he was shot,” Monk said. “But Lorber was already dead. He died of a heart attack.”

We all stared at Monk. We do this a lot.

“How do you know that?” Stottlemeyer said.

“His shirt is wrinkled,” Monk said.

“So is mine,” Stottlemeyer said. “And I’m not having a heart attack.”

“I’m feeling some palpitations,” Monk said, looking at the wrinkled shirt.

“If you can convince me you’re right about this,” Stottlemeyer said, “I’ll get my shirt ironed.”

Monk took a pen from his pocket and used it to point at Lorber’s chest.

“Lorber was right-handed,” he said. “When he felt the stabbing pain, he instinctively grabbed his chest with his right hand, wrinkling his shirt.”

Stottlemeyer, Disher, and I all leaned over the desk to look at Lorber’s shirt. It was wrinkled at the chest, which I didn’t notice before. I was paying attention to the bullet wounds. I think Stottlemeyer and Disher were, too.

“He flailed around in desperation,” Monk explained. “He knocked his box of cigars off the table with his left hand as he tried to reach the top desk drawer, where he kept his nitroglycerin tablets, but he didn’t make it.”

Disher opened the drawer with his gloved hand and, sure enough, there was a prescription bottle full of tablets inside.

“It was almost worth the trouble of getting you in the building for this,” Stottlemeyer said to Monk. “So you figure that the shock of seeing a guy with a silenced gun aimed at him gave Lorber a heart attack.”

“It would give me one,” I said.

Monk shook his head. “He had the heart attack before that.”

“How can you be sure?” Disher asked.

“There isn’t enough blood here,” Monk said. “If his heart was still pumping when he was shot, there would be a lot more of it. I’m certain the medical examiner will confirm my observation.”

“Of course you are,” Stottlemeyer said.

“What about the bullet wound in the hand?” Disher said. “Doesn’t that prove he was pleading for his life with the killer?”

“If you look more closely,” Monk said, “you’ll see that the exit wound is in the palm, not the back of the hand, which indicates he was still clutching his chest when he was shot. If he’d been holding his hand up, the entrance wound would be in his palm.”

Stottlemeyer took a piece of coffee candy from the bowl, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth while he considered what Monk told him. I cringed.

“So this isn’t a murder,” Stottlemeyer said.

“No, it isn’t,” Monk said.

“It certainly looks like a murder to me,” Disher said. He ate a piece of candy and shoved a couple more in his pocket for later. I cringed again.

“But it’s not,” Monk said.

I stared at Stottlemeyer and Disher. “How could you put those candies in your mouth?”

Stottlemeyer shrugged. “Well, I guess it’s because we like coffee candy, Natalie.”

“But a man died in here.” I tipped my head towards the corpse behind the desk for emphasis. “He’s sitting right there.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Stottlemeyer said. “So what?”

I couldn’t believe they couldn’t see the problem.

“There’s deadness all over it,” I said.

“Deadness,” Stottlemeyer said. “I can’t say that worries me. How about you, Randy?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Okay, fine,” I said. “How do you know the candy isn’t poisoned? Maybe that’s what killed Lorber.”

“If he’d eaten a candy before his death, there would be a wrapper somewhere,” Monk said. “There isn’t one.”

I looked at him. “I thought you, of all people, would agree with me on this.”

“Deadness?” Monk said. "C’mon, Natalie. That’s just silly.”

As opposed to, say, running your doorknobs through the dishwasher once a week. But I didn’t bring that up. I had better ammunition.

“Then how come you aren’t having some candy?”

“It causes tooth decay,” Monk said, examining a piece of candy and putting it back as if it had scalded his fingers. “Decay and I are mortal enemies.”

“I’m surprised, Monk. Everything decays. It’s a natural law,” Stottlemeyer said. “Like gravity.”

Stottlemeyer grinned, pleased with himself. Monk gave him a cold look.

“Why would someone shoot a man who was already dead?” Disher asked.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Stottlemeyer said.

“If the medical examiner can establish that Lorber was already dead when he was shot, then there’s no crime here.”

“Yes, there is,” Monk said. “Someone has desecrated a corpse.”

“What I meant, Monk, is that it’s not a homicide and therefore it’s not a crime that I’m responsible for investigating.”

“So who is?” Disher said.

Stottlemeyer shrugged. “I don’t know, Randy. The Desecration Squad, I suppose.”

“Do we have a Desecration Squad?”

Stottlemeyer looked at Disher for a long moment. “Yes, we do.”

“We do?”

“In fact, you’re in charge of it,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I am?”

“You are now,” Stottlemeyer said.

“My own squad,” Disher said, beaming. “Do I get a raise?”

“The honor is its own reward, don’t you think?”

“Can we call it a special unit instead of a squad?” Disher asked.

“Call it whatever you want. Just get the medical examiner to rush the autopsy on Lorber so I can clear this case off my desk,” Stottlemeyer said, then turned to us. “We’re not going