Mr. Monk Goes to Germany (15 page)

Dr. Rahner looked pleased with himself and added, “That not all men with six fingers on their right hand are murderers.”

“They aren’t,” Monk said. “But you are.”

“I’m confused,” Dr. Rahner said. “I thought that I’d just successfully demonstrated that Hubert or any one of hundreds of other men with an extra finger on their right hand could have arranged your wife’s murder.”

“You did,” Monk said.

“Now I’m very confused,” Dr. Rahner said.

“Let me make it clear for you.” Monk took a step forward and looked Dr. Rahner right in the eye.

I’d seen that expression on Monk’s face before and I knew exactly what it meant.

It was the outward reflection of the inner peace that Monk found only when the chaos of facts swirling around in his mind coalesced into perfect order.

He’d solved the mystery. But which one?

When Monk spoke again, it was in a low voice that only Dr. Rahner, Dr. Kroger, and I could hear.

“I don’t know whether you were involved in my wife’s murder or not,” Monk said, “but you killed Bruno Leupolz, and I’ll get you for it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mr. Monk and the Guy

Monk didn’t stick around to explain himself or to hear whatever Dr. Rahner had to say. He simply turned and walked back to the car. I lingered a bit out of curiosity. I wanted to see the effect Monk’s surprising accusation had on Dr. Rahner.

There was a moment, lasting not much longer than the time it takes to blink, when Dr. Rahner looked as if he’d been doused with ice water.

It happened so fast that maybe I didn’t see it at all. Maybe I imagined it.

But I knew I didn’t.

Then Dr. Rahner turned to me, frowning with befuddlement, and asked, “Who is Bruno Leupolz?”

Dr. Rahner knew who Bruno Leupolz was. Because Dr. Rahner killed him. I was sure of it. Dr. Rahner could see that as clearly on my face as I’d seen the truth on his.

What I didn’t know was how Monk had figured it out or why Dr. Rahner had done it.

I shook my head and glanced at Dr. Kroger, who seemed truly baffled.

“Would somebody please tell me what’s going on?” Dr. Kroger said.

“Mr. Monk just solved a murder,” I said. “And Dr. Rahner is going to prison.”

“You’re delusional and so is Monk,” Dr. Rahner said.

“I have treated Adrian for years and he most certainly is not delusional,” Dr. Kroger said.

“He is now,” Dr. Rahner said. “Lucky you.”

Dr. Rahner walked away. Dr. Kroger looked at me for answers. I had none to give him, so I walked away, too.

I found Monk waiting in the car for me.

As I got in, Monk said, “He’s the guy.”

I nodded. “How did you figure it out?”

“His shoes,” Monk said. “He ties his laces using the Norwegian Reef Knot.”

“I’m sure a lot of Norwegians do, too,” I said. “What makes you certain it was Rahner who tied Leupolz’s running shoes?”

“The bows were identical,” Monk said.

“What else have you got?” I asked.

“That’s all,” Monk said.

“Oh boy,” I said and started the car.

Stoffmacher and Geshir were standing over a table covered with files and evidence bags as we came into the police station.

“Mr. Monk,” Stoffmacher said, waving us to join him behind the counter. “I was just about to call you. There have been some interesting new developments in our investigation.”

The Baggies on the table contained the gun, some pillow feathers, Leupolz’s running shoes, the scorched notebook rings, and a misshapen bullet that I assumed had been extracted from Axel Vigg’s head.

“It’s solved,” Monk said.

“I wish that it was,” Stoffmacher said. “If anything, the mystery has become even more perplexing.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Monk said. “It’s all over. I know who did it.”

“Did what?” Stoffmacher asked.

“I know who murdered Bruno Leupolz and Axel Vigg,” Monk said.

“Leupolz wasn’t murdered,” Stoffmacher said. “The coroner says the journalist died of a heart attack. There were no signs of foul play and his toxicology test came back clean.”

Monk’s eyes widened. “Leupolz was a reporter?”

“He was a freelance writer for
Im Fadenkreuz
, a newsmagazine in Berlin,” Geshir said.

“What story was he working on in Lohr?” Monk asked.

“What does it matter?” Geshir said. “He died of natural causes.”

“My wife was a reporter,” Monk said.

“I don’t see what any of this has to do with the murder of your wife,” Stoffmacher said.

“It’s the second reporter he’s killed,” Monk said.

“Who?” Stoffmacher said.

“Dr. Martin Rahner,” Monk said. “The man you have been protecting. The man you are covering up for now.”

“You always knew that Dr. Rahner was the eleven-fingered man Mr. Monk was looking for,” I said to the detectives. “But you kept quiet.”

“Of course we did,” Stoffmacher said. “Dr. Rahner is a respected member of our community. He has been for years. I didn’t want him to be harassed simply because he was born with an extra finger.”

“He’s a murderer,” Monk said, his gaze drifting over the evidence bags on the table.

Geshir snorted. “According to a tourist with extreme psychological problems who followed his psychiatrist to Germany.”

“Mr. Monk may have a few personal issues,” I said, “but he has solved more homicides than all the detectives in Germany combined.”

I didn’t know if that statistic was even remotely true, but it sounded impressive and I was pissed off. I don’t like it when people snort at me or Monk. Snorting is extremely rude.

“However, he’s also a man who was dismissed by the San Francisco Police Department because he was psychologically unfit, who has been under the care of a psychiatrist for years,” Stoffmacher said, “and who has just accused Dr. Rahner of murdering a man who died of natural causes.”

“You’re right,” Monk said.

“He is?” I said. I expected the police to challenge my arguments but I didn’t expect the man I was defending to contradict me.

“Everything he says about me is true and Bruno Leupolz died of natural causes.”

“At least he is beginning to see reason,” Stoffmacher said pointedly to me, “even if you are not.”

“But it was still murder,” Monk said. “And Dr. Rahner did it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Geshir said.

“Here’s what happened,” Monk said. “Leupolz was going to write an unflattering article about Dr. Rahner. I don’t know what Leupolz discovered, but whatever it was, it was damaging enough to force Dr. Rahner to take extreme measures.”

Monk explained that Dr. Rahner slipped into Leupolz’s apartment two nights ago to go through the reporter’s notes and discover what he’d uncovered. When Leupolz returned, Dr. Rahner tried to scare the reporter off the story. Dr. Rahner fired a gun into the wall to prove he was serious. It worked. He scared Leupolz to death.

“The reporter had a heart attack and, if that wasn’t bad enough, the bullet that Dr. Rahner fired into the wall killed the unfortunate man who lived next door,” Monk said. “Things had gone very, very wrong for Dr. Rahner and now he had to quickly improvise a way out of it. It wasn’t easy. He had to remove any hint of a crime and any connection between the two deaths so that, at most, it looked like a tragic coincidence.”

The first thing Dr. Rahner had to do, Monk explained, was clean up the crime scene and remove anything that tied Leupolz to him. So he vacuumed up the pillow stuffing, burned all the reporter’s notes, and stole his laptop.

Dr. Rahner’s next task was to make Vigg’s death look like a suicide.

He covered the bullet hole in the wall between the two apartments. He put the gun in Vigg’s hand and shot the couch to make sure the victim had gunpowder residue on him. And he locked the door on his way out to delay discovery of the body as long as possible.

All that remained now was to dispose of Leupolz’s body and create a believable scenario for his death. Dr. Rahner dressed Leupolz in sweats and running shoes and then hid his body in the woods.

“The next morning, Dr. Rahner went for a jog,” Monk said. “But what he really did was move the corpse from hidingand onto the trail, so it would appear that Leupolz died of a heart attack while hiking.”

There was a long moment of silence while Stoffmacher and Geshir digested Monk’s story.

“Or Vigg committed suicide and Leupolz died of a heart attack while hiking,” Geshir said.

“The evidence says otherwise,” Monk said.

“What evidence?” Stoffmacher asked.

“The bullet hole in Vigg’s couch, the hidden bullet hole in the wall between the two apartments, and the locked door in Vigg’s apartment, for starters,” Monk said, and then motioned to the Baggies on the table. “There’s also the feathers, the burned notes, the missing laptop, and Leupolz’s clean shoes.”

“I could argue that Vigg committed suicide over the loss of his job and his girlfriend, and that he fired the bullet into the couch as a test shot,” Stoffmacher said. “The hole in the wall was covered because Vigg used that to secretly observe the previous tenant of the adjacent apartment.”

“Who was one hot babe,” Geshir said, seeming to enjoy the words. “She was a stewardess for Lufthansa. I bet she walked around her apartment naked and took lots of lovers and that’s why he watched.”

“Thank you, Kommissar, for that very important insight into Axel Vigg’s motivations,” Stoffmacher said.

“I believe the Americans call it ‘profiling,’ ” Geshir said. “The detectives who do it are known as ‘mind-hunters.’ ”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Stoffmacher said.

“That’s not the meaning in English,” Geshir said.

“It’s what I mean,” Stoffmacher said, turning back to us. “We’ve learned that Leupolz was a struggling writer who couldn’t hold a job and was barely scraping by on freelance assignments. He probably burned his notes and threw out his laptop in frustration. We’ll never know for sure, because he went jogging in the hills and died of a heart attack.”

“How do you explain the feathers?” I asked.

Stoffmacher shrugged. “Maybe he tore up a pillow in anger. It doesn’t matter.”

“And what about his clean shoes?”

“There was a light drizzle in the morning,” Stoffmacher said. “Perhaps that washed the dirt away.”

Monk spoke up. “Did you dredge the pond?”

“No, but even if we did and found the laptop and feathers, it wouldn’t prove your theory,” Stoffmacher said. “From the moment you arrived in Lohr, you have been intent on twisting everything you see into evidence of murder or a conspiracy about you.”

“The evidence speaks for itself,” Monk said.

“All right, let’s say that you’re right and everything happened the way you say it did,” Stoffmacher said. “What proof do you have that Dr. Rahner is responsible for the deaths of Bruno Leupolz and Axel Vigg?”

“The shoelaces.” Monk picked up the bag containing Leupolz’s running shoes. “These are tied with a Norwegian Reef Knot. But the rest of Leupolz’s shoes are tied with a Granny Knot.”

“So what?” Geshir said.

“Dr. Rahner ties his shoes with a Norwegian Reef Knot,” Monk said. “His bows are in the exact same proportion as these. It’s as good as a fingerprint.”

“Not in Germany,” Stoffmacher said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mr. Monk and the Friendly Skies

It was obvious that the Lohr police were not going to rush out and arrest Dr. Rahner for murder and, to be honest, I didn’t blame them. I felt Dr. Rahner was guilty, but that belief was based more on gut instinct than evidence.

Monk left the police station and headed straight for our car. He was so determined to nail Dr. Rahner that he forgot that he was walking on a cobblestone street and didn’t hop from stone to stone. Either Monk was completely caught up in his quest or he was suicidal.

“Stoffmacher is going to call Dr. Rahner and let him know that we are on to him,” Monk said.

“I think Dr. Rahner might have figured that out for himself when you told him that he was a murderer and that you were going to get him.”

“But I didn’t tell him our theory about the crime or the evidence we have to support it,” Monk said. “Stoffmacher will. Dr. Rahner will start retracing his steps, cleaning up any evidence he might have left behind that we don’t already know about. Time is of the essence.”

“What can we do?”

“We have to go to Berlin right away and talk to Leupolz’s editor at
Im Fadenkreuz,
” Monk said. “We need to know what Leupolz was working on.”

I’d read about Berlin in my guidebooks and I was excited about going there, if only for an afternoon, but I wasn’t sure Monk realized how far away it was.

“Berlin isn’t around the corner,” I said. “It’s at least a five-hour drive.”

“And by plane?”

“Maybe an hour or so,” I said.

“Book us a flight today,” Monk said.

I unlocked the car and we got inside. The prospect of going on even a short flight with Monk or his drugged, obnoxious alter ego the Monkster didn’t wow me.

“If you take your pill, the flight will go easy for you,” I said, “but how effective will you be at detecting once we land?”

“Totally ineffective,” Monk said. “Which is why I’ve decided not to take the drug for this trip.”

“What about your fear of flying? If you freak out on the plane, you could be the one who ends up in jail, not Dr. Rahner.”

“I’ll just have to draw on my vast untapped reserves of inner strength.”

I gave him a look. “What have you been saving them for?”

“This.”

My cell phone rang. I dug around in my purse for it, hoping whoever was calling was patient. I finally found it and answered.

“You must be Adrian’s nubile assistant, Natalie Teeger.”

It was a man’s voice that I didn’t recognize. He spoke with an almost theatrical pomposity and yet also seemed to be struggling for each breath.

“I am not nubile,” I said, but when I realized the alternative, it was too late to take it back.

“That’s a pity. Sharona certainly was. In abundance, though I doubt Adrian appreciated it. I did.”

“You’re a pig,” I said.

“Guilty as charged,” he said. “That’s the first time I’ve pleaded guilty to anything and yet here I am in prison. Where is the justice in that?”

Once he said that, I knew who I was speaking to.

“You’re Dale the Whale,” I said.

“Do you really want to insult a man who is using his precious ration of phone time to return your request for a call?”

I wasn’t pleased to discover that the police were giving my personal cell phone number to convicted killers. What was Captain Stottlemeyer thinking? He was going to catch hell from me as soon as I got home.

I gave the phone to Monk and immediately wanted to clean my hands afterwards with one of his disinfectant wipes. I knew it was an irrational reaction, but I get that way when I get calls from killers.

Monk kindly put the phone on speaker and held it between us so I could hear both sides of the conversation.

“Hello, Dale,” Monk said.

“Adrian Monk, as I live and eat!”

“It’s ‘live and breathe,’ ” Monk said.

“I eat far more than I breathe,” Dale said. “What are you doing in the Fatherland?”

“I’ve solved Trudy’s murder.”

“Oh goodie,” Dale said. “I can finally sleep soundly at night again. How did you do it?”

“I found Dr. Rahner, the man you used to hire the bomber.”

“Martin Rahner? Now there’s a blast from the past,” Dale said. “Oops, that was a poor choice of words, wasn’t it? Forgive me.”

Insincerity dripped from Dale’s words like bacon grease.

“I know you conspired with him and Dr. Kroger to keep me off the force,” Monk said. “What I don’t know is what you had on the doctors to make them do your bidding.”

“Do you really expect me to tell you?” Dale asked.

“Why not?” Monk said. “You’re already doing life in prison. What have you got to lose?”

“What have I got to gain?”

“A clear conscience,” Monk said.

Dale laughed, his uproarious guffawing quickly turning into gagging and choking. I was afraid for a moment that he might die during the call and then I would have to throw the phone out.

Yes, I know that was another irrational reaction, but keeping the phone after Dale’s demise would have been like sleeping in a bed someone had died in. I couldn’t do it. Fortunately, Dale the Whale didn’t die and, more importantly, I didn’t have to toss out my phone.

Dale finally caught his breath. When he spoke again, though, he’d lost a little of his slimy frivolity.

“Sociopaths don’t have a conscience. Thanks to you, I am doubly imprisoned, more so than anyone else in this hell-hole. I am doomed to never leave my concrete cell, to never feel the sun on my skin, to always breathe fetid air.”

I’m sure that “fetid” was an understatement.

“You have no one to blame but yourself for being a prisonerof both your body and the California penal system,” Monk said.

“The prison I made, my magnificent corpulence, I can live with,” Dale said. “The one you put me in I cannot. What harm would it have done to leave me where I was, in my own home? I couldn’t have escaped, could I?”

“It wouldn’t have been punishment,” Monk said. “You are a murderer. You don’t deserve any pleasure or comfort in your life.”

“Neither do you, Adrian Monk,” he said. “As long as you don’t know the truth about your sweet wife’s fate, you will be as much a prisoner as I am.”

Dale started to laugh again. Monk hung up on him and handed me the phone. I still felt like I should disinfect it.

“You might want to change your phone number when we get home,” Monk said.

“Gee, do you think?” I asked.

One of the great things I discovered about Germany was that just about everyone there spoke English. It makes it ridiculously easy for us arrogant and lazy Americans not to acknowledge the existence of any other language but our own. Thank God for that. I was able to call Air Berlin and book our flight without any problem.

We arrived at the Frankfurt airport just in time to board our plane. Monk was so nervous, and shaking so much, that I thought he might scream and run back to the car. And that was before we even reached the terminal.

Somehow he managed to hold himself together at the ticket counter, through the security checkpoint, and even down the jetway to the Airbus plane.

There was a table at the end of the passageway covered with stacks of free German newspapers and magazines, including
Im Fadenkreuz
, which I gratefully snagged so we’d have the address of the office and the name of the editor.

I was surprised to see that one of the freebies on the table was
Playboy.
There weren’t any headlines or women on the cover, just a suggestive shot of a pair of snowy mountain peaks poking through a sea of clouds. I figured that it must be some kind of abridged edition without the nude photos. Perhaps there were men in Germany who could actually say that they read
Playboy
only for the articles. But I didn’t pick one up to find out.

Monk took a big breath before stepping onto the plane and then froze when he looked down the aisle.

“Oh my God,” he said. “Are they insane?”

I peered over his shoulder. I couldn’t see anything unusual, so I looked for the usual that might drive Monk batty. But I still couldn’t see the problem.

“What is it?” I said.

“There are three seats in each row.”

He was right. I didn’t know how I’d missed that. Not that it would have changed anything. It was what it was.

“The row actually has six seats, which is an even number, but there’s an aisle that goes right down the middle,” I said. “Look at it that way.”

“We are going to crash,” Monk said. “Look at it that way.”

“Keep your voice down,” I hissed into his ear. “We are not going to crash.”

“The plane isn’t evenly balanced,” Monk said. “How can we possibly remain airborne?”

“There are three seats on each side of the plane,” I said. “It’s balanced and it’s symmetrical. You should be thrilled.”

“Three is not an even number,” Monk said. “The entire plane is uneven. That can’t be safe. Do you think the pilot is aware of what’s going on back here?”

“Dividing the row in two sets of three is the only way you can divide six in half,” I said.

“They should have had four seats across, divided the rows into twos, and saved lives.”

A stewardess came up behind me. “Is there a problem?”

“The first cloud we hit we are going to be goners,” Monk said.

“Goners?” she said. “What is a goner?”

“Someone who is eager to be gone on their trip,” I said with a smile. “We can’t wait for that first cloud, because then we know we’re really gone. Up, up, and away, that’s where we want to be.”

She nodded. “Please take your seats.”

I gave Monk a shove and practically pushed him all the way to our seats in row twelve. I had the window and he had the middle seat. A businessman with a
Playboy
tucked under his arm took the aisle seat.

Monk pulled the airsickness bag from the seat pocket in front of him and began to breathe into it. The businessman pretended like he didn’t notice.

Once everyone was seated, the stewardess went down the aisle passing out more magazines. It seemed like every man in the plane took a
Playboy.
Monk held up his hand as she passed our aisle.

“Would you like something to read, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” Monk said. “Could I get a manual for surviving a crash landing?”

“Information on our emergency landing procedures is printed on the laminated card in the seatback in front of you,” she said in the same robotic voice American stewardesses use. I guess stewardess-speak is universal, regardless of your native language.

“I was hoping for something more detailed,” Monk said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s all we have.”

“Okay,” Monk said. “How about the Holy Bible?”

“We don’t have that either,” she said. “How about an
International Herald Tribune
?”

I quickly spoke up. “That will be fine.”

She handed me the newspaper and walked on. I swatted Monk in the chest with it and dropped it on his lap.

“What’s the matter with you?” I said. “You aren’t religious.”

“If I am going to meet God today, I want to be holding his best seller.”

“It won’t help,” I said. “Do you think he’s forgotten that you tried to throw out the bowl of holy water at Mission Dolores during Sunday Mass and replace it with hand sanitizer?”

We began to taxi away from the gate. As we did, the stewardesses started their usual safety lecture about how to use the seat belts, where to find the exits, how to operate the oxygen masks, and when to inflate the flotation devices that were stowed under our seats.

Monk bent over and started searching under his seat for something.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Getting ready,” he answered and pulled out the uninflated bright yellow life preserver and slipped it over his head, elbowing me and the businessman in our sides as he reached around to snap all of his straps.

The businessman leaned forward to glare at Monk and our eyes met.

“He can’t swim,” I explained.

“We aren’t in the water,” the man said.

“Yet,” Monk said.

A stewardess came down the aisle to check that everyone’s seat belts were fastened and stopped when she saw Monk wearing his life vest.

“Could I have my oxygen mask now?” Monk said. “It will save time later.”

She just shook her head and walked on. I elbowed Monk in the side, just hard enough to get his attention.

“Stop it,” I said. “You’re going to get us thrown off the plane.”

“If it happens over water, at least one of us will be floating, ” Monk said.

We reached the runway. The stewardesses took their seats and Monk assumed the crash position: bending forward, placing his arms over his head, and pleading for his mother.

The plane sped up and lifted off, the roaring of the engines failing to cover the wailing of a few infants and Adrian Monk.

Once we achieved cruising altitude, Monk tentatively sat up and looked around. That was when the businessman beside him decided to open up his
Playboy.

It wasn’t abridged.

Monk let out a squeal and immediately tried to avert his gaze to something safe.

He looked straight ahead.

But the man in the seat directly in front of him chose that moment to hold up his
Playboy
to better examine the full centerfold.

In fact, just about everyone on board, men and women, young and old, seemed to be interested in seeing what makes women different from men.

We definitely weren’t in America anymore.

Monk turned to me in horror. “Oh God, we’re on the porno-plane. What do we do when the orgies start?”