He said that “the industry lost a giant and a true pioneer” but that he had lost “a colleague, a dear friend, and an inspiring mentor.”
Mills wiped away a tear and then reminded viewers not to miss the reimagined Beyond Earth because that would be “the best way to honor Conrad’s memory and his lifetime of creative achievement.”
I was tempted to hurl my TV out the window, but then I remembered what they cost and took the less expensive approach of simply turning it off.
As I drove to Ambrose’s house, I began to wonder if maybe Mills had killed Stipe so he could hog all the credit for the show and get a massive amount of free publicity right before the premiere. The more I thought about it, the more devious and possible it sounded to me.
Maybe I’ve been spending too much time around murderers the last few years.
I rushed up to the front door of Ambrose’s house, eager to pitch my theory to Monk. I knocked on the door. Ambrose answered it, muttered a quick hello to me, then hurried back to the dining room. He seemed tired and distracted.
I followed him and was surprised by what I saw. He’d taken the security video, digitized it, blown up several frames of the shooter, and printed them out. He’d mounted the pictures on poster boards along with various blowups and drawings of Confederation uniforms, insignias, and Snork ears. He’d then connected them all with arrows and all kinds of handwritten notations.
He must have been up all night working on the presentation.
“What is all this?” I asked.
“Irrefutable proof that the assassin was wearing a season-one shirt and season-two ears.”
“I don’t think anyone doubted you,” I said.
“Adrian did,” Ambrose said.
“I didn’t doubt you,” Monk said, coming up behind me. “I said it didn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does,” Ambrose said.
He took out a pointer and began his presentation. “The particular season-one uniform that the killer is wearing is modeled on the distinct design of the wardrobe from the pilot episode, which differs from the uniform used in the subsequent episodes, because the original production designer was unavailable for the series. You can see it most clearly here in the trim around the collar and cuffs.”
Monk shook his head. “Nobody cares.”
“Ursula Glemstadt does,” Ambrose said.
“Who is Ursula Glemstadt?” Monk asked.
“She makes and sells Confederation uniforms for the fan community,” Ambrose said. “And she is the only one who insists on using the original designs from the pilot, down to the exact stitching of the seams.”
“You think she sold the uniform to the killer,” I said.
“I know she did,” Ambrose said. “And she’s got a booth at the convention.”
“That’s a real lead, Mr. Monk,” I said.
Monk sighed and looked at his brother. “How many of those uniforms do you think she has made and sold over the years in person and through mail order?”
“Hundreds,” Ambrose replied.
“The killer could be any one of those customers,” Monk said. “That doesn’t really help us.”
“But if you look at the fraying, or lack of it, and the vibrancy of the color, I’d say it’s a brand-new uniform and has never been washed. He could have bought it in the last few days at the convention.”
“Or bought it years or months ago and is wearing it for the first time.”
“It’s worth checking out,” I said.
“Not really,” Monk said.
“I’ve also studied the ears,” Ambrose said. “I think I’ve narrowed them down to three possible molds and the craftspersons who manufactured them.”
Monk rolled his eyes. “That’s a big help. Let’s go, Natalie, or we’ll be late for my regular appointment with Dr. Kroger.”
Ambrose started gathering up his boards. “Wait. Aren’t you going to take these?”
“What for?” Monk said.
“To show your colleagues in the police department.”
“They won’t be interested.”
Monk walked out, but I stayed behind.
“Of course we’ll take them, Ambrose. I know that Captain Stottlemeyer will appreciate your work very much.”
He smiled gratefully and gave me the poster boards and a manila envelope.
“I’ve attached contact information on how to reach Ursula and the three ear-makers, along with a letter of introduction to them from me. That should smooth the way for the detectives.”
“Thank you, Ambrose,” I said. “I’ll be sure the captain gets everything.”
Monk was waiting for me at the car, his arms crossed. He watched me load the posters into the car.
“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Monk said.
“Why not?” I said. “He’s just trying to help.”
“You’re only reinforcing his ridiculous obsession with insignificant details,” Monk said. “How is he ever going to learn to function in life if he continues to focus on meaningless minutiae? He needs to loosen up in a big way.”
I stopped and stared at Monk, a man who won’t sit at a table that has only three chairs and counts the parking meters whenever he walks down a street.
“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘the pot calling the kettle black’?” I asked him.
“That makes no sense. Pots are inanimate objects that don’t talk, and if they did, why would they talk to a kettle?”
I just shook my head and got into the car. While I drove Monk to his psychiatrist’s office, I pitched my theory about Kingston Mills and his possible motive for murdering Stipe.
“You might be onto something,” Monk said.
I was flattered. “You really think so?”
“No,” Monk said.
“Then why did you say it?”
“Say what?”
“That I might be onto something,” I said.
“You might be,” Monk said. “Of course, by that I mean no way in hell.”
“Why don’t you just say that instead?”
“I don’t want to be insensitive,” Monk said.
“But you have no problem telling a one-eyed man to find his eyeball or calling your own brother a drug-addicted
