Mr. Monk Goes to Germany

by Lee Goldberg

  “I think you’re lying,” Monk said. “I think Dale had you hire the bomber who killed my wife.”

  If Dr. Rahner was offended by Monk’s accusation, he didn’t show it. He just took a sip of his coffee and dabbed his lips with his napkin, using his six-fingered hand to do it, of course.

  Monk couldn’t take his eyes off that hand and Dr. Rahner knew it.

  “You think that I’m a liar and a murderer just because I was born with an extra finger,” Dr. Rahner said, wiggling the extra finger for emphasis.

  “The bomber was hired by a man with six fingers,” Monk said. “How many people could there be who match that description?”

  “One hundred and two in the United States that I know of,” Dr. Rahner said. “There are probably many, many more.”

  “How many of them knew Dale Biederback?” Monk said.

  “Do you know for certain it was Dale Biederback and not someone else who killed your wife?” Dr. Rahner asked. “Aren’t you only making that assumption because you saw Dr. Kroger and me here together?”

  “It was Dale who led me to the bomber,” Monk said, “and it was the bomber who told me about the man with the extra finger.”

  “And you’ve been looking for this elusive eleven-fingered man ever since,” Dr. Rahner said. “Now you think you’ve found him.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “I’m merely the first person you’ve encountered with an extra finger,” Dr. Rahner replied. “But there are many of us out there. Two out of every one thousand children are born with extra fingers or toes.”

  “I’ve never seen any of them before,” Monk said.

  “That’s because extra appendages are usually surgically removed at birth by overprotective parents acting on the advice of narrow-minded doctors,” Dr. Rahner said. “It’s barbaric and inhuman. I’ve devoted my career to encouraging the acceptance of physical differences. I’ve also spoken out against surgeries that force people to conform to a perfect body image, whether it’s removing webbed toes or adding breast implants. We should embrace diversity.”

  “ ‘Diversity’ is just another word for things that don’t match,” Monk said. “It’s unnatural.”

  “Not everything has to match, Adrian,” Dr. Kroger said.

  “That’s just what Dale the Whale would like me to think,” Monk said.

  Dr. Kroger sighed and shook his head.

  “In some ancient civilizations, physical anomalies were considered signs of divine power,” Dr. Rahner said. “Lord Chan-Bahlum, ruler of the Mayan city of Palenque in 683 A.D., had six fingers on his right hand and six toes on his right foot.”

  “Now you know why the Mayans aren’t around anymore,” Monk said.

  “Pope Sixtus II had six fingers on his right hand,” Dr. Rahner said. “And the Catholic Church has endured.”

  “Barely,” Monk said.

  “I founded Sicherer Hafen, a private resort outside of Lohr where people with physical anomalies can be themselves and experience true freedom without facing scorn, ridicule, or stares,” Dr. Rahner said. “I’m giving some of the attendees of the conference a tour this morning and I’d like you to join us.”

  “Why would I want to go with you?” Monk said.

  “It will give you some insight into who I am and how I think so you can judge my sincerity,” Dr. Rahner said. “And I have an ulterior motive. I’m hoping that after you meet the people there you’ll be less suspicious of the next man you meet with an extra finger.”

  “What have you got to lose, Adrian?” Dr. Kroger asked. “You might even gain some insights into yourself.”

  Monk got up and motioned to me to join him. We stepped a few feet away, out of earshot of the others.

  “What do you think?” Monk whispered to me.

  “You don’t have any evidence against Dr. Rahner now,” I said. “If he did kill Trudy, the more time you spend with him, the more opportunities you will have to catch him in a lie.”

  “Good point,” Monk said, and returned to the table. “Okay, let’s go to Freakville.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mr. Monk Visits Freakville

  Monk and I followed Dr. Rahner’s van in our rental car along a winding road that went deep into Spessart Forest. The deeper we got into the woods, the more uncomfortable Monk became.

  “There are a lot of trees,” Monk said, hugging himself.

  “I think it’s nice,” I said.

  “Trees scare me.”

  “A tree can’t hurt you,” I said.

  “You obviously didn’t see The Wizard of Oz,” he said.

  “You mean the scene where the trees come alive?”

  Monk shuddered. “It was terrifying. I had nightmares for years.”

  “It was make-believe. Trees don’t really talk and throw apples at you.”

  “I know that,” Monk said. “But they are big and dark and surround you. They are rough and sticky and sharp. They block out the light and have strange creatures living in their branches.”

  “Like birds,” I said.

  “And snakes, spiders, ants, bees, and things in cocoons,” Monk said. “The only thing scarier than a tree is a cocoon.”

  “What can a cocoon do to you?”

  “You could get trapped in one,” Monk said.

  “It’s not the cocoon you should be afraid of,” I told him. “It’s the caterpillar big enough to make one that you could get caught in.”

  “It could be out there,” Monk said, looking into the trees.

  “No, it couldn’t,” I said. “Caterpillars that big don’t exist.”

  “Dwarfs have lived in these woods for centuries. Who knows what other freakish creatures are living here, too?” Monk said. “Speaking of which, there’s no way Dr. Rahner could have established his colony of freaks without Hauptkriminalkommissar Stoffmacher knowing about it.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me.

  “So the police knew who the eleven-fingered man was that we were looking for from the get-go and they didn’t say a word,” I said. “They were protecting him.”

  “Unless there are a lot of men with eleven fingers in Lohr, which, given its history, is entirely possible.”

  We came to a curve and a sign on the road that announced Sicherer Hafen. We passed the sign and almost immediately came upon the purely decorative wooden gates of the resort, which opened onto a gravel courtyard in front of a picturesque main house.

  The entrance to the resort brought back long-forgotten memories from my childhood of my parents taking me to Santa’s Village, an amusement park in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

  The entrance to Santa’s Village was a log-cabin lodge that was covered year-round with fake snow and icicles. Once inside the park, you could meet Santa Claus at the lollipop tree, visit the enchanted forest on a candy cane sleigh pulled by real reindeer, see Santa’s elves at work in the toy factory, eat sugarplums in Mrs. Claus’ cozy kitchen, and ride the glimmering ornaments on an enormous rotating Christmas tree.

  There weren’t any reindeer or candy canes at Sicherer Hafen, but the resort had the same woodsy, warm, storybook feel as Santa’s Village. The buildings weren’t as fanciful and there were satellite dishes mounted on roofs, but I still expected to hear the sound of sleigh bells wafting from the trees and Christmas music playing from hidden speakers as I stepped out of the car.

  We joined Dr. Rahner, Dr. Kroger, and a dozen other shrinks outside the main house.

  “We don’t usually welcome visitors, but this is a special occasion, ” Dr. Rahner said. “Please do not take pictures or stare at the guests. Remember that this is a vacation community, a place where our residents and guests can relax and be themselves. That fragile peace is very important to all of us here at Sicherer Hafen and I would appreciate it if you didn’t do anything to disturb it.”

  Monk screamed and pointed at the trees.

  “Grizzly bear! Run for your lives!” Monk ran to hide behind our car.

  I looked toward the
trees and at first had the same instinctive reaction as Monk until I noticed that this bear was wearing cutoffs and holding a volleyball under his hairy arm.

  It wasn’t a bear but a shirtless man with an unbelievably thick coat of fur over his entire body. I’d never seen anyone like him and, despite Dr. Rahner’s request, I couldn’t stop staring.

  “That is not a bear,” Dr. Rahner said. “That’s Franco Tozza, our activities director.”

  “The first activity he should consider is a haircut,” Monk said, rising from his hiding spot.

  “That is just the kind of ignorance and heartlessness that people come here to escape,” Dr. Rahner said. “Franco was born with hypertrichosis, a genetic condition that causes excessive hair growth. It can be a source of great embarrassment and shame in mainstream society. But here it’s not. Here he can walk with pride. That is the beauty of Sicherer Hafen.”

  Franco stopped in front of Monk and smiled. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

  “I know,” Monk said. “But you do.”

  There were gasps at Monk’s inappropriate comment, but Franco didn’t seem offended, though I have to admit it’s hard to read the expression on someone’s face when he looks like Chewbacca.

  “He’s right. Ordinarily, I’m the one who has to be ashamed, who has to hide his body and try to fit in. But not at Sicherer Hafen. That’s what makes this place that Dr. Rahner founded so special.” Franco spoke with a strong Italian accent that made him a bit difficult to understand. That, and the hair over his mouth. “People come from across Europe to stay here. We offer all the amenities and activities that other time-share resorts do and something more: true freedom to be yourself.”

  “I know you are all feeling uncomfortable right now,” Dr. Rahner said to the group.

  “That’s an understatement,” Monk said in a whiny voice.

  “But what you’re feeling is an absolutely normal, instinctivereaction to encountering other humans with physical anomalies.”

  “What would running away screaming be?” Monk said.

  “An overreaction,” Dr. Rahner said sternly. “Think about how you are feeling at this moment. Now imagine how we feel every day, walking among all of you.”

  “I’ve got a thick skin,” Franco said lightheartedly.

  “I bet you do,” Monk said.

  If I had been next to Monk, I would have jabbed him with my elbow. Instead, I tried to send him a jabbing look. I don’t think I succeeded.

  “The team is waiting for me on the volleyball court,” Franco said, spinning the ball on his finger. “I hope you learn something from your visit. If you get a chance, stop by and watch us play.”

  He walked away and at that same moment a young woman emerged from the main building. She was dressed in shorts and a tank top and greeted us with a stewardess smile.

  “I’m Katie, the sales director,” she said. “It’s an honor to have you all here with us today. I’m going to give you the grand tour. Please don’t hesitate to ask me any questions along the way.”

  Monk raised his hand. “I have a question.”

  “Yes, sir?” she said.

  “Will you be handing out blindfolds?”

  Katie laughed. “Our community is exclusive and unique, but it’s not a secret. We want you to see all that we have to offer.”

  She led us into the main building. It was like a ski lodge, with a grand stone fireplace and a bar. There were several people in resort wear sitting around, reading books, sipping drinks, and quietly talking among themselves.

  I saw female Siamese twins, one engaged in conversation with a hunchbacked man, the other reading the German translation of a James Patterson novel. A bearded woman played cards with a dwarf and a man with huge ears. I didn’t let my eyes linger on anyone for very long.

  “This is our clubhouse common room, where everyone can gather to relax and get to know one another,” Katie said. “Every night we have a cocktail party with free food and entertainment. We also have a full library, a billiard room, a computer room, a state-of-the-art theater, and a restaurant.”

  Monk looked up at the high wood-beamed ceiling. “I wish they had blindfolds. They really, really need blindfolds.”

  “What are the criteria a person has to meet to be a guest here?” Dr. Kroger asked Katie.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Monk said, practically shrieking.

  “You have to have been born with a physical anomaly,” Katie said, ignoring Monk’s comment, “and you must be recommended by Dr. Rahner or a current resident. After that, you have to pass an interview with our residents’ council.”

  “What about to work here?” someone asked.

  “Our guests do all the cooking, cleaning, and maintenance of the property,” she said. “It’s one of the things that create the vibrant sense of community you feel everywhere you go here. Everyone has to chip in and help out.”

  She led us outside. The condominium buildings were similar in design to the main house and were arranged in a loose half circle around a large swimming pool and a picnic area, where a barbecue was going on. A man with a tiny head on a disproportionately normal body grilled chicken, spare-ribs, and steaks and doled out servings to a line of people that included a midget, a woman with an adult body and two tiny arms, and a man with a tail sticking out of a hole cut in the back of his swim trunks.

  I glanced at a table and saw a young woman licking barbecue sauce off her lips with a forked tongue. Another man chewed at a sparerib with his fangs. He met my eyes and I quickly shifted my gaze to the pool, where a woman with a face like an ape made a perfect dive. Another woman did the backstroke across the pool, kicking at the water with her webbed feet. I saw a man with four nipples sunning himself on a chaise longue. He whispered something to the woman on the chaise next to him. She laughed and wiggled her twelve toes in delight.

  I turned to see how Monk was taking all this. “This place is unbelievable,” I said.

  “It certainly is.” Monk was looking down and holding his hand against his brow as if he was protecting himself from the glare of the sun.

  “Are you covering your eyes?” I whispered.

  “Hell yes,” he replied.

  “Do most of the residents live here full-time?” someone asked.

  She shook her head. “Franco and I are the only full-time residents. Everyone else here is a member-guest.”

  “What does it cost?” asked another shrink.

  Dr. Rahner answered. “Each person pays a five-thousand-euro entrance fee, six hundred euros in monthly dues, and about thirty-five thousand euros to purchase a time-share apartment, depending on the size of the unit.”

  “Freedom isn’t cheap,” I said.

  “It never is,” Dr. Rahner said. “That’s the sad truth.”

  “But you’re making money,” I said. Call me cynical.

  “It all goes back into the community,” he said. “I do it for them.”

  “How many apartments are there?” Dr. Kroger asked. I think he just wanted to change the subject.