by Lee Goldberg
“Two hundred and twenty,” Dr. Rahner said.
“My God,” Monk said. “That’s a lot of freaks.”
I hate to admit it, but I was thinking the same thing. The place reminded me of the alien cantina scene in Star Wars. The one person who didn’t seem to fit was Katie.
During the tour, I’d given her the once-over a few times, looking for abnormalities, but as far as I could see she had ten fingers and everything else about her body seemed perfect, even enviably so.
“Forgive me if the question I am about to raise is an indelicate one,” I began.
“It can’t be more indelicate than his last comment.” Katie glowered at Monk.
“You said that only people with physical anomalies are allowed to stay here,” I said.
“That’s our one ironclad rule,” she said, “so we can maintain our unique atmosphere.”
“Of horror,” Monk mumbled.
“But you live here full-time,” I said, “and yet you appear to be, for lack of a better term, physically normal.”
“That’s why you should never judge people on appearances, ” she said, “but on their character.”
“You’re the only normal person in this place,” Monk said.
She smiled. “I’m a hermaphrodite.”
Monk squeaked and turned his eyes skyward again. I also looked away, because I was afraid my eyes might inadvertently drift to places they shouldn’t, looking for signs to confirm her declaration.
I didn’t want to imagine what her resident’s interview was like. But I did anyway. I almost squeaked, too.
As Katie started to lead the group away, Dr. Rahner pulled Monk aside. Dr. Kroger and I followed.
“Excuse me, Mr. Monk. Here comes someone I’d like you to meet.” Dr. Rahner gestured to a man who was walking by, carrying a plate of meat from the barbecue. “This is Hubert Bock, a lawyer from Munich. Hubert, this is Adrian Monk, a famous detective from San Francisco.”
“That’s a very lovely city.” Bock reached out for a handshake. He had six fingers on his right hand.
Monk shoved both of his hands into his pockets. “Yes, it is. Everything is so symmetrical.”
“I’ve been there a lot,” Bock said, “but I’ve never noticed that.”
“You’ve been there?” Monk said.
“Probably a dozen times in the last ten years. I’m in-house counsel for a German pharmaceutical company that has offices there,” he said. “I think it may be the most European city in America. What sort of detective work do you do?”
Monk glanced at Dr. Rahner, who bent over to tie his shoe and gave him a smug smile. The doctor had made his point.
“I catch murderers,” Monk said.
“That’s great,” Bock said with a forced smile. “Well, I hope you enjoy your visit to Germany and that you find some symmetry here, too. It was nice meeting you.”
Bock went to a table and sat down.
“You see, Mr. Monk, polydactylism is far more common than you thought,” Dr. Rahner said, straightening up again. “Maybe Hubert is the man you have been looking for.”
“Maybe he is,” Monk said.
I was as surprised by the admission as Dr. Rahner and Dr. Kroger appeared to be.
“I’m proud of you, Adrian,” Dr. Kroger said. “I had my doubts about you being able to see past your own preconceptions, but you proved me wrong. This is a significant step forward.”
“I think it is, too,” Monk said, and turned to Dr. Rahner. “I let myself become blinded by what I saw in my head rather than observing what was right in front of my eyes. But after what I have seen here today, I am certain of one thing.”
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 clea
n.”
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.”
