Pinchuk’s face was bright red. He was definitely under pressure now. He might even be having a stroke.
“He’s going to crack,” Disher said.
I glanced at Monk, whose head was tilted to one side, observing Pinchuk from a different angle. I wondered what he saw.
Stottlemeyer leaned across the table in front of Pinchuk.
“With all this evidence against you, you’re going to get the needle, no question about it. But if you want to confess, and plead guilty, you can take a stand against the corporate bastards who ruined your show and then you can spend the rest of your life in prison, watching Beyond Earth reruns all day. That could be paradise. It’s your choice. It makes no difference to me. I win either way.”
Pinchuk burst out with a passionate stream of coughing, gagging, gurgling, barking, and mewling. He was saying something, and saying it forcefully.
Monk turned to me. “Call Ambrose.”
I hit the speed dial on my cell phone and followed Monk, who marched out of the observation area and directly into the interrogation room.
Stottlemeyer looked up, obviously surprised to see us, especially since things were going so well.
“This isn’t a good time, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.
Monk went to the TV, froze the image of Mr. Snork shooting Stipe, and looked at me. “Have you got Ambrose on the line?”
At that moment, Ambrose answered the phone.
“Hello, you’ve reached the Ambrose Monk residence. This is Ambrose Monk speaking.”
“Hi, it’s Natalie. Hold on a moment.” I nodded to Monk, hit the SPEAKER button, and held up the phone. “He’s on.”
“Ambrose, we’re with Ernest Pinchuk, leader of the Galactic Uprising, who has just been arrested for the murder of Kingston Mills.” Monk faced him. “Did you also kill Conrad Stipe? Is that you on the security video?”
Pinchuk seemed to repeat the same saliva-spewing tirade that we’d just witnessed. Monk was careful to move out of the range of any spit.
Monk looked at the phone as if it were Ambrose himself in the room. “What did he just say, Ambrose?”
“He’s saying that the gunman is wearing a first-season uniform with second-season ears, which we know is obvious. He says it’s a violation, an abomination, and an insult to everything Beyond Earth stands for, and on a personal note, I would have to agree.”
“Ambrose speaks Dratch?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“He can lip-read it, too,” I said.
“If I look up ‘pointless’ in the dictionary after today,” Stottlemeyer said, “that’s going to be the new definition.”
Pinchuk looked, and sounded, like he was choking on a hairball.
Ambrose spoke up again. “He’s saying that Conrad Stipe betrayed himself, his principles, and all of fandom by allowing that snake Kingston Mills to ruin Beyond Earth. But whoever is wearing that mismatched uniform is doing the same thing. He says that man is besmirching Earthers everywhere and Mr. Pinchuk wouldn’t do that. That is not him. He says he’s an honorable man.”
“You gunned down a guy in a parking lot this morning, ” Stottlemeyer said to Pinchuk. “I wouldn’t call that honorable. That was murder.”
Pinchuk did some more hacking and snorting while Ambrose did a running translation.
“He’s saying that it wasn’t murder, it was an execution for crimes against humanity. He’s admitting that he shot Kingston Mills. In fact, he wishes that he could have shot whoever was wearing the wrong uniform when he murdered Stipe. He believes the shooter’s purpose was to offend, belittle, and disrespect Earthers. His theory is that it was an act of aggression by someone from Star Trek or Battlestar Galactica fandom to turn the world against Beyond Earth.”
“He’s upset about the uniform,” Stottlemeyer said. “But not the murder. I find that offensive.”
Pinchuk kept talking, if you can call it that. Ambrose spoke up.
“Mr. Pinchuk maintains that he didn’t kill Conrad Stipe. He was certainly angry enough to do it, but despite what Stipe did, he was still the creator of Beyond Earth and Mr. Pinchuk respects that.”
“There you have it,” Monk said. “This man killed Kingston Mills but not Conrad Stipe.”
“Let’s step outside,” Stottlemeyer said, motioning Monk and me to the door.
He led us out of the interrogation room and into the hallway, where Disher joined us.
“That was amazing,” Disher said. “I’ve never seen an interrogation like that before.”
“Neither have I,” Stottlemeyer said, and gestured to my cell phone. “Could you tell Ambrose you’ll call him back?”
“Sure,” I said and did as he asked.
After I ended the call, Stottlemeyer turned to Monk.
“I didn’t want to have this discussion in front of the murderer or your brother. You’re embarrassing yourself, and it’s painful to watch.”
“I’m doing what I always do,” Monk said.
“Yeah, that’s the problem. You’re refusing to acknowledge anything that doesn’t fit the way you want it to.”
“That’s how I solve murders,” Monk said.
“Not this time,” Stottlemeyer said. “The guy in that room is nuts. You’re taking his word, in some make-believe language, as some kind of gospel. It’s not. It’s the babbling of an idiot.”
“I believe him,” Monk said.
“Because he’s playing you, Monk. He’s telling you what you want to hear.”
“I know this man,” Monk said.
“You only met him two days ago,” Disher said.
“He’s me.”
We all stared at Monk in disbelief. It certainly wasn’t the first time, as you know. But this was a particularly outrageous statement for him to make.
Two days earlier, Monk was calling the Beyond Earth fans drug-addicted freaks. He was ready to disown his brother and have him committed for associating with them. And now he was joining their ranks?
Something was very wrong with Monk. Had he finally snapped?
“He’s nothing like you,” Stottlemeyer said.
