“Canon?” Monk said.
“Part of the official Beyond Earth mythology and timeline,” Ambrose said.
“Who decides whether it’s ‘official’ or not?” Monk asked.
“It arises from a consensus among fans, experts, and Conrad Stipe, of course.”
We went into the den. I sat next to Ambrose on the couch in front of the TV. The complete boxed set of Beyond Earth episodes and a box of tissues were on the coffee table. I figured that Ambrose must have been having a little Beyond Earth marathon as a tribute to Stipe.
Monk began by explaining what we knew and who our suspects were.
“Right now, we think Stipe was killed either by a disgruntled fan or by a disgruntled ex-wife. But so far, we don’t have any evidence except this security camera footage, which was taken from four different security cameras mounted around the parking lot and convention center at the San Francisco Airporter Motor Inn.”
He put the DVD into the player and hesitated before pressing the PLAY button on the remote.
“What you’re about to see is a murder, Ambrose. It’s not an act. It’s real,” Monk said. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Ambrose bit his lip and nodded.
Monk hit PLAY.
Even though I’d already seen the footage and knew what I was going to see, it was still startling and shockingly violent. The screen was divided into quarters, and in each one was a different view of sudden death.
The taxi pulled up. Stipe got out. Mr. Snork emerged from behind the Dumpster, shot Stipe in the chest, and ran into the convention hall.
This time I focused mostly on the quarter that showed Stipe’s face and the horrifying mix of shock, disbelief, and ultimately profound sadness on it as he dropped to his knees and then pitched forward, dead.
Monk and I looked at Ambrose. Tears welled up in his eyes.
“Excuse me,” he said hoarsely. He got up and hurried out of the room.
Monk glared at me. “Happy now?”
“Of course not, Mr. Monk.”
“This was your idea,” Monk said. “All we’ve done is hurt him more.”
“I thought it might help him,” I said.
“To see someone he admired shot dead?” Monk said. “What was I thinking listening to you? This was wrong, Natalie. Very, very wrong.”
I had to agree. I felt terrible.
Monk bent down and ejected the DVD. He was putting it back in the jewel case when Ambrose returned.
“What are you doing, Adrian?”
“We’re done,” Monk said. “I should have known better. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Me too,” Ambrose said, sitting down beside me. “Play it again.”
“You can’t be serious,” Monk said.
I was surprised, too.
“I have to see it again, Adrian. I was overcome with shock and emotion the first time. I probably will be again, but I’m going to keep watching it until I know every detail by heart.”
I put my hand on Ambrose’s knee. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do, Natalie. The killer is on that tape. And we’re going to catch him.”
15
Mr. Monk and the Details
Each time we watched the footage, I tried to concentrate on the events playing out in just one of the four quarters of the screen, but I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at the others.
We watched the shooting again and again without comment. Each time the tape ended, either Monk or Ambrose would say “again” and one of them would hit PLAY on the remote.
The more Ambrose watched the tape, the less emotional he became, until he was sitting on the edge of the couch like Monk. I could really see the family resemblance in their faces, in the intensity of their concentration.
Finally, Monk rolled his shoulders and tipped his head from side to side, trying to work out that psychosomatic kink in his neck that reflected a glitch in his mind, a piece of information that refused to fit in.
“This doesn’t make sense,” he said, freezing the pictureon Mr. Snork raising the gun and about to squeeze the trigger.
“It seems pretty straightforward to me,” I said. “It’s a shooting. You’ve had much stranger cases.”
“But look at Mr. Snork when he shoots Stipe—” Monk began.
“That’s not Mr. Snork,” Ambrose interrupted.
“That’s who he’s dressed up as, so for the sake of discussion let’s just call him Mr. Snork.”
“Mr. Snork would never violate the Cosmic Commandments of Interplanetary Relations,” Ambrose said. “He wrote them.”
“That isn’t Mr. Snork the fictional character. It’s someone dressed like Mr. Snork,” Monk said. “He just steps up and without hesitation shoots Stipe right in the heart.”
“He’s defiling the uniform,” Ambrose said.
“Mr. Snork didn’t hesitate, didn’t aim—it was a perfect shot,” Monk said, ignoring Ambrose.
“Maybe he’s a hunter,” I said. “Or has some experience target shooting.”
“The uniform,” Ambrose said, pointing at the screen. “Look at his Confederation uniform.”
Monk shook his head dismissively. “It’s not the same as shooting a human being. He didn’t even wince at the blood spatter or the sound of the gunshot. It’s like he’s done it a thousand times before.”
“It’s an orange shirt with the silver starburst insignia, ” Ambrose pointed out as he rose from his seat and went over to the TV. “That’s from the first season.”
“And if he’s an angry fan, where’s the emotion?” Monk said. “Why is he so calm?”
“Adrian,” Ambrose said, tapping the screen with his finger, “he’s wearing a season-one shirt.”
“So what?” Monk snapped at him.
“But he’s got season-two ears,” Ambrose said significantly. “Take a good look. It’s so obvious, I feel like a fool for not noticing it from the start.”
“That’s another thing,” Monk said. “We have a totally unobstructed view of Mr. Snork.
