We followed the captain. Monk looked at his feet as he walked to avoid stepping on the cracks in the driveway. The backyard was as weedy as the front, but there was a concrete path from the driveway to the door at the rear of the house. Monk stuck to the path, concentrating on his balance as if he were crossing a bridge over a deep gorge.
The door was ajar. Stottlemeyer pushed it open the rest of the way and we stepped into another world, a couple of centuries into the future.
The living room was an exact replica of the command center of the starship Discovery, right down to the captain’s control podium, the joysticks on the navigational console, and the panel of constantly blinking multicolored lights of the main computer, which always seemed to explode in a shower of sparks whenever the ship ran into a meteor storm or was attacked by aliens.
But on closer examination, there were a few things that didn’t fit in, like the stack of junk mail on the communications console, the unlaced sneakers on the floor, the half-eaten bag of Doritos on the command podium . . . and the gun resting on the captain’s stool.
“Beam me up, Scotty,” Stottlemeyer said.
27
Mr. Monk Finds Himself
Ernest Pinchuk sat at the table in the interrogation room, his arms folded across his chest, glaring defiantly into the mirror that he knew hid the four of us who were in the observation room watching him.
Monk studied Pinchuk as if the man was some weird creature on exhibit in a zoo.
“He hasn’t said a word,” Stottlemeyer said. “He just gurgles.”
“That’s Dratch,” I said. “I’ve heard that it’s hard to speak the language clearly with only one tongue.”
“Why won’t he speak English?” Disher asked.
“His girlfriend told us that he’s protesting the changes to Beyond Earth,” I said. “He’s vowed to speak Dratch until they cancel the show or agree to do a version that’s true to the original.”
“You’d think now that Stipe and Mills are dead he’d feel he’s made his point,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Has the network announced that the show is canceled or that they’ll be doing a loyal version?” I asked.
Stottlemeyer shrugged. “Not that I know of.”
“Until they do, I don’t think he’s going to talk to us. At least not in English.”
“Oh, he’ll talk,” Stottlemeyer said. “By the time I’m done, he’ll confess and save us a lot of needless hassle in court.”
“Why would he do that?” Monk said.
“He may not want to speak English, but he understands it. When he’s confronted with the enormity of the evidence against him, he’s going to want to make a deal.”
“What do you have to offer him?” I asked.
Stottlemeyer smiled at us. “Watch and learn.”
A few moments later, Stottlemeyer wheeled a TV/DVD combo into the interrogation room and closed the door. Monk, Disher, and I watched quietly.
The captain smiled at Pinchuk. “You are looking at a very happy man, Ernie. You want to know why? This is a dream case for me. I can get a conviction and a lethal injection for you without even making an effort.”
Pinchuk sputtered and snorted.
“What’s that you say? I have trouble understanding you with that thing on your nose. Maybe this will help.”
Stottlemeyer yanked the trunk off of Pinchuk’s face and tossed it in a corner.
Pinchuk shrieked, not in pain but like someone who’d been stripped naked in public. He covered his exposed nose with his hands as if it was a much more private part of his body.
I was shocked by what the captain did. I know it was only a rubber nose, but given who Pinchuk was, and what the trunk meant to him, it seemed like an act of brutality.
I’m sure that was exactly what Stottlemeyer intended.
“Is that better?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Can you breathe more clearly now?”
Pinchuk hissed and coughed and glugged.
“I guess not. But that’s okay. There’s nothing you have to say. The evidence speaks for itself.”
Stottlemeyer turned on the TV. The security camera video of the Kingston Mills shooting played out on the screen.
“There you are, Ernie, in living color, killing Kingston Mills for ruining the show you love. Ballistics has matched the bullets recovered from the body to the gun we found in your house. Case closed. I just wanted to personally thank you for making my job so easy. I’m going to get home early tonight.”
Pinchuk made some more disgusting noises. Stottlemeyer started to leave, then reconsidered.
“Oh, wait, I almost forgot. There’s more. I wish all serial killers were as considerate as you about supplying us with ironclad evidence of their crimes. We’ve got your first murder on tape, too.”
Stottlemeyer played the Stipe video. Pinchuk gurgled during the playback with such intensity that he was practically spitting.
Disher grinned. “This is so great.”
I wasn’t entertained. From the moment Stottlemeyer ripped off the trunk, I found the whole experience unsettling. I was seeing a side of the captain that I didn’t like very much. Not that I was rooting for Pinchuk—he was a murderer. But he was still a human being.
“Gee, he’s dead and you still can’t stop hating Stipe for selling you all out,” Stottlemeyer said. “Even without the gun on this one, it’s an open-and-shut case. That’s because you were thoughtful enough to wear the same new uniform that you bought this week in both killings. It would have been really nice if you’d worn a name tag, too. But, hey, I’m not criticizing.”
Pinchuk was barking and huffing like a seal, perspiration forming on his brow.
“I think the jury is going to set a new record for the fastest delivery of a guilty verdict in U.S.
