Mr. Monk Gets Even by Lee Goldberg

risks by the prison doctor.”
    “But not by me, so you are going to hear them again. I’ll be making a series of buttonhole incisions, inserting a metal tube between your skin and muscle, and sucking out the fat. I’ll also perform a gastric bypass, decreasing the size of your stomach by dividing it into two pouches, the smaller of which will be directly attached to the middle of your small intestine. Afterward, I will make a series of elliptical cuts, remove the excess skin between them, and sew you back up.”
    “Sounds delightful,” Dale said. “While you’re at it, could you throw in a nose job? I’ve always wanted something more regal.”
    “During the course of those procedures,” Dr. Wiss continued, ignoring Dale’s comment, “I could puncture a major blood vessel or penetrate your abdomen, bladder, or bowel. You could die from dehydration, blood loss, or a heart attack. And if you survive the operation, the risk of infection is significant. There is also a chance of wound dehiscence.”
    “Dehiscence?” Stottlemeyer said. “What is that?”
    “The wounds ripping open,” Monk said. “Dale could burst like a piñata.”
    “Wishful thinking, Adrian,” Dale said.
    “You’re this doctor’s third operation on the seventh day of the week on the seventeenth day in the third month of an odd-numbered year,” Monk said. “You’re doomed, Fat Man.”
    “That’s enough, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said, then turned to the doctor. “What’s Dale’s post-op going to be like?”
    Although the captain asked the question, Dr. Wiss addressed his answer to Dale. “You will be sewn up tight, covered in antibiotic ointment, and wrapped in bandages like a mummy to protect the wounds. You’re looking at spending two days in the ICU so we can monitor fluids, then another five days under regular care. Do you still consent to the operation?”
    “By all means,” Dale said. “I am looking forward to the new me and a bright future as a model prisoner. Fashion model, that is.”
    Dr. Wiss stepped back and gestured to the cop driving the forklift that he should proceed to the center of the room, where an anesthesiologist and several nurses were waiting amid numerous pieces of equipment and trays of tools ready to be wheeled into position.
    The forklift went into the operating room, lowered the pallet, and then backed out. As soon as the forklift was in the corridor, the nurses wheeled the surgical equipment into place and the workers brought up the doors and began to reinstall them.
    Dr. Wiss turned to Stottlemeyer. “I’ll check on Mr. Biederback tonight, but I’m going to Maui tomorrow with my family. My wife won a contest.”
    “Lucky you,” Stottlemeyer said.
    “My colleague, Dr. Auerbach, will handle Mr. Biederback’s post-op care after that. It should be routine. I’ve handled larger patients than Mr. Biederback.”
    “But none as dangerous,” Monk said.
    “He’ll be unconscious and quite helpless,” Dr. Wiss said. “See you in about three hours.”
    The doctor turned and went inside, so he didn’t see the big smile on Monk’s face.
    “Did you hear that?” Monk said to Julie. “Three hours. That’s encouraging.”
    “You really want him to die on the table?” Julie asked.
    “Hell yes,” Monk said.
    Stottlemeyer spoke up. “But on the assumption that he survives, and on the chance that he might have been planning an escape of some kind, two officers will be stationed outside this door.”
    “Where are you going to be?” Monk asked.
    “In the operating room the whole time.”
    Julie grimaced just thinking about it. “It’s going to be incredibly gross. Are you sure you want to see that?”
    “I’m sure that I don’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I’ve been preparing myself by watching videos of Japanese fishermen stripping blubber from whales.”
    “What about us?” Monk asked.
    “Stick around, keep your eye on things, make sure everything is in order,” Stottlemeyer said.